A Young Warg's Game of Thrones

[Failninjaninja]

Chapter 1

He took hold of Ice with both hands and said the words that needed to be said.

"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."

The blow was clean. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, always tried to ensure that it was when he had to perform the duty. His eyes looked over at the corpse and then to his children. Robb, Sansa, and Bran watched. Robb had seen the King's Justice done before, but it was the first for Sansa and Bran. It had still surprised him that Sansa had said it was rather silly for Bran to go, but not her.

There is more than a bit of Lyanna in her.

Bran's eyes were a bit wide, but he did not react otherwise. Sansa had no reaction at all. Sometimes he was not sure what to make of his clever daughter. Maester Luwin was driven to distraction by her constant queries and at such a young age. Ned knew that he spoiled her in how much he had spent on books from the Citadel and Essos for her, but she loved them quite a great deal. Dresses and jewels did not excite her one bit, though his lady wife insisted she be properly attired.

Jon, the boy who he raised as his own, and Robb had ridden ahead racing each other, while the rest of the party returned at a statelier pace. Bran was speaking with Sansa as he rode up on them.

"Are you well, Bran, Sansa?"

Sansa merely nodded, while Bran answered, "Yes, Father." The lad paused for a moment. "Robb says the man died bravely, but Jon says he was afraid."

"What do you think?"

"Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?"

"That is the only time a man can be brave," Ned told him.

Sansa cleared her throat and Ned laid a wary eye on her.

"While correct in the specific, we should consider that when folk speak of bravery they cannot know the internal workings of another's mind. We say someone is brave when they do things that appear to be brave. In that sense, it matters not if a man does something due to being fearful or having no fear at all, if most people would view it as an act of bravery that colloquially we would call him brave."

Ned just shook his head and moved on with the actual lesson he had for Bran.

"Do you understand why I did it?"

"He was a wilding," his son replied. "They carry off women and sell them to the Others."

Ned had to smile at that. "Old Nan has been telling you stories again. In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Night's Watch. The question, however, was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it."

"Tradition," Sansa answered. "We Starks have long held the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."

He nodded. "If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die. One must not take pleasure in the task, but neither can you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is."

Jon appeared on the crest of the hill before them.

"Father, Bran, Sansa, come quickly, see what Robb has found!"

Jory, the captain of his household guard, rode up beside them. "Trouble, my lord?"

"Judging by the excited tone of voice, I would wager not," Sansa replied and patted Bran on his back.

They set their horses to a trot and found what had been discovered. A direwolf dead and pups that may or may not have been birthed before she died. An antler had been stuck inside the direwolf, just under the jaw.

An ill omen.

The pups were still alive, and as Ned considered the situation an argument sprang up as Robb and Bran wished to keep them alive while Theon, Hullen, and Harwin wished to give them a quick and clean death. Jon broke the impasse by directly speaking to him.

"Lord Stark," Jon said. "There are five pups. Three male, two female."

"What of it, Jon?" Ned replied.

"You have five trueborn children," Jon said. "Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups my lord."

He sets himself to the side to make the count right.

"I do not know about all that," Sansa said before Ned could speak. "If you want to have mine, you may, Jon."

Jon shook his head. "No, Sansa. There are five and five trueborn children. And of the right kind. What are the odds of that?"

"If we assume five pups with equal odds that each can be male or female, it is about a third of all possibilities. Five sixteenths to be precise," Sansa replied. "Granted, there was the possibility of more or less pups but I do not know the average litter of a direwolf."

Ned tilted his head, distracted by how that had been calculated, and then focused on what actually mattered.

"You want no pup for yourself, Jon? Sansa does not appear to mind."

"The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark," Jon pointed out. "I am no Stark, Father."

Sansa sighed while Robb and Bran promised to nurse the beasts. He was not one to always believe in signs and portents like some did, but it felt right to keep them. After admonishing his children that it would be up to them to take care of the beasts, not the kennelmaster, he had Jory and Desmond gather them up.

"You seem less enthused than your brothers," he remarked to his daughter.

"It will be an added responsibility, but I see the sense in it. If they can be trained it will be a morale-boosting symbol of our house. Additionally, it gives us something to care and be responsible over. If we do well, we might be trusted with other tasks. If we do poorly, you can correct us and create a lesson to improve our future endeavors."

Ned could only ruefully shake his head at the way his daughter viewed things. She was not wrong, and yet, these were the thoughts and words that he would expect from someone much older.

Perhaps it is all the books she reads. She has become half-maester!

Jon ended up finding another offspring of the deceased direwolf.

"An albino," Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. "This one will die even faster than the others."

