A Time of War - KingOfWinter - A Song of Ice and Fire (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Ashara I:

Ashara had loved the godswood of Starfall. It was a bright, cheery place; more garden than wood, sunny and airy, and filled with the chirping of birds and the buzzing of bees. Warm winds drifted through the towering trees, and the smell of flowers lingered in the air.

The Starks kept a different sort of godswood. Theirs was a dark place of primal worship, three acres of ancient forest that had remained untouched by human hands for 10,000 years as first a castle, and then a city had grown up around it. It smelt of moist earth and decay, and death lingered in every shadow. No flowers grew here and many different trees towered above her, soaring towards heaven’s heights, including oaks and ironwood trees. The floor was blanketed with 10,000 years of humus, providing a soft surface to walk upon. This was a place of dark shadows and darker worship, and the gods who lived here had no names.

It was before the heart tree that she found him, knelt next to the ancient skeleton that would celebrate its 300th birthday very soon. It was the skeleton of the rapist that Brandon Snow had executed on that fateful day 300 years ago, left here for every Stark to gaze upon, to be reminded of where they had come from and where they were going.

The skeleton was covered in creepers and dirt, and now very little could be seen but for the man’s grinning skull and his ribcage. Like the gaze of the heart tree, the skeleton’s empty sockets seemed to bore right through a man, gazing at his innermost being. Ashara had never felt comfortable under his gaze.

She shifted her gaze to her husband, who was kneeled before the heart tree in ancient prayer. Ice was held in his hands, the blood of the deserter he had executed this morning still staining its smoking depths. Ned’s mouth moved as he prayed to his gods, and for a second Ashara regretted having to disturb her husband.

“Ned,” she called softly. She saw her husband’s mouth stop moving. After a moment, his eyes opened and he turned to her with a soft smile, though Ashara thought she saw a hint of sadness behind them.

“Ashara,” Ned greeted as he lowered his sword into the black pool of water beneath the heart tree and washed it clean of the blood that stained it.

“A raven has arrived from the king,” she told him, thinking of the moment that Maester Luwin had arrived with the letter.

“He’s dead then?” Ned asked, his voice filled with sorrow.

Ashara nodded softly, understanding the sadness in her husband’s voice. Jon Arryn had been like a father to him, and Ned had loved the old lord dearly. She knew it had torn him apart on the inside to have to stand back and watch as men had conspired to kill him. The Bloody Accords were clear though, and Rickard Stark had already warned them against breaking them again.

Ned sighed heavily and dried his blade with moss he pulled from the rock next to him.

“I want to kill him,” he snarled, “and that Tully whor* too.”

Ashara knew Ned must have been furious if he had found the courage to say that. Ned had always been regretful of how the Tullys had been treated by his father and had done his best to repair the fractured relationship between their houses. House Tully had taken the gold and resources the Starks offered but refused their apologies. Ned had been forever repentant, but it was to no avail. The Tullys still loathed him as much as ever.

“You can’t, Ned.” Ashara replied softly as she moved to his side. “The Accords are clear.”

“I know,” he whispered as he placed his sword back in its sheath,

“But I still want to. It wouldn’t take much.”

“No, but we can’t.” Ashara told him as she placed her hand on his arm.

Ned nodded, but she saw the bitterness on his face. She suspected they would be arguing over this for the next few days and wondered if perhaps he would be the one to win this argument.

“There’s more,” she murmured as she leant into his side and handed him the scroll. She watched as he read the parchment, and the ways way the skin around his eyes tightened and his lips pursed.

“Robert is coming here?” He asked, and Ashara nodded in confirmation.

“You know what he will want, don’t you?” She asked him and he nodded gravely.

“Why else would he take a month-long trek from the capital? He means to make me Hand of the King.”

“He does,” Ashara responded, her heart heavy with the weight of his decision.

“I will meet him at Moat Cailin,” Ned declared.

“I will not have him in the halls of Winterfell after he called you a whor* and tried to kill our son.” Ashara winced at his words.

“Ned, you can’t do that. Robert will be coming to Winterfell. Anything less would be a grave insult to him. His wife is said to be prickly enough already. Don’t do anything to anger them,” she advised.

“f*cking Lannisters,” Ned muttered as he trailed his hand through the pool.

“More news arrived,” Ashara informed him.

“Your brother sent a raven.”

Ned’s mood lifted almost immediately, and a small smile graced his features. He loved hearing word of his brother and went up to visit him in Hardhome every few years.

“Benjen?” He asked, “What news did he send? Has he completed the task I set for him?”

“Grave news,” Ashara replied, and Ned’s mood soured as quickly as it had cured.

“What now?” He asked, with a hint of fatigue in his frame.

“A wildling army has gathered beyond the Wall. There is are stirrings of a new King-beyond-the-Wall. Mance Rayder, Benjen called him.” Ashara shivered just to hear his name.

Ned’s father, Rickard Stark, had set up four lordships in the lands beyond the Wall. Hardhome, Lord Benjen Hardstark’s domain, was the last of them. The other settlements had not done well, and the other survivor, Fort Firstfist, had been abandoned three years ago after it had come under attack by the Thenns.

Ned nodded, “I will send a raven to Benjen immediately. He can visit Winterfell, visit the king and pick up some troops while here.”

Ned stopped for a moment, and Ashara saw him pondering something.

“I shall send Jon with them.” He announced, and Ashara’s heart plummeted.

Jon was their eldest son and heir, and the leader of the Wolf Pack. He spent his days with the other heirs and second sons of the North, building the bonds that set the North apart from the south. The Wolf Pack was the reason the lords of the North were so loyal to the Starks of Winterfell. They were all raised as brothers and the trying circ*mstances of their lives bred them to put petty differences aside.

“Not Jon,” she exclaimed, “he is not ready!”

“He needs the experience.” Ned replied gravely.

“Better for him to gain it against the hands of ill-armed wildlings than the steel of southern knights.”

Ashara’s heart twisted in her chest. The memories of another war, an older war, filled her mind. Memories of arms that were missing and an empty heart.

“How are the rest of the children?” He asked her, and her heart filled with love for him. Her and Ned had been busy following Rickard’s Rebellion, and now had five children together. Their eldest was Jon, a brilliant swordsman who was beginning to show the makings of a wonderful lord of Winterfell. The second eldest, and second son, was Artos Stark. He had been born in 286 A.C., and like Jon, was an incredible swordsman, though Artos was more prone to bouts of impulsiveness. Ned said the Wolf Blood was strong in him.

Then Ashara had given birth to her twins, the ones who had the most Wolf Blood of any of her children. Arya and Dyanna Stark had been born in 289 A.C., and both were wild girls that preferred playing with the boys than wearing dresses.

Ashara’s youngest was her quietest child. His name was Alaric, and though only six, he was a very sour little boy. He had been aptly named Ashara thought, for the last Alaric Stark had also been of a sour temperament.

“They are well,” Ashara replied to Ned.

“Arya and Dyanna got caught stealing from the sweetshop again with Vorian.” Ned laughed.

“Of course, they did,” he said before his expression changed.

“But they shouldn’t have taken Vorian with them. He is sickly enough as it is.”

Vorian Dayne was Ashara’s nephew, the son of Arthur. While officially no one knew who Vorian’s mother was, in reality it was Elia Martell, who remained hidden in Mount Starpoint. Arthur had persistently pursued Elia for years with Ashara’s encouragement and in 289 A.C., he had finally succeeded in convincing her to marry him. In 290 A.C., Elia had defied the expectations of all the maesters and given birth to another baby boy, Vorian. Vorian though had inherited his mother’s sickliness, and often ran out of breath. He could not run like the other boys, and thus was often left out of their games. Arya and Dyanna, who also found themselves left out of the boys’ games, had taken him under their wing when he had arrived in Winterfell at six years of age. They had been closest cousins ever since.

“He will be fine,” Ashara consoled, “the fresh air will do him well.”

The two sat in comfortable silence for a moment, enjoying the quiet sanctity of what was a beautiful morning.

“What of your father?” Ashara asked after a moment.

“What of him?” Ned asked, his voice tense.

“Will you tell him?”

“Knowing him, he most likely already knows.”

“Should we invite him back to Winterfell?” Ashara asked.

“No,” Ned replied, “you don’t invite my father anywhere. He goes where he pleases and woe to any man that steps in his way.”

After a moment more, Ned sighed and got to his feet.

“We must prepare for Robert’s coming,” he said, “We need to organise much.”

He helped Ashara to her feet and linked his arm with hers. Together the husband and wife left the godswood to prepare for the coming of the king, and the ensuing storm that always followed in Robert’s wake.

Chapter 2: Robert I: The King comes North

Chapter Text

Robert I:

Gods, it felt good to be out of the capital riding along like he did in the days of old. The wind whistled around them, blowing his long hair away from the sides of his face. Robert had missed this immensely, the feel of cool air on his cheeks.

Robert hadn’t felt air this cool since he had left the Eyrie with Jon all those years ago, when Gulltown still needed to be put down and Aerys yet sat on the throne. Those were better days. They were days when a man could pick up his hammer, mount his horse and fight his way through life. Now Robert was stuck inside dealing with all the sh*t that came with being a king. Ever since Jon had died, it had gotten even worse. Everything that Jon had once dealt with Robert now had to.

It was why he needed Ned so much. Ned would serve him well, he always had. It was Ned who had stopped Randyll Tarly from reinforcing Rhaegar at the Trident, and it was Ned who had captured Rhaegar as well. It was Ned who talked Balon Greyjoy down from rebelling when rumours were circulating the realm nine years ago. It was from Ned who Robert had borrowed half a million dragons when the realm had been in need. Ned had always been there for Robert him and always would be.

His best friend’s only problem was his wife. Ned would do anything for the woman, something declared in the songs the bards sung of him. They sung of the wolf lord who had fought his way across a realm just to marry the love of his life. It was the stuff of legends, and Ned and his father were both living legends nowadays. Robert may have won the crown, but Ned had won the battles and Rickard had won the war. It was called Rickard’s Rebellion after all, not Robert’s.

Behind him, Robert heard something break and he groaned. If Ned’s wife was a problem, Robert’s own wife was hell on earth. The great gilded carriage she had demanded be brought had broken yet another axle, and Robert was about to tear his hair out from frustration. That damned carriage had made their journey twice as long as it could have been. It seemed like they stopped twice a day because of it.

“What’s happened now?” Robert bellowed as he wheeled his horse around.

Cersei emerged from the carriage and placed one of her feet onto the cobblestoned road. If there was one thing that Ned had done better than the south, it was his bloody roads. They were all cobbled, and since getting on the part of the northern road at Moat Cailin, their journey had been sped up considerably.

The golden-haired woman scowled at him darkly. For someone with such a pretty face, she certainly knew how to be ugly. She raised her nose at him before turning around and getting back into the wheelhouse wordlessly.

“Stupid c*nt,” Robert muttered at her retreating figure before yelling for someone to fix it. He swung his horse around and headed back to the front of the column where he could wait in peace.

As he rode, Robert glanced around him at the stunning countryside. This was true freedom he surmised, the freedom to go where you pleased, when you pleased, how you pleased. The storm king wished someone else had of taken the crown from him. Ned would have made a much better king, one just had to look at the state of his realm to see what an effective ruler he was.

Ned’s castles were beautiful yet practical and imposing, commanding the respect and attention of any who entered the North. This trip was the first time the king saw the feared fortress, Moat Cailin, and he suddenly understood why the North was the only kingdom of the First Men to have never fallen to the Andal invaders.

It was a bastion of strength, composed of twenty towers and curtain walls taller than any Robert had even seen before. It housed a garrison as large as that of the city watch of King’s Landing, and was serviced by a small army of smiths, fletchers and armorers who were constantly pumping out new weapons. Its walls were covered with catapults and scorpions, and they all aimed down a very narrow causeway that any invading army would be forced to march up. It was a death trap for any who dared to attack it. What amazed Robert even more though was that the maesters said that the castle had been in ruins for hundreds of years up until the rule of Cregan Stark, the Old Man of the North.

The countryside of Ned’s realm was littered with farmhouses and small towns while expansive fields of crops filled every pasture. What grassland wasn’t filled with the North’s yields was populated with great herds of furred cattle or large flocks of sheep. The forests of the North were vast, and the roads well made. The North was a realm of wealth and power, and it was no wonder that they had been the ones to throw the Targaryens from their throne.

Robert had only seen a small fraction of the continent’s northernmost realm and that had not included the famed Wolf’s Maw, or the mines of Lonely Mountain, or the navies of the western and eastern coasts, or even the domain of the Lord-beyond-the-Wall, Hardhome. Thoughts of Hardhome turned Robert’s mind to its lord, Benjen Hardstark, Ned’s younger brother. He wondered how the little man was doing. He had been just 14 when Robert had met him at Harrenhal and was a youth with laughing eyes. He wondered if Benjen still had his laughing eyes or if the lands beyond the Wall had forged him into someone who was as hard as the lands he ruled. Someone like Stannis.

The king shuddered to think of his brother. The man was as stern and unforgiving as any Robert he had ever met. Robert wondered if he would meet the smuggler that had his fingers taken by Stannis. They said he was in service to Ned’s son, Jon, now. Stannis had fled back to Dragonstone after Jon Arryn’s death and every raven had been met with stony silence. That did not bode well. Perhaps he could find a new Master of Ships while he was up here. A Saltstark perhaps or even a Manderly.

Behind him came the news that the carriage was fixed, and Robert whooped in delight. He kicked his horse’s sides hard and it galloped forward, on towards Winterfell and Ned.

Next to him rode his kingsguard who came from the North, and the one he trusted the most, Mark Ryswell. Mark had been given the white cloak in the aftermath of Rickard’s Rebellion, and was the first to serve in the white cloaks without a knighthood. He was the only one in Robert’s kingsguard whose loyalty was to the king first. The rest of them belonged to either Cersei or their own hip-pockets. Ser Barristan was the exception, but he had been loyal to the Targaryens first and Robert didn’t trust him over Mark.

Next to Mark rode Lord Torrhen Starkstark, Robert’s Northern representative on his small council as per the terms of the peace treaty he negotiated with Rickard Stark. They mocked Robert behind his back for that treaty, but the king didn’t care. Ned had always been loyal, and if he had of asked him, Robert would have given him his crown as well. What was a mere treaty to that, even if it demanded more than the average monarch would have given?

The three rode in silence along the kingsroad ahead of the main group and towards the distant walls of the Wintercity and the spires of Winterfell, enjoying their surroundings. For Mark and Torrhen this was their first time home in almost 16 years. It was a sweet reunion for them to be sure.

“Look Mark!” Torrhen called as he pointed to a grey fort within the city walls, “there is the Wolf Fort!”

Mark burst out into a grin and looked at the distant fort with a sense of sentimentality.

“There she is,” he agreed, “our old hunting grounds.”

“Old hunting grounds? What do you mean?” Robert asked.

“That’s were where all of us grew up. In the North, all the young nobles are raised together alongside the future Lord of Winterfell.” Torrhen explained.

“You mean you fostered there? Every single one of you?”

“Aye.” Mark confirmed. “And they were the greatest days of my life. Every day we were going somewhere new with Brandon, getting into trouble and having new adventures. Then Brandon, the wolf-blooded, gallant fool that he was, rushed off with half of our Wolf Pack to King’s Landing. Many of our brothers joined him, never to be seen again.”

“We avenged them though,” Torrhen said. A seriousness sat in his tone that was not normally there.

“You did.” Robert agreed. “And then you warned the world of your wrath.”

The first time Robert had seen that weirwood tree with Rhaegar’s face looking over King’s Landing, he had felt a savage sense of anger. He had wanted to be the one to kill him. Over the years though, as he had aged and his body weakened, he had found great comfort in Rhaegar’s screaming face. It was a death more painful than any Robert could have given him, and the green men who tended to the tree informed Robert that Rhaegar’s soul was most likely still trapped within the white branches and red leaves. It was a mockery of life deserving of the man that had stolen the woman he loved.

“We most probably should wait for the others to catch up before we arrive at the Wintercity’s gates,” Mark said and Torrhen cracked a grin.

“Why?” he asked, “Let’s just ride in ourselves and leave Prince Ponce to deal with the savage Northern masses all by himself.”

Mark burst out laughing and even though Robert tried not to, he cracked a grin. Prince Ponce was what Torrhen had called the crown prince, Robert’s son Joffrey, for years now. Robert would have and should have been offended, but for the most part he actually agreed with Torrhen. Joffrey was a ponce and Torrhen had the balls to say it to the king’s face, something Robert respected him immensely for. Torrhen was the reason why he liked Northerners; they told it as it was and didn’t fill their speech with flowery words that meant nothing.

As they waited, Torrhen turned back to Robert.

“Who are you going to ask to be Hand if Ned refuses?”

Robert frowned at the member of his small council.

“Ned won’t refuse me,” he said angrily, “Ned has always been loyal to me.”

Mark winced on Robert’s other side and Robert glared at him.

“What?” The rotund man snapped.

“With all due respect Your Grace, last time you saw Ned you didn’t depart on the best of terms.”

Robert, to this day, had regrets about his and Ned’s last meeting. Robert had been stupid and a fool, and he had paid dearly for it.

“I signed their treaty, didn’t I?” Robert asked testily. “What more can they want?”

“Robert, last time you saw him you tried to kill his son. That is not something that is just forgotten,” Mark said softly.

Robert cringed at himself as he remembered his rage-fuelled attack on the little babe.

“I got it wrong,” Robert admitted before raising his head and looking Mark in the eye, “And the first thing I will do when I see Ned is fall on my knees and beg his forgiveness!”

“And what if Ned decides he can’t leave the North?” Torrhen asked, his tone serious.

“The role of Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell is a large one.”

“Cregan managed it and so can Ned.” Robert responded.

“Cregan managed it for six days,” Mark replied.

“Then I will ask Denys Arryn!” Robert roared before continuing, clearly frustrated, “but I don’t believe for one second that Ned cannot hand over his duties to his son and come south for me!”

Torrhen’s face fell dramatically and he clutched his heart in mock hurt.

“And here I was thinking I was his second choice!” He muttered to Mark.

Robert burst out laughing at the antics of the Northern representative and the three shared a few final, good moments before the rest of the royal retinue arrived.

Together once again, the retinue rode on and into the Wintercity.

Chapter 3: Ned I: The King Who Knelt

Chapter Text

Ned I:

Ned waited patiently in the courtyard beside his family as they waited for the king's arrival. Though Ned was the picture of calmness, inside he was tearing himself apart. What did you say to a best friend who called your wife a whor* and tried to kill your infant son? How was Ned meant to respond to that? Should he kneel or should he follow his father’s example and refuse?

Ned hadn’t seen Robert in sixteen long years, not since that fateful day all those years ago when Robert had swung his warhammer at Ned’s own son. They had left on bad terms and neither had done anything to repair the relationship since.

He felt Ashara’s hand lightly touch his before she entwined her fingers with his. He turned his head and smiled at her. She smiled softly back. The years had been kind to his wife, and she was as beautiful as the day he had first seen her. He pressed a kiss to the top of her forehead before inspecting the line of his children.

Jon stood first in line, his firstborn son. He was almost sixteen now and a brilliant swordsman and skilled leader of men. His Wolf Pack, a group of boys 150 strong, were utterly devoted to him and had ridden with him from Karhold to Riversmaw, as well as going with Jon to Braavos for three months a year back. Jon’s closest companion, Robb Snow, Brandon’s bastard son, stood slightly behind him at his right shoulder. The two were as close as any man could be, and their relationship reminded Ned of the relationship he shared with Robert when they lived in the Vale.

Artos was standing tall next to Jon, his wild gaze unusually brooding. Something was bothering him, though what it was, Ned had no clue. Ned only hoped it didn’t cause trouble with any of the royals.

Arya and Dyanna stood next to him, and, amazingly, neither of them had disappeared the entire morning, a new accomplishment for both. Ned didn’t know what Ashara had threatened them with, but it had been bloody effective.

Next to them stood Alaric, his little face screwed up with a seriousness that not even Ned had expressed as a babe. He was aptly named to be sure.

A call came from the gatehouse and the entire household stiffened as the king’s retinue entered.

The visitors poured through the castle’s gate in a river of gold and silver and polished steel, three hundred and fifty strong, a pride of bannermen and knights, of sworn swords and freeriders. Over their heads whipped the banners of house Baratheon and house Lannister, gold and black and gold and red.

Ned knew many of the riders. There was Ser Jaime Lannister, the kingslayer, and Sandor Clegane with his terrible, burnt face. Ned knew how Sandor had gotten that burn and it wasn’t a pretty story, nor was it one that was told to the masses. Next to Sandor rode a tall boy who could only have been Prince Ponce himself. Behind them rode the short, stunted form of Tyrion Lannister, The Imp.

It was at the head of the column though that Ned spotted those he recognised most. First was Mark Ryswell in his brilliant white cloak, flapping in the wind while next to him rode Torrhen Starkstark, Lord of Autumnfell and the Northern representative on the small council.

In front of them rode a man that Ned almost did not recognise. It was one thing to hear stories of what Robert Baratheon had become, it was another to see it with his own two eyes.

“Ned!” The huge man roared as he vaulted off a long-suffering horse.

“Ah, but is it good to see that frozen face of yours!”

Would that Ned had been able to say the same, but he couldn’t, not with the history and bitterness that existed between them now.

Ned dropped to one knee, and his household followed suit.

“Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.” He said, his voice as formal as ever.

“No!” Robert roared as he pulled Ned back to his feet.

“It is I who must fall to my knees before you, old friend.”

And then, to Ned’s amazement, Robert did just that.

"Forgive me Ned,” Robert beseeched, “for all the wrongs I did your family and your kingdom all those years ago.”

So surprised was Ned that he was struck speechless for a moment. This was not the Robert he remembered.

Fifteen years past, when they had ridden forth to win a throne, the Lord of Storm’s End had been clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and muscled like a maiden’s fantasy. Six and a half feet tall, he towered over lesser men, and when he donned his armour and the great antlered helmet of his house, he became a veritable giant. He’d had a giant’s strength too, his weapon of choice a spiked iron warhammer that Ned could scarcely lift. In those days, the smell of leather and blood had clung to him like perfume. He had a temper too, and an unwillingness to ever admit that he was wrong, especially when he was in his cups. Perhaps that was what this was. Perhaps Robert was drunk. Mark had warned him that the king had become extremely partial to drink.

“How much have you had to drink today, Robert?” Ned asked. He saw a genuine flash of hurt cross Robert’s face. It was then that Ned knew Robert was being sincere. Ned grabbed his friend's arm and pulled him to his feet.

“You’re not drunk,” he stated. Robert nodded.

Ned looked deep into his old friend’s eyes and saw true regret in them. Robert had never done well at masking his emotions, much like Ned. Over the years though, and under his wife’s tutelage, Ned had gotten much better. Robert hadn’t, it seemed.

“All is forgiven, Your Grace. But I am not the only one you need to apologise to.”

Ned gestured to his left, where his wife stood waiting patiently. A flash of guilt crossed Robert’s face and he turned to greet Ashara while Ned turned his gaze to the rest of the retinue.

By now, the others were dismounting as well and grooms were coming forward to take care of the horses. Robert’s queen, Cersei Lannister, stepped down from the carriage. Though she wore a smile on her face, her eyes gave away the truth of her feelings. She was flanked by her younger children who looked around shyly.

Cersei made her way over to Ned and he knelt before her while Robert greeted Ash warmly, though there was still a tenseness in the air between them. While Ned kissed Cersei’s ring, Robert greeted the rest of his children.

Robert returned to Ned once he had greeted them.

“Take me down to your crypts, Ned," he demanded, “I would pay my respects.”

“We have had a long journey. Surely the dead can wait.” Cersei responded.

Robert turned a gaze on her so cold that even Ned shivered before it. Wordlessly her brother appeared in his white cloak, took her by the arm and led her away.

Ned led Robert the other way, towards the crypts where the love he thought he had lay. They entered the winding, narrow staircase and made their way down to Lyanna’s crypt. They stood in silence for a moment, looking at the statues of Brandon and Lyanna.

“She was more beautiful than that.” Robert said after a moment, his voice hoarse with grief.

“Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this? She deserved more than darkness.”

“She was a Stark of Winterfell. Her place is here,” Ned explained quietly.

“Her place was by my side, but Rhaegar took her from me,” Robert replied.

“Rhaegar is dead now. Let the dead lie in peace."

“In my dreams, I kill him every night and during my waking hours, I spend time just staring at that face upon the tree, content with the eternal pain he is suffering," Robert admitted.

Ned didn’t know how to respond, so he stayed silent. After a while of sorrowful quiet, he spoke.

“We should return, Your Grace. Your wife will be waiting.”

“The Others take my wife,” Robert responded sourly.

“And no more of this ‘Your Grace’ business. You are more to me than that.”

Ned didn’t respond, his thoughts still filled with the day he had arrived with Lyanna’s bones and his infant son that Robert had tried to kill in the name of his dead sister.

“Ned,” Robert asked, “what’s wrong?”

They stopped walking and Ned pondered on how to respond.

“Tell me of Jon,” he eventually said, though it wasn’t what bothered him.

“I have never seen a man sicken so quickly,” Robert relayed with a shake of his head.

“Was it poison?” Ned asked, and Robert’s head shot up.

“Of course not! The maester assured me it was a sickness of the bowels," Robert replied.

Robert was blind, blind to the treasonous snakes within his own household. and Ned mourned for the boy he had loved. He knew they would turn their gaze on him next. Ned didn’t bother asking about Jon’s wife, he already knew all he had to know with her. He would have his vengeance on her one day.

“Who will you name Warden of the East?” Ned asked.

“Cersei thinks I should name Jaime Lannister,” Robert said and Ned shook his head in disbelief.

“And what of Denys,” he asked, “have you forgotten him?”

“Of course not! I was about to tell you that I instead planned on naming him regent for Jon’s son and Warden of the East, Robert replied angrily.

That was good, except for one problem: Jon’s son didn’t exist. Robin Arryn was no Arryn but a Stone. Denys was the true heir to the Vale and deserved more than being named regent for the offspring of a petty lord that had no place in the Eyrie’s hallowed halls. Ned nodded seriously though, not betraying the roiling emotions that raged within him.

“Enough of this. There is a more important office to discuss, and I would not argue with you.”

Robert grasped the other man by the elbow.

“I have need of you, Ned.”

“I am yours to command, Your Grace. Always.” They were words he had to say, and so he said them, apprehensive about what might come next. Robert scarcely seemed to hear him.

“Those years we spent in the Eyrie . . . gods, those were good years. I want you at my side again, Ned. I want you down in King’s Landing, not up here at the end of the world where you are no damned use to anybody.”

Robert looked off into the darkness, for a moment, appearing as melancholy as a Stark.

“I swear to you, sitting a throne is a thousand times harder than winning one. Laws are a tedious business and counting coppers is worse. And the people . . . there is no end of them. I sit on that damnable iron chair and listen to them complain until my mind is numb and my ass is raw. They all want something: money or land or justice. The lies they tell . . . and my lords and ladies are no better. I am surrounded by flatterers and fools. The only true men around me are Torrhen and Mark.”

Ned tried his hardest not to wince. Not even they were as true as Robert supposed.

“It can drive a man to madness, Ned. Half of them don’t dare tell me the truth, and the other half can’t find it. There are nights I wish we had lost at the Trident. Ah, no, not truly, but . . . “

“I understand,” Ned said softly.

“I think you do. If so, you are the only one, my old friend.” Robert looked at him and smiled.

“Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King. Come south with me, and I’ll teach you how to laugh again. Your armies won me this damned throne, now help me keep it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we would have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have daughters. My Joff and one of your twins shall join our houses as Lyanna and I might have done.”

Ned dropped to one knee. Neither offer surprised him; what other reason could Robert have had for coming so far? The Hand of the King was the second-most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. He spoke with the king’s voice, commanded the king’s armies, drafted the king’s laws. At times he even sat upon the Iron Throne to dispense the king’s justice when the king was absent, or sick, or otherwise indisposed. Robert was offering him a responsibility as large as the realm itself.

It was the last thing in the world he wanted. It was the last thing in the realm he could do. The Bloody Accords were clear.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I must refuse the honour of Hand of the King.” Ned responded.

Robert rolled his eyes good naturedly.

“I’m not trying to honour you! I’m trying to get you to do all my work!” He exclaimed.

Ned shook his head.

“You misunderstand me, Robert. I cannot accept the position.”

Robert’s eyebrows crinkled and Ned thought he saw a flash of annoyance in his old friend’s eyes.

“And why not?” Robert challenged.

“My duties within the North are too extensive and wide-ranging for me to also take on the duties of the Hand of the King.”

“Nonsense!” Robert bellowed. “Cregan Stark managed it.”

“Cregan Stark managed it for six days,” Ned reminded him and Robert scowled.

“I would also need to talk to Ash,” Ned said, and he saw Robert’s gaze tighten.

“And what of a betrothal?” He barked, clearly irritated.

Ned winced. Ashara and his father had warned him that something like this was coming years ago. With the agreement that Ned’s father had struck at the end of the war, a marriage between the Iron Throne and House Stark was the only way of ensuring that Tywin Lannister’s legacy was secure. Ned doubted it would have taken Cersei much to convince Robert of the merits of her father’s plan.

But Ned would not send his daughters south. His sister had gone south and she had returned in a wooden coffin, her body pale and lifeless. He would not have the same fate bestowed up on upon his daughters, especially the two that were the mirror images of Lyanna at the same age.

“No,” Ned said evenly.

“No?” Robert asked, and in the torchlight, Ned saw a dangerous glint in his old friend’s eye. Robert had never been accustomed to being denied anything. Women, wine and even his throne had not been denied to him, even when it did Robert no good.

“With all due respect, Your Grace, I must first talk to my wife. Ashara would not be happy if I organised the betrothal of one of her daughters without hearing from her first."

“Alright then,” Robert said after a moment’s silence, “talk to your wife. But don’t leave me waiting too long. I’m an impatient man.”

With that, Robert turned and stormed his way out of the crypts, leaving Ned alone in the hall of the dead. He could feel their eyes watching him, their stone gaze boring through him. They were all listening, he knew. And winter was coming. Winter was always coming.

Chapter 4: Jon I: A Feast For Wolves

Chapter Text

The feast was in full swing and the room was filled with the buzz of the feast goers, most of whom were in various states of drunkenness. Jon had kept one eye on Artos the entire night under his father’s instruction, yet somehow his cheeks were flushed and his speech was slurred. The guards said that he was the Brandon Stark come again.

To be fair though, his Wolf Pack wasn’t in a much better state. Asher Forrester was drunkenly performing a ballad of the time that he had killed a giant snow bear when they had been hunting in the woods near Last Hearth a few years back. He wore the pelt of the bear as a coat even now, and it was the gaudiest coat that Jon had seen any Northerner ever wear. For some reason Asher had left the head attached and used it as the beginnings of a sleeve instead.

Smalljon Umber and Brynden Bloodstark were glaring at each other from opposite ends of the table, their fingers cradling the knives that rested on their belts. Jon wasn’t that concerned though. He had seen the amount of wine that Brynden had consumed and had witnesses the Smalljon’s throwing skills in the yard. He doubted either was in much danger.

Gendry Waters was having a conversation with Walton Whitestark over a roast boar and a jug of fine northern ale. Samwell Tarly and Devan Seaworth were listening in, while next to them, the three Karstark brothers were getting hammered off shots of Vodka with Rickon Riverstark.

Theon Greyjoy was on his third jug of spiced wine, and had one of the serving girls in his lap. Theon was a good man, and a better friend, but his appetite for women and wine was almost ceaseless.

It was nowhere near as much however as the appetite for such things as the appetite of the king. Jon watched even know, from his place at the head of his table as his father tried to turn the king’s attentions from the serving girl who was serving his wine. It was an admirable effort, but it was also a futile one. Jon met his father’s gaze and gave him a consoling smile. His father smiled back tightly, and Jon could sense the anger radiating off of him. If the serving girl wasn’t careful, by morning she could be looking for work again. After a sharp glance from his father, the girl seemed to get the message, and left, leaving Robert alone with his boar and ale.

“Your father doesn’t look happy tonight.” A voice said, interrupting his thoughts. Jon turned to see his Uncle standing before him, clad in thick armour, and thicker furs. His beard was long, and the tips of his ears were black. Here was his uncle, the feared Benjen Hardstark, Lord of Hardhome and last surviving Lord-Beyond-The-Wall. Here was the man who fought giants, duelled with wildlings and battled with the harsh lands he lived in.

“Uncle!” Jon cried in delight as he leapt to his feet. “It has been too long!”

“It has Jon.” Benjen replied with a grin as he wrapped him in a hug. “It has been far too long.”

“What are you doing here?” Jon asked. “Last I heard there were whispers of a new King-Beyond-The-Wall. Where they false?”

Benjen’s mouth twisted. “No Jon.” He replied. “They were not false. I have come south to speak with your father and see the king. I have need of troops to defend Hardhome.”

Jon glanced at the king, who was now engaged in a deep conversation with his father. “Then by all means,” He said, “Do not let me keep you.”

Benjen chuckled drily, before making his way up the dais, where he was greeted by Ned and the king enthusiastically. Jon laughed at his uncle, before turning around to observe the hall. Observing was an activity Jon enjoyed. Much could be learned from watching people, and over the years Jon had gotten very good at it.

For instance, Jon was able to tell that Jamie Lannister was tenser than any other man in the room, and his eyes kept flicking to the doorways. Jon suspected he was dreading the arrival of Jon’s uncle, the legendary Arthur Dayne. Arthur was currently hunting bandits in the Wolfswood though, and would not be back until at least tomorrow. As Jon watched, Rhaenys Targaryen, disguised as a serving girl in service to his mother approached him and Jamie looked like he had seen a ghost. In a way he had Jon mused and the irony and humour of the situation was not lost on him.

Jon could also see that his mother and the queen were playing that strange game that his mother’s handmaiden’s played sometimes by trying to insult each other by being overly, and insincerely kind. From the laugh that just burst from his mother’s lips and the scowl that graced the queens, Jon would have guessed that his mother had just won.

There was Thorin Oakenstark, his short form wrapped in armour, his helm dazzling all with the brilliance of the Arkenstone and Orcrist strapped to his back. Even though he was a dwarf, he was one of the most formidable warriors in the North, having learned to turn his weakness into his strength. He was one of the four guardians of the Wolf Pack, the other’s being Arthur Dayne, Jory Cassel and Davos Seaworth.

Near the back of the hall, Tyrion Lannister and the GreatJon Umber were engaged in a drinking game of some sort. Jon had no clue how Tyrion was keeping up with giant lord, but somehow he was.

Jon sighed and returned his attention to his ale and roast cattle, while around him the Wolf Pack hollered and hooted.

“What’s with the long face, Stark?” Robb asked from where he had just seated himself at his right side, in the seat that was always reserved for him.

“I hate southerners.” Jon replied. “And their arrogance is wearing me thin.”

“I hear you brother.” Robb replied, and together they cast their eyes to the high table, where the Prince dined with their family. His nose seemed to be permanently upturned, and his mouth permanently downturned.

“What a prick.” Robb muttered, and Jon agreed.

“Where have you been?” Jon asked.

“I was talking with my Great Uncle Brynden. I haven’t seen him since we went to the Saltsmaw last year.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Not much.” Robb replied, though Jon noticed that his eyes had turned wary. “Though apparently father has been increasing the numbers of Winter Wolves stationed along the Maw and moving more wargs south. Uncle Brynden reckons that the number of War Wolves has doubled ever since Jon Arryn’s death.”

Jon grunted in reply. “Perhaps we shall be marching south soon.”

“Perhaps.” Robb replied, “Though he has also heard word from the sailors that Viserys Targaryen has begun petitioning the triachs of Volantis to support his claim to the Iron Throne.”

“Interesting.” Jon replied, and Robb nodded. “War is on its way it seems.”

“Who knows?” Robb said, “Soon you may be leading the men south! What an adventure that will be for you!”

Jon laughed. “I’ll make sure that when it does happen you can lead the defence of Hardhome from the wildling hordes.”

Robb looked at him in mock horror. “And what of all the unlucky maidens of the south?” He exclaimed. “Who will be there to pluck their pretty roses for them? The gods know you won’t be!”

“Exactly!” Jon replied with a grin. “We will have to send you someplace where the women know how to defend their ‘roses’ better. Who knows? You might return with a wildling beauty on your arm.”

Robb went to laugh, but his smile was replaced with a scowl at a shadow behind Jon. Jon turned to find the king standing behind him, a smile on his face. “Your grace.” Jon greeted as he rose to his feet. Around him, his Wolf Pack followed likewise.

The king’s face flushed, though whether it was with embarrassment or anger Jon could not tell. “Sit, sit.” He muttered, “Don’t make a scene for me.”

Jon obliged, and offered him the seat on his left. Robert sat, and his girth took much of the bench up. Jon ended up squashed up against Robb, who was simmering in quiet fury.

Robert squinted when he saw the auburn haired youth. “Good gods!” He breathed, “Your Ned’s bastard!”

Jon’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like it when people called Robb a bastard. This was the North. Those titles didn’t matter here. Snow or Stark, what difference did it make?

“I am.” Robb responded. It was a lie his father’s spies had spread years ago, in the aftermath of Rickard’s Rebellion. Many septons of the seven had been preaching against Brandon Stark, his father, and had called for the entire execution of the Stark line. To protect him, Robb’s uncle had claimed him as his own so that he could claim that whatever had made Brandon turn into a wolf did not infect Robb’s blood as well.

“You’ve got the look of your mother don’t you?” The king asked and Jon glared at the king, while Robb smiled consolingly.

“He has the heart of a Stark, your grace.” Jon said, his tone ice cold, “In the North that’s all that matters.”

Robert looked taken aback by Jon’s tone for a long, tense second, before a smile burst through his bushy beard. “You northerners are loyal to your own, aren’t you?”

“We have to be.” Jon replied. “It is either that or die when winter comes.”

Robert frowned as he beheld the serious faces that emerged when Jon mentioned winter. “Gods you’re a grim lot.” He muttered as he picked up a discarded ale horn. “You’re like your father was when he was your age.”

Jon interest was piqued. His father rarely spoke about his time with Robert Baratheon in the Vale. All Jon knew he had learned from rumours and his mother. After his grandfather’s rebellion, his father had seen red every time someone mentioned the king. And for good reason as well, from what Jon had heard. Apparently the bear of a man who sat before him had called his mother a whor* and tried to murder him. “Thank you for the compliment, your grace.” Jon said.

Robert took a long swig of the ale from his horn before slamming it back down onto the table. “So tell me,” He boomed, “tell me of this legendary Wolf Pack Torrhen and Mark were talking up on the journey here.”

Jon shrugged. “We are raised as brothers. Everything we do, we do together. Yesterday we grew up together. Today we will fight together. And tomorrow we will die together.”

Around the table, the Wolf Pack, sounded their agreements by banging their cups and horns upon the table. “Hear, Hear.” Came the call up and down the line.

The king looked on in admiration, before slamming his own cup upon the table. His act was met with cheers and raucous applause from the Wolf Pack, though Jon noticed that Asher looked put out at having his ballad interrupted.

“Tell me a story!” the king roared as the noise died down. “Tell me of your life!”

“Shall I tell him of how I got my fine coat?” Asher Forrester cried in delight as he leapt to his feet, prepared to launch into another stanza of his ballad. Asher’s declaration was met with a round of jeering and he was pelted with scraps of food. Jon rolled his eyes at Robb good naturedly.

“What’s this?” the king asked, interest flashing across his features.

“Don’t ask.” Jon replied. “Or if you really want to, ask at a time that none of us are present. Not only did we have the misfortune to be there when it happened, we have since had to put up with hearing different versions of it half a hundred times.”

Robert grunted and looked around at the joking, laughing group of boys and sighed wistfully. “I remember when I was living like this. Of course my group of friends wasn’t as large as yours and we were living in the Eyrie. It was me, your father, Denys and Elbert Arryn and a few other boys.”

Robert drunk from his cup and sadness and melancholy flashed across his features. His gaze was unseeing, staring off into a place only he could see. “Those were the best days of my life.” He admitted. “The days were filled with adventure, the nights were filled with laughter.”

Jon grinned at the description. “That sounds a fair bit like my life at the moment.”

“It’s a good way to live.” Robert responded. He looked around, and his expression changed as he looked at his own son. His lips curled into something that was reminiscent of a sneer, and Jon watched in interest.

“If only my son lived like this as well.” Robert continued. “Maybe that would fix some of his problems.”

“Problems?” Jon asked. “Does the boy trouble you?”