There were times when Theon tried Ned's patience. He had taught the Greyjoy the ways of the Starks and the North, but he wondered how much had truly sunk in.

"I think not, Greyjoy," Jon said. "This one belongs to me."

***
​

It appears I was now the owner of a direwolf. In the North, well, probably all of Westeros, symbolism was important. It would be a poor reflection on me if my own wolf died while my siblings managed to take care of their own. What I had told my father was true, as an exercise in demonstration of personal-responsibility, caring and training for the pup would be good.

I'll need to think of a name.

It was eerie that the number of direwolves so fit Ned Stark's children, but did that mean some sort of supernatural shenanigans were going on, or were we, like humans tended to do, seeing patterns that were not there. If there were five wolves, Jon's earlier comments would fit just as well as six would. If there were three, one could make the case it was one for each trueborn son of Lord Stark. If it were four, then it would be each son of Lord Stark.

I did wish there were some supernatural elements in the world, because that could be a sign that my pursuit of being able to once again fly was not a complete dead-end. Magically, I could not sense my internal circuits. I could not accomplish the magic of my second life as an Imperial Mage.

This was now the second time I had been reincarnated, with my memories intact. I was shocked because I had expected Being X to either consign me to oblivion, show up to taunt me, put me in some sort of eternal torment, or if he reincarnated me, put me in an incredibly awful existence. Westeros was awful in many respects, especially if one was part of the smallfolk, but that was not the case for me. I was a highborn, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, rule of one of the Seven Kingdoms that made Westeros. Well, more like nine distinct regions, but the name had stuck.

Sure, I lacked modern conveniences, but I had all my basic needs met and servants to wait on me. I was in a comparative lap of luxury, even if I missed so many things from my first and second life. I also had parents that genuinely cared for me in a way that seemed a mite strange for a world such as this. It seemed on the surface like England in the middle ages, but in truth, that really wasn't the case for many reasons. Most likely Being X was just being sloppy and lazy, which was fitting for such a slovenly and incompetent charlatan.

For one, the seasons were quite wrong. Bafflingly so. Summers and winters could last years, sometimes for over a decade. The fauna looked quite similar to that of my first two lives, but clearly there was something else going on with it; otherwise, it could not possibly have survived in regions that it did. I had no astronomically sound explanation for why the seasons acted the way they did, and that was deeply troubling. Nature, like everything else, ought to work rationally.

When I came to my senses at around the age of three, I quickly tried to make sense of my surroundings. I probably confused my parents a great deal with my abrupt change so suddenly, but if there were any lingering concerns they had about my development, they were not noticed by me. Learning to read at an early age soon had me devouring every book in the library of Winterfell. Winterfell was my home and a castle built on dimensions that beggar's belief had I not seen it with my own eyes.

The outer wall was eighty feet high, and the inner wall a hundred feet. There was a three-acre godswood inside the walls, and there was even a greenhouse, though they called it a glass garden here in Westeros. Winterfell also had the advantage of being partially built over hot springs, which made growing things during the long winters plausible. Though the amount grown would not be sufficient to actually feed everyone, it would prevent some needed nutritional variety, and of course, every little bit helps when true winter arrives.

All houses had noble words, and the Starks, being the most powerful house of the North, had fitting ones.

Winter is coming.

My mother, from House Tully, had said to me that the Starks were quite different in how they chose their words. Her own house's words were Family, Duty, Honor. Others, like the Baratheons, the current ruling line, had words like Ours is the Fury. One thing that did disturb me about the current sense of national stability was that the current king was the first of his dynasty. The Baratheon dynasty was only about sixteen years old. Technically, he was also a scion of the prior dynasty, which he overthrew through his grandmother, but that connection was distant enough – and, given the king's view on the Mad King, he likely would not appreciate his rule being seen as a continuation.

Of course, all this was secondhand from my father, as I had never met King Robert Baratheon. Without seeing any sign of Being X, I can only assume he was going to throw me into some fresh horrific war soon. And yet, without any sort of magical ability, and being a girl in a time where raw brute strength mattered more than nearly anything else, I felt quite unprepared.

I did exercise regularly. I also practiced with a small knife I kept secure on my person, but that was for personal defense at a last resort. A swift draw and slash to the throat, eyes, or inner thigh depending on the situation would be the plan. My greatest advantage in a situation where I was accosted would be surprise. A trained, heavily armored warrior would not expect a girl of eleven to stab them in the eye without hesitation. If they knew I had the blade or that I was proficient with it, yeah, I'd almost certainly be toast.

Which is why I keep that a secret even from my family.

The odds of being accosted were slim. Guards were everywhere in Winterfell and I rarely left it. The Starks were well liked as my father took pains to get to know his staff. Eddard Stark was a dutiful and serious man who was responsible in his charge as Lord of House Stark and the Warden of the North. All the houses of the North were in vassalage to him. From the far northern reaches near the Wall, such as House Umber, to the Mormonts of Bear Island, they paid homage to him.

Aside from just the wolves, things may soon be changing. Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, effectively the king's right hand who did much of the governing, had died. No new Hand had been announced and Father had said that King Robert was coming to Winterfell. It didn't take a genius to figure out that he most certainly was going to offer my father the role.

I wasn't sure if I even wanted my father to take the role. I quite liked the quiet life I had in Winterfell. I would soon face the prospect of marriage and up until this potential change, I had assumed I would likely marry a lord of the North, since my own father had already married someone from the south. Perhaps it would be Harrion Karstark, heir to Karhold. Or maybe Daryn Hornwood, heir to the Hornwood. One of the amusing things about this world is that at times Houses named their fortresses after their family name.

The medicinal knowledge of this world was quite primitive compared to the modern era. It was more advanced compared to the middle ages of my first two lives, but still a far cry from what I was comfortable with. Childbirth made me queasy but I could see no good way to avoid it without outright fraud such as taking substances to ensure I didn't get with child.

No, I'd long resigned myself to doing that duty. I had once said in my second life that I would lap up muddy water if it meant survival, and I meant it. As a highborn lady, I would at least have a maester who understood the basics of medical care to help ease the birthing process.

This change in potential direction for my family's fortunes changed quite a few things. If my father intended to go south, then we would be taking a large role in the management of the kingdom. In order to secure our presence and maintain alliances, I would almost certainly be used. In that case I might well marry into greater houses. Renly Baratheon, Willas Tyrell, the very young Robert Arryn, or Quentyn Martell would all be potential matches of similar station.

My mother and I did not always see eye to eye, but I pestered her and Maester Luwin to understand the wider world beyond what my lessons gave me. Renly was the king's younger brother and quite courtly. Being married to the master of the Stormlands had pros and cons. They were fierce fighters but had a reputation for being battle maniacs as opposed to learned men. Renly was the Master of Laws on King Robert's small council, so perhaps he was an exception.

Willas Tyrell had a pronounced limp due to a jousting accident, but was heir to Highgarden, and his family ruled the Reach. The breadbasket of Westeros was second only in wealth to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. Young Robert Arryn was my cousin, but cousin marriage was fairly common in Westeros. There was taboo, that had long been ignored by the previous dynasty, of sibling marriage but no such concern for sharing a set of grandparents. Him being young was in some ways preferable since it delayed my own motherly duties.

Quentyn Martell was a complete mystery to me as my mother's knowledge was thin about the southernmost region of Westeros. The Martells were on the opposite side of Robert's Rebellion against the Targaryen dynasty, so that could both raise or lower the odds depending on their temperament now nearly two decades past.

While all this was purely hypothetical, it was something I couldn't help but think about. Whom I married would have profound implications for my future life and eventual retirement. When I had asked Father if he intended to accept the position, he had replied that Robert had made no such offer yet.

"And if he does?"

"My place is in Winterfell."

Which surprised me, but Mother gave him a look that had promised a talk later with him. Rejecting the king's offer could be bad, especially if the next winter that occurred was harsh. According to the histories the Citadel kept, the winters after a long summer tended to be longer than the norm. And this had been quite the long summer, nearing a decade in length!

If my father declined the king's request, I would likely have a husband of the North, and though the winters would be cold, and with fewer luxuries than I'd like, it would probably be better. I feared what Being X would do to disturb me in this life. Almost certainly a conflict would rage, but the odds of it coming from savage wildlings even further north, was rather unlikely. The Wall guarded the north, an absurd construction, that was built on an even larger scale than Winterfell. Though even if it were not there, the wildlings did not have castle-forged steel or plate armor, meaning they were little threat beyond raiding.

No, if war descends it will be in the heart of Westeros, not up here. The choice will be beyond my doing, regardless. I just have to be patient and wait to try to influence my parents when an opportunity arises.

Author's Note: This fic was voted on by my Patreon members and I also have Early Access Chapters through Chapter 7!

This story is my experiment with Early Access and to see if it drives engagement and subscriptions on Patreon. For those unfamiliar with my situation, I lost my corporate job a bit ago and I'm attempting to make a go at writing full time. So far I've seen some amazing initial success, and since I'm still living off my severance currently it is currently adding to my savings and therefore the time I have before I need to make a decision to continue writing full time or go back to the the 9-5. Support has been amazing, and I'm really thankful for everyone!

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