“Something is wrong with him.” The king admitted, and Jon wondered how much he had had to drink. “His mother has sheltered him too much. There is a sickness in him. Some days I wonder how I ever produced him.”

Jon watched the king warily, before glancing back at the boy. The king took another swig of his ale, before burping loudly.

“I say!” He exclaimed after a moment of thought. “I’ve had an idea. Do you reckon my son could foster with you for a little while?”

Jon shook his head apologetically. “I’m sorry your grace, but no. I don’t think your son would do to well serving with the Wolf Pack.”

“Why not?” Robert asked, and Jon wondered if he should continue. After a moment of deliberation, he decided he would.

“With all due respect your grace, our life is not easy. It’s a life I don’t think your son would be able to transition into very easily. We have no servants in the Wolf Fort. We have no cooks. We have no maids. We have no guards. Everything we want and need must be done by ourselves. And if my father comes to the castle and thinks we have not kept proper care of it, or we fail the random ‘attacks’ by my father’s men, we are thrown out of the castle for a moon and must live in the Wolfswood. It’s not a life for the faint of heart. Every boy here has been living that way since they were six years of age.”

“I could command you too.” Robert responded, though his voice sounded despondent.

“You could.” Jon replied, “But I cannot promise that any of my brother’s would accept your command.”

Robert looked pained. “Would you at least meet with him and consider it?”

Jon hesitated, and the king saw it as indecision. “Please.” He said. “I’m not asking you as a king. I’m asking you as a father, who worries for his son.”

Jon looked over at the prince, who continued to sneer at those around him. Though his head told him no, his heart went out to the father that sat beside him and he nodded. “I will talk to him…though I make no promises that I will allow him to stay.”

Robert’s smile beamed, and for a second Jon saw the handsome, charismatic man that had earned the moniker of the demon of the Trident, but then he was replaced with the drunken, slovenly king that took up the bench space next to him.

“Joff!” Robert called, and he waved over the prince when he looked up. Joffrey looked uncertain for a moment, and Jon wondered how many times Robert had directly spoken to Prince Joffrey. From the look on Joffrey’s face, Jon was guessing he would be able to count the times on one hand.

The sneer disappeared from Joffrey’s face, and he made his way from his seat to where they sat.

“Father.” He greeted Robert.

“Come, come.” Robert said impatiently. “Have a seat.”

Robert turned to Robb. “Move boy!” He snapped. “Make way for your prince.”

Jon stiffened in his seat, and glared at the fat king. “Do not move.” He snapped, when Robb went to leave.

Robb paused and watched the confrontation between the king and the heir to Winterfell nervously.

Jon turned to the Prince. “Your father wants you to join my Wolf Pack.” He said, “And here is your first lesson…Joffrey.”

The Prince’s gaze briefly flicked to his father, before he returned it to Jon. He smirked.

Jon glared at the arrogant boy before continuing. “Your titles mean nothing here. No one’s do, except my father’s and mine. You answer to me and I answer to my father. This king has no authority over this table or those who sit here.”

Robert’s face swelled in anger and a vein throbbed in the side of his head. Joffrey sneered at Jon and barked in amusem*nt. “I am the Prince!” He exclaimed, “If I wanted to I could order your execution upon this very day!”

Jon shot to his feet, and his hand leapt to the hilt of his sword. “You are more than welcome to try.” Jon replied, his voice low and his eye’s flashing dangerously. “However this is the North. Our way is the old way. If you want my head, you must take it yourself. I will see you in the training yard tomorrow at first light.”

With that Jon spat at the Prince’s feet and stepped over the bench, before turning his back and storming out of the hall, his Wolf Pack following in his wake. Behind him the king returned to his seat by Lord Stark, while the Prince simmered in fury and embarrassment.

Chapter 5: Tyrion I: The Wolven Storm

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

Tyrion I:

Tyrion was up before the sun had even risen. It was not something he did often, and something he didn’t think he had ever done the morning after a feast that had gone into the latest hours of the night. His head pounded from the amount of alcohol he had consumed, but he wouldn’t miss what was coming for the world.

Soon his haughty nephew would face Jon Stark in the training yard. Tyrion didn’t think he had been this excited since the day he had awoken to find a cup of the finest arbour gold in his hand and a very pretty whor* with her lips wrapped around his co*ck. That had been the morning when he had decided on the way he wanted to die.

Tyrion left his room as the sun first began to peek over the horizon and made his way down to the stables where one of his men, Jack, had organised a horse for him to ride.

The training yard the Wolf Pack of Winterfell used was located in the Wolf Fort, the home of all the young heirs of the North. Last night, those boys had been an impressive group of young warriors. It was clear they were all utterly loyal and devoted to each other, and would have lain down their lives for one another if asked. Well, that was with the exception of SmallJon Umber and Brynden Bloodstark. Those two had been glaring daggers at each other the entire night, and Tyrion was surprised they hadn’t come to blows.

When he reached the stables, he was greeted by a surly prince, and an equally surly brother. Behind them stood the Hound, his eyes scanning every living being that walked past with such enmity that he caused one young girl to burst into tears.

“Good Morning!” Tyrion greeted cheerily. “What a beautiful morning this is turning out to be!”

The Hound grunted in response, while Joffrey glared at him. “What are you doing here?” He asked, looking at Tyrion as if he was as welcome here as a wet sh*t.

“O sweetest nephew,” Tyrion said as he reached up and rubbed his cheek affectionately, “I’ve come to see you spar with young Lord Jon.”

Joffrey slapped his hand away and threw one last poisonous glare, before hauling himself onto his horse and kicking its sides. “Come dog!” He called as he trotted past the Hound, “I have a wolf pelt to collect!”

The stables and courtyard rang with Joffrey’s laughter as he lauded his own joke. Tyrion refrained from rolling his eyes and climbed aboard his own horse. The Hound trotted past, and sat just behind the Prince.

Tyrion and Jamie trotted after them, their horses making their way out of Winterfell and into the Winter City proper.

Tyrion turned to his brother, who looked as though he hadn’t slept for a week. His cheeks were sunken, and his hands trembled like leaves in the wind. His skin was as pale as the snow that fell from the sky, and his eyes were the eyes of a mad-man, darting left and right and haunted.

“Brother?” Tyrion asked. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Jamie replied lowly. “I’m just nervous.”

“Nervous?” Tyrion asked. “Nervous about what?”

“About seeing him again.”

There was no need to ask who he was. There was only one man in the entire world that Jamie cared enough about to leave him nervous. Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning, and the knight Jamie squired for. Tyrion knew that Jamie had idolised, and in many ways still did, the famed knight.

“What if he hates me for what I did?” Jamie asked. “What if he curses me for killing Aerys? What if he scorns me for staying in the kingsguard, even after Robert took the throne? What if-?

“So many what ifs!” Tyrion interrupted. “What if the sky fell on our head? What if the whor*s all disappeared? What if the Others returned?”

“But what if he hates me?” Jamie asked. “I don’t know if I could bear it! My whole life he is who I’ve looked up to, and who I have always strived to be! Now today, I find out if he still sees me as the boy who squired for him, or the man that killed the king he had sworn to protect?”

Tyrion looked at his brother sadly. It was strange seeing Jamie like this. For years he had worn his arrogance as an armour, and a possibility of meeting one man had stripped all that arrogance away. Left behind was the shell of a traumatised and insecure man, who struggled with the choices of the past.

“It doesn’t matter what he sees you as.” Tyrion said. “Does it change the past? Does it change what you have done? Does it change anything? You are still a Lannister of Casterly Rock and a knight of the kingsguard. You are still my brother. We are both lions. By what right does the sheep judge the lion?”

“But-“

“No!” Tyrion said firmly. “There is no buts. What did Rickard Stark tell you?”

Jamie looked away, his eyes unseeing. Tyrion knew of the massive amount of respect Jamie had for The Burnt Lord, a respect that Rickard Stark had earned on the day his forces had taken King’s Landing.

“He said I was the truest knight of the kingsguard.”

“And?”

“And that I had more honour than any of the other kingsguard. He said to wear what I have done with pride.”

“Then wear it with pride.” Tyrion said. “Make it your armour and don’t let anyone know how much it hurts you, especially not him.”

Jamie smiled at him weakly. “That sounds like something father would say.”

“Hear me roar.” Tyrion replied drily.

“Hear me roar.” Jamie affirmed.

They rode the rest of the way in silence and Tyrion took the opportunity to admire the city around him. The Winter City truly was one of the most beautiful and unique cities in the world. On the side of the street stood a great Brown Bear, its vital regions covered by light steel plate, while upon its head sat a monstrous war helm. In the sky eagles flitted to and fro, and occasionally dived into the city to retrieve or accost someone.

The buildings themselves were made out of oak and stone, and sturdily built. The grey stone and white snow caused the entire city to have a wintry feel about it, and when the sun peeked through the clouds the entire city sparkled.

The banners of House Stark hung from every streets sign and well, letting all know of who owned this great domain. The people were busy, and the children were happy while the shops were filled with food and the houses with people.

And perhaps most amazingly of all, the air smelt enchanting, a strange mix of pine needles and snow with the tiniest hint of smoke.

They soon came to the Wolf Fort and Tyrion noted with interest that the guards at the gates were some of the boys who had been present at the feast last night. Neither could have been older than sixteen, yet both were as ramrod straight and as attentive as that of a man who had been a guard for forty years. Their gilded bronze spears and armour glinted in the early morning light, and when their party went to cross the boys moved in unison to block their way.

“Halt.” One said. “Who goes there?”

Joffrey, gods bless his arrogant soul, sneered at them, before turning to The Hound. “Get these fools out of my way.”

The Hound nodded, and swung from his horse before placing on his dogs head helm and drawing his great sword. To the boys’ credit, neither flinched nor shirked in their duty.

“I’ll give you one chance to move out of our way.” The Hound growled, but the boys shook their heads.

“Tell us of who you are and we will arrange to have a guard escort you.”

“Do you know who I am?” Joffrey exclaimed in disbelief.

The boys glanced at each other. “Someone who thinks he’s above the laws of this city.” The one on the left replied.

“I am above the laws of this land!” Joffrey replied angrily. “Move them at once dog! I have a meeting to make and I don’t want to be late!”

“It’s alright!” A voice called, and from within the fort Robb Snow strode out. “These men are expected Harrion.”

The one on the left, Harrion, squinted at them suspiciously, before turning to Robb. “If you say so.” He replied, before bringing up his spear and stepping aside. His fellow guard did the same, and Robb strode out to greet them.

“I apologise most profusely to all of you.” Robb Snow said, “But my guards take their duties very seriously. If you had have been sent here by my father we would have been spending the next month in the Wolfswood.”

Tyrion nodded in acceptance. He had overhead Jon Stark telling the king of life in the Wolf Fort last night, but the others didn’t care. Joffrey had already ridden on, and The Hound, the ever loyal dog was again following him.

“No offence was taken.” Tyrion replied for all of them as they moved on towards the training yard. Already Tyrion could hear the clash of steel on steel and the shouts and grunts of fighting men.

The courtyard was filled with the northern boys they called the Wolf Pack, some 150 strong. Most of them Tyrion had no clue of their identity, but a few stood out. Jon Stark, their leader, and Robb Snow were the ones Tyrion knew of best, but he also saw the sigils of Houses Umber, Hornwood and Karstark as well as all the different variations of the Stark direwolf, from grey ones that ran on a blood red field, to grey heads that graced a sea blue field.

It was the men in the centre of the courtyard though that drew Tyrion’s attention. Arthur Dayne stood next to Thorin Oakenstark and watched as Jon Stark duelled a boy in a bull headed helm. Tyrion racked his brains for a northern house that took a bull for its sigil, yet none sprung to mind. Neither of them held anything back, and Tyrion almost burst out into laughter at the look upon Joffrey’s face. These were two skilled fighters. Jon Stark fought with a blunted practice blade, while the boy in the bull headed helm fought with a monstrous war hammer that rivalled even King Robert’s.

“Keep your shield up Gendry!” Arthur Dayne called as Jon Stark managed to slip past the boy, Gendry’s, guard. Gendry stepped back from Jon’s strike before swinging his hammer at Jon’s own shield. Jon Stark tried to twist away, and the hammer caught him square in his padded gambeson.

To Tyrion’s amazement Jon Stark was literally thrown backwards from the force of the blow. He was lifted off his feet and sailed through the air for a good few feet, before crashing back down to the ground.

Tyrion stared at Gendry in bewilderment. To throw a man into the air with a swing of his hammer was a feat of strength that was frankly, almost unheard of. Robert had boasted of doing it, but Tyrion had never met a man to corroborate these tales, and indeed Ser Barristan had flat out denied that he had done it at the Trident with one of the Darry brothers.

Gendry grunted in satisfaction while Arthur Dayne made his way over to his nephew and hauled him to his feet. “Stupid boy.” He muttered at Jon. “What were you thinking?”

He slapped him lightly across the back of the head. “Don’t ever let me catch you doing that again.”

Jon Stark nodded in agreement and reached up and removed his helm. His hair was soaked with sweat and his cheeks were flushed. Across the yard, Gendry did likewise and Tyrion’s heart stopped in his chest. He felt the blood rush from his face, and suddenly he understood where this boy’s skill with a Warhammer and legendary strength came from.

There was no doubting who he was. With those blue eyes and that black hair he was a dead ringer for Robert Baratheon 20 years ago. Not that Tyrion had seen him. But he could imagine.

A glance sideways confirmed it. Jamie knew who it was too. Father was going to be furious when he found out and Cersei would be apoplectic. By the grace of the seven Joffrey did not have the sense to put two and two together and was oblivious to the identity of the man who stood ten meters to in front of him. Instead he stepped forward into the yard, announcing their presence for the entire Wolf Pack to see and hear.

Jon Stark stepped away from his uncle, his practice sword resting at his side. “Prince Joffrey.” He greeted, but tellingly he did not bow, or even dip his head. This action however, did not go unnoticed by Joffrey. He always was quick to sense a slight.

“It is customary to bow before your prince.”

Jon Stark smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes were still pits of dark grey ice, burning through Joffrey. Around him the Wolf Pack of Winterfell whispered amongst one another and glared daggers at the Prince.

“It is customary to bow before your King.” Jon replied. “Not your prince. At least in the North that is. In the North a man must earn the right to be bowed to.”

Joffrey looked around him at the faces that glared at him, before stepping forth into the ring. “Well then.” He said. “If it takes a beating to make you bend the knee, then so be it.”

Tyrion didn’t know whether to laud Joffrey for his courage or laugh at him for his stupidity. Jon gestured at Gendry and he left the ring, and took his place by the other boys of the Pack.

“Well then.” Jon replied. “Shall we begin?”

Joffrey nodded his assent and Thorin Oakenstark appeared at his side carrying a padded gambeson and blunted sword.

Joffrey looked down at the dwarf lord in disgust. “A dwarf?” He sneered. “Is this an insult or just a bad joke?”

Tyrion’s eyes widened in horror. For years all he wanted to do was meet with Thorin Oakenstark. From a young age, Tyrion had idolised House Oakenstark, particularly the tales he had heard of Thorin. They said he was a warrior without peer, one who hadn’t let his diminutive size hinder his ability to wield his family’s ancestral Valyrian Steel blade, Orcrist.

Tyrion had once thought he had could become the next Thorin Oakenstark, until the day his father had flatly refused to allow the Master of Arms of Casterly Rock to teach him how to wield a sword. Tyrion’s heart had been shattered that day. He could still remember his father’s scathing rebuke of Tyrion’s dreams to wield a sword.

It almost hurt as much as it had to lose Tysha.

And now, because of one foolish boy and his loud mouth, Tyrion’s chance at meeting his idol may have just gone with the wind. Tyrion resisted the urge to march into the ring and slap the arrogant whor*son across his mouth. Hopefully he would knock some sense into Joffrey’s brain, but he doubted it. It seemed he had inherited his mother’s penchant for stupidity and cruelty.

Jon Stark looked at the Prince coolly, before turning to his uncle. “Go and assist the Prince.”

Arthur Dayne looked as though he had just been asked to kill a newborn babe. A battle of wills erupted between uncle and nephew, but in the end the Heir to Winterfell won and Arthur Dayne was striding across to Joffrey with a look of such intense loathing and hatred on his face, that Tyrion felt slightly disconcerted.

Arthur Dayne assisted Joffrey in readying himself for the spar, though he was none to gentle in the process. Thorin Oakenstar meanwhile, went and helped Jon Stark. Soon both were ready, and stepped forward, directly across from each other.

Jon nodded once at Joffrey before slamming down the visor of his helm, and hefting his sword and shield. Joffrey did likewise, though his sword wavered in the air. It was clear that this was not an activity that Joffrey was accustomed to.

“Begin.” Arthur Dayne barked, and almost immediately Jon Stark went on the offensive.

He swung his practice sword in an overhead arc towards Joffrey’s head. Through sheer dumb luck, Joffrey somehow managed to catch the blow upon his blade. Then Joffrey swung his own blade, but Jon knocked it aside almost contemptuously, before launching back, and driving Joffrey across the yard with a series of sweeps, swings and shoves.

Jon Stark pushed Joffrey right to the wall of men that surrounded them before deciding to finish it. With an elaborate twist of his blade, Joffrey’s was wrenched from his grasp and landed a few feet away. But Jon Stark wasn’t finished.

Next he slipped his own blade past Joffrey’s shield, before tripping him with one of his feet, before catching him with his arms.

When all the movement was said and done, Joffrey found himself on one knee before the Heir of Winterfell. For a long, tense second Jon stared at the young prince before finally releasing him and stepping back.

Joffrey’s face flushed as he realised the position he was in. He sprung to his feet. “This is a game for children.” He said. “Let us fight like real men. Let us fight with live steel.”

Jon Stark looked amused before glancing at Arthur Dayne. Arthur Dayne was glaring upon Prince Joffrey with a look of hate so intense it was slightly disturbing. He nodded once and Jon Stark drew his own blade.

Tyrion gasped in shock and awe of the blade that he wielded. It was Starsteel, the same material that Arthur Dayne’s Dawn was forged of. It was clearly not Dawn though as Dawn was currently strapped to Arthur Dayne’s side.

Jon Stark’s blade was plain, but it was beautiful. The handle of the blade was wrapped in white leather, while the crossguard and pommel were composed of bronze coated steel. The scabbard was comprised of Weirwood and white leather while a bronze filigree capped the top and bottom.

“Behold,” Robb Snow called as he stirred from where he lounged against a wall, “Snowfall, the blade of Winterfell, the blade of the heir.”

All Tyrion could think about was how jealous their father was going to be when he found out that the Stark’s had another Starsteel blade in their possession. Their father had complained constantly about the blade of Roderick Walton, though Tyrion was yet to meet this mysterious and interesting figure, or see the blade that he had heard so much of.

Joffrey blanched a bit, and stepped back, but Jon Stark was upon him. Almost lazily, he swung his blade up, past Joffrey’s guard and across his cheek. The cut was shallow, but it bled well. It would scar one day no doubt.

The whole exchange lasted less than three seconds.

Joffrey stumbled away and dropped his sword at his feet, before clutching his cheek tenderly. “You cut me!” He exclaimed.

“You asked for live steel.” Jon Stark replied. “I gave you live steel.”

“If you were not prepared to be cut boy” Arthur Dayne spat, “You should not have entered the ring.”

Joffrey drew himself up to his full height. “I am the Crown Prince!” He cried as he stamped his foot. “You can’t talk to me like that!”

Arthur just glared at the boy before sneering and turning his back on him. To Tyrion’s horror, Jamie stepped forward.

“I am prepared to be cut.” Jamie called after Arthur Dayne. “I will fight you, Ser Arthur!”

“No.” Arthur Dayne replied without turning around.

“Please Arthur!” Jamie exclaimed as he stepped forward and drew his sword. “For old times’ sake! As a nod to the days when I was just squire. The master against the apprentice.”

“Not a day goes by that I don’t curse myself for taking you on as my squire.” Arthur said with posion in his voice and Jamie stepped back, the shock evident on his face. Arthur glared at Tyrion’s brother, before spitting at his feet. Jamie paled and stepped back. He swallowed audibly, before his arrogance came rushing back and he turned to Jon Stark. “What of you, Lord Jon? Would you like to spar?”

“No.” Arthur called out. “You will not spar in this courtyard. I will not have your blade profaning the place where I teach my nephews how to swing their swords.”

Jamie nodded stiffly, before turning and marching away, Joffrey trotting after him, and the Hound trotting after him. All such loyal dogs.

Tyrion went to follow, but he felt a hand upon his arm. He looked up into the cool, grey gaze of Jon Stark who had Thorin Oakenstark standing next to him.

“Lord Tyrion.” Jon greeted, “As I promised you at the feast last night, here is Lord Thorin Oakenstark.”

Tyrion glanced the man up and down and he was impressed with what he saw. A plaited black beard hung down his face and his blue eyes sparkled with life. He was a little bit taller than Tyrion, though not by much. The famed blade Orcrist hung on his back, while he was wrapped in leather and chainmail armour. On his head rested the helm that was set with the brilliant Arkenstone, the crown jewel so to speak, of the Oakenshield mines.

“Lord Tyrion.” Thorin Oakenshield greeted. “It is a pleasure to meet another dwarf lord like me.”

Tyrion’s mind raced as he thought of the opportunities that this friendship could bring. A dwrven warrior and a dwarven scholar. Together they would be a formidable team. And both had more money than they knew what to do with. Just like Tyrion had more ideas than he knew what to do with.

Chapter 6: Jamie I: White Wings, White Eyes.

Chapter Text

Jamie stormed away from the courtyard, his heart thundering in his chest. To his despair, he could feel tears pooling in the sides of his eyes. What had he become to feel like this? Since when had the opinion of one man mattered so much? Since when had the lion cared for the opinions of sheep?

Behind him Joffrey and the Hound wandered off somewhere else, and Jamie’s feet led him, his mind unaware of where he was going. To his horror, his feet led him straight to The Black Bat, Ser Oswell Whent. He bumped into him unawares, and only realising who he had hit when he lifted his gaze and saw the bat helm that sat upon his old sworn brother’s head.

“Ser Jamie.” Oswel Whent greeted calmly.

“Ser Oswell.” Jamie replied.

“Not anymore.” Oswell Whent replied with a bitter smile.

“What do you mean?” Jamie asked, confused.

“I’m no ser anymore. The High Septon stripped Arthur and I of our knightly oaths.”

“He did?” Jamie asked, surprised. He hadn’t heard that news. The last he had seen or heard of either of them was when they had left King’s Landing in Lord Stark’s retinue sixteen years ago. “When?”

Oswell Whent shrugged. “Got the letter a few years ago. To be honest Arthur doesn’t care that much. He’s almost a Northerner nowadays.”

“Yes.” Jamie replied, the thoughts of Arthur Dayne bitter on his mind. “I seemed to notice he hates me as much as all these other Northerners.”

Oswell Whent shrugged. “If it makes you feel any better I hate you too and I’m not almost a Northerner. I’m still a southerner.”

Jamie’s lip curled. “Why?” He asked. “Why do you and Arthur hate me for killing the Mad King?”

Oswell Whent smirked at him and Jamie resisted the urge to wipe the smirk from his face with the sword that rested at his side. “You think we hate you for killing the Mad King?”

“What else have I done to deserve your loathing?” Jamie asked.

“Arthur and I don’t hate you for killing the Mad King. Arthur has said himself that if he was in your position he would have killed Aerys too. So would have I. I think I would have enjoyed it too.”

“So why do you hate me then?”

“Tell me Ser Jamie,” Oswell Whent said. “While you were killing Aerys what was happening to Elia Martell and her children? Who had Rhaegar left to protect them?”

“Me.” Ser Jamie whispered.

“You.” Oswell Whent exclaimed as he stabbed Jamie with the point of his finger. “You were left to protect them and instead they ended up dead. We don’t hate you for failing to fulfil your duties to Aerys. We hate you for failing to fulfil your oaths to Elia Martell and her children. We hate you even more for the traitor’s name that you bear.”

With a last look of disgust, Oswell Whent turned around and left Jamie alone with his thoughts.

Jamie stormed into his sister’s chambers in a rage. Where was Jamie on the day that Elia was killed? Where the f*ck had Arthur been!

Almost immediately his sister emerged from behind the partition and noted the troubled look in his gaze.

“What’s wrong?” She asked as she reached for the wine.

“Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent!” Jamie spat. Jamie paced back and forth upon the fur covered floor.

“Don’t worry about them.” Cersei said as she came closer, her dress slipping, revealing her breasts. “Worry about me.” She said as she pushed him down into a chair. She claimed his lips with hers, and his hands fumbled at her chest and back as he tried to remove her dress.

Their dance took them away from the chair and across to Cersei’s featherbed. They tumbled down into its softness, both as naked as newborns.

Cersei flipped him over so that she was on top and that was when he first saw the White Raven that sat in the rafters, peering down at them.

“f*ck!” Jamie cried as he shoved Cersei off him roughly. She tumbled onto the stone floor with a small scream and Jamie scrambled to wrap the furs around himself.

“What the f*ck was that for?” Cersei asked as she clambered to her feet and glared daggers at him.

“Pass me my sword!” Jamie cried as he pulled his breeches on. “Quick!”

“Why?” Cersei asked and Jamie rushed past her to seize his own sword. Without responding he ran after the White Raven, who flitted from rafter to rafter in an attempt to get away the bite of Jamie’s sword.

Cersei screamed when she saw it knowing what it meant, who it heralded. Only the Stark’s had White Ravens. Briefly Jamie wondered who’s raven this one was.

As if in answer, the bird soared past Cersei and out the window. Jamie rushed across to follow it, and saw a lone figure waiting in the courtyard below. The bird alighted on the figure’s shoulder and Jamie rushed to the doorway, determined to kill whoever it was before they could put any of his blood in danger. In his haste he had forgotten to put on his clothes and only wore breeches.

He rushed down the steps, his naked blade gleaming in the sun. He emerged from the tower and saw the figure sitting down on a log, waiting for him it seemed.

Jamie rushed over and was surprised to see the youngest Stark, Alaric. Sitting in front of him, calmly preening the White Raven’s feathers.

Jamie paused as he reached him, and glanced around. No one was near. He could kill him and no one would be any the wiser. Who would know?

“Alaric!” Someone called and Jamie nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Ser Jamie?” The same voice asked and Jamie turned to see Ashara Dayne staring at him in bewilderment. “What are you doing?”

Two of them. No one was near. He could kill them both and no one would by any the wiser. Who would know?

“Ashara?” Eddard Stark asked as he emerged from around the corner. He baulked when he noticed Jamie’s naked torso. “What is Ser Jamie doing?”

“Just leaving.” Jamie replied as he levelled one last glare at the child. The child smirked at him before skipping over to its mother, and tugging on her hand. She leant down and he whispered in Ashara Dayne’s ear.

She listened to the small boy intently, before a look of bemusem*nt flitted across her features. Jamie’s heart stopped in his chest. He looked at Eddard Stark and wondered how he would go in a fight with him. He noted the length of Ice that sat strapped to Ned Stark’s back. This was the man who had beaten Randyll Tarly at the God’s Eye and then captured Rhaegar. A formidable warrior to be sure. Was he better than Jamie?

There was only one way to find out. Jamie breathed in and prepared to fight.

“I’m so sorry.” Ashara said to Jamie as she shook her head at Alaric, before extracting something from his grasp. It was his ring, the one his father had given him. She held it out for him to take and Jamie stared at the boy in shock. What had he told his mother?

“Alaric should never have taken this.” Ashara explained. “His Raven though has taken a likeliness to shiny things. I fear your ring is just the latest in a long line of victims.”

Jamie paused and looked at the boy, who smirked up at him. He patted the head of the raven on his shoulder, before making a smooching face at Jamie.

Jamie reached out and took the ring, all while glaring at the six year old.

Then he turned around and stormed away, furious at the boy who had found them out. Hopefully he didn’t realise what he had seen until Jamie had a chance to kill him.

Chapter 7: Ned II: The coming and going of Kings

Chapter Text

Eddard Stark walked through the halls of his home towards the chambers where the King of the Seven Kingdoms had spent the last month of his life. It had been painful and awkward to be sure, and everyone seemed to be aware of the awkwardness except for the king himself, who was either blissfully ignorant or roaring drunk.

Truth be told, Ned had once been as blind as Robert. It was only in the later years of his life, under his wife’s careful tutelage that he learned to read the people that hid behind the masks. Ashara had learned in the Viper’s nest of King’s Landing itself, when Aerys yet sat on the throne and Rhaegar was still a man.

Ned approached the door to the King’s chambers now, and found his old friend guarding it. Mark Ryswell, the White Knight of the North, glanced his way as he approached, but he was otherwise as still as a statue.

Ned slipped past him, and Mark didn’t respond. Ned knew where Mark’s true loyalties lay, and it wasn’t with Robert. It saddened him to have to stoop to such levels, especially against the man he had once considered a brother, but it was the reality of the situation he faced. In his role as Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Watcher of the White Wolf he had no room for sentimentality.

Especially as the Watcher of the White Wolf. The Stark’s had been preparing for the arrival of the White Wolf for 300 years in just a few moons. Ned would not be the first of his kin to fail in their ancient and sacred oaths.

As he entered the room the first thing he noticed was the smell. It hung in the air like a perfume, a stench of booze, sweat and sex. From within he heard the sounds of flesh slapping flesh, and he wondered what he had walked into.

Ned had seen worse though. Ned had been present at the Massacre of God’s Eye, when the waters were stained red with the blood of the slain. When the corpses of the Reachmen were feasted upon by wild and warged wolves alike. When the stench of death hung in the air so thickly, that a man could scarcely breathe.

“Robert.” Ned said calmly as he walked into the room. “We need to talk.”

“Ned?!” Robert cried, when he noticed his presence. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.” Ned repeated. “Now. And alone.”

A quick, cool glance and the whor* got the message. She slid off the fur laden bed and slipped into her silken dress. Within seconds she was gone, leaving the king unsatisfied upon the bed.

But she knew what the king did not. This was the domain of the Wolves of Winterfell. Southern Kings held no sway here.

“What about?” Robert asked as he swung from the bed and swung on a heavy bear-fur cloak.

“I have come to a decision.”

“Excellent!” Robert exclaimed. “And?”

“No, you’re Grace.”

“No?” Robert asked.

“No.” Ned affirmed. “I will not be coming south with you.”

“And why not?” Robert asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Ned felt a tinge of fear run through him. The last time he had heard Robert speak like that was the day before he had charged alone down the banks of the Trident to fight Rhaegar and his entourage in one on one combat. Robert may have been fat, drunk and a whor*monger, but there was still remnants of the warrior he once was hidden away in there somewhere.

“I cannot, my king. I have far too many duties in the North.”

“No!” Robert roared, and his fury showed through. “No! I travel all this way from King’s Landing to offer you the most powerful position in the realm and a betrothal with the crown prince and you doubly insult me by saying no to both?”

“I apologise most profusely-“

“I don’t want your f*cking apologies!” Robert yelled. “I want you to be Hand of the King!”

“I can’t manage it Robert.” Ned beseeched, trying to calm the furious man down. “I am Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. The North is as prosperous as the south. How do you expect me to manage both?”

“Cregan Stark managed it for Aegon the Dragonbane.” Robert retorted.

“Cregan Stark served Aegon the Oathbreaker for six days.” Ned replied. In the North the memory of why Cregan had been given those six days still rankled. And it was why the man they called Dragonsbane in the south was known as Oathbreaker in the North.

“That’s still six more days than you are giving me!”

Ned stayed silent, unsure of how to continue.

“Stupid fool…” Robert muttered. “What could I expect of the man who broke his oaths to House Tully. Of course he would break it for his king as well…”

Ned clenched his jaw. “I warn you now Robert, if you value our relationship in any way you will stop this conversation right now.”

“No!” Robert roared. “I came here for a Hand and a betrothal and I leave with neither! 16 years ago your father robbed me blind! In the south I’m still mocked for that f*cking treaty! I won’t be robbed by a Stark ever again…give me you or one of your daughters. Until such a time I’m not leaving the North.”

As if to prove his point, Robert sat down heavily upon the oaken seat that sat next to the fireplace.

Ned stared at him for a long time, before turning to the window. Outside the summer snows were falling, while in the courtyard Arya and Dyanna were having a snowball fight with Artos. Arya spun around, and just for a fleeting second, the light hit her the right way and he saw Lyanna again.

He saw her laughing as Brandon pelted her with snowballs. He saw her laughing as she rode along the Kingsroad towards the tourney of Harrenhall. He saw her crying as Rhaegar sung his sad songs. He saw her dying upon a bed of blood, pain in her features and sorrow in her eyes.

It was then he knew. He would never willingly send any of his children south ever. The only time a Stark of Winterfell would be going south would be at the head of an army 140,000 strong with a White Wolf running before them.

Ned had broken the Bloody Accords enough for one lifetime. He had no wish to break them again. But he had a king that left him no choice. What was he to do? Sacrifice his honour for his children or his children for his honour?

“Please Ned,” Robert begged, his voice softer than Ned had heard it in a long time. “I have need of you down south. I don’t know what I’m doing. The realm has gone to sh*t Ned. I need you. I’m not asking you as your king, I’m asking you as the brothers we once were.”

In the end the decision was easy. Ned would have given anything for his children, even his life if the gods demanded it of him.

“Six days.”

“Six days?” Robert asked.

“Cregan gave the Oathbreaker six days. That is how many days I will give you.”

“I want you for more than that Ned.”

“Well that is all you’re getting. Be content with six or have none.”

Robert looked torn.

“There are conditions as well.” Ned continued.

“Conditions?” Robert asked, “What conditions?”

“You will leave tomorrow at first light.”

“Tomorrow?” Robert exclaimed. “Whatever for?”

“You will prepare the realm for my coming. I have no intention of staying in the south for any longer than I need too.”

“What do you need me to prepare?”

“Tonight you will go and visit with Maester Luwin. You will send a raven to every Lord Paramount, summoning them to King’s Landing. I want Tywin Lannister, Mace Tyrell, Balon Greyjoy and Lysa Arryn there in person. The rest of them can send representatives.”

“They won’t like that.”

“Then command them too as the king they have sworn fealty to. Tell them that any who does not come will be stipped of all their lands and titles. That should bring most of them running.”

“Lysa and Balon won’t come for anything. The Iron Islands have been simmering on the brink of war ever since the end of your father’s rebellion.”

That was something that Ned knew well. He still shuddered to think of the deal he had made with Balon to keep them from rebelling. It still haunted his waking hours. “Leave Lysa and Balon to me.”

“I warn you Ned, she’s gone mad since her husband died. From what Varys said she’s holed herself up in the Eyrie and refuses to come down for anything.”

“You might find Robert that the right word in the right places can get you anything.”

Robert shrugged and poured himself a cup of ale.

“I also want your whole small council present when I arrive. Including Stannis.”

Robert shook his head. “Impossible. Stannis has done the same as Lysa and run off to his island fortress. He’s become frightened of shadows. Good riddance I say.”

Ned found it hard to imagine what could frighten Stannis Baratheon, who had once held Storm's End through a year of siege, surviving on rats and boot leather while the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne sat outside with their hosts, banqueting in sight of his walls. “He will come regardless of how scared he is of the shadows. As his king you will order it of him. Even if you have to go to Dragonstone yourself. I want him there. Get him there. Am I clear?”

Robert nodded. “I will do my best.”

“No.” Ned replied. “You will do better. If I get down to King’s Landing and even one of the people I’ve asked for isn’t there I will turn around and march straight back to Winterfell without even bothering to ask why.”

“Is there anything else?” Robert asked.

“Yes.” Ned replied. “When I am Hand of the King my word is law Robert. Not even yours will be able to overrule me. I don’t want to have to worry about you putting the realm back to sh*t once I’ve come back to Winterfell.”

Robert shrugged. “If Jon was still alive, he could tell you that I don’t care either way. As long as you leave me my whor*s and my wine, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not though.”

“You’re not?!”

“No.” Ned said. “If you want me to be your Hand you won’t touch wine or whor*s from this day forth. Try sleeping with your wife for once.”

Robert snorted. “You serious?” He scoffed. “I’ve tried. The ways she guards her c*nt you would think all the gold of Casterly Rock is hidden there.”

“Try regardless. If she say no, go and come back the next day. Persist until she says yes. You need more children Robert. You can’t build a dynasty off two sons and one daughter.”

“The Targaryen’s did it with one son and two daughters.” Robert replied.

“And the Targaryen’s are gone. They were here for not even 300 years. To House Stark the dragons were no more than dust upon the wind. Unless you want your crown to suffer the same fate you will have more children.”

“I will try.” Robert conceded.

“Good.” Ned said, before sighing. “Gods Robert, where did it all go wrong?”

“When we left the Vale.” Robert replied.

“No,” Ned disagreed. “It was before that.”

Robert paused, and his eyes filled with grief. “When the smiles died.”

“Aye.” Ned agreed. “When the smiles died.”

“Remember Robert. First light tomorrow.”

Robert grunted and Ned walked to the door. He was almost through it when he was stopped.

“Ned.” Robert said, his voice filled with remembered grief. “What of the betrothal?”

“No.” Ned said firmly. “On that there is no negotiation.”’

“Please. For the love I bore your sister. Give me this one thing.”

Ned sighed. “No.” he finally replied. “I will have nothing to do with that child.”

“Give me something goddammit Ned! I can’t go south until you have given me something. If the other Lords knew how much you have defied me the last semblances of my authority would be gone.”

“I can’t send any of my children south Robert. Surely you would understand why.”

“I get it Ned but-“

“That doesn’t mean you can’t leave one of yours.” Ned interrupted. “Just don’t leave Joffrey.”

True to his word, Robert left at first light the next day. The servants had been rushing around into the latest hours of last night and finalising things even now.

It hadn’t been fair of Ned to demand them to leave with such short notice, but then again it hadn’t been fair of Robert to demand for Ned to be his Hand of the King.

Ned rode beside Robert as they passed through the Winter City. The last promise that Robert had managed to extract of him was that he would escort the king to the cities limits.

The ride through the city was largely uneventful. In the last month, the residents of the city had largely become accustomed to the royal retinues visit. It had very quickly lost its appeal, and now only the youngest children came out to watch them ride past.

They passed through, and before Ned knew it they came to the city gates. He turned to Robert who had stopped.

“Well I guess this is goodbye then.” Ned said.

“Only for a little while.” Robert replied. “I’ll see you in a moon’s time in King’s Landing.”

Around them the rest of the Royal Retinue continued through the gates, save two.

“What am I meant to do once you’re gone Ned?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Ned replied. “I want nothing to do with whatever madness follows.”

Robert sighed. “I’m going to miss you Ned. This last month has been one of the best of my life.”

If only Ned could say the same.

Behind them they heard wailing, and Ned supressed a smile. This was just another reason why Ned was glad he was not travelling with the king’s retinue.

If Robert had been upset at having to leave Winterfell, and on the terms Ned had demanded of him, Cersei Lannister had been outright furious. She had simmered in icy fury when Robert had told her that Ned had refused his demands for a betrothal and wailed and wept for hours when they had announced that Tommen was to be kept in the North, officially to serve as Ned’s squire.

“Tommen!” She cried, “Tommen!”

Tommen though rode on a shaggy pony next to Artos, Alaric and Jon.

“Stop your wailing woman for god’s sake!” Robert suddenly roared.

Tommen and Ned’s sons came to a stop next to them, and Ned greeted them all with a nod of the head.

Together they watched as the last of the retinue rode through the gates. Robert sighed, and turned to his youngest son.

He seemed on the verge of saying something meaningful before nodding his head and turning his horse. “Be good.” Were his last words, and then he was gone.

Ned turned back around, and beheld the other man who had remained behind. Tyrion Lannister had decided to remain behind however, having a desire to see the Wall. Ned nodded at him too, and then Lannister and Stark rode back to Winterfell.

Chapter 8: Jon II: The High Council

Chapter Text

Jon watched as his lord father called the meeting of the Northern High Council to order. Present we’re all the lords and individuals in the North who held the positions of power. Within this room were the men who could make and break entire kingdoms. These were the men who managed the North’s finances, trained their troops and guarded their borders. These were the men that Lord Eddard Stark had handpicked to run the North, and all of them were the best at what they did.

Jon sat by his father’s right hand at the head of the table. On his father’s left sat Maester Luwin who would record the meeting for the archives that were housed in the library of Winterfell.

Down below them sat the nine men that served the Northern Realms. In front of Jon sat the Master of Coin, Lord Wyman Manderly. Lord Manderly had served the North in such a way since before Rickard’s Rebellion. He was a man of enormous appetites, but behind those rolls of fat and insipid smile sat an incredibly cunning and intelligent man. It took such a man to run the massive trade empire that the Stark’s controlled, as well as managing the finances of the North.

Next to the Master of Coin sat the first southerner to ever sit on the Northern High Council. His appointment had stirred much controversy at the time, but after Ser Brynden Tully had proven himself as Master of the Moat his critics became much less vocal. Brynden Tully sat with Beron Saltstark, the Lord Admiral of the Northern Fleets. The two men were close friends; their positions in the North meant that they often spent time together. The most powerful ships of the Northern fleet were stationed at the Underground docks of Moat Cailin.

On the other side of the table Rodrick Walton sat, his form wrapped in his trademark armour and his famous blade resting on his back. He was the man who needed no introduction no matter where he walked. Rickards Rebellion has made into one of the most feared men in Westeros and Jon knew from firsthand experience where this fear came from.

Next to Rodrick was a man who was not as well known, but should have been as much, if not more feared. Bowen Blackmyre was a diminutive crannogman, but he was a powerful and skilled warg. It was for this reason that he had been named the Warden of Wargs, and he was responsible for policing the way wargs used their animals as well as fighting the White Eye. When the North went to war, he would also be the one in charge of their famed warg legions.

The final man on that side of the table had only arrived in Winterfell last night, and his presence was not a good omen. Ethan Glover had left to travel the world with Jon’s grandfather, Rickard Stark, fourteen years ago. Nowadays he acted as Rickard Stark’s representative the world over. No one had seen nor heard from Rickard Stark in four years, however Ethan Glover dropped in from time to time to share news of his grandfather or bring Jon, Robb and Gendry to him.

The last time Jon has seen his grandfather was four years ago in Braavos. Ethan Glover was their unofficial Master of Eyes, since their official one, his grandfather, was never here.

At the end of the table sat the final two members of the High Council. GreatJon Umber, The Warden of War and Benjen Hardstark, the feared Lord-Beyond the wall and Jon’s uncle.

Both were also incredibly skilled fighters, and Jon knew no better brawler than the GreatJon himself. He had once seen GreatJon take on eleven of his own guards in a drunken rage and beaten them soundly. He had emerged with barely a bruise and Jon had understood at that time why the Umbers took a chained giant for their sigil.

“My Lords, My Lord’s,” his father called, “let us begin. We have limited time and much to do.”

“That we do.” Uncle Benjen agreed. “There are rumblings from beyond the wall. The rumours are true. A new King has arisen.”

“A new king beyond the wall?” GreatJon asked, “Do we know who?”

“Mance Rayder.” Benjen confirmed. “A former sworn brother of the Nights Watch.”

“A deserter then.” Jon said.

Benjen shrugged half-heartedly. “In a way, but that is not how he, or the wildlings see it. He was born a wildlings you see. The get of a wildling woman raped by a Black Brother.”

“Mance Rayder.” His father mused. “You’ve met him Jon.”

“I have?” Jon asked, searching his memories for a Black Brother that was a wildling. In his mind he saw a great bearded figure clack in rough furs and a black cloak.

“He came to Winterfell when Qorgyle yet led the watch. If I remember correctly, he promised not to tell anyone that you planned on dumping a mountain of snow on Fat Tom.”

Jon’s jaw dropped open. He did remember Mance Rayder, a wiry man of average height that was clad in black furs, black armour and black leather. A true brother of the Nights Watch. Now he was King Beyond the Wall though.

“What’s this Wildling king doing?” Rodrick Walton asked. “Is he planning on marching south?”

“I believe so.” Benjen said. “Most wildlings are congregating in three spots. From the talk of the Free Folk we trade with, one host under Tormund Giantsbane is gathering in the Haunted Forest, while Mance is gathering another on the banks of the Milkwater. The worst news though is that the Thenns have left their valley. They are gathering a third host in the Skirling Pass.”

“The Thenn’s have left their valley?” Jon asked, his curiosity aroused. The Thenn’s hadn’t left their valley in 10,000 years. “Why would they leave their valley now?”

“Only the gods know.” Benjen said. “But there is one thing that is without doubt. He means to attack Hardhome.”

“Attack Hardhome?” Lord Stark asked, “What is there for him in Hardhome?”

“Ships.” Benjen replied. Next to him the GreatJon whistled lowly. “Crafty bastard. We’ll march to the wall and he’ll slip past us with our own ships.”

“A great plan.” Beron Saltstark scoffed. “He will have an abundance of ships to be sure. But how will he sail them without sailors?”

“I don’t know.” Benjen replied. “Perhaps he means to capture some of my sailors alive. Perhaps he knows himself. In the end though, somehow he would get past the Wall. That is inevitable. Unless we deal with the three separate hosts now, soon we will face a united Wildling host, said to be anywhere from 10,000 to 200,000 strong.”

“If Mance Rayder has two hundred thousand men then I’m the Bloody Blessed Bastard himself.” GreatJon scoffed. “Mance would be lucky to gather 100 wildlings to his cause. Everyone knows that the wildlings are just as likely to fight themselves as they are to fight us.”

“Regardless of the size of Mance Rayder’s host,” Lord Stark interrupted, “Lord Hardstark has a point. If he does have three separate hosts, then we cannot allow them to gather together.”

Jon’s father turned to him. “Jon you will lead a host to the Milkwater to break Mance’s host and if you can, capture him alive.”

“I will?” Jon asked, a little surprised. There were men in this very room who were more capable than him, and outside of this room, ten score more could be found. “What of Uncle Benjen?” Jon asked. “Surely he would be better at leading a host through the Lands of Always Winter. Or what of the GreatJon or even Roderick Walton?”

“Your right.” Jon’s father responded. “Which is why they will be going with you too.”

“We will?” Roderick Walton asked.

“Yes.” Lord Stark replied. “Watch over him, advise him and help him. When he returns you will tell me how he went.” Lord Stark turned to Jon. “Consider this your first battle command. It is better for you to get this experience against the bone daggers of wildlings than the steel swords of sothron knights.”

“How many men will I have under my command?” Jon asked.

“1000.” His father replied. “I have already written a raven to Lord Commander Mormont. He has promised 300 men of the Night’s Watch. I shall further provide you with 300 Weirwood Warriors and 400 Winter Wolves. On top of that, I expect some members of you Wolf Pack will wish to accompany you. I permit you to take no more than ten.”

Jon swallowed. His father was showing an incredible amount of faith in him by bestowing upon him this command. The lives of over 1000 men would rest in his hands. That was no small responsibility, especially when you were leading them into the hostile lands Beyond the Wall.

Jon dipped his head in acknowledgment of his father’s orders before pushing it to the back of his mind. Already the High Council around him were moving on from the discussion of the King-Beyond-The-Wall. Jon had to move on too. It would do no good to let anyone know how nervous he was. He remembered the lessons his mother had given him, and he masked his features into a cold, expressionless façade.

“Now with Mance Rayder out of the way.” His father was saying, “We need to talk about the state of the south.”

“What of it?” GreatJon asked. “Who cares? One day when the White Wolf comes the south will be as relevant to us as the wildlings are to the Dornish.”

“The south sits on the brink of war My Lords. Make no mistake, while the realm seems at peace, Robert is the only thing holding this realm together. Once he is gone these seven kingdoms will splinter into a war that will be worse than the Dance of the Dragons, and take more lives than my own father’s rebellion.”

“What of it?” GreatJon asked. “Let the South go to war I say. Let them waste their armies upon each other. When the time comes an army of Northerners will sweep south to right all the wrongs and reclaim our crown.”

“What of it?” Jon’s father asked, his face clouded with not anger, but something close. “What of the Vale lords and River lords who fought with us at Stoney Sept and the Trident? What of Denys Arryn and Yohn Royce? What of Tytos Blackwood and Jason Mallister? What of our friends and allies in the south? Shall we just leave them to fight their wars alone?”

“What can we do?” Wyman Manderly asked. “The Bloody Accords are clear Lord Stark. They are not to be broken. I still don’t believe that you should be Hand of the King.”

“Cregan Stark did it.” His father responded.

“And so you have argued.” Wyman replied. “While I do not agree, I can see what you are saying. It is for that alone that I have not refused to support you.”

“For now all this arguing is pointless.” Rodrick Walton interceded. “Instead of focusing on what happens after Robert dies, why don’t we focus on keeping him alive? That will give us all more time to plan. That will give the White Wolf more time to rise.”

“How long though?” Bowen Blackmyre asked. “How much longer must we wait for this saviour of ours?”

“The gods showed the Bloody Blessed Bastard many things Lord Bowen.” Roderick Walton said, “His visions have yet to be proven wrong. He was right about Mount Starpoint. He was right about the Wolf’s Maw. He was right about the Dance of the Dragons. He will be right about the White Wolf too.”

“You have a valid plan Lord Commander,” Jon interrupted, “But Robert is not long for this world. He is a stag surrounded by lions who are growing hungrier and hungrier by the day. I don’t know what more we can do to keep him alive.”

“We can show strength.” Jon’s father said, his grey eyes steely in their resolve. “In the south their memories are short and they forget very easily. My father’s absence has been noted. They think The Burnt Lord is gone. To them he is now just a distant memory, someone to scare your children with, not to fear yourself. As to us, My Lords, they have forgotten our strength. They forgot what happened to Jon Connington at Stoney Sept. They forgot what happened to Randyll Tarly besides the shores of God’s Eye. They have forgotten what happened to Rhaegar at the Trident.”

Lord Stark got to his feet, and Jon’s father was gone. In his place was the man the South called The Stranger’s Wolf. A warrior to be feared and respected, a man that you did not cross. “Well we shall remind them. We shall show them why it was us that tore down the dragonlords from on high. We shall show the south who exactly it is that lurks in the North watching King Robert’s back.”

“Hear, Hear.” The GreatJon bellowed as he slammed his ale horn down upon the table.

“Lord Manderly.” Eddard Stark said as he turned to the Master of Coin. “How goes our coffers?”

“Well, My Lord.” Lord Manderly replied. “They are brimming with coin in preparation for the coming winter.”

“I want figures. How much do we have?”

Wyman shuffled the papers in front of him. “As you would know we have three main coffers. The first of them, and the smallest, sits here in Winterfell. Those coffers contain just over one million Golden Dragons. The second coffer in White Harbour is our largest and holds four million Golden Dragons. Then we also have our account with the Iron Bank that is currently worth seven million Golden Dragons. Between them all that makes twelve million Golden Dragons. On top of that we have coin tied up in investments in Essos, and the trading cartels as well as a number of smaller coffers scattered throughout the North.”

“Good.” Lord Stark replied. “We have enough then. While Robert was here, he told me the state of the realms finances. The realm currently sits in six million dragons debt.”

“Six million dragons!” Jon exclaimed, “What did they spend it all on?”

“Tourneys and feasts for the most part.” Wyman Manderly responed. “I have been keeping an eye on it for a while now.”

“How much of that debt is owed to the Lannisters?” Lord Stark asked.

Lord Manderly shuffled some more papers before giving a figure. “About three million.”

The GreatJon whistled lowly. “An impressive figure.”

Lord Stark nodded. “Gather three million dragons from the White Harbour coffers, load them onto the most secure ships we have and they will come south with me when I head for King’s Landing.”

“What for?” Jon asked. “We will have need of that gold come winter.”

Lord Stark turned to Jon. “Our king is a stag surrounded by lions. Most of the lion’s power lies in the gold the stag owes them. By buying out the Lannister’s share of the debt, any Lannister power is directly transferred to us.”

“It’s a good plan.” Lord Wyman Manderly said. “But will we ever get our gold back. Robert already owes us half a million golden dragons from five years ago. He is yet to even begin repayments.”

“He will pay.” Lord Stark said. “Or he will suffer the same fate as Aerys. I will make this known to him as well. Robert is many things, but stupid is not one of them.”

Lord Stark paused and took a sip of his ale. “Beron I want you to organise a fleet to escort the gold and us south.”

Beron nodded. “I will get on it right away.”

“I also want transport for 2000 troops and a retinue of Northern lords.”

“It shall be done.”

“Good.”

“Martyn!” Lord Stark called, and the doors to the Council chambers cracked open and the Captain of the guards stepped through. Martyn Cassel was one of House Stark’s most loyal servants and had served in both the Company of the Rose and the Winter Wolves. He had been present at the infamous clash at the Tower of Joy, where Ser Gerold Hightower had been killed and Lyanna’s corpse had been found.

“Yes My Lord?” He asked.

“Gather 2000 of your best men and prepare them for a march to White Harbour. I need loyal men in King’s Landing while I am there. I have no intention of suffering the same fate as my brother.”

“At once My Lord.” With that, Martyn Cassel turned and rushed to fulfil his lord’s bidding.

“Which lords will you take with you?” Lord Manderly asked.

Lord Stark stewed on the question for a moment before responding. “Summon Lords Bolton, Karstark, Mormont and Glover of the founding families. I want either the Lord or the Heir of all the cadet houses as well. You and Lord Blackmyre shall come as well Lord Manderly.”

Lord Manderly and Bowen Blackmyre nodded their heads. If Jon’s father had of gone south without either of those two lords Jon would have been concerned for his welfare. As it was though, the only man more capable of protecting him than those two was Rodrick Walton. And he would be busy preparing for his trek North of the Wall with Jon.

“The South won’t know whats hit them.” Benjen said. “It will be the Hour of the Wolf come again.”

“The Second Hour of the Wolf.” Lord Stark mused. “I like that.”

“What of your father Lord Stark? What does he have to say on this?”

Every eye turned to Ethan Glover, who had been silent up until now. He shrugged. “Very little I imagine. He’s distracted with other things.”

“Like what?” Lord Stark asked.

“Fulfilling his duties as the Master of Eyes.”

“And?” Jon asked. “What does he know?”

Ethan leant forward. “I received news two days ago from Lord Rickard confirming rumours that have been circulating for months. The White Eye and the Faceless men were at war.”

“Were?” Uncle Benjen asked. “What do you mean were?”

“Three days ago someone burnt down the House of Black and White in Braavos.”

The statement hung in the air for a long time and no one dared to respond.

“Who?” Someone managed to finally sputter out. “Who burnt it down?”

“We don’t know.” Ethan Glover replied. “But with the House of Black and White gone, the White Eye are the only elite assassins left in the world. They will now have a monopoly on all the killing contracts.”

“This will make them more powerful than ever.” Rodrick Walton said. “How goes the fight against them?”

“Worse than ever.” Bowen Blackmyre replied. “We still know nothing about them. Our own wargs have managed to shut down their charters in our major cities, but they still run amok in the South and in the countrysides.”

Lord Stark sighed heavily. “Has my father found anything else?”

“Yes.” Ethan Glover replied. “The rumours surrounding Torrhen Snow’s expedition into Valyria were nothing more than that. Rumours.”

At the mention of the Pirate King’s name the tempreture of the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Across the table, Beron Saltstark’s eyes were as cold as ice, and he was as taught as a bow string.

Torrhen Snow’s name lived in infamy in the North. To some he was a dashing hero, to others a cursed kinslayer. Jon had spent many years with Torrhen Snow when he was younger, and he didn’t believe he was either. He had been young when he had left, as Jon had thought on it over the years he was certain the fires that Torrhen had lit had not been meant for his father’s wife and firstborn son.

“It’s not surprising.” Beron Saltstark spat. “His talk has always been bigger than his walk.”

“He has however,” Ethan continued, “Acquired a number of very rare Valyrian artefacts, some of which he sold to us through a broker in Braavos.”

“Where did he get them?” Jon asked.

Ethan shrugged. “I don’t know. You would have to ask him yourself.”

“What else of the pirate king?” Lord Stark asked. “Has he been on any more trips?”

“He has. He has been given the exclusive trade contracts with the Sothroyos colonies, and continues to stake his claim upon the Stepstones. Last I heard, his last rival, a pirate named Salladhor Saan from Lys had bent the knee to him and given up his fleet.”

“How large is his fleet now?” Lord Manderly asked.

“We believe it to be about 600 ships, and some 25,000 men.”

“25,000 pirates.” Beron Saltstark spat. “I’ve heard from the sailors that he has been attacking shipping through the straits. The Dornish are unhappy and are sending envoys to King’s Landing to have the problem dealt with.”

“The Dornish will have to learn to live with it.” Jon said. “You know Torrhen better than any of Lord Saltstark. He is an admiral without peer, and by your own admission he sails the greatest ship to have ever been produced by your shipyards. Any force sent against him would have great trouble, even a Greyjoy one.”

“And that brings me to the next matter.” Ethan Glover interrupted, “The Greyjoys.”

“I know.” Lord Stark said with a sigh. “They are building their fleets up.”

“We can’t keep them from rebelling with promises forever.” Wyman Manderly warned.

“I know.” Lord Stark said, “But what more can I do, short of letting them take the crown they have hungered after ever since Aegon burned Harrenhall to the ground?”

“There is a greater threat Lord Stark than having to pick between our long-time allies and our king.” Ethan Glover said. “Already the Ironborn serving in the Company that are finishing their contracts are not resigning. Instead they are going home. The news is that Balon plans to declare himself a king upon the death of King Robert.”

“How many Ironborn have left so far?”

“Not many.” Ethan replied. “About 300. But the number is growing.”

“Have you warned the Company?” Jon asked.

“We have.” Ethan replied, “The Captain General and his captains are discussing what to do even now.”

Lord Stark stewed in silence for a while before turning to Beron Saltstark. “I want you to increase the patrols around Cape Kraken and Ready the Western Fleets. Fortify the Riversmaw and Moat Cailin and transfer some troops to the Flint Cliffs.”

“May I also suggest transferring Kyle Waterman from White Harbour to Blazewater Bay?” Beron suggested.

Lord Stark nodded in agreeance. Kyle Waterman was one of two humans in the world that had warged with one of the fearsome blue whales that swam throughout the frigid northern waters. He had served valiantly in Rickard’s Rebellion and was responsible for the breaking of the Redwyne fleet. He was experienced, and an invaluable force for the Northern navy. “You may.”

“Balon won’t be stupid enough to attack us.” Jon said. “His son rides with me.”

“Perhaps not Jon.” Uncle Benjen responded, “But it doesn’t hurt us to be safe. Theon is the fourth son of Balon Greyjoy. If Balon was offered a crown in exchange for his fourthborn would he take the crown or keep his son?”

Jon didn’t know how to respond so kept silent. Around him the council shuffled their papers, and prepared to leave. There was little more to discuss. “Is that all My Lords?”

No one brought anything new forth so Lord Stark dismissed them. The Lords shuffled out of the room, but his Uncle Benjen remained behind.

“Brother.” Uncle Benjen said when everyone else had left and the door had closed behind them. “Do you remember that raven you sent me a few years back?”

“Which one?” Lord Stark asked.

Jon made to leave, but his Uncle caught him by the arm. “Stay Jon. This concerns you too.”

Benjen turned back to his brother, while Jon took a seat. “The one where you asked me about direwolves?”

His father’s head snapped up from the ledgers he was looking at so quickly, Jon heard something crack. “You succeeded?” He asked.

“I did.” Benjen replied and his mouth burst into a grin. “They will be here by tonight.”

“What will?” Jon asked.

“Direwolves boy!” Jon’s father exclaimed, his excitement and joy evident. “Direwolves! House Stark will have Direwolves again!”

Jon looked at his uncle incredulously, who nodded in confirmation. “How many?” Jon asked.

“Three.” Benjen replied. “Two males and one female. And that’s not all. The kennel master at Harhome has confirmed the female is pregnant.”

Night couldn’t come fast enough in Jon’s opinion. Meeting the direwolves was going to be a family affair, and all his siblings were present as well as his mother, father and cousin.

Uncle Benjen had left the city with one of his men, a certain Qhorin Halfhand, to meet the retinue on the road and escort them into the city.

Jon’s father had gathered them all in the private courtyard of the Stark family. It was a secluded and small place away from the bustle of the castle. Alaric and Artos were sparring with practice swords as they waited, while Arya and Dyanna cheered them on. Jon sat with Robb on a low stone fence as their parents watched from the ramparts above the courtyard.

“So you’re going North I hear.” Robb said.

“Aye.” Jon replied. “Father has placed me in command of 1000 men. I have orders to break Mance Rayder’s host, and if possible capture him alive.”

“Who’s going with you?”

“The GreatJon. Uncle Benjen and Roderick Walton. And father also said I could take ten of the Wolf Pack.”

“Only ten?” Robb asked. “Who are you going to take?”

“Sam.” Jon replied. “Gendry. SmallJon. A few others…”

“What about me?” Robb asked. “Will you take me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You were right Robb. A war is coming. I need you to protect my father. Watch over him, and when the time comes serve him faithfully. Do whatever he ask of you, and do whatever he needs of you. Remember the lone wolf dies but-“

“The pack survives.” Robb finished with a shaky grin. “The pack always survives.”

Jon smiled at his cousin, a man he considered more than a brother and enveloped him in a hug. “I’m going to miss you Robb when I’m fighting wildings in the North.”

“I’ll miss you too.”

Jon went to say more, but was interrupted by a commotion from the gates. Uncle Benjen rode through, a grin lighting up his face, and a small bundle of fur cradled in his arms.

“She gave birth!” He exclaimed before he had even jumped from his horse. “Six pups!” He cried, “Six pups and this one was the oldest!”

Uncle Benjen held up the squirming bundle within his arms and Jon looked at it in amazement. His heart stopped in his chest and around him time seemed to stop. Its fur was white, and its eyes were as red as the leaves that hung from the branches of the Weirwood.

Silence greeted Benjen’s declaration while all stared at the animal in his arms.

“A White Wolf.” Lord Stark remarked as he made his way down from the parapets. “The only question now is whose White Wolf is it?”

Chapter 9: Eddard III: The Second Hour of the Wolf I

Chapter Text

Lord Eddard Stark had not seen King’s Landing in 16 years. The last time he had been here, he had come with grief in his heart and a babe in his arms. His sister’s bones had been carried in a casket behind him, and his the stench of death lingered in his nostrils. Today it was a small army at his back while in his nostrils the stench of sh*t lingered. It was the smell of this city and it hadn’t changed one bit.

Ned had arrived at the capital city yesterday aboard a fleet of 40 ships. He had come with 2000 Winter Wolves and a retinue of the most powerful Lords in the North, as well as Lord Balon Greyjoy. Ned had ordered for all the Lord Paramounts to be summoned. A few he had business to deal with, while others he simply wanted to be there to witness what happens to those who cross him.

Ned and his retinue of lords where making their way to the throne room now. Ned had called for the most influential lords to come, and they had come. Lords Bolton, Karstark and Manderly had come from the East, while from the West had come Lords Mormont, Glover and Dustin. On top of that almost every cadet branch of House Stark was present, the only exception being House Skastark of Skagos.

That house had only one member remaining, Lord Ragnar Skastark. Ned didn’t think anyone had seen him in years either. He preffered to spend his days alone in the wilds of Skagos rather than the family holdfast of Skahold. He had married no woman and bore no sons, trueborn or otherwise. Ned hadn’t even bothered to send a raven. By the time he would have received it anyway, Ned would have had to be gone.

At Ned’s side trotted the direwolf that Benjen had captured in the Lands Beyond the Wall. Ned had named it Skirling, after the pass in the Land’s Beyond the Wall, from which it’s ancestors were said to have hailed. Benjen had kept the other male as his own, and his was named Storrold, after the peninsula on which he ruled. Farlen, the kennelmaster at Winterfell believed the two to be brothers, as their colouring was very similar. They both had dark grey fur, though Skirling’s was a shade darker. Skirling was also the larger, powerfully built with a wide muzzle and broad shoulders. Storrold was thinner, and had more of a loping grace to him.

Ned, Skirling and his retinue arrived at the throne room, and the doors were opened by his guards. Ned noted with approval that they had already secured much of the Red Keep. Soon his troops would have control of the entire city, and then the time would come to strike. Ned was leaving nothing to chance. He knew just how slippery the man he was after was. He had eluded justice for a long time now. No more.

Inside the throne room all the gathered and summoned nobles rose to their feet. At the front of the hall, arrayed to the left of the Iron Throne, the entire small council was present. Lord Varys and Lord Baelish stood side by side, tittering and whispering about something or the other. Next to them Renly lounged with an easy smile upon his face, while the Grand Maester dozed in his seat. The last member present was Lord Stannis, who sat apart from the others and with one hand upon the sword that rested at his side. Many of the lords and ladies eyed the direwolf in consternation, and whispers broke out across the hall.

Ser Barristan Selmy and the King had gone hunting in the Kingswood. They would not be present for the coming Hour. And just as well. Ned did not know if Robert would be able to control his rage when he found out the truth of what Ned was about to present.

Ned had had a hard enough time of it, and he was renowned for his patience and coolness.

On the stands to the left of the throne and beyond the Small Council sat the Lords that had been summoned. Lord Tywin Lannister sat closest to the throne, and Queen Cersei sat with him. He was surrounded by a retinue of five lords he had brought with him. Lords Crakehall, Lefford, Marbrand and Banefort were present, as well as Tywin Lannister’s favoured attack dog; Ser Gregor Clegane.

Thankfully, someone somewhere had had the sense to sit Prince Oberyn Martell on the other side of the room. This did nothing to stop the murderous rage that played out across his features. His eyes smouldered and his teeth were bared in a snarl. His hands twitched, and the knives at his belt had never looked more dangerous. His rage only grew when he saw Lord Beron Saltstark in Ned’s retinue.

In between Oberyn and Tywin sat the other lords. Edmure Tully had come to represent his father, while Denys Arryn had ridden down from the Vale when Lysa Arryn had refused the summons. It was good to see Denys again. He hadn’t seen him in a long time.

From the Reach had come Mace Tyrell, and he had brought his entire family with him. The only absent one was his eldest son, Willas. The man was crippled they said, and had trouble travelling far distances.

Ned’s lords filed past him and took up the stands on the right of the Iron Throne. Ned’s new squire, Prince Tommen, moved to stand at the base of the Iron Throne.

Tommen had the makings of a good squire, though for now he was far too weak hearted to ever be a warrior of any sort. Ned had seen weaker hearts though and seen them changed by life with a Stark. Samwell Tarly had been a self-confessed craven and coward when he had first come North, but now he was one of the best fighters with a battle-axe that Ned had ever seen. He wasn’t as good as the Smalljon, but then again, no one was. Sam’s friendship with Jon had helped tremendously and Ned had been glad to see that while Tommen and Alaric had originally gotten off on the wrong foot, they had recently been getting along much better, to the point where they were becoming fast friends. At the sight of Tommen, a strangled cry escaped Queen Cersei and she made to run for him before being stopped by her father.

Ned himself ignored the tumult around him and ascended up the steps of the Iron Throne before sitting at its height. Skirling lay across the base of the thrown his eyes watching those present warily. Ned peered down on the assembled Lords and Ladies and waited for the hall to fall silent. A strange mixture of curiosity and impatience caused the lords to fall silent far quicker than Ned expected, and he paused before finally speaking.

“My Lords,” Ned began, “150 years ago my ancestor rode south. His name was Cregan Stark and he ruled as Hand of the King to Aegon the Oathbreaker for only six days. Those six days though have gone down in the history books as the Hour of the Wolf. It was in those six days that Cregan Stark cleansed the realm of the rot that had infested it before and during the Dance of the Dragons.”

Ned paused and looked at all of the present lords in the eye. Some refused to meet his gaze, while others stared back defiantly.

“If Cregan’s rule of realm cleansing was the first Hour of the Wolf then consider this the second Hour. I have given the king six days of my time, and I have no intention of wasting any of them. Over the next few days many trials will be held, many executions will be undertaken and many guilty men will die. I will cleanse the realm of whatever rot has infested it in the last few years, and put this realm back to order.”

“Back to order?” Prince Oberyn Martell asked, “Order like we had in the days of the Targaryens?”

Silence settled over the hall, and Ned slid his gaze towards the Prince who had almost killed him. He hadn’t changed very little, and had aged as well as a fine northern ale. His form was still strong, and his gaze piercing, while the same lazy smile lingered in the corners of his mouth.

Ignoring him, Ned went on. “No doubt by now, many of you are wondering why you are here. Some of you are here because you are the ones from which this rot spreads. Some of you are here to witness what happens to those who spread rot in this realm. And some of you…will not be here much longer.”

“And what if we don’t want to be here?” Tywin Lannister asked. “Who are you to tell me when and where I must be and go?”

“No doubt by now,” Ned replied, “many of you have noticed the force of men I brought with me. As we speak, those men are securing the city. Already they have secured this keep. Soon the gates to the city will be shut, and the docks closed. No one will be able to leave this city without my consent. You don’t have the men to take back the city, and neither do you have the authority. Your men will be kept within their garrisons until the end of my rule as Hand of the King. However, if you truly have no wish to be part of the coming Hour, then by all means, tell me now and I shall let you go. I warn you however, when my armies and ships come south next, they will turn their backs on whoever turns their back on me now. If you wish to go, say so now and turn your back.”

Unsurprisingly, no one moved. No one wanted to be the ones to go without the support of the largest and most powerful realm in whatever wars were to come.

“Good.” Ned said, “I am glad to see that the South has not lost all of their sense. You have all chosen to stay, and if any of try to leave this room without my permission, my men will assume that you are fleeing because you are guilty of crimes that I know of. In the North, there is only one punishment for fleeing from your crimes.” Ned paused and let his last statement hang in the air. He watched the gathered lords took in the severity of what he had just said before continuing. “There is more you must know. The next few days will be binding upon the Iron Throne. The rules and precedents set forth will be ingrained within the crown, and cannot be changed. That was the agreement I struck with Robert, and I will not have it broken. I will not fix this realm, only to return in five years when someone has undone what I will do over the next few days. What is the use of beating my sword into a ploughshare, if I must reforge it in a moon’s time? It is pointless, like chasing the wind. I am a Northerner. Unlike you of the south, I have no time to chase the wind.”

Ned sighed before looking out upon those assembled before him. By tomorrow this room would look a lot different. Men who stood here now would not be here, and others would find themselves in positions of new found power.

“Words are also wind, My Lords, and I have no time to chase after that sort of wind either. I will tell you all now, If I say you are guilty of committing a crime, or you have contributed to the rot that sits in this realm, know you are guilty of it. I would not accuse you without proof, and I have personally ensured that any proof I have is beyond reproach. Know this; those of you who lie will suffer tenfold. For those of you that insist upon your innocence even after I have proven you guilty before your lords and peers, you will suffer twenty fold. And for the most despicable among you, for those of you that have committed true crimes against the crown and not just contributed to the rot in this realm, for you your death is all but assured. The only thing I am deciding upon today is whether you death will be quick and merciful or painful and protracted.”

Ned looked around once more, and noted with a hint of amusem*nt that those who were most guilty looked least concerned, while those who had nothing to fear looked as though they were the ones guilty of crimes.

“I have one last thing to say, My Lords, before I begin. And that is this. The so called ‘Game of Thrones’ as you know it, is over. You wish to play your highborn games of masks and mockery, of gossip and espionage and grabs for power then by all means go ahead and play. You will not however, play this game with me or mine, or with King Robert’s throne. That throne belongs to Robert of the House Baratheon, and none of us. It’s not the Stark’s, it’s not the Lannister’s, and it’s not even the bloody Targaryen’s. It’s Roberts. My family won that throne for him on the battlefield, and if he needs we will keep that throne for him on the battlefield. Until he dies, you will not be arguing over it.”

Ned paused, and nodded to Martyn who stood guard by the doors. “With that being said, My Lords, let us begin. Let it be known to highborn and commoner alike that the Second Hour of the Wolf has begun.”

Martyn slipped through the doors and emerged moments later with the Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks and his leading captains. Janos Slynt was the Lord Commander’s name, and had never met more an incompetent gaggle of fools than the ones who stood before him now. His golden armour was polished to a shine and the sword at his side was expensive castle forged steel with a hilt of gilded gold and a heavily bejewelled pommel. It was far above the means of most lords, let alone the low-born Lord Commander of the City Watch.

“My Lord.” Janos Slynt said as he dropped to one knee before him, his jowly mouth twisted into what Ned supposed that Janos thought was a respectful smile.

“Rise Lord Commander Slynt.” Ned replied, and Janos Slynt rose to his feet. Ned stared down at the commander of the city watch, evaluating the man before him. Janos stood in respectful silence, while his captains looked on in awe. Ned doubted they had ever been in this room, let alone seen it filled with the most powerful lords of Westeros. “Tell me Lord Commander,” Ned began, “How many years have you served the City Watch?”

“Eighteen M’lord.”

“Eighteen years?” Ned asked. “So you were in the watch before Aerys was thrown from his throne?”

“I was.” Janos replied, “I was one of the men on the walls when your father sacrificed that inbred bastard to your gods.”

Ned nodded. “And how many years have you been Lord Commander?”

“Eight M’Lord.”

“Eight years.” Ned mused. “Eight years you have been in command of the City Watch. Now why do you think I called you and your captains here today?”

“I don’t know M’Lord.”

“Have a guess.”

“Reward perhaps?” Janos suggested with a grin. “I’ll have you know that these last few years in King’s Landing crime has been dropping.”

“Dropping, you say?” Ned asked.

“Yes.” Janos replied. “Every moon my men get bothered less and less by the citizens of King’s Landing.”

Ned got to his feet and made his way down the steps of the Iron Throne to where Janos Slynt stood. He looked him straight in the eyes, and almost immediately Janos’ eyes flitted away.

“Lord Karstark,” Ned said as he turned to his retinue. “Bring me a block. Tommen, bring me Ice.” Both man and boy rushed away to do his bidding.

“M-m-m’lord?” Janos Slynt questioned, “What are you doing?”

Ned turned to the other side of the room, where the lords who were not of the North were assembled. “Behold, My Lords, the first to fall. Janos says he was on the walls the day Rhaegar died. I was there. If Janos truly was upon that wall then he fled with all the others. I name him a coward and craven. He shirked his duties. That is not the man that will lead the Gold Cloaks in any realm in which I am Hand of the King.”

“You would sentence me to death for abandoning the Mad King when his cause was lost?” Janos roared, and his hand leapt to his sword.

Skirling leapt to his feet, his teeth bared and a growl rumbling from his being. Janos Slynt fell silent, and dropped his hand from his sword.

“If I was Aerys I would, and I would be justified in doing so. Now however, Not at all.” Ned replied. “I have not sentenced anyone to death of yet. What I just did was strip you of your office as Lord Commander of the City Watch.”

“What?” Janos replied, aghast. “You cannot!”

“I just did.” Ned replied. “And now I will name the crimes for which you are sentenced to death.”

“Death!” Janos replied weakly. “For what crimes?”

“You said something interesting before Janos. Do you know what it was?”

“Please M’Lord!” The man begged as he fell to his knees and tears began to fall down his cheeks. “I’ll do anything! Don’t kill me!”

Ned turned to the lords, who were watching the spectacle with interest. “Correct me if I am wrong, My Lords, but earlier Janos Slynt said that crime had been dropping in this city. That each moon less and less reports were made to his men.”

The lords present nodded in agreeance and Ned turned to the captains who had accompanied Janos Slynt. “And what of you men?” He asked, “Why has crime been dropping?”

The men shuffled their feet, but none answered until one with an Iron Hand stepped forward. “Because they don’t bother anymore.” He all but spat. “They know nothing is going to happen unless they pay the proper bribes. Bribes that most in King’s Landing can’t afford.”

Ned looked at the men long and hard. This man’s eyes never left Ned’s. “What is your name?”

“Jacelyn My Lord.” The man replied. “Jacelyn Bywater. Most men call me the Ironhand of the Old Gods though.”

“I understand the Ironhand part.” Ned replied, “But what do you mean of the Old Gods?”

Jacelyn shrugged. “I took to the Old Gods and the Old Way a few years back. It was a few weeks after the Battle for King’s Landing. I had been fighting on the Trident, and your lords had just let me free. On my way into the city I was marched past Rhaegar’s Weirwood. It was on that day that I forswore the seven, renounced my knightly oaths and began to practice the Old Way.”

Ned nodded. “Congratulations on your new appointment.”

“My Lord?” Jacelyn asked, the confusion evident on his face. “What do you mean?”

“You are now the Lord Commander of the City Watch. Fix it. Get rid of the corruption. Get rid of the bribes. Sack those who you need to, kill those who you have to. Do whatever you need to bring the City Watch back to its former glory. I will leave two hundred of my best men with you to help you. They will follow your command, but I warn you Lord Commander, the second you stray from the path I have set you on, they will bring you before the king in chains.”

Jacelyn looked shocked at the honour, before dropping to one knee. “Thank you, My Lord.” He said. “I will do my best to honour you and my gods.”

Ned nodded. “I know you will.” He said and then he turned to the remaining captains. “As for you lot, you have a choice to make. Soon Lord Karstark and my squire will be here. You can either join your former Lord Commander on the block, or you can travel to the Wall on the next available ship.”

The doors opened and Rickard Karstark strode in, a great big black chunk of ironwood clasped in his hands. Behind him Tommen struggled with the length of Ice. Both men made their way down the silent hall, their steps resounding loudly. Rickard Karstark dropped the block at the base of the Iron Throne, right next to Janos Slynt. Tommen walked to Ned and offered the blade to him hilt first.

On the floor Janos Slynt burst into sobs. “Please!” He screamed, “Let me go to the Wall! Please!” His cries turned into a wordless scream as two of Ned’s guard strode forward and gripped him by the arms. They dragged him over to the block and forced his head down upon it.

In the stands where the lords of the South sat Lord Tyrell got to his feet. “Lord Stark!” He cried, his face pale. “You cannot mean to execute this man here do you?”

“Of course I do.” Ned replied.

Lord Tyrell looked aghast and gaped like a dying fish. He looked to his left where his young daughter sat. She was a pretty little thing, as delicate as the roses that graced her family’s banners. Her eyes though gave away the good act she put on. “I must protest My Lord.” Mace Tyrell exclaimed. “My daughter and mother are present, as well as the queen and many other noble ladies. Must we subject them to witness such a sight? Must any of us witness such a sight?”

“Of course you must.” Ned replied. “I am deeply sorry if anyone here is going to be disturbed by what you’re about to see, but that is what you are here for. Did I not say that you had been called as witnesses to what happens to those who spread rot within this realm? Well this man here is the root of the rot within this very city, and as such he will be the first to fall, though dare I say, not the last. If you did not wish to see this, I gave you all an opportunity to turn your backs, an opportunity that none of you took.”

Mace Tyrell opened his mouth again, but Ned cut him off. “And Lord Tyrell, if you did not wish for your daughter or mother to see such a sight, you should not have brought them with you! As far as I know I commanded the king to invite you, not your entire family. So unless you have anything else you wish to say I would kindly suggest that you sit down.”

Mace Tyrell looked at his mother, and Ned turned to the Queen of Thorns also. Her lips were set in a thin line and her eyes were cold. They watched Ned for a long while, before flicking to her son. She gestured to his seat and he sat.

Ned levelled one last look at the lord before turning back to Janos Slynt. “Janos Slynt, In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die for your crimes of bribery, corruption, murder, blackmail and conduct unworthy of a member of the City Watch.”

Ned turned to Tommen whose face was pale and hands were shaking. Ned smiled sadly at the young prince, before firmly grasping the hilt of Ice and wrenching it from its sheath of wolf’s fur. He held the smoky, Valyrian Steel blade high in the air for a second, before bringing it down quickly.

Janos Slynt’s sobs and struggles ended very quickly once his head was detached from his body. The blood gushed from his neck, and splashed onto the stone floor in front of the Iron Throne. Ned said a quick prayer to the Old Gods before turning back to the remaining captains. “So?” He asked, “What will your choice be?”

Unsurprisingly, all of them chose to swear the oaths of the Night’s Watch.

Ned nodded, and waited at the bottom of the stairs of the Iron Throne while his soldiers escorted away the new recruits of the Night’s Watch. Jeor Mormont would be happy. He was always in need of men, good or otherwise.

Ned sighed and handed his blade back to Tommen. Tommen dutifully picked up the rag at his feet and wiped the blood off it. He looked like he was about to either retch or burst into tears, but Ned had been attentive in his training ever since he had taken him on, and he did not shirk from his duty.

Ned climbed back up the steps of the Iron Throne and over the next hour, scores of people were led into the Throne Room to be tried for different crimes. From wayward customs officials to cut throats that roamed the streets of Flea-Bottom, all were tried and punished. The minor ones Ned sentenced with fines, while some were sent to the Wall. The worst though, Ned took straight to the block, including two men who had come from the Black Cells.

Their names were Rorge and Biter, and both were strange, queer men that Ned was glad to see gone from this world. When the sun was high in the sky the lists his men had brought him were empty of the common criminals and it was time to begin with the nobility.

As Ned climbed back up the Iron Throne, he took the opportunity to behold the lords and ladies who sat seated in the stands. Many were pale, and more than one was eyeing the large pool of blood in front of the Iron Throne with horror. Some looked nervous, no doubt wondering if they had been summoned to face the same fate, while others looked on with a steel mask.

Of all of them though, it was Tywin Lannister who surprised him the most. Though his face was still a mask of steel, his eyes held and approving and admiring glint to them, though it was gone as quickly as it had occurred.

Ned sat down, and Tommen followed him up the stairs to offer him a glass of wine. Ned took that goblet thankfully and quenched his parched throat. Executing criminals was thirsty work.

“My Lords,” Ned called when Tommen had retreated once more, “I am sure you will be glad to know that for now, we are done dealing with the common criminals. With those that have spread their rot within this city. It is now time to deal with those who have spread their rot throughout this realm. Remember what I told you at the beginning My Lords. For those of you that lie, the punishment will be tenfold. For those of you who deny, the punishment shall be twentyfold.”

The lords nodded nervously and Ned reached for the list in his pocket. He withdrew it carefully, and made an act of unrolling it. The tension on the other side of the room was almost palpable. Ned wasn’t one to relish in these sort of mind games, but he took immense satisfaction in watching Petyr Baelish squirm where he sat. Oh, how he would make that man suffer for what he had done. And he would take great pleasure in it too. Ned glanced down at the scroll and read the name that was first on his list.

“Lord Tywin Lannister!” He called.

The Old Lion didn’t move for a second, instead just watching Ned. Just when it was reaching the point of insubordination Tywin Lannister slowly rose to his feet. He made his way down from where he was seated slowly, each step measured and each movement precise. His eyes were cold, but Ned could see the mind whirring away within. Surely he was wondering what he had been called up here for.

Tywin Lannister finally arrived before the Iron Throne, and stood tall with his arms clasped behind his back, his legs planted firmly. It was clear to all the image that Tywin was trying to convey. Ned didn’t need an image though to know that Tywin Lannister was a powerful and intelligent lord. As much as Ned may have wished otherwise, this would not be the trip where he would be making an enemy of Tywin Lannister. That would be saved for later, for the days when the White Wolf in the North was grown.

“Lord Stark.” Tywin greeted with a small sneer. “If you think you can call me like a wayward dog, and then drag me before this throne and accuse me of whatever crime’s you think I have committed, you will find that my reputation is above reproach. I may have done many horrible things in my time, but all I have done I have done the advancement of my house and my family, and last I checked that wasn’t a crime. Indeed, that was what your father did during his grand rebellion.”

Ned nodded. “You are right My Lord. The advancement of house and family is not a crime. And I agree with you also, that while you have done horrible things none of them were crimes, at least crimes of which I can prove before your peers today.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ned saw Prince Oberyn scoff and glare at the both of them, while before him Tywin nodded. “I am a leal servant of the crown, Lord Stark, and I challenge you to prove me otherwise.”

“I won’t bother wasting my time or yours.” Ned replied, “As I said at the start of this I have no to chase the wind. And I have not called you before the throne today to question your actions or accuse you of crimes. Indeed, of the people in this room today, you are of the few who has my utmost respect and admiration as a man who was both lord of a rich realm and Hand of the King. I am doing this for six days and I am struggling. I have no clue how you managed for as long as you did, especially when we consider that you were Hand to Aerys when he still lingered on the brink of insanity and had not yet tipped over the edge.”

Ned saw a crack in Tywin’s veneer façade, and a look of pride flashed across his features before being quickly supressed.

“I have called you before the throne today,” Ned continued, “To discuss the state of the realms finances and the amount of debt this throne owes to you.”

Tywin nodded. “What would you like to know?”

“How much has King Robert borrowed from you?”

“Three million and one hundred thousand.” Tywin Lannister replied.

Ned nodded and turned to Lord Manderly. “Have them brought in now, Lord Manderly and get me the transfer papers.”

Tywin watched the exchange silently, and Ned waited patiently while Wyman Manderly carried out his commands. After barely a moment, the dors swung wide open and the chests that had been carefully counted and loaded at White Harbour were brought into the room by the most trusted and loyal men that could be found in the North. It was no small amount in the chests that were being brought into the room.

When the last chest had been laid down, and Wyman Manderly had handed Ned the papers he needed Ned turned back to Tywin Lannister. “There is your three million one hundred thousand golden dragons the crown owes you Lord Lannister. Here is the paperwork that accompanies those chests.”

Tywin glanced at the piles of chest with an appraising eye. “How many chest are there?” He asked.

“50.” Ned replied, “Each loaded with 62,000 Golden Dragons each. Counted under the watchful of mine and Lord Manderly’s most trusted men. If you wish, you can count them yourself.”

Tywin quickly did the math in his head, and Ned waited for him to figure out what Ned had done. “And what of the interest?” Tywin asked.

“Interest?” Ned replied. “What interest?”

“The crown owes me three hundred and ten thousand golden dragons in interest.”

“The crown owes you nothing more.” Ned scoffed. “The fact that your grandson will sit upon the Iron Throne is interest enough. Take your money and go.”

“No.” A voice called, and Ned flicked his eyes to see Queen Cersei rise to her feet. “As Queen I command that the interest be paid.”

“As Hand of the King, I have said that the interest has already been paid. My decision stands.”

“I am the Queen-“

“And I am the Hand of the King.” Ned replied to Cersei. “If you think you have any power over me because you are Queen, you are sorely mistaken. I only accepted this position on a few conditions, conditions that Robert agreed to. One of which was that my decisions are final.” Ned glared at the Queen before turning back to Lord Tywin. “Take the money now, or lose all of it with no hope of getting it back. And if your daughter speaks out of turn again, you will lose it regardless.”

Tywin stared at Ned coldly, before bowing stiffly and turning his back. Ned’s men moved in from the walls to secure the chests and Martyn Cassel approached Lord Lannister to see what he wanted done.

Ned turned his gaze back to the other lords and breathed in deeply. He did not even have to look to his list to know who he was about to call. He had dreamt of this moment for months now, ever since he had heard that Jon Arryn had died. It had consumed his thoughts more than he cared to admit, and the moment of his wrath was finally here.

“My Lords!” Ned called as he got to his feet, “My Lords.”

The lords and ladies in the stands quietened down and turned their attention away from the wealth of a nation that sat in front of them and towards the imposing man who stood atop the Iron Throne.

“My Lords,” Ned began, “There are only two men who I care for in the south the same as I care about a Northerner. The first is Robert, who was raised beside me as a brother. We laughed together, we cried together, and when the time came we fought together. Robert was my brother in all but name. He wronged me and my family much, but through it all my love for him held firm, and his love for me did so too.”

Ned paused and looked directly at Varys. “The other man I loved was a man who had never wronged me. He had raised me from eight years of age, and Robert too. He was a man who desired peace above all, but when war came he stood by those he loved. He stood by the sons that he had taken for his own since the gods had given him none. When his king called for him to kill me, he burned his kings commands and called his banners instead. He was the man who first declared his support for my family, and my father. He was the man who watched the realm while Robert whor*d and drunk. He was a great man, and he is dead. Jon Arryn was his name, and he was as good as a father to me as my own was. It is for that reason, and only for that reason, that I came south at all. The love I bore for him, meant I could not let his murder go unavenged.”

Ned’s final words hung in the air, and it took a second for those gathered to garner the meaning of his words. Immediately the throne room burst into roars and yells. Ned sat in silence for a moment, and absorbed the shock and anger that was racing around the room.

“Name his name!” Mace Tyrell called, “Name him and we shall take his head!”

“He who killed the Hand of the King deserves nothing less!” Renly declared.

“Who was it?” Oberyn Martell asked, his expression bemused.

“My uncle?” Denys Arryn roared, “Who murdered my uncle!?”

Ned raised his hand and the hall quietened. “I have brought you all here today to witness what happens to those who harm those who I care for. I care for few outside of the North, but harm those who I do, and you had best start praying to whatever gods you believe in. Because mine sure won’t be merciful. And neither shall I.”

Ned rose to his feet and began to carefully make his way down the dais, Ice, clutched in one hand. Its length rippled in the shadows, and among the pile of dragon smelted steel upon which he walked, it was the blade of a king.

“It seems that you of the south did not learn from Rhaegar and Aerys. It seems that you have become blind to their fates, even as Rhaegar sits in eternal agony before the gates of this city every day. It seems you have forgotten the names that I and my father carry. It seems that you have forgotten our reputations. Today, you will remember. You will remember why my father is The Burnt Lord and I am The Stranger’s Wolf. You will learn why our names are whispered of in fear by your smallfolk, and our faces haunt your soldier’s nightmares. You will learn why the sound of wolves is the sound of war and the sight of white and grey banners is the sight of death. You will learn why you did not anger me, or my house. You will learn today, or you will die tomorrow. You will die like he who murdered Jon Arryn is about to die.”

Ned paused and turned to the murderer of Jon Arryn. “Petyr Baelish. Step forth and answer for your crimes.”

Chapter 10: Eddard IV: The Second Hour of the Wolf II

Chapter Text

Petyr Baelish got to his feet slowly and warily. His eyes moved around the room, searching for allies. Yet alas, none were to be found. Ned had rooted them from this room, before they had even arrived. The entirety of those gathered stared at the lord of the littlest finger. Silence hung heavily in the air, so thick not even a Valyrian Steel blade could have cut it.

But Ned’s voice could. “Lord Baelish, step forward and answer for your crimes or I shall have you dragged before me like a common criminal.”

“Lord Stark…” Baelish said with a slight frown, “forgive me…I’m a bit confused.”

“What part confuses you my lord. Which charge? The charge of treason? The charge of murder? The charge of adultery? The charges of embezzlement and corruption?”

Baelish flicked his eyes to the door, and most probably briefly considered running. But as quickly as that fancy came, it went.

Petyr Baelish returned his gaze to Ned. His eyes burned with anger, but his face was a mask of serenity. Littefinger breathed in once, and then stepped forth. The Mummer’s Farce had begun.

“Crimes, My Lord?” He asked, “I don’t know what crimes you think I have committed but I can assure you that I will defend my innocence until my dying breath.”

“I accuse you of murdering Jon of House Arryn, Hand of the King, Lord of the Eyrie and Lord Paramount of the Vale. Do you deny it?”

Baelish looked shocked for a second, before rearranging his features in a mask of cold rage. “I deny it!” He barked, “I deny it emphatically! Lord Arryn was like a father to me! I owe everything to him, including my position on the small council! I would not betray him for anything!”

“And yet you killed him.”

“I did not.” Baelish replied angrily. “You cannot just throw these accusations before me without proof Lord Hand. I don’t care how much authority or power the king gave you in this realm. Those are the laws of gods and men.”

“Don’t speak to me of the laws of gods and men.” Ned scoffed. “What would you know of them?”

“More than you it seems,” Baelish replied. “You are yet to offer any proof of any crimes I have committed.”

“This is your last chance to confess Lord Baelish. I promise you now, deny your crimes again and I will ensure your death is the most painful I can come up with.”

“I deny it.” Baelish replied. “And I still wait upon your proof.”

Ned sighed. “Very well. You have chosen your path Lord Baelish and now it is time you walk upon it.”

“You have no proof of anything.” Baelish stated. “If this is a trial, I deserve a defence. Let me speak to my peers and have them judge me.”

Ned smiled thinly. He knew Petyr’s game. For today though, he was prepared to play. “If you think these lords are your peers, Lord Baelish, you will find you are sorely outmatched. These are the men that rule over the men that rule over men like you. I am the man that rules over them. Today I am judge, jury and executioner. Say your piece, and try to convince me of your innocence.”

Baelish swallowed and returned Ned’s smile. “There are many men within this city who can vouch for my character. Since arriving Lord Stark you have branded me a craven and a coward, a traitor and a murderer.”

“I brand you more than just that!” Ned cried. “I brand you a man without honour! I brand you an oath breaker and a liar!”

“More accusations and yet no proof!” Baelish cried in reply.

“Your precious proof is coming.” Ned replied. “My men have ridden for days and nights to bring me the proof that will bring me your head.”

“You would need a lot of proof to convict me of anything.”

“I don’t need a million witnesses to your crimes, each paid a million dragons to lie to convict you of the crimes you are guilty of. I only need one witness. One witness who can testify that you killed Jon Arryn.”

“You have no such proof.”

Ned smiled coldly and nodded. And waited. As did the court. As did Baelish. Soon, one of his guardsmen, a man by the name of Wyllard, entered the hall. He approached Ned, and climbed up the Iron Throne to speak with him. “They are here.” He whispered.

Ned nodded and Wyllard left to collect them. The doors opened and in strode Ser Brynden Tully and Lord Yohn Royce.

They both dropped to one knee before him. Ned hadn’t seen Bronze Yohn since he had come north to personally talk with Ned about getting his son, Waymar, into the Company of the Rose. Ned had pulled some strings for him and Waymar Royce had found himself as a sergeant within the Company on a ten year contract that would be ending in seven years’ time.

Ser Brydnen he had last seen at Winterfell six weeks prior when he had dispatched him with his mission. Ser Brynden had been deeply upset, but Ned trusted no one else within the North to do as he had asked of him. The Northerners were a loyal lot, yet sometimes too loyal. He needed this witness here unharmed, and no one was more certain of ensuring that than the Master of the Moat.

“Rise.” Ned commanded. “You have served me valiantly, and I commend you both. Both of you have a place of pride at my hearth if you are ever in need of one.”

Both men nodded their thanks. Lord Royce moved away to go and sit with Denys Arryn while Ser Brynden Tully lingered. “Lord Stark.” He called, his face grave.

“Ser Brynden?”

“I have stood by your family through much Lord Stark. When my family wronged yours I stood by you. When yours wronged mine, against my brother’s wishes, I stood by you. I tell you now though, if any more of my blood is harmed upon this day, then I shall stand by you no longer.”

The court murmured and Ned resisted the urge to yell at the man for his stupidity. Breathing in and composing himself, Ned responded. “Fear not, Ser Brynden. No Tully blood shall be split upon this day.”

Ser Brynden nodded and moved away, to sit with his nephew. Ned nodded at the guards and the doors were opened. Slowly a wailing cry filled the air, growing louder and louder as the witness was brought closer and closer.

She came through the doors screaming like a wraith.

Lysa Arryn looked the part to. Her eyes were red rimmed and sunken in their sockets, while her face was marred with scratches and tears. Her fine clothes were dirty and torn, and her hair was dishevelled. She crumpled to her knees in front of the Iron Throne.

“Lady Lysa.” Ned said, when her sobbing subsided a little. “I have dragged you before this throne today to answer for crimes that you and Petyr Baelish have been accused of. Tell me now, before gods and men, what part did you have in the death of Jon Arryn!”

“No part! No part! No part!” She shrieked. “It was the Lannisters! It was all the Lannisters! Ask the queen! She’s guilty! She killed him!”

Cersei stood up in anger and went to yell, only for her father to drag her back down when Ned shot him a look. A match of whispering erupted between the two, but thankfully it did not reach Ned’s ears.

“So someone did kill Jon Arryn? He didn’t die of natural causes?”

“No! They poisoned him!”

“Poisoned him?” Ned asked, “What did they poison him with?”

“The tears! The tears of lys!”

Ned nodded. This was no new news. He looked to the stands, where many a lord looked confused. Petyr Baelish on the other hand, looked very nervous. This was beginning to strike close to home.

“And how do you know all this?” Ned asked.

“Petyr told me.”

Ned nodded. “So Petyr Baelish told you that the Hand of the King had been poisoned with the Tears of Lys by the Lannisters, you say, by the queens command in particular?”

Lysa shuddered before him before beginning to mumble to herself. Ned nodded. “Well none can deny that Petyr Baelish had some part in the plot now. How else would he know all of these things?”

All eyes turned to Petyr, who smiled and stepped forth. Ned gave him no chance to respond though. He would have this man’s head, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

“Petyr Baelish for your crimes, I strip you and your descendants of all lands, incomes and titles. All your current lands, incomes and titles are granted to the crown, and your wealth to be seized for the repaying the kingdoms debts. Lastly, I sentence you to death. My sword, Tommen.”

“Petyr!” Lady Lysa cried when she saw him. “No Petyr! I love you!”

The lady burst free from the guards who restrained her and ran across the throne room as if she was chased by Jon Arryn’s ghost. She ran to Petyr Baelish and threw herself into his arms.

“Petyr!” She sobbed, while Petyr Baelish tried to untangle himself from her grasp. “All I did I did for you!” She said, “I got you a position on the council and I killed Jon for you! I put the tears in his wine! I carried your babe for you! I burnt the wolf bitches letter for you and sent her wild brother to the city for you! Everything I have done I have done for you! Don’t deny me now! Let me die with you too!”

Ned had been turned around to seize Ice from its scabbard when he heard her words. His hands were already on the hilt of his sword, and it was the first time outside of the bedchamber that Ned had felt the wolfs blood pumping through his veins. His heart thundered in his ears as he comprehended the mad woman’s words. His hands trembled around the blade, and he yanked it lose with a guttural roar of rage that Ned had never felt before.

Skirling jumped to his feet and let forth a howl that rang through the ears of everyone in the room.

Ned spun around, the Valyrian Steel glittering darkly in the low light, before slamming it down straight into the stone floor. Such was the strength of his blow and the rage that coursed through him that the blade passed through the stone like butter, before stopping when it was a third of the way in. “What did you just say?” Ned snarled.

Petyr Baelish threw the woman away from him. “What madness are you speaking woman? I told you to do none of those things!”

“What did you mean?” Ned thundered at the former Lady of the Eyrie. She quailed before him, before bursting into sobs and then fainting. Ned turned on Baelish, his teeth bared. “What did she mean?” His voice low and dangerous. Skirling advanced on Baelish and Baelish scrambled backwards.

“I don’t know!” Petyr cried, “The woman is clearly soft in the head!”

Ned took three steps forward and seized Petyr Baelish by the throat, before throwing him backwards. The lord of the littlest finger fell backwards and his head cracked against the stone floor. He scrambled backwards, away from the raging Lord of Winterfell.

Ned turned around and shielded his face from the lords present. The room was dead silent but for the sound of Baelish’s laboured breathing. Ned breathed in and composed himself before turning around. Tears dripped down his cheeks, and his eyes were as wild his second eldest son’s.

“Lord Manderly.” He said with a detached air that he didn’t even recognise. “Find me some branding irons.”

Ned watched Petyr Baelish’s eyes widen in fear. He relished in it in a way he had never relished anything before. “Lord Bolton.” Ned said next. “Bring me your flaying knives.”

Ned turned back to Baelish as his two lords rushed away to get him what he had asked of them. “I always wondered what it would take for me to lose my honour.” Ned said calmly, his eyes unseeing. “For years I have let it define me. It was given to me by Jon Arryn. I have worn it every day like an armour. I guess it fits then, that as he leaves this world so does my honour.” Ned looked up, his eyes blazing. “I will have the truth from one of you before this day is done. Please, for the sake of my anger, attempt to deny me of it. I want to see you suffer Baelish. I want to see you suffer like never before. I want to see you scream and cry and beg for mercy. Mercy that you will not find.”

Petyr paused, before turning to the lords in the stands. “Bear witness, My Lords. Bear witness and remember me. Remember me when Lord Stark is leading his armies south to pillage and rape his way from Seaguard to Sunspear. Remember me when Northmen are burning your castles to the ground and taking your riches. Remember me as the man who tried to stand against it. We know what they are after. They are after a crown. The Burnt Lord,” Petyr spat the name in disgust, “announced it for all the realm to know and hear in the damn treaty he signed with the dumb, whoring oaf who is now our king. The only way he will ever get that throne is by defeating those who can take it from him. Which is all of you.”

“They will remember you.” Ned whispered as he nodded. “They will remember you in the same way they remember Rhaegar and Aerys. They will remember you as they remember the Targaryen’s. As a warning of what not to do. Of who not to cross.”

Ned turned to Lord’s Bolton and Manderly who had returned moments ago with the items he had asked for. He took the iron from Lord Manderly’s hands and placed them in the brazier next to the Iron Throne. “Seize him.” Ned commanded.

The guards rushed in from the walls, and grasped Petyr around the shoulders. Ned glanced at the prone form of Lysa Tully, before nodding at his guards. “Seize her too. And someone wake her up.”

As the guards rushed to do as he asked, Ser Brydnen Tully stood up from his seat. “Ned!” He cried, “You swore she would not be harmed.”

Ned glared at the Master of the Moat coldly. “I lied.” He snarled, before turning back to his captives. Someone had managed to wake the lady with a bucket of water.

Ned picked up one of the flaying knives that had been placed in front of him. “So?” he asked, “Who is first?”

Hours later, when the sun had set and the stars were high in the sky, Ned had his confession. He knew the truth now, the whole truth. The lords in the stands were all pale and shaking, though whether that was from what Petyr Baelish had revealed or what they had just seen Ned didn’t know.

Ned reached back for his sword, which was still stuck in the stone floor. Ned’s rage had cooled and he struggled to drag it from the rock into which he had thrust it. Eventually he did, and he called for a block.

Lord Karstark brought it over, and he placed it down gingerly, as if afraid of it.

“Bring her here.” Ned said. His guards brought her over and forced her to her knees on the Ironwood block in front of him. Her head was pushed onto it.

In the stands, a commotion occurred as Ser Brynden Tully got to his feet. He was dressed in the same armour he had been wearing when he had arrived. It was the ceremonial armour of the Master of the Moat. It was fine plate armour, forged by the best armourers in the North and had a natural blue tinge to it. It clanked loudly as Ser Brynden marched down the stands and to where Ned stood next to his niece.

The Master of the Moat reached up and yanked off his helm. He threw it at Ned’s feet, before undoing the clasps of his armour and throwing that at Ned’s feet too. “Curse you.” He spat as tears poured down his cheeks. “Curse you and all your family!”

With that he turned and stormed out of the hall. Ned turned back to Lysa Tully and glared upon her with his blazing, glazed eyes. “I saved your life sixteen years ago. It was my greatest mistake. And for the rest of my life…it will be my biggest regret.” Ned said. With that he brought up Ice up and slammed it down. With that the woman who poisoned Jon Arryn was dead.

Ned turned back to where Baelish was crumpled on the floor, bleeding and whimpering. “Take him to the Black Cells and keep him there until I say so. For now everyone else is dismissed.”

The lords and ladies rushed from the seats and rushed for the doors of the great hall. Ned sunk to his knees as soon as everyone had gone and let out the sob he had been holding in for hours.

The only thing holding back his grief had been his rage, and his rage was gone. It had burned away with Petyr Baelish’s skin. Now all that was left was a hollow shell of a man grieving the deaths of both a brother and a sister, and a cherished foster father too.

Ned stumbled to his feet, and somehow found his way to his quarters in the Tower of the Hand. He collapsed onto the featherbed and closed his eyes.

Two days down. Four more to go.

Petyr Baelish languished in the darkness in pain. Every part of him was sore. What wasn’t bleeding was bruised and what wasn’t bruised was burnt. In the depths of his mind, he struggled to face the reality of his situation.

For all his planning and all his caution, somehow Eddard Stark had caught on. Not only had he caught on, but he had thoroughly exposed him before the only people who had any hope of stopping the Stark’s in their bloody march to reclaiming their crown.

Petyr had always been proud of his intelligence, of how he could read another man like a book. How had Lord Stark eluded him so?

He had thought he was as he had heard. He was the voice of reason in Rickard’s Rebellion, the hand that had stayed his own father’s madness. He was the hand that had offered mercy when others called for justice. He was the man who had defied his king for his honour. Since when did his honour mean so little to him? Since when had he learnt how to play the game?

With trembling fingers, Baelish reached up and traced the new puckered scar on his face. It was still tender to touch, and the phantom memory still burned. He traced the flowing fur of the direwolf that had been branded into his skin, something that would mark him for the rest of his life.

Not that it would be terribly long.

He would be coming for him soon, Baelish knew. Like one of the Others out of the Northern legends, appearing out of the darkness to take him away to his death.

Death.

Life seemed so finite now. It was funny, only yesterday the possibilities had been endless.

He heard the sounds of footsteps approaching and the torchlight flickered on the walls around him. Gruff, Northern accents echoed in his ears and Baelish scrambled backwards and into the wall. He closed his eyes and prayed to the gods to hide him from his tormenters grasp.

It didn’t help.

Their hands seized him and roughly thrust a hessian sack over his head. It scratched and tore at his wounds painfully. They dragged him from the cells, and upwards towards the light. Petyr’s heart thundered in his chest. He still remembered how limp Lysa Tully’s body had been once her head had been separated from her body.

Petyr held no affection towards her, but she had been a useful tool. He had felt a twinge of regret at seeing the way she had been killed. It was a strange irony that she had died at the hands of the man who had saved her life years before.

It was an irony that was not lost on the raging Lord Stark. He had heard his last words. Baelish wondered what Ned’s parting shot to him would be. Would it be scathing, or witty? Would it be angry? Would it hurt?

Would he have the energy to offer an equally witty comeback?

He wanted to say yes, but all the energy had been sapped from his limbs and mind.

Bright light filtered in through the small gaps in the canvas bag that covered his eyes. The sounds of the castle were around him. He guessed it must have been midmorning.

He was roughly shoved into a small room, and then it began to move. A carriage. They were taking him somewhere. But where?

Perhaps they wanted to make his death public like Rhaegar’s?

The thought stopped his mind. What if they wanted to turn him into a second Rhaegar?

The Green Men that often wandered the city said that Rhaegar’s soul still resided in that tree. Petyr had no wish to live the same half-life as Rhaegar now did.

What had he done to deserve this? All he wanted to do was bring low those who had hurt the woman he loved. All he wanted to do was kill the man who had dishonoured her. Were the gods truly so unjust?

His mind turned back to a different time, when he was still young and his head filled with hopes and dreams and love.

To a time when another wolf had come riding down to claim the hand of the woman he had loved. He had stood against the wolf with a sword then, and he had failed. He had thought his mind would serve him where his sword had failed him, but yet alas this wolf’s mind was as sharp as his brother’s blade, and had cut him just as deeply too, though not in the same place.

The sounds of the city passed by around him, and then quietened completely. Where was he?

The carriage stopped and Petyr was roughly dragged from the carriage. The hood was yanked from his head, and his eyes struggled to adjust to the light. When they did, he noted a few things.

He was outside of the city. The Old Gate was behind him, and in front of him was Rhaegar’s Weirwood. Its canopy stretched high into the sky, shading the ground around it. It was for that reason, that Petyr first missed the figure knelt before it.

It was Eddard Stark, and Ice lay naked in front of him. Lord Stark’s direwolf lay next to him, its eyes watching him.

As for Lord Stark, his eyes were closed and his mouth moved wordlessly. Petyr turned around unsure of what to do, and was surprised to find there was only ten other men present, none of whom Petyr recognised. They were all dressed as members of Lord Stark’s household guard.

Petyr wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or insulted. One of the men shoved him roughly in the back towards the Weirwood tree. “Go!” He barked, “Lord Stark wants to speak with you!”

Petyr stumbled forward and slowly made his way up the slight rise and towards were Lord Stark knelt in reverent prayer. His wounds made him slow, but eventually he reached him.

With a sigh of relief, he sunk to his knees next to Lord Stark.

Lord Stark opened his eyes and turned to him. “Petyr Baelish.” He greeted. His voice was once more the voice of the Quiet Wolf. It seemed the Stranger’s Wolf had gone back to sleep. For how long though?

“Lord Stark.” Petyr croaked. His throat was dry and torn from a lack of water and the screaming he had done when he had been under the brand and knife. “Is this where I die? Is this how I die? Am I the next Rhaegar?”

Lord Stark didn’t respond, instead he just stared upon Rhaegar’s screaming face with a look of sadness. After a while, he rose to his feet. “I spent most of last night and yesterday pondering what to do with you. I want you to die Baelish.”

Baelish bowed his head.

“After all my hours of thinking I came to only one conclusion.” Lord Stark continued. “Any death I can give to you will be far too merciful. There is no punishment I can think up of that justifies what you have done. So my next train of thought was who would know how to punish this man?”

Petyr’s heart dropped. No.

“Look here, Petyr Baelish.” Ned said as he pointed to Rhaegar’s screaming face. “Look upon Rhaegar Targaryen and see what my father did to him. Last night I sent a raven. It heads for my father. When it finds him, you can be assured your death is nigh, and it will be most painful. More painful than I could ever make it.”

Lord Stark turned away and began to walk away from the tree. “Enjoy your last days of freedom, Baelish. My father will begin hunting soon. And a word of warning. Don’t seek out assistance from any of your old friends. When Robert finds out what I’ve done he will put a bounty on your head. It will be a big one too. So enjoy it while it lasts Baelish. Because there is nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide.”

With that, Lord Stark picked up his pace and left Petyr behind him. His guards all threw one last poisonous glare before turning and falling into formation behind their lord.

Petyr was confused for a second until the weight of Lord Stark’s words and actions set in.

He was free.

Free to exact his revenge.

Ned was tired, sore and sad. He wanted to go home and see Ashara again. He wanted to laugh at one of Arya and Dyanna’s pranks or watch Jon and Robb spar. He wanted to see Artos’ grin and Alaric’s frown. He wanted to see his family again.

He hated the South. He missed the cold winds and fresh snow.

Here it was always so hot.

The South seemed to have some effect on him. A madness seemed to hang in the air down here. It was a madness that Ned had rebuked his father for letting consume him. Now Ned had let it consume him too.

He had thrown away his honour for vengeance, and now that his rage had burnt away Ned felt hollow. He could still remember Petyr Baelish’s screams as he pressed the branding iron onto his cheek. He had marked him for all eternity. He could still remember the way that Lysa Tully’s lifeless eyes had stared up at him once he had detached her from her body.

He could still remember Ser Brynden Tully marching down the stands and throwing his helm at his feet. He could still remember the protests of Mace Tyrell and the pale faces of the lords and ladies who had watched the horror show that Ned had put on. He remembered the approving glint in Tywin Lannister’s eyes, and it was that which shamed him most of all.

He wanted to put his honour back on piece by piece, but now felt unworthy of it. He had become the second Burnt Lord. It was this city. This twisted, tormented city.

Stark’s and this city did not get on. No one and this city got on. Was it not this city that the Mad King had lived? Perhaps his ghost was wandering these halls, somewhere. Perhaps he was haunting the living. The thought disquieted Ned more than he wished to admit.

But it wouldn’t matter much anymore.

He was going home.

Ned put the last of his jerkins into his chest and strode out of his chambers in the Tower of the Hand. Skirling, who had been lying next to the door, got up and trotted after him.

Together, the pair made their way down from the Red Keep and towards the docks. Ned had no need for guards anymore, not with Skirling by his side. Ned was yet to see anyone able to hold their wits about them against an angry direwolf, let alone fight one, let alone win.

Soon he arrived, and joined Beron Saltstark in overseeing the loading of the ships.

Not long now, and he would be home.

“Ned!” Came Robert’s booming voice. “You didn’t think I would let you leave without saying goodbye, did you?”

Ned plastered on a grim smile. “Of course not.” He replied as he turned to his king.

Robert embraced him in a hug, while Skirling and Ser Barristan eyed each other warily.

“Tell me, Ned.” Robert asked as he pulled back, “Who should I name in your place?”

Ned shook his head and sighed. “Ask another Robert. I want no part in the madness to come.”

Robert sighed. “This is truly goodbye then?”

Ned nodded. Behind him, the last crate was loaded and the cries of time to leave began to resound around them.

“Goodbye brother.” Robert said, his voice cracking in despair.

Goodbye…brother.” Ned whispered as he turned away from his king and boarded his ship to go home. His heart though was heavier than ever before. He had lost Brandon to this city. He would be damned if he lost Robert to this city too.

Chapter 11: Viserys I: Tigers and Elephants

Chapter Text

“Tell me, what is that wins wars?”

Silence hung in the air, as the Triachs of Volantis pondered the question that King Viserys Targaryen, the third of his name, had just asked them. Viserys had planned this speech for years, ever since his tenth name day, when he had first began petitioning the Triachs for an audience.

When historians wrote the books of his rule, they would write that his rule began on this day. The day when he had convinced the powerful men of Volantis to fight beside him and rid the world of the usurper, his spawn and his attack dog.

Those of Valyrian ancestry united at last.

“Soldiers and ships.” Came the reply.

Viserys shook his head. “Soldiers fight wars for us, but they are not the ones that win them. If soldiers won wars, by all accounts Qohor should be in ruins by now, swamped by Dothraki hordes long ago.”

“Money.” Another replied, “For how can you wage a war without gold?”

This declaration was met with cries of assent. Once again though, they were wrong.

“Quite easily.” Viserys replied. “How did a group of poor shepherds defeat the vaunted lockstep of legions of Old Ghis?”

“Dragons.” The third Triach said as he leant forward in his seat, bringing his form out of the shadows. “Dragons win wars. The dragons are dead and gone though, Viserys Targaryen. Unless you are hiding one within your empty manse, I would suggest you stop wasting our time and cut to the chase of whatever you are trying to get too.”

Viserys smiled kindly at the man. Of the three men in this room, this would be the one that would decide whether or not Volatis’ legions would march beside Viserys’ own. His name was Malaquo Maegyr, and he was the defacto leader of the tiger faction, the group held two out of the three seats on this triachy.

The other seat was held by Doniphos Paenymion, an elephant. It had been a month since the elephants had lost the general election. Never before in Volantis’ history had the tigers had control of the triachy. They now did, and Viserys had taken it as a sign.

The tigers were the faction of generals, old aristocracy and warriors interested in conquest.

“Dragons do win wars, but as you have said the dragons are dead and gone, though their spirit lives on in my family.”

Malaquo Maegyr rolled his eyes. “Enough with the dramatics boy. You are beginning to bore me.”

Viserys continued to smile, though inside he wished for nothing more than to drive his sword through the arrogant triachs heart. He had come before him offering him kingdoms, and this was how he was treated?

“Cunning wins wars. He who holds the element of surprise, holds the key to victory. He who knows when to fight and flee is the one who lives to win another day. It is a great mind, and a sound strategy that wins wars.”

“It is.” Malaquo Maegyr replied, “Yet I see no great commander of men before me. I see the shadow of a snake playing at being a dragon.”

Viserys dropped his smile and kindly act. “And yet here I am. I’m the last trueborn son of Valyria. My entire family is dead, save for one sister. I have spent my life in exile, under the constant threat of the usurpers knives, or worse, having The Burnt Lord show up on my doorstep. Yet, still, here I stand, before you, proclaiming I will reclaim the kingdom that my ancestors forged. I have the spirit that is needed to lead armies. I have the drive that is needed to wage wars. And most of all I have the desire to win, and that desire will take me to the top of the Iron Throne itself.”

“A grand declaration.” Doniphos Paenymion stated. “Yet what wealth sits behind you? What armies support you?”

“I have gathered around me six thousand freeriders, sellswords, exiles and knights, all eager to claim their share of the sunset kingdoms. I still hold the formidable maritime might of the fleet of Dragonstone, who fled with me here 16 years ago. I have secured the fealty of two sellsword companies, The Gallant Men and the Stormbreakers, and I am in talks to secure the allegiances of the Iron Shields.”

“How many men do those companies hold?”

“Between all three, they number fourteen thousand.” Viserys replied.

The Triach’s observed him for a minute, before turning their eyes upon each other. A battle of wills seemed to commence between them, before Malaquo Maegyr turned back to him. “And just what is your plan? Any attack upon anywhere south of Moat Cailin, with perhaps the exception of Dorne, is doomed to failure. Any attack north of Moat Cailin is made nigh impossible due to the fact that Braavos and the Northerners control the gates to the Shivering Sea. How on earth do you expect to pass through there unscathed?”

“I don’t.” Viserys replied. “I said the way to winning a war was to have the element of surprise on my side. The quickest way to lose that element of surprise would be to load my armies onto my ships and sail them from your harbours. The quickest way to ruin that surprise would be to sail straight up the narrow sea and into the jaws of death. In this case, that would be the eastern navy led by Beron Saltstark.”

“So what do you plan to do?”

Viserys nodded at Ser Elyas Willam, the second born son of Lord Willam of the Reach. He had fled from Westeros at the end of Rickard’s Rebellion, fearing the vengeance of the Burnt Lord. Ser Elyas brought forth a map from the tube at his side and unrolled it on the table in front of Viserys.

The Triach’s leant forward in their seats to better see what the map represented. It was a map of the known world stretching from Asshai that sat on the shadow of the Bone Mountains to Great Wyk of the Iron Islands.

“My plan is simple.” Viserys stated. “In two moon’s time, I shall pack up my armies and march them along the Demon Road and towards the ruins of Old Valyria.”

Malaquo snorted. “Do you think that you can pull off the same stunt that the Pirate King of the Stepstones managed? You plan to claim the lost treasures of Valyria?”

“Not at all.” Viserys replied, “Though that is what will be announced to my followers and spread through your city. If we are lucky, word will reach my enemies and they will be lead to believe that I am marching to my doom.”

“You want them to think your dead.” Malaquo stated, a hint of admiration in his voice. “But you have no plans to march the demon road at all, do you?”

“Oh, I do.” Viserys replied, “But not all the way into the Valyrian peninsula. No, instead I shall leave the road, somewhere about here.”

Viserys pointed to a point on the map. “From there, I will march through the Dothraki sea, past Qohor before stopping on the shores of the shivering sea. Once there, I will put my armies to use, and build myself the fleet that will carry me deep into the heart of the seven kingdoms using the finest Qhorian Timber.”

Malquo looked at him, no longer bothering to mask his admiration. “Your plan is bold, and most likely doomed to failure. If you manage to pull it off though, I see no reason why you should not be able to reclaim the throne your forefathers forged.”

Viserys smiled at the warlord. “It will be trying, but the rewards will be greater than we could ever imagine.”

Malquo nodded. “What is that you need of Volantis?”

Viserys smiled warmly. The rest was only haggling.

Chapter 12: Jon III: Bond Brothers, Blood Brothers

Chapter Text

It felt like an age had passed since Jon’s father had gone south to serve as Hand of the King. In truth though, it had barely been more than two moons. Jon watched from the top of the Moat Gate of the Wintercity, his eyes searching the king’s road for the first sign of his father. Next to him was his bastard brother, Robb. At their feet lay their dire wolves. Robb had named his Grey Wind, and it was a strong, and hulking pup. Its fur was dark grey, and its eyes a deep amber yellow. Jon’s own pup, was the one that was looked on with equal parts awe and suspicion. Its fur was white, as the snow that fell down upon the city even now. Its eyes though were what made the Wolf truly disconcerting. They were blood red. The Wolf was an albino. In the north such people and animals were considered to be ‘kissed by the Old Gods.’

The White Wolf was a sign, a harbinger of war and a portent of death. Its arrival heralded the end of one age and the beginning of another.

Jon had named his direwolf Ghost. It was quiet, chilling so, and Jon didn’t think he had ever heard it make a sound. It had never growled, never howled, never even barked. Even when it walked its footfalls left no echo behind.

When his Uncle Benjen has first ridden in the gates clutching the White Wolf in his arms, Jon had felt the weight of 300 years of waiting and hoping upon his shoulders. He had felt that weight even more when Uncle Benjen had thrust the Wolf pup into his arms and declared it his.

At first Jon had refused, scared of the responsibility that came with accepting such an animal as a companion. In the end though, the choice wasn’t made by Jon, or Uncle Benjen or even his lord father. The other Wolf pups had gone to his other siblings and Ghost had stayed by his side. As the days wore on, it became clear that Ghost had chosen Jon, and as much as Jon didn’t want to he was forced to bear the weight of a nation’s expectations upon his shoulders.

Jon could still remember the reactions his pack brothers had shown when he had first walked into the Wolf Fort with Ghost by his side. His brothers had been training in the yard, the ring of stell echoing around them. Gradually though, the ring of steel had died down and was replaced by silence. Asher Forrester, gods curse his foolish soul, had been the first to fall to his knees. And then the rest of the fools had followed in his example.

“We will be crowning no kings today”, Jon had told them as he had hauled Asher to his feet and boxed him about the ears. That had been the end of all the discussions of the White Wolf. In front of Jon at least.

Jon turned his gaze to the east, where he saw the lines of tents neatly erected. They were the tents of the men that had been selected to go North of the Wall with Jon. There were three hundred Weirwood Warriors, and four hundred Winter Wolves. At the wall, they would be joined by three hundred brothers of the Night’s Watch, before they would march into the Haunted Forest to find and break the wildling hosts.

Furthermore, Uncle Benjen had sent his most trusted man, Qhorin Halfhand, back to Hardhome to gather one hundred men of his own garrison. They were men that knew the lands beyond the wall better than all but the wildlings themselves, and the wildings had lived in those lands since the days of Bran the Builder, when the Wall had first been built.

“Brother.” Robb said, as he grasped his arm. “You are brooding again.”

“I am.” Jon said with a wry grin. “Heavy lies the crown.”

Robb frowned at him. “You should not jest of such things. Especially with the way the world has been spinning lately.”

Jon nodded in agreenace. “You are right brother, but if I don’t jest about such things, I fear I will lose my mind. The last half-year has been the maddest half year I can ever remember. Starks are in the south, and I fear for their safety. Who would not? Every time a Stark goes south, only two things seem to happen.”

“And what are they?” Robb asked.

“Either winter comes…or war.”

“Winter is always coming.” Robb replied. “They are the words of our house.”

“It has been a long summer though. The smallfolk whisper that it means a long winter is coming.”

“You listen to the smallfolk too much.” Robb replied. “You need to learn to live and laugh a bit more.”

“I need to listen to them, Robb. I have sworn to protect them, and defend them from that which would harm them, whether it be winter or an invading army.”

“All you Starks are the same.” Robb exclaimed, “You all so damn grim!”

Jon’s eyes caught movement on the horizon. “Father is here.”

Both boys turned away from each other and looked down the length of the King’s Road. Sure enough, in the far distance, the first sign of grey banners could be seen. At Robb’s feet, Grey Wind leapt to his feet and thrust his front paws onto the parapets so he could see over. He titled back his head and howled. In answer the city erupted as the wolves of the city watch and those that lived in the Grey Fort answered the call. After a pause, a howl greater than them all answered. It was the howl of skirling, his father’s dire wolf.

Jon could see the wolf now, trotting along at his father’s side. His father rode at the head of the column, flanked by the lords that had not yet left his retinue. Jon remembered the day his father had left like it was yesterday. Lords from all over the North had come to join the retinue that would fall upon King’s Landing for the second hour of the wolf.

Jon had watched the lords leave, and they had outnumbered the size of the host that was gathered outside of his walls now. Over one thousand men had gone to King’s Landing, and for what?

If Jon had have been in his father’s position he would have told the fat king no. And Jon still didn’t understand why his father had said yes. What gains did it bring to House Stark? The South took and didn’t give. It was as well-known as the fact that the snow was white and the sky was blue.

His father had spoken of vengeance, of reminding the south of what exactly it was that the North was. His father had clearly still been mourning the loss of his foster father. Jon Arryn was no doubt a great man, and Jon was forever thankful that he had stood by his father when he had, but justice for Jon Arryn did not come before the North, and Jon feared that was what his father had done.

Though none dared murmur these thoughts in front of his father, or even him, the whispers were going around. Robb had heard them and told him. A Snow could go where a Stark couldn’t. A Snow heard what a Stark didn’t. A Snow was a crutch, yes, but it was also a third hand. It depended on what you made of the situation. And for Robb, it had always been a third hand, and never a crutch.

Thinking such thoughts led Jon to think of the one bastard who somehow seemed to be able to see it as a crutch and a third hand simultaneously. Torrhen Snow. The Pirate King of the Stepstones and sometimes friend of Winterfell.

Jon still missed the company of the pack brothers that had gone with him. From Allard Seaworth to the four bastard and three trueborn sons of Lord Alaric Whitestark. In total forty pack brothers had gone with Torrhen when he had fled the North in a blaze of glory, stealing the greatest ship to have ever been built and burning the shipyards that had built it to the grounds as he had left.

He was the only bastard Jon had ever known to have both revelled in and despised his birthhood. In the end, it was the mystery of his mother that was said to have driven him to do what he had done. He had been four when he had first asked his lordly father for his mother’s name, and he had been eight when he had given up on asking and decided to do something about it instead. Torrhen was both the bastard usurper of the South and the bastard pack brother of the North. He was a good man doing evil things, or an evil man doing good things. It all depended on who you asked.

“We should go.” Robb said as his father drew to within shouting distance of the gate. Jon nodded and pulled himself from his own thoughts. Together, bastard and trueborn descended from the top of the gate house and out onto the kingsroad.

Their father was passing through the gate when Jon and Robb finally made the bottom. The first thing that Jon noticed about his father was how haggard he looked. His cheekbones were prominent and his eyes were hollow.

He smiled softly when he saw his sons. Jon didn’t smile back. Instead he made his way to him and enveloped him in a hug. “Was it worth it?” He asked his father. He didn’t say it maliciously, nor with ill intent.

His father didn’t respond, just pulled him closer. After a second in his father’s arms, his father released him and stepped back.

“Where is your mother?” He asked.

“She’s still in Winterfell.” Jon replied, “With Alaric, Arya and Dyanna. Artos has gone hunting with Theon.”

Theon Greyjoy was the best bowman in the Pack by a long shot. None could hope to compete with him, just as none could hope to compete with Gendry and a Warhammer. To be fair though, Gendry’s strength was ungodly, and a simple log could become a battering ram in his hands.

Theon’s skill though had come from a mix of natural talent and practice. Theon had spent nights and days honing his skill, until he was as good as the best, and better than the rest. Theon would have easily been one of the most likeable people within the Wolf Pack.

Being the third born son of Balon Greyjoy, the weight of responsibility did not rest heavy upon his shoulders, yet there was still a solemnity about him when it was required of him. He was quick to laugh, and quicker to defend a brother. Jon knew of Theon’s relationship with his trueborn brothers and it was not one that Jon hoped to mimic with his own.

It was why Theon loved the Wolf Pack so much. To him, they were more brothers than his own had been. Theon would have been content to spend the rest of his life in the North and Jon was more than tempted to grant him a keep somewhere on the Stoney Shore.

They were thoughts for tomorrow though, and Jon was meant to be focused on the now. As his father remounted his horse, Jon turned to his squire, young Garth Mormont, the son of Jorah Mormont and Lynesse Hightower and called him over. “Go to the camps and tell them to begin to pack up. We will be leaving at first light tomorrow.”

Garth nodded and rushed away to do his bidding. He was a good squire, and Jon appreciated the values that had been hammered into him. He was loyal, and able and a devil with a mace to boot.

Jon turned back to Robb as his father rode away. “Gather the Wolf Pack. Tonight we shall feast. I fear this is the end of the road for us. Tonight shall be my last goodbye before I ride to the Wall.”

Robb nodded and jumped upon his own horse, before spurring off to the Wolf Fort. Grey Wind bounded after him, his sleek form a grey blur. Jon climbed upon his own horse, before trotting after his father.

When darkness fell, Jon returned from his father’s council chambers to find the Wolf Fort brightly lit, and the sounds of cheering men resonating from within. As he passed through the gate, he noted that it was not guarded by his own men. Rather, the guards were dressed in the grey and white livery of his father’s guards. Clearly his father had decided to give the Wolf Pack a night off to celebrate what could be their last night together. Once he reached the small hall, Jon was met with the sight and sound of his life for the past eleven years.

The boys he had been raised with, the boys he considered brothers, were gathered around the tables and benches laughing and jeering at each other while consuming copious amounts of food and ale. Jon smiled at the sight, and lingered in the doorway taking it all in.

“Jon!” Theon cried as he leapt up from his seat as he noticed him. He embraced him in a tight bear hug, before whirling around and lifting his already three quarters empty ale horn in the air. “A toast!” He called as he jumped on the table, “A toast!”

“A toast!” The other boys cried as he they hefted their own. Robb appeared out of the masses and thrust a horn of ale into Jon’s hands.

“To Jon Stark!” Theon cried, “The man who led the greatest Wolf Pack to ever grace these halls!”

Theon’s toast was met with a roar of agreement. The boys clashed their horns together before taking a large swallow. The night wore on, and the Wolf Pack celebrated the end of an age for all of them. Jon grew and sadder as he beheld his pack brothers, the ones not given to him by blood, but given to him by bonds.

As the moon grew high in the sky Jon got to his feet from his place at the head of the table and thumped his horn upon the table. “Silence!” He called, “I have some words I want to share.”

Around him the hubbub of conversation died down and Jon felt the weight of his pack’s gaze upon him.

“I look out upon us today, and I can’t help but remember what it was like the first time we were gathered together. Do you remember? I certainly do. The thing I remember most was the overwhelming fear that pervaded my entire being. I had three brothers, I told my mother, what did I need more for?

“Every day since that day though, I thank the gods for the brothers they gave to me in this fort. It started, as most troublesome things do, with Asher Forrester.”

Asher jumped up in his horrible gaudy coat and set his foot upon the table like a conquer of old. He nodded proudly, before being felled by an ox head thrown from across the room by Matthos Seaworth. He tumbled to the ground in a heap of furs, limbs and blonde hair. As always, everyone burst out laughing at him, even Jon.

“This good man!” Jon called as he reached over and helped Asher to his feet, “This stupid jester, came up to me and Robb and started casually talking about the beauty of his older sibling. How this older sibling would make a fine Lady of Winterfell. Well, as I found out five minutes later, Asher’s older sibling was a male, and none too happy at being sold as the next Lady of Winterfell. The ensuing fistfight was legendary. The only other fist fight as heated as that one are the ones between Brynden Bloodstark and the Smalljon every second day.”

Laughter rang throughout the room.

“It was then, as I watched Asher and Rodrick trade blows, and laughed so hard that I fell over, that I first had the thought that my new brothers might not be so bad after all. And sure enough, over the years each and every one of you has proven yourselves to me, as both boys I am proud to call men, and as men I am proud to call brothers.”

Jon swallowed the rising lump in his throat.

“I will admit to you today brothers that the same fear that gripped me so long ago, grips me once more today. It is, as I have come to realise, the fear of the unknown. It is a fear that can strike us deep, and paralyse us. As men of the North though, it is our duty to fight this fear and accept the change that comes. Dread it, run from it, change is always inevitable. I look at all of your faces today and I see the men that will bring change to the North. I see Warriors and admirals. I see lords and high chancellors. Before me is the next Lord Commander of the Nights Watch and the next Captain General of the Company of the Rose. Perhaps even the next Lord Beyond the Wall sits before me.

With that being said though, so too do dead men sit before me. Reality is harsh, my brothers, and the North is harsher than most. Winter comes and with it does death. Many men will die before their hair turns grey and their skin withered by time.

So look around you, look at your brothers, not the ones that are bound to you by blood, but the ones that bound to you by the bonds of shared hardships.

Bonds that can only be forged when your seven and shivering in the Wolfswood next to a damp fire that seems to be giving off more smoke than heat.”

At this his bond brothers laughed. The memory now was fond, but at the time it had left them cursing each other for letting the Wolf Fort get dirty.

“Bonds that can only be forged through living through the same midnight raids from Jory Cassel and Thorin Oakenstark.”

Up the back, Jory jumped to his feet with a cheer.

The boys jeered at him and threw the food around them at him. Jory ducked away and Jon smiled at him.

“Remember those brothers, for not all of us will see the rising sun. Remember those bonds, for those bonds have made us true brothers, brothers that would lay down our lives for each other. But look around, for when the sun rises tomorrow you don’t know who will still be by your side. If the gods are willing, then we shall all be there, but our gods have a penchant for cruel reality, rather than pleasant illusions. On the morrow I shall leave for the wall with some of you. Others will go back to their ancestral homes while others go to seek honour and glory in the wider world. Wherever you go though, remember these times and look back on them fondly. And know that if you ever have need me, or any of the brothers in this room, know you only must call and I will come and I will give my all for you, even if that all is my life.”

Chapter 13: Eddard V: Home Bitter Home

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Chapter 14: Jon IV: Winter Wolves and Weirwood Warriors

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Jon watched from his horse as the last remnants of the camp that the Winter Wolves and Weirwood Warriors had inhabited for the last three moons was packed up, and loaded onto their mounts. Today was the day that Jon led these men North. Under his command. Jon had never been more honoured, and scared, in his life.

The Lands Beyond the Wall were a harsh place, and no man that was born south of the wall had flourished there with the exception of his uncle. Jon knew that not every man who accompanied him today would return. Men would die. The wildlings may not have been the best armoured or equipped, but they were fierce fighters regardless. And Jon’s job was to break an entire host of them. Jon would have loved to have Snowfall at his side, but the unusually light sword was replaced with a heavier common steel one. Snowfall was now the property of his brother.

“Keep it Jon.” Artos had told him when he had first presented the starsteel blade to him, “You’ll have more need of it than me.”

“I would not be the first Stark to die beyond the wall,” Jon had replied, “And nor will I be the last. Remember who Alaric was named for. Remember who Alaric named his direwolf for. You are my heir, Artos. That means that this blade rightfully belongs to you. If I fall in the lands beyond the wall then Winterfell becomes yours. Hold Snowfall for me and when I return I shall take it back. Until then, the blade is yours to wield. Use it well.”

Artos had nodded seriously, and a weight had come to his gaze that Jon had never seen before. Artos had always been a wild wolf, much like his Uncle Brandon had been according to those who knew him. His father called it the Wolfs Blood. In this case Jon and Alaric were the exceptions of the family. Neither of them had much of it running through their veins, while Arya, Dyanna and Artos were brimming with it. Robb himself had his fair share of the blood running through his veins, though Jon wasn’t sure if that was just because he revelled in his bastardry or if he actually had the blood.

Saying goodbye to Arya and Dyanna had been hard. Jon loved both his sisters dearly, and had been closer to them than any of his brothers. He had always indulged their fantasies, played along with their pranks and when the time came convinced their father to get them a sword instructor. That alone had gifted Jon their undying loyalty, but it had made his goodbye more emotional for him than he let his sisters know.

From the lines of mounted men in front of him, Rodrick Walton and GreatJon Umber rode forth. They stopped when they reached Jon.

“The men are ready to march.” The GreatJon said. Jon nodded, and turned to the companions he had chosen to come with him. “And what of you lot?” Jon asked, “Are you ready to ride for the Lands Beyond the Wall?”

All of them were his pack brothers, each and every one. He had asked nine of his companions to come and none had refused him, though Brydnen Bloodstark had been sorely tempted when he found out that both the Greatjon and Smalljon had also been asked to come.

Samwell Tarly was the first he had asked, and the pack brother that Jon was closest to with the exception of Robb. He knew his way around a battleaxe and had a hidden bravery to him that shone through at opportune moments. A stint in the far north would do wonders to convincing Randyll Tarly that Sam was the heir he wanted.

Next to Samwell were the only bastards Jon had asked to come. Benton Snow was a youth of seventeen years. He was of average height and plain face. His hair was brown and his eyes were grey. He was the son of Benton Hellstark, the Lord of Hellhold. Though Benton Snow was just a bastard he was the heir of his father’s titles, as his father had only married once and the woman bore him no children and had died from a winter fever long ago. Benton Snow was a fierce fighter with a spear, a testament to his Dornish mother’s influence.

The other bastard was none other than the legendary Jorge Snow, son of Karlon Northstark. He was the same age as Jon yet a head taller and built like a ram. He wielded a greatsword and already had a shaggy beard on his face. It made him look much older than he actually was. He was a likeable fellow, and Jon knew none who spoke badly of his character. Many spoke badly of the circ*mstances of his birth, but in Jon’s eyes it was not his birth that defined him.

There was also the heirs of five houses present. Three of them came from founding families. Harrion Karstark, Samlljon Umber and Daryn Hornwood were the ones Jon had chosen.

Brynden Bloodstark was the heir of House Bloodstark, another cadet house of House Stark, and a bitter rival and enemy of Smalljon Umber and indeed, House Umber as a whole. Jon had brought him along in the hopes of somehow fixing the ancient feud. He doubted he would have much success but he owed it to his father and grandfather to try.

The final heir that Jon had chosen was Arthur Glenmore, one of the most skilled bowman Jon had ever seen. Indeed, within the Wolf Pack he was affectionately known as Quiver, due to the ever present quiver of arrows that was on his back.

Jon’s final companion was his ever faithful squire, Garth Mormont. The boy was young, only ten years of age, but he was faithful, brave and loyal. He was skilled with a blade too, and when his father had found out that Jon had chosen him to go beyond the wall, he had sent him the family’s ancestral Valyrian Steel blade, Longclaw. It was a fine blade, and Jon had no doubt that Garth would wield it well.

“As ready as I can be when riding next to an Umber.” Brynden Bloodstark snorted. Next to him, the Smalljon sneered. “Watch your mouth, Bloodstark. I have little patience for you at the moment.”

“And I have little patience for either of your bickering at the moment, so both of you had better shut up or you will feel the flat of the Hardstark’s blade!”

Jon grinned widely as his uncle rode up from behind them. Next to him, on his own pony was Tyrion Lannister. He was planning on accompanying them as far North as the Wall. Jon hoped he would be able to keep up. They weren’t planning riding at a leisurely pace.

“Lord Tyrion.” Jon greeted. “I hope you are prepared to ride hard and fast.”

Tyrion shrugged. “I hope your prepared to listen to me complain from here to Castle Black.”

Jon laughed, and spurred his horse onwards towards the kingsroad. Behind him, the GreatJon blew on his horn. The sound echoed across the flat plains surrounding the wintercity and Jon’s host began to move forward. Forward to the Wall and beyond, beyond to where the wildlings awaited.

They made good time up the kingsroad and first caught sight of the Wall when they had been riding for two weeks. It was good time, especially for a host of their size. Tyrion Lannister had managed to keep up with them, though true to his word he had complained the entire time. When they finally passed into the courtyard of Castle Black, Tyrion was the first to dismount and the first to disappear. He was off to find himself ‘someone who could direct him to a hot bath, a hot meal and then a hot room with a soft bed.’

Lord Commander Mormont was the first to greet him. “Lord Jon.” He said as he grasped his hand firmly and gestured for some men of the watch to take care of the horses.

“Lord Commander Mormont.” Jon replied as he swung down from his horse and greeted him. “I am pleases to finally meet with the man who is the grandsire of my squire.”

The Lord Commander nodded gruffly. “Does he serve you well?” He asked, as they both looked to the boy. Garth returned their gaze as he led Jon’s horse away to the stables.

“He is as faithful and loyal a squire as any I could ask for. He is a testament and a credit to your house.”

Mormont nodded. “Good. His father raised him well then. I was worried that his southern wife would cause him to do something funny. She was pampered that woman.”

“Your son has entrusted him with Longclaw.” Jon informed him, and the Lord Commander pursed his lips.

“Only time will tell if that was a wise decision.” He finally said after a moment of pondering what his son had done.

Jon nodded. “I agree. As for now though my men need food and rest, and shelter if you have the rooms to spare. Then we must discuss the nature of the wildling threat.”

The Lord Commander nodded. “Come then,” He said, “We shall organise food and shelter for your men and then we can get onto what you are here for.”

Chapter 15: Denys I: The Hand of the King

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“They say you know many things, Spider.”

The man that Denys was addressing tittered and smiled softly. Everything the man seemed to do was done softly. He laughed softy. He talked softly. His hands were soft and his clothes were softer. And it grated on Denys Arryn more than he cared to admit.

Denys had been raised a warrior. His hands were hard and calloused, and his mind scarred. Varys seemed to be his antithesis, everything he stood against.

“It depends on what you want to know, Lord Arryn.”

That was another thing that Denys was struggling to accustom himself too. He was now Lord of the Eyrie, and Defender of the Vale. His uncle’s titles had fallen to him. That was nothing new. From Elbert’s death in 283A.C until Robin Stone’s birth in 292A.C, Denys had been Jon’s heir. It seemed though that the eight years had changed Denys’ familiarity with that role.

“Lord Eddard exposed many things in his time as Hand of the King.” Denys began, and he was immensely pleased to see the normally unflappable spymaster twitch. “One of which was the murder of my uncle by Baelish.”

Varys nodded and hummed. “And you wish to know why he did it, don’t you? Why he killed your uncle?”

“I do.” Denys replied shortly.

Varys sighed and shrugged. “Petyr Baelish was a complicated yet very intelligent man. His schemes often had more than one outcome and his goals were convoluted and confusing, even for one as knowledgeable as me. No doubt he had more than one goal in mind when he killed your uncle.”

“And what could those goals possible be?”

“Baelish has always hated house Stark ever since his childhood love, Lady Catelyn Tully was betrothed to Brandon Stark. It only deepened when Brandon Stark almost mortally wounded him in a duel for the Lady Catelyn’s hand. And then he found out that his lady love had been dishonoured by the younger brother of the man that cut him open. No doubt somewhere while in the South, Petyr Baelish intended for Eddard Stark to meet his end; an outcome that Eddard Stark cut quite short.”

Denys shook his head. “There were other ways for Baelish to have his vengeance upon House Stark without involving my kin. That makes little sense. What else could it have been?”

Varys looked at him queerly. “Do you know what your uncle’s last words were?”

“No.” Denys replied, no one had bothered to tell him.

“I believe all the answers you seek can be found in those few words.”

“Well what were they?”

Varys shrugged. “The words aren’t mine to utter. Ask the king. He was with him in his final hours. I’m sure he would know.”

Denys stewed in silence and stared out across Blackwater Bay.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Varys began, “Why do you wish to know?”

Denys glared at the eunuch. “It is a personal matter, and one that concerns none of you nor your little birds.”

Varys tittered. “Of course.” He said. “I understand completely. I would warn you though, Lord Arryn, of the dangers of pursuing vengeance too far. Look at what happened to Rickard Stark.”

Denys snorted. “If I was even a tenth of the man that Rickard Stark was Lord Varys I would have taken your head from your shoulders already. He has tried though, hasn’t he? How many of you are left?”

“How many of us?” Varys asked, and Denys seized upon the opportunity.

“Aerys old guard. Those of you that were part of Aerys court and inner circle. Those of you that were there on the day that he wasburned.”

Varys soft smile soured, and Denys grinned. “Lucerys Velaryon is still with Viserys isn’t he? Jamie Lannister and Barristan Selmy still live, but what of everyone else? How many has he killed? One hundred? One hundred and fifty? Two hundred?” Varys looked at him coldly and Denys flushed with pride at having been able to break the spider’s charade, “You don’t think I’ve been watching Varys? You don’t think that all of the North and the Riverlands and the Vale has been watching as those that stood by Aerys have fallen? He’s been patient, I’ll grant The Burnt Lord that, but your clock is ticking Varys.”

Denys leant in and placed his mouth right next to Varys’ ear. “I’ll have you know though, that Eddard Stark is a close friend of mine. I grew up with him in the Vale. I have his ear, and he has his father’s. A few words in the right places and you could find your life expectancy climbing exponentially.”

Denys stopped when Varys laughed coldly. He stepped back, and Varys seemed to change in front of him. The softness somehow melted off him, and a hardness and cruelty seemed to enter his gaze. “If you think there is anything,” He chortled, “That you can do to stop The Burnt Lord from having his vengeance upon me, you are sorely mistaken. The Burnt Lord listens to no one, not even his son, and nor will he listen to you.”

With that, Varys turned and walked away, the scent of his perfume lingering in his wake.

Denys was left standing next to the window overlooking Blackwater Bay. He cursed his old friend Eddard Stark for leaving him to clean up the madness that he had cut free in the Second Hour of the Wolf. He had cut it free indeed, but he had done nothing to remove it, and the madness that had once been hidden in the shadows was running in the light for all the realm to see. And Denys had been the one left to clean it up.

With a heavy sigh, he turned back towards the kings chambers, determined to find the truth of his uncle’s last words.

Robert wasn’t in his chambers. Instead he was in the yards, hammering at Mark Ryswell with a fury that Denys hadn’t seen since the Trident. The fat had melted off of the fat king since he had left for the North, and slowly, but surely, he was becoming the Demon of the Trident once more. His bushy beard had been shaved away and his long hair tied back in a martial bun. His famed muscles were returning and his eyes sparkled with an energy Denys hadn’t seen in years.

Denys waited on the sides of the courtyard as the spar wound down. Mark Ryswell was faltering under Robert’s blows, and eventually the blunted great sword Robert was using smashed past Mark’s defences.

He tumbled to the ground and begrudgingly admitted defeat. Denys had heard that Robert was winning more and more of these spars nowadays.

“Denys!” Robert roared in delight as he turned around, sweat dripping off of him, “Have you come to spar with me?”

“No, your grace.” Denys replied as he bowed his head. “I have come for some answers.”

“Answers?” Robert asked, “Answers to what?”

“I wish to know of my uncle’s final hours.”

Roberts face curdled like sour milk. “What of them, Denys?” He asked, his voice tired.

“Everything. Was he at peace when he died? What were his last words? Who did he weep for? Was his final hours filled with pained gasps or tender whispers?”

Robert turned away. “It wasn’t like what you hear in the stories, Denys. There was no grand final declaration, no whispered words of tender love to his wife,” At this Robert’s grip around the greatsword tightened, “And no last words of advice for me as king. I think he went half mad in his final days. He just kept repeating the same words he had been saying ever since he came down with the sickness.”

“And what words were they?” Denys asked, half dreading, half eager to hear what his Uncle’s last words were.

Robert paused and looked up at the sun. “The seed is strong. He would it have said half a hundred times in his final hours alone, if not more. The seed is strong.”

“And what did he mean by that?”

Robert shrugged. “Who knows? As I said, I think he went half mad. The bitch that he married though, she was convinced that he was saying her bastard was a strong and worthy heir.” Robert scoffed. “You know the boy Denys, you’ve seen him. I’m certain that wasn’t what he meant.”

Denys hummed in agreement.

“All I know Denys,” Robert continued, “Is one thing. Lysa Tully, seven curse her soul, is dead. I can’t kill her, but Petyr Baelish, that whor*son is still alive. And when he dies it will be on the end of my hammer.”

“A noble sentiment, your grace.” Denys said softly, “But you are a king, and you have duties.”

“Screw my duties.” Robert snarled. “And screw the crown. Joffrey can have it for all I care.” The King shook his head. “For so long, I have lived without a purpose. Pretty much ever since the day that Ned arrived in this city with his sister’s bones. Everything I had fought for I had lost. All I wanted was the hand of the woman I loved, and seven kingdoms couldn’t fill the hole she left behind.” Robert looked up and purpose shined in his eyes. “Well I have found something to fill that hole. Why do you think I have given up the whor*s and the wine and spend my days fighting and hunting? I want to be the Demon of the Trident again and when the time comes, I will give up my crown and I will hunt down Petyr Baelish, even if it takes me to the ends of the earth.”

Robert turned away and gestured for Mark to re-join him. “Now unless you wish to spar with me, leave me in peace. I have some vermin to kill, and I will not hunt them as The whor*monger King I have become, but rather, the Demon of the Trident I once was.”

The dismissal was clear and he turned away as the sounds of fighting started up in the yard again. His talk with the king had only left him more confused than before.

The Seed is Strong. What could that possibly mean?

Perhaps he should visit the Maester that had treated Jon Arryn. Perhaps he would know more. What was his name? Caolette? Denys nodded and set out to find him. Wasn’t he in his own household somewhere?

Hours later the sun had set, and Denys was trembling with barely restrained fury as he stormed his way towards Grand Maester Pycelle’s chambers. He had spoken to Maester Caolette and he had told him that the Grand Maester had sent him away and insisted on treating him himself.

Denys recalled the words Eddard Stark had given to him on the day he had left the capital, on the day that Denys learned he was the new Hand of the King. ‘Trust nobody. And whatever you do put no faith in Varys, and nor Pycelle. He is a Lannister toad, and if I had more time, and a willingness for war, I would have tried and executed them too. Yet alas, I’m all out of time, and sick of war and so they live. Take care Denys and keep an eye on them.” And with that Eddard Stark had gone, leaving Denys to deal with the mess he had created. Eddard Stark had brought ten times the men, had ten times the wealth, had ten times the power and ten times the authority that Denys had. And yet Denys was the one that had been left behind to deal with it.

What reason did Pycelle have for sending Caolette away? His concern had only grown when he had learnt that Caolette would not have gone had it not been for the queen commanding him to leave so. Eddard Stark’s words seemed truer than ever.

As he stormed through the doors to Pycelle’s chambers, he found the Grand Maester in bed with a whor*. His lips curled in disgust as the man’s betrayal of his vows. The girl shrieked when she saw Denys and his guards while the Grand Maester fumbled beneath his blankets, looking for something to cover himself with no doubt.

“Lord Arryn…” Pyvelle stuttered, “This is most inappropriate…especially at this hour!”

“Seize him.” Denys told his guards, and they surged forward and gripped him around the arms. Denys bent down and picked up a crumpled dress. He handed it to the quivering girl along with two golden dragons. “For your troubles and your silence. Now get out of here and don’t come back.”

The girl nodded and rushed off with her clothes and new found wealth. Denys turned back to Pycelle. “Tell me of my uncle’s final days Pycelle.”

Pycelle squirmed in the grip of Deny’s guards. “I don’t know!” Pycelle stuttered.

“But you treated him did you not? And I’ve also been informed that he visited you in the days before he was poisoned. Was that a lie or was that the truth?”

“Truth!” Pycelle burst out, “He’d come to me for a book!”

“A book?” Denys asked, “A book on what?”

“He wanted a book that had been written by Grand Maester Malleon. He wantedThe Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children.”

Denys frowned. “And where is this book now?”

“On my desk!” Pycelle cried, “Just there next to the book on ravenry.”

Denys wandered over to the desk and picked up the book that Pycelle was gesturing too. The book was massive and old, and covered in faded gilded script. Denys tucked it under his arm and turned back to the Grand Maester. He regarded him for a second, before turning to his guards. “Throw him in the Black Cells and prepare him for a trial.”

“What!” Pycelle cried in horror, and all weakness fled from his voice. “You cannot! I am a Maester of the Citadel! I am above the political games you play!”

“If only that last statement were true Grand Maester. Now get him out of my sight and hopefully he will be able to leave my mind.”

With that, Denys turned and left the Grand Maester’s chambers to return to his own. Before the night was done, he swore to himself that he would divulge the secrets of this book.

Chapter 16: Cersei I: The Stag Stumbles

Chapter Text

The summons had come late at night, when most of the castle was heading off to bed. The young boy, for that’s what he was, all his protestations of being a ‘man grown’ aside, had handed her a letter sealed with seal of Arryn.

She went alone as the letter bid, and dressed in simple hunting greens and wrapped herself in a dark cloak to ward off prying eyes. She wandered through the halls and found herself outside the small sept of the Red Keep. Outside two Arryn guardsman stood, ramrod stiff and straight as spears. As she approached, the moved aside and opened the doors.

Cersei flitted through like a shadow, as silent as she could move and she found the man who had summoned her, bowed before the statue of The Stranger strangely enough, and his eyes were closed and his lips moved in silent prayer.

She watched him and admired him for a moment from afar. He was a striking man to be sure, with his blonde hair, startling blue eyes and aquiline nose. His jaw was sharp, and for a moment Cersei saw the man that had Jamie spoke of when he had watched the procession of victorious rebels enter the city to take the throne and crown Robert king. By then the city had fallen to The Burnt Lord and The Stranger’s Wolf; all that had been left to do was the coronation. Jamie had spoken of a handsome warrior that had ridden at Jon Arryn’s right hand, one that the maidens of the city had been crying out for.

She stepped forward out of the shadows and cleared her throat. Lord Arryn’s lips stopped moving, and he turned to her. His eyes regarded her coldly, albeit sadly.

“Why here?” Cersei asked.

Denys Arryn sighed and pulled himself to his feet. “So the gods can see.”

Denys sat down on one of the pews and gestured for her to join him. She did, and sat down carefully a little across from him. She watched him warily, and waited for him to speak. Eventually he did.

“I know the truth that Petyr Baelish killed Jon Arryn for.”

Of all the words she had been expecting that was not it. She had been expecting some lecture about Pycelle. She had been expecting a warning similar to the one that Stark had given her about the balance of power between Hand and Queen.

“Congratulations Lord Arryn.” She replied drily, “Is that why you called me here? To pose me riddles? Or to boast of your wit and intelligence?”

Denys Arryn sighed and looked at her sadly. Grief lined his features and he turned back to the Stranger, the aspect he had been praying to. “My whole life I have been a warrior. I’ve had little time for the gods apart from the Warrior and the Stranger. In battle, when you’ve got a sword in your hand and a man across from you screaming for your head, well gods don’t help much. I respect the Stranger for the souls he takes and guides into the realms of the dead. Robert is much like me and I suspect your brother is too.”

Cersei stared at him defiantly. Jamie and Robert were nothing alike. “My brother is worth a hundred of your friend.”

“Your brother?” Denys asked sadly, “Or your lover?”

Cersei felt her heart stop in her chest, before it restarted twice as quickly as it had been going before. Cersei was a lion of Casterly Rock and she would not be cowed. She had done the right thing by her house, and if this upstart sought to stop her, then he would see that Cersei’s claws were as long and sharp as her fathers were.

“Both.” She stated. She did not flinch from the truth. Why should she? “Since we were children together. And why not? The Targaryen’s wed brother to sister for three hundred years, to keep the bloodlines pure. And Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two bodies. We shared a womb together. He came into this world holding my foot, our old Maester said. When he is in me, I feel…whole.”

The ghost of a smile flitted across her lips, and her loins and lips burned with the phantom memory of his touch. “You love your children don’t you? The little girl you brought to the capital? The one Robert betrothed to Joffrey? What’s her name?”

“Sharra.” Denys replied. “And I love her with all of my heart.”

“No less do I love mine.”

“All three are Jaime’s,” He said. It was not a question.

“Thank the gods.”

The Seed is Strong. Robert had told her that those were the words that Jon Arryn had spoken on his deathbed, and so it was. All those accursed bastards, all with hair as black as night. Grand Maester Malleon recorded the last mating between stag and lion, some ninety years ago, when Tya Lannister had wed Gowen Baratheon, third son of the reigning lord. Their only issue, an unnamed boy described in Malleon’s tome as a large and lusty lad born with a full head of black hair, died in infancy. Thirty years before that a male Lannister had taken a Baratheon maid to wife. She had given him three daughters and a son, each black haired. The gold always yielded to the coal, and it grated on Cersei immensely. If not for that tiny little detail, none would be the wiser.

“Sixteen years.” Denys said. “How is it that you have had no children by the king?”

“Your Robert got me with child once,” She said, her voice thick with contempt. “My brother found a woman to cleanse me, and I have not let him inside me for years. I know other ways to pleasure him, when he leaves his whor*s long enough to stagger up to my bedchamber. Whatever we do, the king is usually so drunk that he’s forgotten it all by the next morning.”

Cersei watched Denys’ face closely and noticed him blanch a little.

“I remember Robert as he was the day he took the throne, every inch a king,” He said quietly. “A thousand other women might have loved him with all their hearts. What did he do to make you hate him so?”

Cersei thought back on that night, and she felt physically sick. Fury filled her. What had been so damn special about the Stark bitch? Both of the men that Cersei had wanted had fallen for the stupid whor*, yet Cersei had thought she had won, for the bitch was dead and she was still alive. Yet even from the grave, the bitch haunted her life. Cersei’s voice grew thick, as she remembered. “The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by her name. He was on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna.”

Denys looked at her with such pity and sadness in his eyes that Cersei wanted to roar and slap him. She was a lion, she needed no pity!

“I do not know which of you I pity the most.”

Cersei snorted yet refrained from laughing. “Save your pity for yourself, Lord Arryn. I want none of it.”

“You know what I must do.”

“Must?” Cersei asked. She put a hand on her legs, trusting her beauty and his desires to win him over to her side. “A true man does what he will, not what he must.” Her fingers brushed lightly against his thigh, the gentlest of promises. “The realm needs a strong Hand. Joff will not come of age for years. No one wants war again, lest of all me.” Her hand touched his face, his hair. “If friends can turn to enemies, enemies can become friends. Your wife is a thousand leagues away, and my brother guarding Joff. Be kind to me Denys. I swear to you, you shall never regret it.”

For a second, she thought she had him. If it was any other man they would have already been pulling her dress from her body. A half smile, half sneer flitted across his face.

“Did you make the same offer to my Uncle?”

She slapped him. Her nail cut his cheek, and a thin trickle of blood ran down. Denys reached up and wiped it away before inspecting the crimson liquid upon his finger.

“I shall wear that as a badge of honour.” He said drily.

“Honour?” Cersei spat with revulsion. “How dare you play the noble lord with me? You said it yourself, you’re a warrior and a killer. How are you any different from Robert, or me, or Jamie?

“For a start,” responded Denys, “I do not kill children. You would do well to listen, my lady. I shall say this only once. When the king returns from his hunt, I intend to lay the truth before him. You must be gone by then. You and your children, all three, and not to Casterly Rock. If I were you, I should take ship for the Free Cities, or even further, to the Summer Isles or the Port of Ibben. As far as the winds blow. Already I have sent letters to Eddard Stark, Stannis Baratheon and my own son within the Vale. You will find no friends in Westeros, and if you do the might of the Old Alliance will fall against whoever stands for you.”

The Old alliance, Cersei nearly threw up in her throat. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Lord Arryn was right. Cersei would find no friends in the Vale, or the North or the Stormlands. Her father was The Old Lion though, and she was a lion too. She would not flee. She was no coward.

“Exile.” Cersei spat. “A bitter cup to drink from.”

“A sweeter cup than the one your father served Rhaegar’s children,” Denys said, “And kinder than you deserve. Your father and your brothers would do well to go with you. Lord Tywin’s gold will buy you comfort and hire you swords to keep you safe. You shall need them. I promise you, no matter where you flee, Robert’s wrath will follow you, much like it will soon follow Petyr Baelish.”

Cersei rose to her feet. Did this man know nothing? “And what of my wrath, Lord Arryn?”

She shook her head and turned to leave. “When you play the game of thrones Denys, you win or you die. There is no middle ground. If you don’t believe me ask the kings who rot beneath the earth. Ask Aerys, ask Rhaegar. They say his soul is still in that accursed tree that The Burnt Lord and his crannogmen sung into existence. Who knows…he may even respond.”

With that Cersei turned and headed away, leaving Denys Arryn behind to stew on all he had heard.

The next few days were tense, and Cersei spent them readying her men, and consolidating her power. She sent word to her cousin, Lancel, to drug the king with the fortified wine.

Cersei would do everything in her power to ensure the king never returned alive, and that if he did, he would never find out the truth that Denys Arryn knew, even if Cersei had to draw the knife across his throat herself.

It was on the third day since Lord Arryn had summoned her that the tension simmered and broke over. Far to the South of the city, a giant column of smoke was filling and polluting the air. It was in the direction of the Kingswood; where Robert had gone hunting.

And hours later, Lancel Lannister arrived on a horse that was blackened with soot, and panting heavily. He burst into the courtyard of the Red Keep, and both Cersei and Denys were there to greet him, along with all the other courtiers in the Red Keep.

“There’s a fire!” Lancel screamed in horror, “The King! He’s gone missing!”

Inside Cersei exalted, while Denys looked horrified. “What do you mean?” He asked, “What happened?”

“We were hunting a boar…” Lancel panted, “A monstrous boar that was said to haunt the forests. We never found it, but instead a wall of fire came bearing down on us! The horses got spooked and threw us all off. The King managed to stay on his, and when the horses bolted they took him with them.”

“Well where did the horses go?” Denys asked.

“They ran…into the fire!” Lancel cried, “The only horse that didn’t leave was Mark Ryswell’s. He managed to keep a hold of his horse, and reigned it in. That’s the horse I ride now.”

And as Cersei looked she saw he was right. Northern bred horses were different to those of the South. The coats were shaggier, and they were bigger and more powerfully built, yet there was still a grace and speed about them than a thundering like that of a normal war horse.

“Were is the rest of the hunting party?” Cersei asked. If the King was dead as she suspected he was, now was the time to move.

“When I left them, they were searching for a way through or around the fire front to see if the king made it through to the other side.”

Denys Arryn turned around, and called for the captain of his guards. “Allard!” He cried, “Gather fifteen men, thirty horses and ride for the kingswood! Find Ser Barristan and Mark Ryswell and the rest of the hunting party and help them look for the king.”

Cersei grinned triumphantly, as she left the courtyard. The delicate balance of power between her and Lord Arryn was about to tip even more heavily in her favour.

Chapter 17: Jamie II: The Fall of the Falcon

Chapter Text

The King was dead. Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, the king of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, the Lord Protector of the Realm and the Demon of the Trident, was dead. His charred and burnt corpse had been found in the early hours of the morning, when the sun’s rays had first begun to shine over the woods in which he had perished. None could mistake his giant frame, and neither could they mistake the knife that he had at his side, a knife he had owned since his days in the Eyrie, when he fostered with Ned Stark.

To Jamie, it was of the greatest ironies that King Robert had died by the flames. Flames had forever been associated with House Targaryen, and in the end it had been flames that had brought Robert down.

Around him the darkness shivered and glinted with the bodies of moving men wrapped in red cloaks, heading for the Tower of the Hand. Cersei meant to stake her claim on the power quickly, and she had ordered him to take Denys Arryn captive before the sun had even risen. Behind him he felt a hand on his shoulder and then The Hound was pushing past him, his dog headed helm bringing fear to any unfortunate soul that would stand in his way on this day.

Jamie knew what was at stake, even if no one else in this party did. Not only was his own life at stake, but the Lannister claim on the throne. If Denys was not dealt with soon, Cersei had warned him that he would be able to send word to his allies; allies like Ned Stark. Allies that would hold no mercy for what Jamie and Cersei had done. Jamie would avoid the news reaching Ned Stark at all costs. He did not even want to imagine what Arthur Dayne’s reaction would be if he found out. More cursing no doubt, though this time he sensed a little bit of laughter would not have been able to escape the Sword of the Mornings mouth.

They rounded a corner and came across the entrance to the Tower. It was guarded by four men, and they were wide awake, their swords already drawn. Clearly they had been warned danger was afoot. It did not matter, Jamie knew he had almost thrice the numbers. One of them noticed him and his men slinking across the courtyard and smashed his gauntlet on the door behind them.

“Tell Lord Denys they have come!” He cried, before turning back to Jamie and taking up next to his comrades. Jamie shrugged and nodded at his men. There would be no point in hiding in the darkness now.

With a wordless roar and the scream of sliding steel, Jamie and his men ran forward, across the final few yards and into combat with Lord Denys Arryn’s men. For a glorious and yet terrible moment there was a scuffle on the stairs, and it cut the glory of Jamie’s charge short. And then the Hound was there, hacking left and right and left again and the men in front of them were dead, crumpled on the floor while their blood dripped from The Hound’s blade.

The Hound pushed on the door, but it would not budge. It had been barricaded from the inside it seemed. Jaime cursed under his breath before turning back to his men. “You, you and you!” He cried, as he gestured at three men. “With me! Clegane, see if you can get through that door!”

With that Jaime turned away and dashed into the darkness, the men he had selected following in his wake. Jamie’s heart pounded in his chest and the blood rushed through his head. Nothing in life gave him more pleasure than the thrill of a fight, when all that mattered was you and the man that stood across from you. When the measure of you wit did not matter, only the measure of your arm.

He dashed left, down some stairs and through a servant’s door. One benefit to living in the Red Keep since he was sixteen was that he knew its passages very well. Not as well as Varys of course, but then Jamie doubted any man since Maegor knew the passages that well. He knew enough though, and after pushing through another door he found himself exactly where he wanted to be. He paused to catch his breath and let his comrades catch up, before he pushed open the door and slipped through.

He pulled back almost immediately, and more Arryn guardsmen rushed past. He waited a second to be sure they had gone, before pushing the door open again and sliding up the corridor. He and his men fell upon those holding the door silently, and they did not know they were there until their blades were protruding from their chests. There were eight men holding the door in total, and within seconds, four of them were dead. Jamie wrenched his blade from the man he had killed and brought the battle to the remaining guards, even as the door smashed open and The Hound entered along with the rest of his men.

Jamie found himself caught up in battle with one of the remaining guards. Their swords flashed out and in, and across each other. The guard made a mistake and seconds later found himself on the floor, blood gushing from a hole in his throat.

Jamie paused and stopped to observe the carnage around him. Twelve Arryn men lay dead in the entrance, along with five red cloaks. Jamie nodded to his men. “Take the tower. You know what we want. Find the girl and keep her safe. Any one touches her and he will have my blade to deal with. Am I clear?”

The men nodded and rushed off, deeper into the tower and off to their tasks. Jamie heard screams and yells and knew that they had met with resistance. Gathering the remaining men, Jamie headed off for the lord’s chambers, where Denys Arryn would hopefully be.

He rushed up stairs and through doors and found himself in a series of running battles with Lord Arryn’s men. Each encounter would lead to more dead men, but Jamie escaped each with nary but scratches. He knew the numbers were on his side and though his losses were stacking up, it did not faze him.

Jamie had just finished killing another Arryn guardsmen when he first caught sight of Lord Arryn. He was standing in the room, behind the room Jamie was in now. The door was open, and he could see him hurriedly putting on armour. Jaime tensed and leapt forward, determined to end the threat here and now.

He pushed through the men and had almost made it to the doorway when he was forced to stop in his tracks. A white sword, much like his own, had appeared in his way, and then a man, wearing white armour, much like his own, and with a white cloak, much like his own, stepped around the corner of the doorway and into the doorway, blocking off all who wished to pass.

“Ser Jaime…” Mark Ryswell mocked as he lowered the point of his sword to see him better, “Why am I not surprised to see you here?”

Jamie paused and prayed to the gods that his sister’s plan would work. He reached into his tunic and pulled forth a piece of paper with the Kings seal upon it. King Joffrey’s seal upon it. He held it out, for Mark Ryswell to take. “I am here on the King’s orders.” Jamie said.

Mark Ryswell took the piece of paper and broke the seal with one thumb, while his other hand stayed on his sword. He scanned the words, before snorting in amusem*nt. “Is this your shield?” He asked, “A piece of paper?”

With that, he turned and threw the paper into the fire behind him. It crackled and burned and so did Jamie’s hopes for a peaceful resolution with his sworn brother. He had never particularly liked Mark Ryswell, but he had a respect for him. He was skilled with sword, none could deny that, and though he wasn’t a knight, he was more knightly than some of his other sworn brothers.

“Those were the king’s words!” Jamie said lowly.

Mark Ryswell smiled grimly and tilted his head. “Not my king’s words.”

Jamie frowned at his sworn brother. “King Robert is dead.” He said, “Joffrey is his heir.”

“Is he?” Mark Ryswell asked, the hints of knowing smirk playing across his features.

The implications of that smirk stopped Jamie’s heart in his chest. He knew. His sworn brother knew. Jamie wasn’t sure wether he should feel shame or anger. He turned to the men that remained with him. “Leave us. Find the girl and finishing securing the tower.”

As the men rushed away, Mark Ryswell laughed, though it wasn’t a happy one, more of a strangled, bitter one. “And just when I thought you could not dishonour yourself any further! Then again, I guess you truly are your father’s son.”

Jamie’s mind flashed with the image of a pile of small bones in a coffin, wrapped in cloaks of grey. He could still see the chips on the bones, where Eddard Stark said Amory Lorch had stabbed her half a hundred times. As quickly as the shame filled him though, it was replaced with anger, white hot and burning through him.

“Enough!” He barked. “Lay down your sword and swear fealty to King Joffrey or die!”

Mark Ryswell lifted his blade high and narrowed his eyes. Jamie swallowed. “So be it.” He said, and then he leapt forward to battle.

Mark Ryswell slapped his thrust aside with the back of his gauntlet and slammed the pommel of his blade into Jamie’s face. Jamie fell back, tears springing to his eyes. He stumbled away, furiously shaking his head and trying to clear his blurred vision. He held his sword in front of him, ever wary of the danger of Mark Ryswell seizing the moment and finishing the fight.

When his vision cleared though, he found Mark Ryswell still in the doorway, his sword held in the same position. Had Jamie not know better, he would have thought that he had not moved at all.

It was a smarter move than Jamie had first supposed. As long as Mark Ryswell sat in the doorway, he had the advantage. His shorter blade was much more manoeuvrable in the cramped space than Jamie’s long sword was. Not for the first time that night, he cursed not picking up the bastard blade, as Mark Ryswell had done.

Jamie got to his feet slowly, warily, biding his time as he thought of something to do.

“I have my orders, Ser Jamie.” Mark Ryswell explained, “and you will not be getting to Denys Arryn or his wife and daughter without first going through me.”

“Orders?” Jamie scoffed, “Only the king has the power to order the kingsguard.”

“As I said,” Mark Ryswell said with a tilt of his head, “I’m only following the orders of my king.”

A sinking suspicion took hold of Jamie. “And just who is your king?”

Mark Ryswell did not respond, just continued smiling that infernal smile.

“Is it Stannis you serve?” He asked as he stepped closer, his blade held straight out in front of him. “Or do you serve another?”

The lack of response from Ryswell was chilling, though Jamie refused to let it irk him. He thrust forward with his blade quickly, yet Ryswell managed to knock it aside once more. A flurry of quick cuts and slashes broke out between the two brothers of the kingsguard and it ended much as it had before. With Jamie stumbling backwards, and Mark Ryswell resuming his position with sword in front of him, and doorway over him.

“Give up, Ser Jamie.” Ryswell said, “Turn around and leave Denys Arryn and his family be. I have orders to keep them safe, and I will uphold those orders until my dying breath.”

Jamie glared at the Northern Warrior, before smirking. “Trust me that can be arranged. Just lower your sword and lean a little to the left. I’m sure my blade will prove sharp enough.”

Mark Ryswell snorted, before stepping out of the doorway. “My blade is quite sharp as well, Ser.”

His blade glinted dangerously in the low light. It flashed out, almost faster than the eye could follow, and Jamie just managed to bring his own blade up in time. Ryswell’s blade smashed into his with all the force of a raging bull. Gods he was strong. For all the time that Jamie and Mark Ryswell has been in the Kingsguard together, Jamie had never sparred with the Northman. He was reclusive and had only been seen in the yard with Torrhen Starkstark when he was still in the capital, and once he left, the king.

“You know what the problem with you southerners is?” Ryswell asked as he swung his sword in a vicious overhead arc. Jamie grunted in response as he caught the Northman’s blade on his own once more. His arm’s shook with the impact, and his teeth jarred in his mouth.

“For all your boasts, Ser Jamie, you are just another knight of summer, playing at war.”

Another blow crashed into Jamie’s arms and this time, he felt his sword slip, beneath the savage onslaught.

“What battles have you fought in? You’ve spent your life couped up in a white tower, in a red keep, in a city that stinks of sh*t and death.”

Mark Ryswell’s blade passed Jamie’s guard and crashed against his breastplate. This was not good. Jamie knew he was one of the finest knights in the realm. How was this man, this man who had never been anointed by the seven oils, on par with him?

“I’ve spent my life fighting real battles, against real men, where every move could be your last. Tell me, Ser Jamie, when was the last time you truly feared for your life? You truly feared that you would not see the sun rise on the morrow?”

Jamie took a step back, yet he felt cold stone stop his strategic withdrawal. He ducked as Ryswell’s sword crashed into the space where his head had been. Chips of stone showered Jamie, and he spun away from Mark Ryswell’s reach.

“I’ve fought in those battles where every moment could be your last. I was with Rickard Stark when we stormed Riverrun in a midnight siege. I fought at the Battle of the Bells, where Jon Connington fell. I fought again on the Trident and then again against your own father in this very city. From the time I could hold a blade I have been fighting wildlings and bandits, and every single battle has always been to the death.”

Jamie spun a glittering arc with his white sword towards Mark Ryswell’s head, but it was blocked and then shoved aside by a white sword much like his own.

“That is the problem with you southerners. You don’t know what it is like to truly fear death…and that is why…you will always lose!”

Ryswell punctuated each few words with a thrust of his blade, and Jamie found himself locked in a struggle of strength against the Northerner. “You know what the problem with you Northerners is?” Jamie asked as he strained against his opponents blade.

“You are always so concerned with your damn honour…” With that Jamie pulled one hand of his sword, gripped the knife in his belt and stabbed straight into Mark Ryswell’s groin. Ryswell’s blade went slack in his hand, and fell to the floor with a clatter. “…And that makes you blinder to death than I will ever be!”

Jamie shook his head, and looked down at his sworn brother sadly. “You should have stayed in the doorway, you fool…”

Mark Ryswell fell to the floor, and began to attempt to pull himself to the wall. Jamie stepped over him gingerly and made his way through the door that led to Denys Arryn. When he came across Lord Arryn, he found him huddled with his daughter and wife in a small room.

Jamie levelled his blade at the Lord of the Eyrie. “Surrender now, Lord Denys and I promise your daughter and wife shall not be harmed. You shall be treated as according to your station. You have my word.”

Denys Arryn got to his feet, anger and sadness burning in his eyes. “I have the word of an oathbreaker! A kingslayer! A sister-f*cker!”

Jamie smiled tightly. “Aye.” He said, “It’s not much, but it’s all you’ve got.”

Denys Arryn glanced at his sobbing daughter, before turning back to Jamie and throwing his own blade to the floor. Jamie came forward and bound him with ropes, before escorting him from the room. As they passed Mark Ryswell’s prone figure, Denys Arryn sighed heavily. “You have killed many good men tonight.”

Jamie went to respond, but he was stopped by the sound of laughter. He turned to find Mark Ryswell watching him, with a bloody grin. Blood dribbled from his mouth, and a pool of it lay between his legs.

“He has Lord Denys.” Mark laughed, “But he’s forgotten the cost.”

“The cost?” Jamie asked. “What cost?”

“I know your sister has little love for your stunted brother, but I thought you had a passing adoration for him.”

Jamie’s heart stopped in his chest. Tyrion. How could he have forgotten Tyrion! The only way for Tyrion to get home was passing through the North and then past the Vale. And Jamie had few friends in either places. He had just killed one of the North’s most prominent fighters and arrested the Lord of the Vale. Tyrion’s journey home would be fraught with danger, no matter which way he went.

Mark Ryswell must have seen the look of horror upon his face for he began to cackle most horribly. “Poor little Tyrion…was it worth it Ser Jamie? One lord of the Eyire for your only brother? I’m sure your father would agree that it was a worthy trade!”

Jamie yanked Denys Arryn through the door and hollered for his men. The Hound was the first to arrive and Jamie shoved Denys into his arms before fleeing the room and searching for his sister.

He rushed through the Red Keep, towards his sister’s chambers, shoving any who got in his way aside. He burst in on her and found her sitting by her balcony, overlooking Blackwater Bay. The night was fine, and the moon was high in the sky. She was sipping a red wine from a golden goblet and looking very pleased with herself.

“Is it done?” She asked eagerly as he entered the room, “Is he ours?”

“Tyrion!” Jamie managed to gasp out, “Tyrion is in the North! His only way home is past the Vale!”

“I know.” Cersei replied flippantly, and Jamie stared at her in horror. She caught his look and shrugged. “It was a calculated risk, dear brother. One stunted imp for the three of the four members of the ruling family of the Vale. It was a good trade.”

“Trade?” Jamie exclaimed, disbelieving. “You would trade my brother’s life so cheaply!?”

Cersei frowned. “Cheap? It was far from cheap. How many men did we lose tonight?”

Jamie went to tell her, but she shook her head. “Actually I don’t care. We were successful. The city is ours. What else matters?”

She got up and came to him, a vision of flowing locks and fine cheekbones. Her hand brushed his thigh, the gentlest of promises. “Now come to bed with me…we must celebrate! The King is dead…long live the king!”

For a fleeting second Jamie allowed himself to fall into the sweet realm of his sisters arms, but then Tyrion’s mismatched eyes flashed in his vision and he pulled back. “No.” He said.

“No?” Cersei asked, her tone dangerous.

“No.” Jamie affirmed as he turned away and strode for the door.

“Jamie?” Cersei cried, clearly upset, “Where are you going?”

Jamie paused at the door and turned to glare at his sister. “To fix your mistake. To get our brother back.”

Chapter 18: Viserys II: The Shores of the Shivering Sea

Chapter Text

The waters lapped gently against the sands while a cold breeze drifted by, blowing Viserys’ locks of silver away from his face. Around him, his gathered army was hard at work, building the fleet of ships that would carry him across the Shivering Sea and into the heart of the kingdom that he brought his family low. It had not been an easy journey to get here, and it had been even harder finding a way to keep the world blind to his movements.

The first step in his plan had been tricking the world, and tricking his enemies into believing that he had marched into the ruins of Valyria on a whim of madness. In truth he had only travelled as far down the Dragon Road as he needed, until Volantis was behind him. Then he had struck north in what no doubt would be remembered as one of the most daring marches ever made. Viserys had led his troops around the outskirts of the Dothraki Sea and emerged on the other side at the forest of Qohor, exactly where he had planned to. From there the march was relatively simple. Just straight North until they had hit the shores of the shivering sea.

It had been six moons since Viserys had marched from Volantis. Three of those months had been spent on the shores of the shivering sea, and the time was almost nigh for Viserys to load his armies and make west for vengeance.

In the bay they had settled at, the fleet he had rested in calm waters. The fleet would not hold for long against any dedicated battleship but that was not their job. As long as they landed Viserys’ armies upon the shores of Westeros their job would be done.

“Your grace...” a voice called, and Viserys turned to see Willem Darry approaching him.

“Ser Willam.” He greeted fondly as he extended his hand. The old knight was a loyal and erstwhile protector and had been with Viserys since the day he had fled from Dragonstone. The aged knight dropped to his knees and kissed Viserys extended hand.

“My loyal servant,” Viserys said fondly as he pulled him to his feet, “what news do you bring?”

“The troops are ready to load, and the finishing touches are being put upon the ships now. I have gathered the commanders in your tent as you instructed. They await you even now.”

Viserys shot one last parting glance at the sea before turning back to the madness that was his camp. Soldier’s tents were arrayed randomly, and grouped together depending on who they worked for. The sell swords were the encampment furthest to the south, but the Gallant Men would not camp next to the Stormbreakers because of some slight half a hundred years ago, so their camp was a little to the west. Viserys own camp, the one that held his most loyal men lay in the prime position next to the river that fed the sea, yet close enough to the beach to make the journey for those that worked on the ships hospitable.

The final camp was right in the shadow of the forests of Qohor. It was there that the three thousand men that Malaquo Maegyr has given him were camped. They were good fighters no doubt, but Viserys doubted that Malaquo had given him his best.

Viserys strode towards his own tent, Willem Darry trailing in his wake and soon entered it. Within, he found the commanders of his men. The three sellsword captains, Donaarrio Heroti of the Gallant Men, Jamen Xan Xherox of the Stormbreakers and Corin Vardy of the Iron Shields lounged on the cushions near the back. In their hands was wine goblets, while before them was platters full of the finest food Viserys’ table could serve. The men were greedy, but they were sellswords and it was in their nature. The leader of the Volantene legion with them was one of the Old Blood by the name of Qavo Nogarys. He was a bitter man, and consumed by his past. Then of course, were his own loyal men. Ser Willem Darry, Ser Elyas Willam, Lord Orton Merryweather and of course Ser Jaremy Rykker, tried and true men, each and every one.

“Come.” Viserys commanded as he strode to the large table in the centre of tent. “We have a war to plan.”

Each man came and took his place at the table. A large map of the seven kingdoms had been placed on it, and weighted down by figures representing the estimated strength of each kingdom. By far the most intimidating of all the kingdoms was the largest one, were Wolves practically covered the entire region.

“No doubt by now,” Viserys began, “You will have figured out that we are aiming to strike at only one kingdom. Once this kingdom is out of our way and grovelling on the floor beneath us, the other kingdoms will fall before us. This kingdom is of course, the northernmost one. The one ruled by House Stark.”

Each of the men present nodded and turned their attention to the part of the map that mattered. “Now tell me your thoughts on how to break the Winter Kingdom.”

Corin Vardy was the first to stir. “If you want to have any hope against The North, we must take Moat Cailin. If we can take and hold the Moat, we can stop the Usurper from brining aid from the South.”

“Moat Cailin is an impregnable fortress though,” Ser Jaremy Rykker interrupted, “It is all well and good to talk of taking the bastion of the First Men, but it has stood since before the Andals landed in Westeros. I do not think for one second that The Moat will fall. It has never fallen before, and it shall not fall to us, no matter how much we want it too.”

Corin Vardy smirked at the knight of the Crownlands. “The Moat has never fallen from attack from the South. From the North though is a different story. I have seen the Moat. I travelled through there when I was younger and working as a guard for a merchant during the days leading up to Robert’s Rebellion. The Northmen designed it so that it was susceptible to attack from the North. That way, if anyone did manage to take it, they could take it back quite easily.”

“How to get there though?” Qavo Nogarys asked, “It is an inland fortress. We would have to either take the Saltsmaw first, or land somewhere on the East Coast and then force a march past White Harbour.”

“The Manderly’s would not sit there and watch our army waltz past,” Ser Jaremy added, “They would march out to meet us. They are the only house in the North to have knights in their service. And we would also have to deal with the Flintstarks of Widow’s Watch.”

“The gates of the Shivering Sea are outside of our influence. To attack Widow’s Wathc would be to bring the might of Braavos crashing down upon us!” Jamen Xan Xherox cried.

“Braavos?” Viserys sneered. “Braavos will come crashing down up us regardless. The city is half owned and controlled by The Company of the Rose. They are no friend of House Targaryen. The key, gentlemen, is to strike hard and fast. To strike while we have the advantage of surprise and before The Starks can gather their men or call for aid from their allies.” Viserys leant forward and placed a smattering of ships in The Bite. “In exactly two moons, Lucerys Velaryon will attack at the Saltsmaw. For so long he has told me that he is a better admiral than Beron Saltstark and soon we shall see if his claims are true. His attack though, is a feint. He will pull the Eyes and men of the North to the Saltsmaw. While he engages them there with the Royal Fleet, we shall fall upon here.”

Viserys placed a red dragon upon the map, over the grey dot that represented the Western side of the Gates of the Shivering Sea. “Widow’s Watch will fall.”

“And then what?” Orton Merryweather asked. “Do we march straight for the Moat?”

“No.” Jaremy Rykker replied. “We should march straight for Ramsgate and take that too. The quicker the better.”

“Yes.” Viserys agreed, “Ramsgate will fall next, and then we march on to Oldcastle. All the while, The Gallant Sons will be raiding and reaving from The Hornwood to the White Knife. Strike the fear of the seven in the godless heathens. Do you understand Donaarrio?”

The sellsword nodded wordlessly.

“The rest of you shall be under the command of Ser Willem Darry. You will march North for Winterfell and hopefully whatever host has gathered along the Maw will rush to save their liege lords home. Eventually, you will double back and ford the White Knife, before marching down and attacking Moat Cailin.”

“And what of you, your grace?” Qavo Nogaryos asked. “If we are to be under the command of Ser Willem Darry, what will you be doing?”

Viserys stared at the heart of the North. “I will be paying some debts. I plan to take leave of you as soon as Widow’s Watch has fallen. A reckoning will fall upon those that have wronged my family like this world has never seen before!”

Chapter 19: Eddard VI: Delegates, Dead Kings and Durrandons

Chapter Text

The knock echoed in the room loudly, distracting Ned from the letters he was writing. “Come in!” He called. The door cracked open, and a balding head with greying hair poked in. “Are you busy Lord Stark?” A thick Fleabottom accent asked, “Do you have some time for me?”

Ned smiled at the man warmly. “Come in Lord Seaworth. I always have time for you.”

Ned watched in amusem*nt as Davos Seaworth squirmed at the use of his title. Even after all of these years, he still did not like being called a lord. He much preferred to be known just as Davos. Ned knew the pilots of the Saltsmaw loved him for it. He had seen them with him in the tavern when he had visited the Isle of Salt a few years back. For them, it had clearly been like welcoming an old friend and not the lord into the tavern. And Davos had clearly enjoyed the interaction just as much, indeed Ned didn’t think he had seen him ever so relaxed.

“What is that you wish to ask of me, Davos?”

Davos Seaworth shut the door behind him and walked into the room, taking a seat in the plush leather armchair across from Ned’s writing desk. He squirmed uncomfortably for a moment, before reaching into his vest and pulling out something. He held it closed in his fist before bring it over Ned’s desk and dropping it.

It was a small and white object that clattered and rolled for a few moments before stopping. When it finally stopped and Ned managed to see what it was, he leant back in his chair. Gleaming in the light that streamed through the window was a human knucklebone. Ned stared at the knucklebone for a long moment, before turning his gaze back to Davos.

“I think I will find it in myself to forgive you if that is either Artos or Alaric’s knucklebone. I know how irritating both of those can be, and as their father I can excuse you for doing that. If it was anyone else though, Davos, I’m afraid that there is little I can do to help you.”

Davos’ face paled and he shrunk into his seat. “No!” He cried in horror, “I didn’t take it from anyone else!”

Ned couldn’t hold back his amusem*nt anymore, and roared with laughter at the look on Davos’ face. “You should have seen your face!” He cried, as tears pooled in the corners of his eye. It felt good to laugh. Ned hadn’t laughed like this since he had received news of Jon Arryn’s death. The thought sobered him, and he looked again at Davos who was trying to scowl, but looking slightly bemused.

Ned let the smile slide form his face and picked up the knucklebone in between them. “I assume this yours?”

Davos nodded. “It arrived at the Saltsmaw two weeks ago.”

“Arrived?”

“From Dragonstone. Stannis had one. I gave it to him when I saw him last, and told him that if he ever had need of me he only had to send that and I would come. I said I would help him until I considered my debt to him paid.”

“You owe him nothing.” Ned said, his mouth pursed while his eyes lingered on the stumps of Davos’ fingers.

Davos smiled consolingly. “It’s all a matter of perspective isn’t it?” He dropped his smile and looked at Ned seriously, though a touch nervously. “I gave Stannis my word though. When I was still new to being a lord, you once told me that the most important part of being a lord was my honour, and that the easiest way to maintain my honour was to keep my word. I beg it of you now, let me keep my word to Stannis, and once I have fulfilled my debt to him I shall return to serve you for the rest of my days.”

They were interrupted by a pounding at the door. Someone was knocking hard, and with an urgency that suggested something was wrong. Ned nodded at Davos to open the door, and he got up to do so. He opened the door and Robb shoved past him without even greeting Davos. He was panting heavily and his face was flushed. Clearly he had run here with some urgency.

“Robb?” Ned asked, slightly irritated, “What is the meaning of this?”

Robb looked at him and swallowed, before he opened his mouth. “King Robert...he’s dead.”

Time slowed around Ned and he struggled to comprehend the words he had just heard. “How did he die?” Ned asked, his voice hoarse.

“By the flame.” Robb replied, “He was out hunting when a forest fire fell upon their party. Robert’s horse went mad and apparently ran into the flames with the king still clutching on.”

Ned stood abruptly and turned around to face the window. He could not let his son, or his lord see him like this. He gave himself three tears and the count of five to compose himself, before he turned around once more.

“Well then...” Ned said as he resumed his seat. “What of the rest of the realm?”

“Denys Arryn was arrested by the Lannisters a few days ago. The Vale has already begun to stir. Denys’ son, Ronnel is gathering a host at the Bloody Gate. Rumour has it he means to march against the Lannisters.”

Davos moves to the door. “I will go Lord Stark. I will talk to you later.”

“No.” Ned said. “Sit. This concerns you as well.”

Lord Seaworth returned to the chair he had been sitting in while Robb sat in another.

“What news do we have of Renly and Stannis?” Ned asked Robb, and Davos leant forward in anticipation.

“Renly fled the capital just after Robert’s corpse was found. Reports suggest that he heads for Highgarden where he means to marry Margaery Tyrell and declare his claim on the Iron Throne.”

Lord Davos frowned. “Renly is the younger brother though.”

Ned hummed in agreement before turning back to Robb, who met his questioning gaze with a shrug. “Of Stannis we know little. He’s called his banners and has gathered a vast fleet around him, but he lingers on Dragonstone. Waiting on something it seems, but as to what he waits on no one has any clue...”

Ned turned and looked at Davos. Davos looked at him apologetically. “Don’t worry about my request Lord Stark. If it is to be a war, then my place is here by your side.”

Ned stewed in silence for a second, before picking up a quill and scribbling on the letter in front of him. He stared at for a second once he had finished, before sighing heavily. “Well this makes it quite easy then.”

Ned lifted the letter he had been scribbling and slid it across to Davos.

Davos took it and opened it, before scanning the document.

To Lord Stannis of the House of Baratheon,

This letter and signet seal gives its carrier, Lord Davos of the House of Seaworth, the right to act in place of and as a representative of the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, Lord Eddard of the House of Stark.

If you wish to discuss anything with Lord Eddard, Lord Davos will act as an intermediary. Lord Davos will be the only delegate to be exchanged between us. With the outbreak of hostilities in the South, the North will for the time being, hold itself out of the coming conflicts.

If you wish to discuss this stance, or any other matters further, do not hesitate to ask Lord Davos. He has the full faith of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North.

Regards,

House Stark of Winterfell.

“Go.” Ned said to Lord Davos. “Serve me, while you serve Lord Stannis. Take your ships as an escort and head for Stannis. Go without delay, and when you get there you will be my official representative.”

Davos looked up at him, with clear gratitude shining in his eyes. “Thank you Lord Stark.” Davos stuttered, “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“Go, Lord Davos.” Ned said gently, “Your presence is required on Dragonstone.”

Davos nodded and got to his feet, before bowing clumsily and rushing from the room.

Once the door had clicked shut behind him, Ned turned to his adopted son.

“We need to bring Jon back now.” Robb said as he thumped his fist upon the table. “The time is ripe for us to reclaim the crown of our ancestors.”

Ned stared coolly at the youth, before turning back to his letters and continuing to scribble away. “Jon will not be coming home.” Ned said after a pause. “He has a duty to fulfil in the Lands beyond the Wall. It would be counterproductive to call him and all the troops with him now. Let him break the wildling hosts and then return.”

“The King is dead father…” Robb said coldly, “There is no need to let your misguided feelings of endearment hold you back from this kingdom’s…no this Empire’s, destiny any longer.”

Ned smiled at his son coldly. “You don’t think I know that the king is dead?”

Robb flushed with embarrassment and bowed his head. “Apologies father, forgive me. I spoke out of turn.”

“Indeed you did.” Ned said coldly, before turning and staring out of the window. “War is upon us Robb. Wildlings to the North, Power hungry nobles to the South, Ironborn to the West and Essos to the East. We are surrounded by enemies. Now is not the time to expend our own resources fighting in a pointless war. Let those who have a stake in its outcome fight it out for themselves. At the end, as we have always done, we will emerge on top. Now is the time to strengthen and fortify the pack. While others waste away, we will grow stronger.”

Robb nodded. “What would you have of me?” He asked.

Ned handed him a pile of letters, similar to the one he had given to Davos. “In the South, already three kings have emerged, and no doubt more will follow. I need eyes on those kings to tell me what they are like…if they would be men worthy of following. Already I have sent Davos to Stannis. You will be going to treat with Renly. Domeric and Ramsay will be going to treat with Joffrey.”

“And what of Ronnel Arryn?” Robb asked. “Already my pack brothers are beseeching me to petition you to place them in command of a vanguard to march south for him.”

Ned chewed his bottom lip, before turning around again. “Who is asking the most?”

“Asher Forrester, Eldric Darkstark and Roger Ryswell are the ones who are the most vocal about it.”

“Is it any wonder?” Ned asked his son, “Jaime Lannister killed Roger and Eldric’s uncle when he arrested the Hand of the King. And Asher Forrester was never one to flee from a fight.”

“No.” Robb said sadly, “He never was, and neither will he.”

“Leave Ronnel to me.” Ned said, “I will sort something out, but for now tell all your brothers that no vanguard will be marching South.”

“And what of the Targaryen’s?” Robb asked, “What if they choose this madness as the time to stake their claim.”

“House Targaryen is extinct in the male line.” Ned replied, eying the scrap of paper that had confirmed what reports had been saying for months. “Viserys seemed to inherit a part of his father’s madness. He marched his entire army down the Dragonroad and into the ruins of Valyria. All that is left of House Targaryen is the Mad King’s daughter. She lingers in their empty manse in Volantis with barely a hundred men supposedly.”

Robb snorted with laughter. “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree then.”

“No.” Ned replied, “Though I doubt your grandfather is going to be happy.”

Robb shrugged. “Who cares? He killed the rest of them didn’t he? And there is still the daughter left.”

Ned’s blood ran cold at the casualness of his son’s statement. “His daughter is a child. We do not kill children Robb.”

Robb’s smile fell away and he nodded stiffly, before turning back to the letters in his hand. “When do we leave?” He asked.

“As soon as possible.” Ned replied.

“Will you allow me to visit my mother first?” He asked, “A week there, a week with her and a week back.”

Ned nodded as he thought of Elia Martell. He thought of the gift he had sent to her a few moons ago, just before he had left for King’s Landing. “Wish her well for me.” Ned said as Robb rose from his chair, “And take Aegon and Rhaenys with you. I know Rhaenys is missing her mother…Ashara tells me every night.”

Robb grinned wryly. “I can assure you that Aegon does too.”

“If you see Gendry, send him to me!” Ned called as Robb walked out the door. An affirmative yell came, and then Ned was left alone with his own thoughts.

He turned back to the window and looked down upon the crowded courtyard. His personal guard was currently training there, under the watchful eye of Arthur Dayne and Martyn Cassel. Arthur Dayne was wheeling about, and sparring with seven other men. As Ned watched one by one they fell, until Arthur was left standing alone. A savage snarl played across his features, and in that moment Ned saw the warrior he had become, and not the knight he had been.

As Ned thought of knights with White Cloaks, he thought of the man that lay dead in King’s Landing. Mark Ryswell had been one of Ned’s most devoted men, and a close friend of Brandon in the days when he had still drawn breath. Ned would have trusted none other to be his eyes in the south, and in the end, like it had for Brandon, it had ended in Mark Ryswell’s death. Ned knew there were many within the North who burned to avenge their fallen brother. In his time Mark had been a popular and charismatic individual that had drawn people to him like a moth to a flame. And now he was dead…dead at the hands of the kingslayer.

Ned would have his vengeance on the kingslayer though, even if it was not to be by his own hand. By now Tyrion Lannister would just be approaching Moat Cailin. The men escorting him had been given clear orders. Under no circ*mstances was Tyrion Lannister to find out what had happened in the South in his absence. He would emerge into a riverlands that teetered on the brink of war. And he was clueless as to what had happened. Clueless he would be when the Knights of the Vale came riding down from their high mountains and captured him due to someone letting Ronnel Arryn now where Tyrion Lannister was.

And Jaime Lannister, the hot headed fool that he was would no doubt rush to save him. And it would be here that Ned’s vengeance would be taken. Ned knew that it would do little to appease his lords, but it would keep them from marching their men south for the time.

Ned turned to a different part of the yard and saw Tommen and Alaric sparring with each other under Artos’ watchful eye. Alaric and Tommen had become as thick as thieves and often if you were to find one, the other would not be far. Their personalities contrasted heavily. Where Alaric was brooding and sour frowns, Tommen was smiling and laughing. Together, when they grew they would be the closest of friends.

Much like Robert and I were.

Ned knew that both of them needed each other. Tommen needed someone to harden him up and make him into the warrior he needed to be, while Alaric needed someone to teach him to laugh. Hopefully that someone would be Tommen. Sweet Tommen, who was now Ned’s hostage. Ned knew what he held, but he couldn’t see Tommen like that. He had protested heavily against the murders of Elia Martell and her children; indeed he had risked life and limb to prevent them. He would not begin to murder children now. Tommen was now part of the pack. He needed protecting just as much as anyone else, whether that be from Lords who wished to use him for their own means or overbearing mothers who would see him stifled from being who he was meant to be.

A knock at the door interrupted Ned’s thoughts for the third time that day, and Ned turned to see Gendry Waters looking at him a touch uncertainty. “Robb told me you have need of me, Lord Stark.” He said.

The sight of Gendry pulled Ned back to his youth in the Eyrie and for a second he could smell the mountain snows of Vale. “I did.” Ned said gravely. “Take a seat. We have much to discuss.”

Gendry sat awkwardly in the chair that had been occupied by Davos less than an hour ago. He had been in this room very little, and preferred to spend his time in the sparring yard or the forge. When Ned’s father had first found him he had been two years into a blacksmith’s apprenticeship. It was something he had refused to give up, even after he had been accepted into the Wolf Pack. Gendry had been the one to forge many of the blades of the Wolf Pack and Ned knew that Jon had taken a sword that Gendry had forged North of the Wall with him.

“I assume you have heard word of what happened while I was in the South.”

Gendry shrugged. “Bits and pieces.” He admitted. “I heard there was a lot of blood involved.”

Blood flashed in the darkest recess of his vision, and Ned was forced to turn away for a second before resuming. “You are right. There was a lot of blood. And a lot of tears too.”

Gendry didn’t respond, he just watched Ned warily.

“Tell me Gendry, did anyone ever tell you who your father was?”

Gendry shrugged. “Not really. I never really cared. I had Jon and Robb and my brothers. I had you and Lord Rickard and the Lady Ashara. I had Arya and Dyanna and Artos and Alaric. I had no need for anything else.” He paused and looked thoughtful for a second. “I have no need for anything else.”

Ned nodded, and he was slightly moved by the youth’s words. “Well it has fallen to me to tell you who your father is.”

Gendry frowned. “Why?” He asked.

“Because the time has come for you to be legitimised. I want you to know of your past, so that you can know how to define your future.”

Gendry had paled, and his eyes had gone wide. A strange, choking sound emerged from deep within him. “But…” He stammered, “You haven’t legitimised anyone else. Robb is still a snow! Will he not be upset?”

“I have already spoken to Robb.” Ned assured, “And he fully supports my decision. But you are right. I would not be legitimising you now, if it did not serve a purpose. Ser Bryden Tully resigned as Master of the Moat while I was in the South. A new Master of the Moat will need to be chosen, and I have chosen you. If you are to be the Master of the Moat, you will need a name. Which is why I wish to tell you of your father.”

If Gendry had looked shocked before, now he looked as though he had just been attacked by the Others. “Y-y-you mean to make…me…M-m-master of the Moat?”

“I do.” Ned said solemnly. “I need someone I know and trust in the position. War is erupting in the South, Gendry and I need a strong man to hold the gates to the North. You are that strong man. You have the approval and support of my father, my sons and my daughters, as well as the respect and admiration of many of the lords and heirs of the North.”

Ned sighed and shook his head, “I get this may not be what you want Gendry, and believe me I would rather you stayed here too. But we all have a duty in the wars to come and this shall be yours. To hold the North against those who would harm it. So what do you say?”

Gendry nodded slowly. “I will need a name then.” He said as he looked up, his eyes burning with resolve.

Ned nodded. “Your father Gendry was a great man, and a man I had known since I was a boy.”

Gendry’s smile was infectious. “My father was a northerner?” He asked, overjoyed.

Ned shook his head sadly. “No Gendry. You forget. I grew up in the Vale. Not the North.”

Gendry frowned. “My father was a Valemen then?”

Ned shook his head again. “Your father was my fellow ward, my best friend. He was the man who I grew up with, I fought beside and in the end…”

Gendry’s face paled as he realised what Ned was saying.

“I won a throne for.” Ned finshed.

“King Robert was my father?” He asked, his voice shaking slightly.

“Yes.” Ned replied as tonelessly as he could. Gendry frowned deeply before shaking his head like a dog shakes off water. “It doesn’t matter!” He said fiercely, “I’m still a brother of the Wolf Pack. I’m still a Northerner!”

Ned nodded in agreeance. “You are. And if it means anything you are still a son of mine.”

Gendry looked at Ned with tears shining in his eyes. “Don’t tell anyone who he is. Please.”

Ned nodded consolingly. “Don’t worry. I won’t. The choice to share that information is yours. But you will need a name Gendry.”

Gendry’s eyes burned with purpose and anger as he looked at Lord Stark. “What was the name of my ancestors? The ones that lived before the dragonlords came? The name that they had when they were First Men like you Starks?”

Ned’s heart stopped in his chest. Of all the names to pick, why that? But his mouth, and his love for Robert betrayed him. “Durrandon.” He said.

Gendry nodded. “Gendry Durrandon.” He said as he rolled the words on his tongue. “Durrandon…that shall be my name.”

Ned nodded with a heavy heart and pulled Snowfall from where he had stashed it. He had asked to borrow it from Artos this morning, and Artos had been all to ready to agree.

“Get down on one knee.” Ned said as he stood up and walked around the desk. Gendry did as he bid, and fell to one knee before him. He extended the blade to just in front of Gendry. “Place your hand on the blade.” He instructed him, and Gendry did so. “In the North, Starsteel is considered a holy and sanctified, a gift from the gods to men. If you swear an oath on this blade it is as binding a swearing an oath before a heart tree. Do you understand?”

“I understand” Gendry replied.

“Lord Gendry of the house of…”

“Durrandon.” Gendry replied.

“Lord Gendry of the House of Durradon. I name you Master of the Moat, and bestow upon you all the titles, powers and authorities that come with such a title. Do you swear your fealty to the North? To protect it and guard it from those who would harm it?”

“I do.” Gendry replied, his voice grave.

“Do you so swear it be earth and water?”

“I swear it by earth and water.”

“Do you so swear it by bronze and iron?”

“I swear it by bronze and iron.”

“Do you so swear it by ice and fire?”

“I swear it by ice and fire.” Gendry finished and Ned nodded.

“Then rise. Rise as Lord Gendry Durrandon, Master of the Moat and Commander of the Maw.”

Gendry climbed to his feet, and Ned nodded at him proudly. “There is one last final thing.”

“What’s that?” Gendry asked.

Ned turned to a table off to the side and pulled back the furs that were covering it. Underneath the traditional blue armour of the Master of the Moat shined. It had been newly fitted to fit Gendry’s broad frame. Beside it rested a monstrous spiked iron warhammer that had been delivered to Ned’s hands not long ago. “You need your badge of office, don’t you? And a tool to enforce your word with?”

Chapter 20: Jon V: The Haunted Forest

Chapter Text

The village, much like all the others they had come across was empty. The map said that this one was called Whitetree, and where its name came from was glaringly obvious to any who laid eyes on it. A great big Weirwood, one of the largest Jon had ever seen stretched into the sky in the middle of the village. Though to call it a village was a bit of a stretch. It was more just a collection of ramshackle buildings composed of roughly hewn stone and wood. While the huts were numerous they were not hardy, and more than one was leaning drunkenly in the wind. This village was nothing compared to the villages of Jon’s homeland. Those villages were made of large houses and larger storerooms, with wells and godswoods and half a hundred other things. The smallest of those villages could house as many as five thousand people. This one looked as though it could house only a tenth of that size at best.

“An old tree.” Jorah Mormont said as he observed the great weirwood while their men searched the village for any clues as to where the wildlings had gone.

“And a powerful one.” Roderick Walton rumbled from where he sat atop his White Hart. His two wolves tumbled with Ghost at his side, while his golden eagle flitted from his shoulder and flew upwards and into the Weirwood’s canopy. He was dressed, much like the rest of the Weirwood Warriors were, in their runic bronze plate. “I can sense it from here.”

The Old Bear flicked his gaze to the Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors, before switching his gaze to their men. There were now one thousand men in their party, 300 brothers of the Night’s Watch and 700 men under Jon’s command. As they watched, Jeor Mormont’s personal steward walked out from among the milling men. His name was Eddison Tollet, though the brothers of the Night’s Watch called him Dolorous Edd, on account of his dolorous attitude.

“Empty and not a clue to be had as to where they have gone.” He called, “Much like all the last.”

“Where have they all gone?” The GreatJon muttered as he clenched his hands around the hilt of his greatsword. “I don’t like this.”

“You’ll like it even less when the wildling hosts are falling upon us…” Dolorous Edd muttered as he remounted his horse. “If they’re here killing us we don’t like it, and now that they’re gone we are still complaining? No wonder they left. I would too if I was faced with such confusion.”

Jon snorted in amusem*nt, before wheeling about and looking at the Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors. “Are there any within sight of us?”

Roderick Walton turned his head and nodded at one of his captains, a man whom had been introduced to Jon as Mors ‘Cutthroat’ Cassel. An unspoken command passed between the two, and Mors wheeled his own horse about, while a pack of wolves ten strong that lingered on the edges of the glade they were in rushed away. Mors was the older brother of Jory Cassel, and was known for the ten wolves that he had warged with. It was no coincidence that the banners of House Cassel had ten wolves on it too. Mors was considered one of the more powerful wargs, and as far as Jon knew none had more warged animals than him. Though his Uncle Benjen said that there was a wildling known as Varamyr Sixteenskins. Whether he was a myth or legend though was yet to be foretold.

Minutes later, Mors returned alone. “There is no trails to be found whatsoever. The Wolves will keep pushing north though, until they catch the scent of something.”

Jon nodded. It was as he had expected. Truth be told Jon feared that Tormund Giantsbane’s host was long gone. He suspected that Tormund Giantsbane would be found with Mance Rayder, wherever the former crow was hiding.

“Shall we camp here for the night?” Jeor Mormont asked, “Or would you prefer to push on for the lakes?”

Jon glanced up at the sun. There were still a few hours of sunlight left. Jon glanced to Roderick Walton, but the man was as inscrutable as ever. “We’ll push on.” Jon said with much more authority than he felt. Around him the declaration was met with groans from the men of the Night’s Watch, sighs from the Winter Wolves while the Weirwood Warriors simply remounted their mounts and fell into formation.

When the host had assembled, Jon and Jeor led their men out of the village and for the distant lakes. “You made a good choice back there.” Jeor told him, “While the men will be upset at the prospect of more travel, they will be thanking you when they feast on fresh fish tonight.”

Jon nodded in agreeance. “I hope so too.”

“Don’t hope so.” Jeor replied. “Know so. The mark of any leader is authority. Your men must believe that you are the ultimate authority or they will not follow you. The easiest way for you to lose your authority is to let your men question your decisions.”

Jon turned his gaze to the Old Bear while his horse plodded along the ranger’s trail they were following. “You of all men would know.”

“I learnt from the best.” Jeor replied with a wry grin. “Your grandfather is from whom I learnt how to make my mark upon this world.”

“Really?” Jon asked, interested in what the Old Bear had to say. “You’ve known him long?”

“I grew up with him.” Jeor replied. “I was in his Wolf Pack, in the days when he was still a green boy that pissed grass.”

Jon looked on the old man with a new light. “You were in his Wolf Pack? There are so few of them left!”

Jeor’s smile was replaced by a thunderous frown. “Aye. There are not many of us left. King Scab killed most of them.”

Jon’s smile slipped away too, and a darkness fell over their conversation. It was Jeor who picked it back up. “Your grandfather is amongst the greatest Stark’s to have ever lived, right up there with The Hungry Wolf and the Bloody Blessed Bastard. Right up there with the The Builder himself.”

With that, the Old Bear turned his horse and began to bellow at his men to hurry things along. Jon turned to Arthur Glenmore. “Quiver, gather fifty of the Winter Wolves and ride hard for the lakes. Set up the beginnings of a camp there…just a few fire pits and send some of them out to hunt some food.”

Quiver nodded and wheeled his horse about, before rushing down the line to gather some men. Minutes later he and his men thundered past, headed on their way to the lakes. At the speed they were going they would be there within the hour. Jon’s host would be at least double that time away.

And hours later, when they made the camp Jon was relieved to find that Quiver had done exactly as instructed. Four large fire pits were roaring away, and one was roasted a boar, while the other was roasting a stag. Another ten smaller ones were scattered around, and a pile of fish was being cooked on those. The host began to disperse behind Jon, off to find and claim the best camping spots before someone else did. Jon rode straight for Quiver, who was sitting beside his own already erected tent and fletching arrows.

With a sigh, Jon swung from the saddle and stretched his cramped legs. “You’ve done well.” He said.

“I’ve saved you a camping spot.” Quiver replied as he gestured to the spot next to himself. Jon smiled gratefully and Garth Mormont rushed past, with the beginnings of Jon’s tent in his arms. As Garth busied himself setting up Jon’s tent, Jon left to find Mors Cutthroat, to see if his wolves had found anything.

He found him by the lake, conversing with Roderick Walton over the construction of the Weirwood Warriors own camp. Already most of the tents were up, and latrines were being dug, while the beginnings of a sentry roster was being made. They were truly warriors without peer.

The two men saw him coming and bowed their heads respectfully. “Lord Jon.” They intoned.

“Lord Commander, Mors.” Jon replied, “I was wondering if your wolves found trace of anything?”

Mors nodded. “There are humans north of us. A few more days marching north and we will be upon them.”

Jon nodded, before reaching into his tunic for a map of the lands beyond the Wall. He saw only one settlement to the North of him. “Craster’s Keep.” He said aloud, and looked up to the two Weirwood Warriors. “Do you think that will be where your wolves have found?”

“Most likely.” Mors replied. “The scent was strange. There was many women but only one man.”

“That will be Craster.” Benjen Hardstark said as he approached. “The man is of ill repute and surrounded by rumours. Even the Wildlings consider him to be terrible savage.”

“What sort of rumours?” Roderick rumbled.

Uncle Benjen shrugged. “The man marries and beds his own daughters, and yet for all his years and all his daughters he has no sons. Some say that he eats his sons, while others contend that he sacrifices them too his gods.”

“And what does this Craster say as to why he has no sons?” Mors Cassel asked.

Uncle Benjen snorted in amusem*nt. “He claims it’s his seed. That he has only ever given birth to daughters.”

Around Jon the conversation continued on. Jon stared north though, to where the tips of the Frostfangs could be seen on the horizon, just above the tips of the trees of the haunted forest. The wildlings were gone and Jon needed answers if he was to have any hope of finishing the task his father had given him within a respectable time frame. If the only place he could find those answers was with a man who slept with his own daughters then so be it.

“In the morning we head for Craster’s Keep. I mean to find answers and hopefully this Craster will have some for us. Tell the men to be ready to break camp at first light.”

With that, Jon turned and strode back the way he had come, determined to find some hot food and good company before he retired for the night.

Chapter 21: Robb I: Maiden, Mother and Stranger.

Chapter Text

The snow drifted down from the grey clouds, blanketing the trees of the Wolfswood in a fine white powder. Occasionally, a flurry of snowflakes would find their way through the crowded canopy and land on Robb’s shoulders, chilling him to the bone and waking him up from his easy doze. He would have put his cloak on, but the weather in the wood was fine, and was enjoying the cool breeze that was drifting by.

Underneath him, his war horse plodded along dutifully while Grey Wind ran around him and ahead, everywhere at once, and yet simultaneously nowhere to be found. The plodding rhythm was comforting, and something that Robb was well accustomed too.

The horse he rode had seen much of the North, and even parts of Essos. It had been faithful and dutiful and followed him everywhere, but Robb knew it was nearing the end of its working life. It was a shame, for it had been a fine horse. His grandfather had gifted it to him on his fifth nameday, when it was still but a foal.

His grandfather had taken him and Jon to the Rills, where he was meeting with his old friend, Roger Ryswell. Roger had let him, Jon and Gendry both have their pick of his herds. Jon had chosen first, and had almost instinctively selected a fine coal black horse that would have ridden to the ends of the Lands of Always Winter and back before stopping.

Gendry had never been much of a horseman and simply picked the first that caught his eye, a dappled grey one. Lean, yet strong, there was nothing remarkable about it save for a strange spot on its flank.

Robb had turned to his grandfather when he had been unable to find one he liked. His grandfather had guided him through the herd, before finally stopping before one with a plain brown coat. While it didn’t look like much at the time, when they returned Roger Ryswell had proclaimed that its sire was the ‘finest horse I ever bred and trained.’

And he was right. As Robb had grown with the foal, he had learned that it was not simply trained for war, it was born for it. No other horse could match it in the jousting yard, and nor in the mock battles they fought in the sheepshead hills. It could run for a day and walk for a night. And it was Robb’s pride and joy.

“How much further to the inn?” A voice asked, interrupting Robb from his reminiscing.

Robb swung in the saddle to see Rhaenys trailing behind him. It was times like this that Robb was taken aback by her beauty. The snowflakes had caught in her raven locks, and her bronze skin shined. Her eyes twinkled with as if she was privy to some great joke that only she knew and her mouth was curled into the barest hints of a smile. The ethereal Targaryen beauty that her father was said to have had shined through, but it was grounded by the gentle beauty of her mother, and it made for a striking image that left Robb’s heart more than a little sore. She was a living, breathing reminder of everything there was that Robb wanted that he could never have.

“Distracted, are you?” Rhaenys tittered as she spurred her horse forward to ride abreast with Robb. “What were you thinking about?”

Robb patted the flank of his horse. “My horse.” He replied, “My grandfather. My brothers. You.”

Rhaenys laughed quietly. “And what of poor Grey Wind?” She asked as said beast came rushing out of the bushes, his muzzle coated in blood and a limp hare clutched in his jaws. “Is there no time to think of him?”

“Grey Wind is always in my thoughts.” Robb replied seriously as he beheld the young wolf. Unbidden, the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Something must have shown on his face, for Rhaenys lightly touched his arm, bringing him back to reality.

“What is it like?” She asked, her eyes full of curiosity.

Robb shrugged her arm off, and kicked the sides of his horse. It shot ahead a few steps, before slowing down again. Robb didn’t particularly like what he could do.

Some wargs relished in the power the gods had given them, and it drove them to incredible acts of greed and cruelty. The White Eye were the foremost example of this, but they were just the most organized of the power hungry. Some wargs respected what they could do, and they were the ones that followed the laws that had been sent by the Bloody Bastard and the ones that fought and served in the Warg Legions.

Robb though was of the last group, and they were the smallest of the three groups. They were the ones who feared what they could do, and did everything they could to escape it. Robb feared the day he would lose himself within his own mind, as he became consumed by the world within. The dangers of warging were real and present every time Robb involuntarily slipped his skin, and Robb loathed it.

Many a warg had been driven mad or lost themselves from lingering too long. Many of those wargs were the ones who could control when and where they would slip into their skin, and Robb could do neither. He would slip into Grey Wind’s skin anywhere and anytime and he had no control over it. Sleeping was what Robb feared the most, for in the darkness when his body was resting his mind was awake in the form of a wolf.

Behind him, Rhaenys spurred her own horse forward and caught up to him. Her brows were set in a frown, and her mouth was downturned. “There is no need to run off on me.”

Robb forced an easy smile onto his face. “I wasn’t running off.” He replied as he raised his nose into the air. “I was racing you. You lost, and quite badly too I’m afraid.”

The frown melted away, and was replaced by an amused smirk. “Is that so?”

Robb noted her form as she leant forward in the saddle and grasped her saddle, ready to spring away. She would have, had Robb’s hand not shot out and gripped the reins of her horse. As such, when she kicked her horse’s flanks, it shot forward before coming to a halt when Robb reigned it in.

Rhaenys laughed in delight and attempted to wrestle her reigns from Robb’s grasp. The two of them tumbled and playfully shoved each other as they fought to take control of the others horse.

“Will you two stop goofing around?!”

Rhaenys’ smile tightened and she turned around to view the last member of their travelling party. Robb lingered in the moment a second more, before he turned around too. Aegon Targaryen was the last of their party, and a more brooding and unhappy boy Robb was yet to meet. Aegon knew little of fun, and less of laughter.

His Targaryen features had made him a bit of an outcast in the North, and he had few friends. Robb and Jon had done their best with Aegon but Jon was friends with everyone and Aegon was convinced that Robb was more interested in his sister than him. It was most probably true, but something that Robb had never cared to spend time thinking about.

“Cheer up, Aegon.” Rhaenys replied. “We are riding to see mother. What is there to be sad about?”

Aegon scoffed and turned his face away. “Plenty. The cold. The snow. The infernal wind that won’t stop blowing.”

“Well you’re in luck.” Robb replied as lights appeared in the distance. “The Inn is within sight.”

“Thank the gods.” Aegon muttered as he kicked the sides of his horse and spurred it on. As he passed his horse kicked up a flurry of snow in Robb’s face. Rhaenys smiled apologetically before racing after her brother. Robb shrugged to himself as he watched them race away, before whistling for Grey Wind.

His direwolf came trotting out of the woods on his left, and padded to Robb’s side. Robb leant down and ruffled the fur behind his ears. The forest was wonderfully peaceful with all other company gone, and for the remainder of the journey Robb dawdled, enjoying the sanctity of the moment.

When he arrived at the inn an hour later, he found a hot meal already waiting for him. The innkeeper was honoured to have a son of House Stark in his house and had given Robb the best rooms in the building. Grey Wind was given a berth also, and a large haunch of beef.

After Robb had eaten and drunken his fill, he retired for the night to his rooms. Grey Wind had chosen to retreat to the outside, and Robb had let him go. He knew there was little use fighting him in this. A direwolf was a companion, not a pet.

It was a little past midnight when the knock came at his door. Robb stumbled to his feet, and walked to the door. He pulled it open, and found Rhaenys standing before him, wrapped in a crimson robe.

“You can’t sleep?” She asked.

Robb smiled sadly. “Grey Wind is hunting.”

“Ah.” She replied, as though what was all the explanation needed. She slipped past him and stepped into his room. She looked around cautiously, before turning back to him. Robb closed the door and made his way over to her, before seizing her by the arms and claiming her lips with his. Rhaenys responded eagerly, the tongues battling for dominance.

Robb’s hands fumbled at the ties of her robe and he shoved it from her shoulders as he pulled her closer to himself. Her skin was warm against his, driving away the chill in the air. He felt her smile as he pulled back and rested his forehead on hers.

“I have been wanting to do that all day.” He admitted.

“Me too.” Rhaenys replied as she pulled away and stepped out of the puddle of her robe, stark naked. Robb drank in the sight of her, admiring every curve and edge. No matter how many times he saw her like this, no matter how many times he bedded her, this was a sight he never grew sick of.

Her dusky skin glowed in the low light cast by the fire burning in the hearth and her wavy hair was loose, cascading down her back. Two brown nipples graced the top of her breasts, and a small thatch of hair covered her sex.

She tugged on Robb’s hand and pulled him back to the bed. Together they tumbled down into it and Robb kissed her again, licking demandingly at her mouth, with one hand entwined in her hair. His other hand was roaming all over her, her back, her hips, her belly, her breasts, everywhere he could reach.

Her hands were just as grasping, tugging on his hair scratching his back and running down his arms and along his chest. She tasted of the strawberries she loved to eat, and his nose was filled with scent of the perfume she used.

As he licked and nibbled his way down her neck and across her chest, he felt her hands tugging at the strings of his pants. She whined and moaned as Robb bit one of her nipples, and then it was Robb’s turn to groan and whimper as she freed his hardening manhood from his smallclothes. With a few quick sure strokes he was as hard as Valyrian Steel.

The rest of the night was much of a blur for Robb, but it was filled with a sweet scent, and warm and grasping walls. Robb spent himself inside of Rhaenys more than he cared to count, and he brought her to climax with his hands, and tongue and co*ck as much as she brought him to climax.

When Robb awoke the next morning from a dreamless sleep, the scent of her perfume still lingered in his nostrils, while the phantom touch of her memory still burned his skin and lips and groin.

Rhaenys herself was nowhere to be seen, and Robb dressed and made his way down to the common room alone. It was there that he found Aegon and Rhaenys engaged in a fierce conversation. Before them sat an untouched breakfast of bacon, sausages and eggs. As Robb approached the siblings fell silent, though he noticed that both were shooting each other dark glares.

Robb sat down and pulled the plate of food closer to him, before gorging himself. At some point, Grey Wind appeared and Robb fed him the scraps off his plate. As the silence stretched on, Robb remained all the more determined to ignore the growing tension, until eventually Aegon got up and walked off, leaving Robb and Rhaenys alone.

He shot one last dark glare at his sister before he stormed out of the door. Robb watched him go before he turned back to his lover. “What happened?” He asked as he sopped up the fat of his bacon with a bit of bread.

Rhaenys sighed, and sadness settled over her. “Aegon…is unhappy.”

“About his lot in life?”

“Yes.”

Robb scratched behind his dire wolves ears. “He would have been the heir to the Iron Throne in another life.”

“And he and I would have been dead in another.” Rhaenys replied hotly. “It does no good to talk of roads not taken.”

Robb hummed in agreeance, before getting to his feet. “I want to leave before the early morning is done. I mean to make it to Mount Starpoint before the day is done.”

Rhaenys nodded and also got to her feet, before rushing away to gather her belongings. Robb himself sought out the owner of the Inn, and paid him handsomely for his food and board.

And thus, less than an hour later, Robb, Rhaenys and Aegon found themselves on the road once more and well on the way to arriving at Mount Starpoint.

Today’s ride was much different in Robb’s opinion. Gone was the snow and laughter and happiness and in it’s place was a brooding tension that threatened to burst out at any moment. Robb rode ahead of both the Targaryen siblings, determined to not get involved in their family squabble.

Aegon’s thirst for more was well known within House Stark, but Aegon had been raised as a bastard, never knowing the truth of his birth until a few years ago. The knowledge had seemed to only alienate Aegon even further from those who had enjoyed his company. Rhaenys on the other hand had only been driven further into the arms of those who comforted her, and Davos Seaworth and her mother had been her closest confidants. Well them, and Robb. Robb had been her first, though she was not his. He had been visiting the brothels of the winter city since he had turned eleven. It was Theon Greyjoy who had first introduced him to a woman’s touch, and ever since Robb hadn’t been able to get enough of it. Serving girls, whor*s, the daughters of the Lords of the North, where Robb had gone a bloody trailed followed of broken maidenheads and broken hearts.

When Robb had found his way into Rhaenys’ bed over a year and a half ago, he had sworn off other women and for the most part he had stayed true to Rhaenys. He knew what they had going could not last though. Robb was the great bastard of House Stark. From a young age he had known he was meant for more than disposed Targaryen Princess. He was to be one of his brother’s loyal bannermen, with a keep and titles of his own. He would marry the daughter of a noble lord and have noble children.

The more Robb grew though, the more he realised that was not what he wanted. Robb was too much of a wild wolf to ever settle down. Robb only felt truly alive when a woman was impaled on the end of his co*ck, or when a man was dead at his hands. In the life of a noble lord of the north there would be no room for either of those activities, especially in an age of peace.

So consumed had Robb been in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the towering heights of Mount Starpoint appearing in the distance, and was only stirred from his slumber when he found the gates of the fortress shut to him.

“We are here.” Robb muttered and Aegon and Rhaenys reigned their mounts in behind him, while Grey Wind sat down beside his horse.

“The gates are shut!” Robb called.

“The mummer’s farce isn’t done!” Came the reply.

“The White Wolf hasn’t risen.” Robb replied, though Ghost flashed through his mind.

Silence greeted Robb’s final declaration, before the rumbling of chains filled the air and the gates began to creak open. Inside, Robb found the woman who had raised him waiting. Princess Elia Martell, a woman who Robb considered to be his own mother. As Aegon and Rhaenys embraced her tightly, Robb waited and when she was done with them she turned her warm gaze to him, and he stepped forward for a hug of his own. She embraced him just as tightly as she had embraced either of her trueborn children, and Robb hugged her back. Already he felt like a young boy again, afraid and fearful and scared of every passing shadow. But here was the woman who had been his protector, who had watched over him when he slept comforted him when he cried and listened as he vented against the unfairness of the world he was born into.

“Come into my chambers,” The princess of Dorne declare, “We must share a drink and some food. When did all of you last eat? You’re looking awfully skinny Aegon.”

Together the four of them made their way to where Elia Martell lived. Her chambers were the warmest in the entire mountain, and set far into the mountain itself. Fire’s roared in every hearth Robb passed and it was almost swelteringly hot inside. But it was how the woman who had been raised in the sun kissed sands of Dorne lived, and for Robb these chambers were just as familiar and homely as his own back in the Wolf Fort.

Robb sat himself down in an armchair as Elia served them tea and had food brought in for them. The afternoon was spent catching up, and it was peaceful and joyful and just for a moment Robb allowed himself to forget of White Wolves and Wars and Winter and he enjoyed the moment with his mother, his lover and a boy he considered to be a brother. And it seemed that those he was with also put aside their squabbles and worries and they laughed and enjoyed the afternoon. But all good things must come to an end, Robb would later lament, and Elia Martell was the one who ended it. “Rhaenys, Aegon,” She said, her voice sharp, “Leave me alone with your brother for a moment.”

Rhaenys and Aegon stood up and left, and Robb watched as his step mother got to her feet and pulled a wrapped package from a shelf on the war. Robb hadn’t noted it before, because it was wrapped in a yellow pelt.

“Here.” Elia Martell said as she proffered the package to him. “Take it.”

Robb reached out and noted the second he grasped it that it was a sword. “A sword?” Robb asked, “I thank you for the gift mother, but I have plenty of these.”

Elia smiled. “That you do. But this isn’t any sword. Draw it.”

Robb removed the pelt that covered the blade, and immediately noted the excessively decorated hilt. Gold and rubies adorned it and the pommel was carved in the likeness of a familiar animal. Robb’s breath caught in his throat as he pulled the blade free from its scabbard. “This is-“

“Yes.” Elia replied. “Your uncle gave it to me as a gift. He acquired it from the pirate in the stepstones that has been terrorizing my brother.”

Robb almost immediately rewrapped it and handed it back to Elia. She refused to take it though and shook her head. “In the morn you and Aegon go to war. Aegon to Moat Cailin, and you to the South. You will have a greater need of it than anyone here in the North.”

Robb went to protest, but Elia stopped him with a harsh look. “That is not the only reason I have given you that blade though. I am not built to wield blades and kill men but you are. When you go South, I want you to swing that blade for me. I want you to kill those that would have harmed me. And when you have it into that monster’s groin and his feral dog as well, I want you to tell him that Elia Martell sends her regards.”

Robb swallowed. This was a side of his mother he had never seen before. Nodding, he took the blade and hung it at his side. It was an unfamiliar weight, lighter than the blades that Robb was accustomed too.

And the next morning, Robb and Aegon rode forth to war and duty, Robb to meet his retinue at Moat Cailin and continue south, and Aegon to serve under Gendry Durrandon. One thing was for certain though, Robb would do as his mother had commanded, no matter what the cost may be. She had saved him when he was a nobody, and he would avenge her when no one else would step forth.

Chapter 22: Jaime III: The Flight of the Falcon

Chapter Text

When Jamie had ridden forth from King’s Landing in all his righteous wrath and determination to save his brother not even the Others of Northern legend could stand in his way. He had gathered barely a hundred men, the first he had seen, ordered them to pack their bags and mount their horses and they had ridden out straight away. He had no clue where he was going or what he was doing, all he knew was that his little brother was in need. His small retinue rushed up the kingsroad, and across the Ruby ford, and past the high road. They had seen hide nor hair of Tyrion. And it was there that trouble first struck.

Jamie wheeled his horse around, as the men fell upon them. With a wordless cry, he yanked his sword from his sheath and charged at the group of men attacking his. The fight was short, but bloody, and yet still Jaime’s men prevailed.

Only once the fight had finished did Jaime inspect the corpses, and the discovery chilled him to his bone. Stitched upon the tunic of the men who had attacked him was a falcon on a blue background.

“The men of the Vale.” One of his men said, “What are they doing here?”

“Isn’t it clear?” another said with a glare at Jaime. “We’ve rushed past the High Road and the men of the Vale have come down since. When we were leaving the capital, all anyone was talking about was the host that Ronnel Arryn was gathering at the Bloody Gate.”

Jaime stared at the corpse in front of him, while his mind whirred.

“What now?” Asked the original man.

“What now?” The cynic replied. “Now we die. What do you think is going to happen when Ronnel Arryn’s outriders don’t return?”

Jaime whirled around. “Shut up!” He cried, “I’m trying to think!”

The man glared at him, but did as he bid.

After a moment’s silence, Jamie knew the only safe direction to go. “East and South are the men of the Vale. North is the North, where only enemies lie. West is the Green Fork, but if we can cross it, we should be able to sprint to the safety of our homelands.”

“There is no crossing along the Green Fork from here to the Twins though. And the Twins would take us dangerously close to the domains of those who are our enemies.”

“My aunt married a Frey.” Jamie replied, “And for all that House Frey may be they still care about family.”

Jamie got no response from any of his men, but for sullen silence. He glanced at them and found that many of the where looking uncertain. It was clear that they thought that they were down and out. Trapped behind enemy lines, with foes all around the situation was grim. It was grim, but it was not impossible.

Jamie was a knight of the Kingsguard. He had fought with and besides the likes of The Sword of the Morning and Barristan the Bold. “We will prevail. For all of Ronnel Arryn’s posturing he is still a boy playing at war.”

“A boy he may be,” One man said, “but he is surrounded by notable and hardened warriors like Bronze Yohn and Ser Lyn Corbray. Those are men that are not to be trifled with. ”

“No more of this arguing.” Another man named Jarryd snapped. “We are going to have a hard enough time getting out of here alive united. It will be impossible if we are divided.”

Jarryd turned to Jaime. “What is your command, my lord?”

Jamie glanced at the map in his hands. “We’ll continue trekking North-West until we reach the Twins. We move fast, sleep little and hunt as we ride and we should be able to stay ahead of those who would harm us. We keep our eyes out for Tyrion. Whoever finds him first will be awarded five hundred golden dragons. For now, pack up and ride out.”

His men nodded and began packing away their gear and preparing to ride out. Jamie turned and looked once more at the bodies that littered the road. War was a grievous thing. Jamie knew very few of his men would live to see their homes again. Their anger was justified. This was a fool’s errand he had led them on. He saw that now.

So consumed he had been with saving Tyrion that he had noted that falcon falling upon him until it was directly over him. Now not only was Tyrion in danger but so too was Jaime.

Less than an hour later Jamie and his men were on the road again. Their number was diminished, but hopefully it would be enough to get them home. They had lost fourteen men at the skirmish near the High Road.

They made good time up the kingsroad, but all along Jaime’s outriders reported that Ronnel Arryn’s men were nipping at their heels. The Riverlords themselves were nowhere to be seen. Jaime supposed they were gathering at their keeps, preparing for the war that would rip their homelands apart. Such was the way of war. Which way the riverlords allegiance would fall was still up in the air. If Jaime was to field a guess he would have said that those lords would have fallen which way the winds of war blew.

“We have to stop.” One his men said on the third day of their flight, when all of them were tired and sore and their horses driven half to ruin. “There is no way we can outrun them. We don’t have the supplies to last and nor do we have the men to fight through them.”

“We don’t stop.” Jaime replied. “We don’t stop until we are safe or dead.”

“Please, Ser Jaime.” The man begged. “I have a wife and children back home that I want to see again. Surrender now and let us be treated according to our station. We can’t go on.”

Jaime stopped and stared at his men once more. Three days previous they had looked haggard. Today they looked like walking corpses. Deprived of food, sleep and warmth men swayed in their saddles.

“Go then.” Jamie replied. “Surrender to Ronnel Arryn and pray that he does not kill you. For me though, he will have no mercy. I captured his father and killed his father’s men, men whom he has no doubt known since the day he was born. Go and perhaps you may live and see your families again.”

When he was done with his speech, more than half of his surviving men rode away. Remaining to him where eleven men he counted. Eleven men. He only hoped they would be enough.

The next morning they had another encounter with Ronnel Arryn’s outriders. They were not enough.

Jaime had been forced to flee with the three surviving guards he had left. He had even bothered to learn their names now. The silent one was called Alec. He spoke little, but Jaime knew few who rode a horse better. The tall one that liked to laugh was called Unwin, though he laughed little these days due to an Arryn knife tearing his cheek in half. The final one that had stayed with Jaime was the cynic who had so heavily berated him from the start of this god forsaken journey. His name was Rogar and to be frank Jaime was sometimes scared by him. He was a devil with a sword in hand, and he fought like a man possessed. Death horrified him it seemed and he fought against its grasp every time it came for them in the form of outriders.

Rogar was planning their escape even now as news had arrived that the riverlords to the direct west had declared for Ronnel Arryn, joining his forces to theirs. “We can still flee North.” He was saying as he and Alec leant over the map they had. “The Starks are yet to declare and we can still have a hope of crossing at the Twins. Even if the Twins rebuff us we can continue up the kingsroad and cross further up, where the waters don’t move as fast. I’m sure there is some riverman with a barge who can be convinced to help us in exchange for some gold. Perhaps we may even bump into the Lord Tyrion.”

“No.” Jaime said as he joined them. “I won’t have good men die for a dead cause. Go, all of you. If you can, slip back south past Ronnel Arryn and go back to King’s Landing. Tell Cersei I sent you and she will reward you highly for your service to me.”

Rogar snorted in disbelief. “More like she will order our heads cut off for abandoning her brother.”

Jaime ignored him. “If you don’t want to go south, go north. For all that I loathe them, the northerners are honourable people and there is always work for good swords in the north.”

Unwin grunted in agreeance before reaching out to grasp Jaime’s hand. “Best of luck to you Ser Jaime. Hopefully I’ll see you again someday.”

Jaime nodded and clasped Unwin’s hand. “When this all over, find me and I’ll see you rewarded.”

Unwin nodded and stepped back while Alec stepped forth. He just nodded once, before turning to follow Unwin.

“Are you coming Rogar?” Unwin asked as they mounted their horses. Rogar stared at Jaime for a time, before turning to Unwin and shaking his head. “I’ll take my chances with Ser Jaime.”

Unwin nodded before turning and spurring his horse away. Alec followed, leaving Jaime and Rogar alone. “Why did you stay?” Jaime asked, “There’s no chance that I will survive what is to come.”

“And there is also every chance you will.” Rogar replied as he Unwin and Alec passed over the hill behind them. Rogar walked behind him to get his belongings when Jaime felt something heavy crash into his skull. “And that is something I just could not bear.” Jaime heard Rogar say as he sunk into the embrace of the darkness.

When Jaime came to he found himself in chains.

He was in a cage while around him the sounds of feasting and cheering where underway. He turned his head and found himself staring at a handsome young man that looked to be about six and ten years old. He had wavy blonde hair, striking blue eyes and a aquiline nose. His jaw was as sharp as the sword that rested at his side.

“Lord Ronnel.” Jaime said with a grin as he tried to get to his feet. Something wasn’t right though and his legs refused to respond. He ending up face planting in the mud and dirt.

A pair of strong hands hauled him to his feet and bound him with ropes to a post. Jaime opened his eyes and found Lord Yohn Royce standing before him, each inch of his form wrapped in his brilliant bronze armour that blazed with the light of a hundred runes. He drew his sword from his side and levelled it at Jaime’s chest. “Shall I kill him, My Lord?”

The question hung in the air and to Jaime’s horror he realised Ronnel was considering it. This was no way for Jaime’s life to end, hung on the sword of some overzealous lord. If he was to die, he would die with a sword in his hand. “I would make a valuable hostage, boy.” Jaime said as he stared at the young lordling. “You could trade me for your father.”

Ronnel Arryn turned his eyes away from Jaime and began to cry. Tears dripped down his cheeks and rage quivered in every bone of his body.

What has Cersei done?

Ronnel Arryn turned back to Jaime, his tears still staining his cheeks. “Trade you for my father?” He asked. “I already have my father.” He replied as he nodded at Lord Yohn Royce. Lord Yohn turned around and picked up a chest that Jaime had not yet seen. He opened it and inside rested a tarred and rotting skull along with two hands. “Your son sent my father’s head back to me in my mother’s hands. You’re as valuable to me as your son and your sister made my father and my mother valuable to them. I will give you death.”

Jaime’s heart dropped in his chest. What had Cersei done? Was she a fool? The time had come to extend the hand of peace and instead Cersei had extended the hand of war. How many more men like Unwin and Alec had she doomed to die because she could not keep her son in hand?

He’s your son too.

Jaime squashed that voice in his head as quickly as it had come.

“Cersei and Joffrey still have your sister, my lord.” A familiar voice said and Jaime turned to see Ser Lyn Corbray standing there, with a drawn Lady Forlorn clutched in his hands. “To kill him now would be to see your sister killed as well. Perhaps you should keep him hostage for now, until you have your sister back. And if Joffrey or Cersei do anything to your sister you can still kill him.”

Ronnel nodded at Ser Lyn Corbray. “Take him to the dungeons then. Let it be known though, at the first sign of harm to my sister, or at the first trouble that Ser Jaime shall cause that he will lose his head, and I will send it back to Cersei clutched in the hands of every Lannister I kill in this war.”

Chapter 23: Davos I: The Pirate King

Chapter Text

Davos hadn’t seen Dragonstone in years. The last time he had been here he had still been a smuggler and Aerys Targaryen had yet to lose his throne and his life. He found that little had changed about the place since Stannis Baratheon took up residence in the grim fortress.

It was still a sprawling, ugly mess of fused black stone and more gargoyles than Davos dared to count. Sulfur and smoke still lingered in the air and a pervading sense of something unnatural hung about the place.

He had sailed down with his little fleet of five ships and two of his sons, Dale and Maric. Dale was a captain of his own ship, while Maric served Davos as his first mate on the Black Betha. Davos’ other two elder sons, Allard and Matthos, sailed with the Pirate King of the Stepstones, Torrhen Snow. Both of them had travelled the world with their king, and Allard had been with him when he had fled the north in his blaze of glory. Allard had been by his side throughout all of his adventures and Davos knew that Torrhen Snow considered Allard to be one of his closest and most trusted companions. So trusted that he had named him captain of his second most powerful ship, The White Leviathan.

Torrhen’s own ship, The Black Leviathan, was the greatest ship that Davos had ever laid eyes on. It was bigger than even the Ibbenense whaler that Davos had once seen from afar. It had five masts of Ironwood and sails four times the size of Davos’ own ship. Davos had overseen part of the ship’s construction himself, and he knew that no ship that sailed the seas could hope to defeat such a beast in battle. Matthos had joined Torrhen later, stealing away in the night and joining his brother in Braavos. The last Davos heard of Matthos he had been appointed the second mate on The Grey Leviathan, the third most powerful ship in Torrhen Snow’s fleet.

“We have ships approaching.” Maric said as he joined him at the tiller of the Black Betha. Davos had seen them already, sailing to cut off their approach to the docks of Dragonstone. “Hoist the flags.” Davos replied, “And send word to our ships to fly the onion banner.”

Maric nodded and rushed away to do his bidding, while Davos carefully watched the ships approaching. They flew a strange banner, one that Davos had not seen before. It bore the Baratheon stag enclosed within a burning heart of red flame. By his own admission, Davos knew little of lords and their games, but Davos knew that to spurn his family’s banner would only weaken Stannis’ claim.

On the masts of his own ships, his own banners, along with the banner of the Starks were raised. The Baratheon ships responded by blowing a long horn blast and turning away. Davos saw a dock being cleared for his landing, and called for Maric. “Send signal to the other ships to wait behind until I have spoken with Stannis. They will land once I am assured of our safety.”

Maric nodded and then the final hustle begun to prepare the ship for landfall. Sailors rushed about, hauling in sails, strapping down loose crates and manning the oars. Davos guided the tiller gently and slipped through the lines of the royal navy that had declared for Stannis.

His ship docked at the empty spot with the gentlest of scrapes against the pier and then his men were casting down ropes and the dockhands tied her secure. He patted the ships tiller fondly. She wasn’t as familiar to him as his own smuggling ship, but for this voyage he had been forced to leave that ship at home.

A solid clunk of an oaken ramp being lowered brought Davos back to where he was now. He looked up and found Maric waiting for him at the ramp. “Wait here.” He told him. “At the first sign of trouble, cast off and flee back North to home. If you can’t make it there, then flee for the Stepstones.”

Maric nodded and Davos glanced about one final time before descending to the island where a would be king lay in wait. On the docks he found Ser Andrew Estermont waiting for him, along with a retinue of twenty men.

“Ser Andrew.” Davos greeted with a small nod of his head. He had first met Ser Andrew during the siege of Storm’s End, when Stannis had the boy as his squire. Ser Adnrew was much older now, but still Stannis relied on him and Davos knew that Stannis did not surround himself with fools.

“Onion Lord.” Ser Andrew replied, though Davos noted with relief that the name was not said as insult like so many others used it as. “King Stannis wishes to see you in his quarters. I am to escort you there.”

Davos nodded and followed Ser Andrew as they departed the dock. “So Stannis has declared for the throne then?” Davos asked as he strode beside Ser Andrew.

“His grace will speak to you in his chambers.”

Davos realised the conversation was going to get him nowhere and instead spent the rest of the walk determining Stannis’ strength. In the docks rested at least 100 ships, and Davos saw the sails of many more upon the horizon. Men marched to and fro, and yet for all their numbers Davos still felt that there was too few, especially for a man that wanted to be king.

Ser Andrew led him through the gates of Dragonstone and into the castle proper. Around him, men were preparing for war. Nearby he could see men getting fitted for arms and armour, while somewhere behind him he could hear the clang of a smith hard at work.

Something felt off about Dragonstone on this day though, a fear and fanatical miasma that hung about every man’s eyes. When Davos was finally brought before the doors to the chamber of the Painted Table, he could feel the tension rolling off the men around him. Something very strange was going on to be sure.

Ser Andrew opened the door and Davos stepped inside. Around the room, brazier’s burned fiercely, filling the room with a stifling heat. Stannis himself had changed very little from when Davos had seen him last. He had put on a lot of weight, and lost a lot of hair, but his eyes were still the same and so to was the way he carried himself. He was still the man of iron that would break before he would bend.

With him was a man he did not recognise and a woman he assumed to be Stannis’ wife. Stannis looked up from the table before him when Davos walked in, but his expression did not change.

Davos inclined his head to Stannis. “My Lord.” Davos said as he reached into his pocked at withdrew the shining white knucklebone and Lord Stark’s letter. “You have called and I have come.”

“You are talking to a king.” The unknown man snapped, “Address him as such.”

“Quiet Ser Axell.” Stannis ground out. “I have need of this man’s council and until now as far as I know he was unaware I was a king.”

“Are you?” Davos asked. “Have you claimed the throne?”

“Claimed?” Stannis spat. “Why should I need to claim what is rightfully mine? Duty demands that it be given to me, that the lords of these kingdoms bend the knee.”

“Rightfully yours?” Davos asked. “Did not your brother have sons? Does their claim not come before yours?”

“Their claim would come before mine had he any trueborn ones.” Stannis snarled the words out in half a growl before thrusting a piece of paper at him. “Read.” He commanded.

Davos snatched the paper from Stannis’ grasp and quickly scanned it. It was the same letter that Eddard Stark had shown him before he had left Winterfell bound for here. It seemed that more than one man believed Joffrey and Tommen to be the bastard spawn of an incestuous relationship.

Davos grunted in reply and then handed the letter back. “If the throne is rightfully yours, why have you not claimed it yet then?”

Stannis ground his teeth and stared out the window.

“The Prince who is promised shall sweep aside all the pretenders to his throne. The Lord of Light shall see his champion come into his kingdom.” An exotic voice interrupted them both.

Davos turned to see an exotic woman sitting in the shadows. Young and beautiful, she was garbed in flowing red robes while a red ruby glistened at her collar.

“Who are you?” Davos asked, bewildered at her presence.

“Melisandre of Asshai.” The red woman replied, “Servant of R’hollr.”

“R’hollr? The Red God?” Davos asked as he turned to Stannis. “What is she doing here?”

“She has power.” Stannis responded.

“Power?” Davos asked. “What sort of power? How many swords does she bring? How many ships does she have? Because with all due respect your grace that is the power that will see you seated on the Iron Throne, not eastern mysticism.”

“Show respect to the Lord of Light’s chosen!” Stannis’ wife screeched. “He is The Prince that is Promised, bone amongst salt and smoke! He shall deliver us from the Long Night!”

“Prince that is Promised?!” Davos exclaimed, “Born amongst salt and smoke? The Long Night? Are you hearing yourselves right now?”

“Enough.” Stannis’ voice was like a whip, cutting through the air. “Leave me, all of you. I wish to speak to Lord Davos alone.”

His wife and her brother got up and left, glaring at Davos as they did so. The Red Woman smiled at him warmly and the ruby at her throat glittered darkly. Davos shivered coldly as she left.

“The Long Night, your grace?” Davos asked. “I come from the North, and even there, The Long Night is spoken of as no more than a myth to most people and an ancient and dead god to others.”

Stannis shot him a dark look, before nodding at the chair that Ser Axell had just vacated. “Sit.” he commanded.

Davos took a seat and looked at the table before him. Spread across it where markers representing the strength of each kingdom. Lions and Falcons were scattered throughout the Riverlands, while roses and stags had gathered in the reach. In the far north, the wolves littered everywhere from Moat Cailin to the Lands Beyond the Wall while on Dragonstone stood a solitary burning heart.

“Look.” Stannis said as he swept his hand over the painted table. “There are enemies and claimants to my kingdom everywhere I turn. Bastards, brothers and pretenders tear my kingdoms apart. And here I sit because the lords that are meant to swear fealty to me as their rightful king have betrayed me. Even your own liege lord spurns me. I send him a raven demanding him to swear fealty and he sends me five ships and an onion lord.”

“You demanded he give fealty to you?” Davos asked.

“As he did for Robert.”

“Do you think Robert ever demanded Ned Stark’s fealty and loyalty?”

Stannis stewed in silence, while his eyes roiled with an emotion that Davos could not identify. “Ned was always the brother Robert wanted. I wasn’t worthy of Robert’s love, and now it seems I am not worthy of his servants either.”

Stannis’ voice was small, smaller than Davos had ever heard it before. It shook slightly at the word brother and trembled at love.

Davos leant forward in his seat. “Earn the trust of your dead brother’s servants. Earn their admiration and respect. Earn their armies and gold. You do not need this red priest. You can win their armies to your side. Prove the true claim is yours. You and I both know the boy king that sits the Iron Throne. When he mucks up, and he will, be there to fill the void he leaves behind. Show the kingdoms that you are worthy of the throne you pursue a rightfully yours!”

Stannis rose from his seat and turned to look out over Blackwater bay. “You rebuke me for surrounding myself with eastern mysticism and yet at least that is a power that is here now, supporting me. So tell me Lord Davos, if you would not have me use eastern mysticism then what should I use to gain my throne.”

“Swords and ships.” Davos replied. “Steel and blood.”

Stannis snorted. “Swords and ships I have plenty of, but I have no men to wield them and few men to sail them. Where am I to get these men from Lord Davos? My own kingdoms have spurned me of what is rightfully mine.”

Davos paused for a second, considering. Stannis was right. All of Westeros had spurned his claim and because of that he had no strength to stake his claim. Davos’ eyes fell upon a corner of that painted table, the end of the arm of Dorne.

“I’ll admit I don’t know much of what Lord Stark plans.” Davos admitted, “But I can assure you that if you keep that red woman by your side, he will never support your claim.”

Stannis ground his teeth in annoyance.

“But if you insist on keeping her by your side and you need ships?” Davos said. “I can get you six hundred. You need men?” He asked, “I can find you twenty five thousand.”

“And where does such an army exist?” Stannis spat. “You just said that Lord Stark will not support me with the red woman by my side.”

“He won’t.” Davos affirmed. But that doesn’t mean others won’t. Davos reached over for a paper map and rolled it open. “Here sits a king.” Davos said as he pointed out a place on the map. “A king like you that is struggling to have people recognise him as one.”

“A pirate king.” Stannis sneered as he stared at the stepstones.

“But a king nonetheless.” Davos replied. “A king with six hundred ships and twenty five thousand men.”

“Twenty five thousand pirates.” Stannis argued.

“My own sons amongst them.” Davos replied. “This king has a thirst for gold and recognition. Give him both and he will see you seated upon the Iron Throne.”

Stannis was silent for the longest time. Davos waited patiently. “This is why I wanted you in my service all those years ago Lord Davos.” Stannis eventually said. “You make me wish I had more smugglers in my service and less lords and knights. Your advice is sound. Send word to the Pirate King. It will do no harm to my cause to see how much he wants for his armies.”

Davos nodded and turned from the king, seeking out his own sons at the docks.

He found Dale first. “Go find Torrhen and your brothers.” Davos told him. “Bring them here and tell them that King Stannis wishes to buy his services. Sail now, sail fast. The reign of the true king depends upon you.”

Next to him Stannis was as still as a rock as they watched the three ships approach over the horizon. His hands were clenched behind his back, while his eyes were set in stone and his jaw locked. Behind him his court had gathered, though not all of them looked happy with who Stannis had stood at his right hand. Stannis had spurned his Castellan and his wife, as well as the lords who had attended him. Instead it was Davos who stood at his right hand, in a position he still did not think he should have been.

The approaching ships were flying over the waves, going faster than Davos had thought ships were possible of going. The ships were so large and fast that they created their own waves in the wake, a foaming line of water that stretched for leagues behind them. As the ships got closer, Davos finally saw in the flesh the ship that he had seen on paper all those years ago.

The Black Leviathan was just as grand as he had supposed she would be. Five hundred feet long, with five masts and a prow and ram of black steel. Two chains extended from holes high in the prow of the ship, taut as a bowstring and attached to something underneath the water. On the foredeck Davos could see two heavy Ballista, mounted on both port and starboard sides while along the sides of the ships hundreds of broken shields and tattered banners hung.

The shields and banners were a sign of Torrhen’s conquests and Davos knew that some of those banners and shields had come from as far away as the lands beyond the Sunset Sea as well as the Jade Sea. By his Beron Saltstark’s own confession, Torrhen Snow would have been perhaps the most capable admiral of his age, if not all time.

And two of Davos’ own sons sailed with him, one of them his most trusted right hand, a captain of Torrhen’s second most powerful ship. It made Davos both swell with pride, and quail with shame. Did his sons serve a great admiral, a king? Or did they serve a pirate?

No doubt they thought they served a king but Allard had always been the most impulsive of all his sons and Maric wasn’t far behind. He doubted their judgment was entirely sound.

A horn blast shattered the air around them, and Davos could make out the giant instrument that made such a sound. Once upon a time it must have been the horn of a fearsome beast, but now it was hollowed out and wrapped in bands of silver and black steel. At least seven feet long, Davos could see it attached to the prow of Torrhen’s ship, being blown by some soul with large lungs, most probably one of the sons of Lord Alaric Whitestark. All eight of his bastard sons and three of his trueborn ones had been part of Torrhen’s original forty sons that fled the north with him.

The sound petered out and as one the ships slowed and then stopped. It was almost uncanny how in sync the ships were. The taut chains at the front of the ship slackened once the ships stopped and fell into the water, trailing along the hull.

Once the ships had fully stopped, sailors seemed to spring from everywhere, clambering down the rigging, emerging from below decks and Davos even saw one pop out of an empty barrel.

They swarmed about, lowering boats and nets and readying themselves for war it seemed.

In total it was three rowboats from each ship that set out. Nine ships in total, each holding ten men. Behind Stannis, Ser Axell Florentine scrambled to increase the amount of guards they had around.

He had made his displeasure with this course of action known from the very beginning. He would have preferred to attack King’s Landing at once, before a sizeable defence could be mustered from the lords of the crownlands.

This was the course Stannis had chosen though, and it was the one his subjects would follow. The ships grew closer and closer and Davos could make out the faces of the men on board. They were all northern from what Davos could tell.

He could see the six Whitestark bastards and all three of Lord Whitestark’s trueborn sons, as well as Rickon Riverstark, Hoarfrost Umber, Roose Ryswell and Argos Seastark. And then of course there was also both of his own sons and finally the greatest and most infamous of them all, Torrhen Snow, the bastard of the Saltsmaw and Pirate King of the Stepstones.

He had grown much since Davos had last seen him. All the childhood he once had on him had faded away and left his cheekbones sharp, the planes of his face hard and masculine. A smattering of pox scars graced his left cheek, while an unruly mop of dark brown hair ran amok on top of his head. He wasn’t a classically handsome man, but it wasn’t his looks that drew people to him. His eyes burned fiercely with purpose and anger, while his mouth was twisted into a wry smirk. Resting in between his lips was one of the smoking pipes favoured by the sailors of Ibben, and every few seconds he blew a long puff of dark green smoke that ran out of his mouth like water, pooling at the bottom of the rowboat in which he sat.

He was dressed in black leathers, covered by a thick black cloak, as were all his men. Torrhen was separated however by a silver sash pinned to his chest, while the shoulders of his cloak were marked with his personal sigil, a black leviathan with silver highlights.

The small tow boats scraped along the sides of the low dock and the Pirate King’s court leapt to assemble themselves. Some of the men formed an honour guard for their king, while others rushed about unloading the many chests that sat in the boats.

Torrhen Snow stepped off the little rowboat and onto dry land and his men snapped to attention with straight backs and drawn cutlasses. What men remained carefully stacked the chests in a neat pile before the feat of their king.

Torrhen took one final puff of his pipe, before flinging the expensive mahogany pipe into the waters behind him. He watched as it sunk beneath the waves, before blowing out the smoke of his last puff. He watched it pool at his feet and then sink beneath the floorboards of the dock before turning around. Only then did he turn his gaze to the king awaiting him.

He strode down the docks slowly, gazing at every member of Stannis’ court that was gathered on the dock. Eventually he stopped before Stannis’ wife, before bowing low and seizing her hand. “I have travelled far and wide, through the north of the Shivering Sea as far south as the tip of Sothoryos and I have even explored the coastline of Ulthos.” Torrhen said, his voice as soft as a whisper. “And in all my years of travel and sightseeing never have I seen a woman with a moustache like yours.”

Selyse Baratheon flinched as if she had just been struck, before she yanked her hand back. Her brother surged forward and went to seize Torrhen by the lapels of his cloak, but was stopped by two of the guards that followed in his wake.

“You dare!” Ser Axell screamed, “Pirate scum! Repeat those words when my blade is drawn!”

Torrhen smirked at the man before turning back to the king.

“Stannis.” He said, his voice dulcet and calming. “Lord of Dragonstone, Scion of House Baratheon and would be King of Westeros.”

Stannis did not physically respond, only stared at him coldly.

“So many pretenders. So many claimants. So many enemies. So few friends.”

“The same could be said of you.” Stannis replied.

Torrhen smiled. “It could.” He laughed, “But I have many swords and ships to defend and keep my kingdom and you have few of either.”

“I have legitimacy though.” Stannis replied, “My claim is the true claim. And though swords and ships may not be mine in abundance now who is to say what tomorrow will bring?”

“Perhaps it will bring a new king?” Torrhen replied, “Perhaps two kings?”

“One King.” Stannis replied tersely. “Westeros has One King. Me.”

“And so too does the Stepstones. One King. Me.” Torrhen replied. “Where once it was the denizen of a hundred captains and a hundred kings and a hundred smugglers, now they all answer to me. I am an undisputed king of a small smattering of islands in the middle of the Narrow Sea. But do you know what it is that burns me more than my small domain?”

Stannis watched Torrhen warily, before shooting a glance at Davos.

“It is the fact that only my own men call me king.” Torrhen continued, “Only those who live under my rule recognise me as a king. From Volantis to Sunspear they spurn my crown, mocking me as the Pirate King. Much in the same way that your kingdoms have spurned your claim.”

“You want recognition.” Stannis stated, a light of understanding dawning in his eyes.

“I want more than just that.” Torrhen snarled as he clenched his right fist. “I want Lys. I want Myr. I want Tyrosh. I want to see them knelt before me, proclaiming me as their king and paying me tribute. I want to see Volantis tremble before my might and for Pentos to quail before me. I want to see Braavos recognise me as a King and for all of Westeros to know my name. I want my enemies to fear me and my friends to love me. I want for men to sing of my name for a thousand years and I want to be remembered for ten thousand. I was born a bastard, King Stannis, but I have no intention of being remembered as one.”

Stannis nodded slowly, before chewing on his bottom lip. “It seems that we can help each other then. With the backing of the King of Westeros behind you, who would dare to deny you your crown?”

“Many men.” Torrhen replied. “Has not the Free Cities defied the Kings of Westeros before?”

“Let them.” Stannis replied. “Theirs is the defiance of a summer. Help me gain my kingdom, and I will see you delivered into yours.”

Torrhen didn’t reply, just observed the true king. “Your kingdom first though?” He asked, “Why not mine?”

“What do you want then?” Stannis snapped, “What would it take for you to agree to take mine first?”

“Gold.” Torrhen replied with a dark smile. “Lots and Lots of gold. If I am to commit to your cause before mine, my own fledgling kingdom would suffer. I would have to pull ships and men away from the colonies I protect in sothroyos, colonies that bring me much money. Gold, recognition and your own men once your war is done will by the price of my ships and men.” Torrhen plucked a dagger of Valyrian Steel from his belt, before running it across his calloused palm. “So then, King Stannis,” He asked as blood dripped down his hand and onto the ground beneath his feet. “Do we have an agreement?”

Stannis stared at the extended hand for the longest time, before flicking his gaze to Davos. Davos nodded encouragingly.

“Don’t do it, your grace!” Ser Axell cried. “Align yourself with a pirate king and all of Westeros will spurn your claim twice over!”

“And who would you have him align with, Ser Axell?” Torrhen spat, his face dark with wroth. “A whor* of the Red God?”

Said whor* only smiled at Torrhen and stepped forth as her ruby choker glowed with the light of burning brazier. “The Lord of Light shall not be mocked.” She lectured, “His power is above all.”

“Power!” Torrhen exclaimed, before he burst out laughing. “Power?!?! You think your god has power?”

Around him some of Torrhen’s smiled in amusem*nt while others shifted uncomfortably. Davos noted Allard’s look drifted to some place far away.

“I’ve seen power!” Torrhen cried as tears ran down his cheeks. Davos could not tell if they were tears of laughter or terror, or maybe both. “True power, power that drives the breath from your body and renders your god as pathetic as a strand of hay to a sword of Valyrian Steel! I’ve seen power that could tear this world apart and then put it back together in the blink of an eye, power that leaves you short of breath and unsure of your own existence. I’ve seen sights that would drive most men insane and I’ve gazed upon monsters greater than even the dragons of Valyria. I’ve sailed the named seas, unnamed seas and seas that no man has ever gazed on before. I’ve come across ten thousand gods in my travels, Horse gods and fire gods, gods made of gold with gemstone eyes, gods carved of cedar wood, gods chiselled into mountains, gods of empty air... I know them all. I have seen their peoples garland them with flowers, and shed the blood of goats and bulls and children in their names. And I have heard the prayers, and heard the gods silence too. Gods are no more than just splinters of magic that once existed in this world, and your god,” Torrhen paused as he snorted and shook his head in amusem*nt, “your god is the weakest splinter of them all.”

Torrhen advanced on the priest of the Red God. “So please,” He begged her, “Pray for your god to strike me down. You better pray too though that he doesn’t fail, because if he does…you’ll find out just why the sight of The Black Leviathan is so feared throughout everywhere I’ve ever been. You’ll find out why those who wish me harm live in fear and those who care for me live in comfort. You’ll find an enemy unlike any other you’ve faced before. You’ll find an enemy that see’s right through everything…crone.”

To Davos’ surprise the young woman quailed at the last word of Torrhen Snow, before she dropped her gaze and fled. Torrhen glared down Ser Axell before turning back to the king. “So then, King Stannis?” He asked again, the cut on his hand still dripping blood, “Do we have an agreement?”

Stannis stepped forth and yanked his leather gloves off, before thrusting them through his belt. He snatched his own dagger from his belt, and while it was not Valyrian Steel it was still incredibly sharp. A quick cut and his own blood was flowing from his hand. “Aye then.” Stannis growled, his voice grave and of iron, “We shall have an agreement…King Torrhen.”

And with that he gripped Torrhen Snow’s bleeding hand and shook it once. Their blood mingled and Torrhen Snow, King of the Stepstones and claimant of Myr, Tyrosh and Lys nodded satisfactorily. “An agreement bound in blood.” He stated. “Break it at your own peril King Stannis. As I warned the Red whor*, I know power.”

Davos had never been frightened by Torrhen before, he had known him since he was four. But a shiver of terror ran through him regardless and he wondered just what it was that Torrhen had seen. It had struck wonder and terror deep into his soul for all to see, and it horrified Davos that his son had seen it too.

Chapter 24: Jon VI: Craster and his Keep

Chapter Text

Jon had thought he had known what the cold was. How wrong he had been. Right now, the worst of Winterfell’s snowstorms seemed like a warm summer breeze compared to the biting wind that was cutting through him right now. He huddled deeper into his furs, but it did little to help. In the distance he could see a small light shining through the darkness. Uncle Benjen he told him that the light was the cook fires of Craster’s Keep. If those lights were ten miles away or ten meters though, no one seemed to know. The Wargs bonded refused to go and look, preferring to stay close to their masters. Ghost seemed to be the exception to that rule, having been missing for the last three miles.

One of the ranger’s of the Night’s Watch sniffed the air. “Smoke.” He growled, “We must be close by now.”

“I’ve been smelling smoke for the last five miles, Dayle.” Another grizzled ranger said, “It doesn’t mean we are almost there. It just means the wind is picking up.”

He was right, Jon mused, as another gust blew through their large party. The wind was picking up.

“Better not to be at Craster’s.” Another ranger put in. “I’d rather be freezing my arse off in these woods than warm in his halls.” A shiver ran through the ranger. “Even wildlings fear him...”

“Wildlings fear all they don’t understand.” Jeor Mormont rumbled, “And wildlings have never been known for their understanding.”

At this the rangers laughed. “That’s true!” Dayle cried, “They say Tormund Giantsbane slept with a bear! How thick must your skull be to f*ck a bear!”

The men laughed harder until a horsem*n came bearing down on them from the north. Half the rangers had drawn their swords from their scabbards before they realised it was one of their own party. Qhorin Halfhand had left the company in the presence of his lord, and Jon’s uncle, Benjen Hardstark. Now he returned alone.

Jon spurred his horse forward to meet the man. “Qhorin!” He cried, “Where is my uncle?”

Qhorin shook his cowl from his head, and wet his lips with a wine skin. “Back with Craster.” He rasped, “The man demanded he stay, while I brought the rest of our party to meet with him.”

“You left my uncle alone with that man?!”

“Of course I did.” Qhorin replied, “The Hardstark has been fighting and killing Wildlings since he was fourteen years old. Even if Craster was inclined to try something, he will prove no match for your uncle.”

“There is nothing to fear with Craster.” Jeor Mormont informed Jon as he reigned his horse in next to him. “He has always been a friend to the watch. When rangers are in need of food or shelter, Craster has always given it freely.”

Jon grunted in reply, unwilling to concede defeat. “How far away is Craster?”

“Less than a mile.” Qhorin replied. “Just up the next curve of this stream. We’ll be there within the next hour.”

Jon nodded and turned to Garth Mormont. “Spread the word that we ride hard until we reach Craster’s. I wish to be resting beneath a real roof before the time that the sun has set below the tree line.”

Garth nodded and spurred his mount away. Around him the word spread that Craster’s Keep wasn’t far, and Jon noticed the men’s attitude picking up. The promise of a night’s rest and the possibility of resting in a real hall had inspired the men to keep pushing.

The men of the Night’s Watch had taken the position as vanguard of their party. They knew these lands better than anyone, though Jon had sent his uncle and his most trusted men ahead as his scouts. They were the true survivors of these lands, the ones who would make it back even if Mance brought his armies in between them.

Jon’s Winter Wolves, led by The Greatjon, took the positon as the centre of his party. Jon’s Winter Wolves were the largest part of his forces, and also the least experienced in these lands. Jon wanted to make sure they were the best protected from the threats around them.

They were followed by The Weirwood Warriors and their Lord Commander Roderick Walton, who had taken the position as the rear guard. Jon had made his commands to Roderick Walton clear. He was to ensure that in the event of an attack from the rear, the Weirwood Warriors and men of the Night’s Watch could make an organised retreat east to Hardhome.

Jon did not fear many things in these lands, but one thing he did fear was having Tormund Giansbane, or worse, Mance Rayder, sweeping behind him and cutting him off from his route south. Then they would be forced to march to Hardhome, but that march would be almost as treacherous as bringing battle to a host of wildlings said to be as many as two hundred thousand strong.

Jon did not fear to face wildlings, but he was well aware of how many men had died at the hands of wildlings. It was because of men like Tormund Giantsbane and Mance Rayder and the Thenn’s that wildlings were still feared. The Thenn’s had been the ones to drive the Lord of Fort Firstfist from his halls as well as being the ones to steal his horses.

Never before had wildlings rode, but now they did thanks to the fall of Fort Firstfirst. A Thenn was to be feared. A Thenn on a horse was to be avoided.

A sharp pang of fear interrupted Jon’s chain of thought.

Ghost.

Something was wrong. His direwolf was afraid. Jon could feel the wolf’s presence to the North West of him, but whether Ghost was one mile away or ten only the gods could know. Jon shivered, before turning back to his host.

Either Ghost would make it back or he would not. What Jon was more worried about was what it was that had frightened a direwolf.

The further and further they seemed to push into these lands, the stranger and stranger things seemed.

Jon rode around the bend and finally Craster’s Keep came into sight. The men around him gave a ragged cheer, though what Jon saw did not give him much hope. He had never thought to find a stone castle on the far side of the wall, but he had pictured some sort of motte and bailey with a wooden palisade and a timber tower keep. What they found instead was a midden heap, a pig sty, an empty sheepfold and a windowless daub and wattle hall scarce worthy of the name.

“A bad omen.” Brynden Bloodstark whispered as he nodded at the gate. The open gate was flanked by a pair of animal skulls on high poles: a bear to one side, a ram to the other. Bits of flesh still clung to the bear skull Jon noted as he rode past.

“And here we are riding through the gates with not one, but two Mormonts.” Quiver muttered. “Just our luck.”

“If he tries anything,” Jon commanded Quiver, “Anything at all, put an arrow through his eye.”

Quiver nodded, and strung his bow. The yard was empty save for Qhorin Halfhand, and a young girl who dashed away as soon as they arrived. Jon dismounted his horse and strode through the grim gate, along with his most important captains and companions. His Weirwood Warrior’s had not yet arrived, though Jon knew that they would not be far behind.

“Garth!” Jon called, and his loyal squire came running, Longclaw bouncing on his waist.

“Here m’lord!” He cried.

“Tell the Winter Wolves and Weirwood Warriors to set up their tents outside the walls. Only the captains are to enter the compound. And have Roderick Walton come for me as soon as he arrives.”

Garth nodded and rushed away and Jon turned to the Greatjon. “Ensure our boundaries are secure. Organise a watch, and tell the sentries to keep an eye on all sides, not just the ones without a wall.”

The Greatjon bowed his head and strode away, while bellowing commands at those unfortunate enough to be caught loitering within the Greatjon’s sight.

As Jon approached the flap of deerhide that served as a door, it was thrown open and another young woman rushed out, almost in tears.

“And hurry up about it!!!!” A grizzled voice roared from inside.

Jon slipped through before the flap closed and drew the attention of the King of Craster’s Keep. Once, a long time ago, Craster would have been a powerful man, but now he was nearing the end of his life. His hair was grey and long, and his beard longer. His mouth drooped and his nose was flat, making him look as cruel a man as Jon had ever seen. When he saw Jon, he smiled gruesomely. His teeth were rotten and chipped, and Jon fought the urge to sneer back.

“Well, well, well” He said as Jon approached the light of the fire, “If you aren’t a Stark I am a goat’s mother.”

Jon smiled coldly and noticed his uncle sitting beside Craster. His uncle’s mouth was drawn in a thin line and his eyes were stern. His direwolf was nowhere to be seen.

“Aye.” Jon said as he stepped into the light of the campfire. “I am a Stark.”

“And not just any Stark either.” Craster snarled, “A Stark of Winterfell.”

“You sit beside a Stark of Winterfell.” Jon replied.

“No I don’t.” Craster sneered. “I sit beside a Stark of Hardhome. A Hardstark. A much lesser breed of Stark I am told.”

“A Stark is a Stark.” Jon growled. “And Starks protect their own.”

Craster laughed. “He’s young this one!” He cried as he elbowed Uncle Benjen in the ribs, “Got plenty of…bite in him still! He’s not completely frozen over like you!”

Benjen did not respond to Craster’s ribbing, instead choosing to ignore it.

“Sit boy,” Craster cried, “Sit! Have a seat at my right hand. I would have words with you!”

Jon strode around the campfire and sat down on the bench to Craster’s right. Around him his captains and companions followed suit, and Craster glared at them suspiciously. “Who are these men?”

“My men.” Jon replied. “Arthur Glenmore of Rillwater Crossing, Bryden Bloodstark of Bloody Hall, Smalljon Umber of Last Hearth and Samwell Tarly of Horn Hill. The Captains of My Winter Wolves and my squire, Garth Mormont.”

“Mormont?” Craster snarled as he squinted at the boy suspiciously, “You aren’t related to Jeor Mormont by any chance?”

“Aye!” Garth crowed as he got to his feet, “He is my grandfather, and he is here as well, so show us all the respect we are due.”

Craster stilled and Jon glared at Garth darkly. The boy sunk back down, his face flushed. “Mormont is here?” he asked, his voice dark. For a second, no one dared to answer.

“Aye.” Jeor Mormont replied as he strode in through the doors of Craster’s Keep, Roderick Walton trailing in his wake. “I am here. Along with three hundred sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch.”

“Crows.” Craster snarled. “When did a black bird ever bring good to a man’s hall I ask you? Never.” He spat, “Never.”

“Jeor Mormont vouched to us of your character, Lord Craster.” Uncle Benjen said as he pulled a wineskin from his belt and filled Craster’s horn. “We would not be here, bringing our gifts of wine and gold if it were not for him.”

“You’d be here.” Craster grumbled as he lifted his horn to his lips and took a deep swallow. “It’s not me you’re here for. You’ve come for word of Mance. You want to know where everyone has gone.”

He said it as a statement, not a question.

“Aye.” Jon growled out as he sipped from his own horn of wine. “We’ve come for Mance. Do you know where he is?”

“Mayhaps I do.” Craster shrugged, “Mayhaps I don’t. I’ll admit my old age has fogged my memory a fair bit. There are a few things that can clear my memory though.”

“Yeah?” Jeor Mormont groused, “Like what?”

Craster eyed the axe at The Old Bear’s waist greedily. “Had no good southern wine up here for a bear’s night. I could use me some wine, and a new axe. Mine’s lost its bite, can’t have that, I got me some women to protect.

“Does that refresh your memory at all?”

“A little.” Craster replied as he picked up and the axe and fingered the edge of it. “I seem to remember someone coming around here, trying to recruit me to The Mance’s cause. I just can’t seem to remember where it was he wanted me to go…”

The Old Bear rolled his eyes. “Just tell me what you want in exchange for the information and I will see it given to you.”

Craster snorted in amusem*nt. “What I want is nothing you can give me.” Craster turned his gaze back to Jon. “What I want only he can give me.”

“I’ve got no fancy axes to give you,” Jon warned, “And I’m in dire need of my sword in these lands.”

“It’s not a sword or an axe or even gold I want off you!” Craster guffawed.

“Well then what is it you want?” Jon asked.

“I’ll admit I don’t much of your southern customs, but isn’t the eldest meant to be the next ruler of the rest of you?”

“The eldest of my father will be the next Lord of Winterfell.” Jon replied.

“And?” Craster slavered as he leant forward hungrily, “Are you your father’s eldest son? Are you the next Lord of Winterfell?”

Around him his men fingered their weapons nervously. Jon knew not if Craster would be foolish enough to try anything against him, but if he did Jon doubted he would walk away totally unscathed. The Wildling that could claim the head of the Heir of Winterfell would win much renown throughout these lands, and followers would flock to his cause. The axe in Craster’s hand gleamed in the torchlight, the well-honed edge as dangerous as that of Valyrian Steel in these close quarters.

Jon had not thought Craster to be such a man, but it did not bode well. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Quiver pulling an arrow from his sheath, and nocking it to his drawstring.

“Aye.” Jon replied warily. “I am my father’s eldest son. I will be the next Lord of Winterfell.”

Craster nodded slowly, a hungry smile etched onto his face and leant back in his seat. “Your father can make lords I’ve heard. He named your uncle lord of Hardhome didn’t he?”

“He did.” Jon replied cooly.

Craster snorted in disbelief. “As if Hardhome was his to give. I’m as worthy of Hardhome as your uncle is, and that is not at all.”

“Do you dispute his claim?” Jon asked. “Would you like to settle it now? By steel perhaps?”

Craster sneered. “I’m not daft boy. I’d last five seconds in a fair fight against the Hardstark. It’s not Hardhome that I’m interested in though. It’s the lordships.”

“You want to be named a lord.” Uncle Benjen stated.

“Aye.” Craster said as he nodded his head. “That sounds good. Lord Craster of Craster’s Keep. I want your father and you to recognise all these lands as mine, from Whitetree to the Banks of The Gorge. It’s all mine now, and I want you to recognise me as lord of it. I want your father to send me troops to defend it and claim it.”

Jon stared at the old man, while his men shuffled nervously. After a moment, Jon burst into laughter. “You want to be lord do you?” he mocked, “You want to bend the knee and grovel at my feet? I took you for a man of the Free Folk, Craster, not a kneeler.”

Craster scowled. “I want to be a lord.” He insisted. “I want you to recognise me as one.”

“And you want all the responsibilities that come with being a lord too do you?” Jon asked. “You want to swear an oath of fealty to me, you want to bend the knee to me every time I walk in the room and you want to send a share of your harvest every year to me?”

“No.” Craster stated. “I want to be a lord.”

Jon shook his head. “No you don’t. You want to be left alone up here. You want an easy life for the rest of your life. I can’t make you a lord, but here is what I can do. Every year three wagons of supplies, southern grain, and southern wine and southern meat will be sent north for you. Every year for the rest of your life, it will be yours if you help me now. Tell me all you know of Mance Rayder and all that and more is yours.”

Jeor Mormont leant forward in his seat. “Every village we have passed has been abandoned. Yours are the first living faces we have seen since we left The Wall. The people are gone … whether dead, fled or taken I could not say. The animals as well. Nothing is left. Where have they gone?”

Craster stewed in silence.

“They are gone, aren’t they?” Another black cloaked ranger said. “Gone to join your king?”

“King!” cried Mormont’s raven. “King, king, king.”

“That Mance Rayder?” Craster spit into the fire. “King-Beyond-The-Wall. He’s no king of mine. What do Free Folk want with kings?”

“What do Free Folk want with lordships?” Bryden Bloodtark muttered quietly as Craster turned his gaze on The Old Bear. “There’s much I could tell you o’ Rayder and his doings, if I had a mind. This o’ the empty villages, that’s his work. You could have found this hall abandoned as well, if I were a man to scrape to such.” Craster sneered in anger. “He sends a rider, tells me I must leave my own keep to grovel at his feet. I sent the man back, but I kept his tongue. It’s nailed to that wall there.” He pointed. “Might be that I could tell you where to seek Mance Rayder. If I had a mind.”

At the back of the room, Roderick Walton stepped forth. “I could force the knowledge from you. If I had a mind.”

Everyman in the room tensed in anticipation. Swords were loosened in their scabbards and the hilts of daggers were grasped. Craster grasped the handle of his new axe and rose to his feet. “Is this how a man is treated in his own hall?” He growled.

Roderick Walton stepped forth again, and this time not alone. Two wolves wandered in through the doorway, and his golden eagle followed suit.

Craster paled at the sight of them. “Warg.” He muttered as he fell back in his chair.

Roderick Walton pointed at himself. “Warg.” He stated, “And Weirwood Warrior too. I’m a fearsome man to make an enemy of Lord Craster. I’ve fought Kings and Lords and Peasants and Wildings too. I’m still here, and if my blade could speak it would tell of a hundred battles and a thousand deaths. Don’t add your life to that tally. Don’t make an enemy of me. Don’t make an enemy of us. Help us know, and as Lord Jon has promised you, we shall help you.”

Craster nodded shakily. “You have one night in my hall, and I’ll tell you all I know. But then I’m done with you and I never want to see your like again. You’ll eat none of my food, and touch none of my wives. The man who does shall lose his hand.”

Jeor Mormont nodded stiffly. “Your house. Your rules.”

Craster nodded and took a large gulp from his drinking horn before settling back down with a last distrustful look at Roderick Walton. “Get him out of here.” He finally said, “I don’t want his type. Come to think of it, I don’t want any of your type. Leave me alone with the crows and The Hardstark. At least they are kinder to me than you lot have been.”

“Your house. Your rules.” Jon repeated as he got to his feet. “I’ll see you outside.” He said to Jeor Mormont and his uncle before he slipped outside.

Hours later, once the sun had set and the moon was high in the sky, Jon was roughly woken by a shaking hand. He spun around to find Sam crouched next to him, wrapped in the cloak of one of the Black Brothers.

“Sam?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep, “What is wrong?”

“Shhh.” Sam hissed as he put his fingers to his lips. “Come with me.”

Jon stumbled out of his sleeping furs and shrugged his boots and cloak on, before following Sam out into the darkness. He could barely make Sam out in the darkness, and he struggled to keep up with the husky lordling.

“Sam!” He hissed into the darkness, “Where have you gone?”

“Come!” Came the reply, “And hurry!”

He hurried down the gentle slope and away from Craster’s Keep, properly awake now. The cold did that to a man in these lands. He found himself thinking of his sister’s, perhaps because he had dreamed of them last night. Arya and Dyanna would have been running in this cold, racing each other to keep warm. No doubt it would have ended with both picking up sticks and fighting whomever out of Jon and Artos happened to pass by first. He doubted Alaric would have provided much sport for the girls, he often preferred to sneer at them from afar.

“Lord Jon?” He heard. Meek and soft. He turned.

Crouched behind a tree was the young woman who had fled from him earlier, wrapped in a cloak of brown bear fur so large it almost swallowed her.

“It’s alright Gilly.” Sam said as he approached from behind Jon. “Jon can help you. Jon is a Stark. Starks are known for that.”

“Won’t Craster be angry with you?” Jon asked quickly, trying to stop this conversation before it even began. He had no clue what she wanted, but he knew it was highly likely he would be unable to give it.

“My father drank overmuch of your wine last night. He’ll sleep most of the day.” Her breath frosted in the air in small nervous puffs. “They say lords give justice and protect the weak.” She twisted uncomfortably, while Sam patted her back awkwardly. “It’s alright.” He said, “Just tell him”

The poor girl dropped to her knees and burst into tears. “M’lord, I beg you-“

“Don’t beg of me anything.” Jon said coldy. “Go back to your hall, you shouldn’t be here. We were told not to speak to you.”

“You don’t have to speak with me, m’lord. Just take me with you when you go, that’s all I ask.”

“All you ask?” Jon scoffed as he glared at Sam, “As if that were nothing?”

“I’ll be your wife, if you like. My father, he’s got nineteen now, one less won’t hurt none.”

“Enough.” Sam rumbled quietly. “Tell him of why you want to leave, Gilly.”

Gilly looked at Sam uncertainty for a second before she turned back to Jon. “It’s not for me, it’s for the baby. If it’s a girl, that’s not so bad, she’ll grow a few years and he’ll marry her. But Nella says it’s too be a boy, and she’s had six and knows these things. He gives the boys to the gods. Come the white cold, he does, and of late it comes more often. That’s why he started giving them the sheep, even though he has a taste for mutton. Only now the sheep’re gone too. Next it will be the dogs, till…” She lowered her eyes and stroked her belly.

Jon’s blood ran cold. A memory stirred within him, a tale of Old Nan’s from when he was young. All of his siblings had been there, Alaric too, though he was only two. ‘The wildlings lay down and sleep with the Others and birth abominations, half others.’ Jon had smiled, but Alaric had frowned. ‘No they don’t.’ He had said. ‘They give their human sons to the Others. They don’t sleep with them. I saw it in my dreams.’ Jon, Artos and his sisters had laughed at their grim little brother with his strange nightmares, but now those memories struck him to his core.

“What gods?” He asked, his voice hollow, half fearing the answer he was about to receive. Jon was remembering the tales he had heard of Craster and that they’d seen no boys in Craster’s Keep, nor men either, save Craster himself.

“The cold gods.” She said. “The ones in the night. The white shadows.”

Jon stole a horrified glance at Sam. If she was telling the truth, this could be the reason for why all the wildlings had disappeared. This could be why Mance was gathering them to his side. To protect them from the cold gods who were coming down upon them all.

Jon turned back to Gilly. “Go back to your bed and lay down for the night,” he told her. “I promise you that you will be free of Craster by the time the night is done.”

Gilly nodded and rushed away and Jon turned to his old friend. “I’m sorry Jon.” Sam said, “Once I learned of the truth from her though, I knew you would want to know.”

“You did the right thing.” Jon affirmed. “But what am I meant to do with the knowledge? What to do with Craster?”

“We are under guest rights.” Sam informed him. “So we can’t move against him.”

“Not all of us.” Jon replied. “I partook of no salt nor bread and I instructed none of the captains of either the Winter Wolves or the Weirwood Warriors to do so. Most of them have not even entered the keep. The Greatjon is also not under guest rights. We can use all of them, four hundred Winter Wolves and three hundred Weirwood Warriors.”

“We won’t even need all of them. Craster is only one man.”

Jon stewed on Sam’s words for a moment, before making up his mind on what to do. “Go find me Roderick Walton and the Greatjon.” He instructed him. “Bring them to me, along with my uncle and we shall make up our mind how to deal with them.”

Sam nodded and rushed away, while Jon lowered himself to his haunches. Around him the woods were alight with moonlight, and fog hung in the air. From the darkness of the shadows, a white apparition melted out of the moonlight.

Ghost’s muzzle was coated in blood, and a rabbit hung between his teeth. He scampered over to Jon, and nuzzled into his chest, before dropping the rabbit at his feet. Jon ruffled the white wolf’s fur, before picking the rabbit up and hanging it from his belt. It would make a wonderful breakfast for himself. “Thanks boy.” He whispered.

It was as he went to rub his belly that he first noticed the long cut along his back. The blood hadn’t even had time to run down his pale fur, before it had frozen over. It had frozen in a long, black line, similar to the blackness that graced the tips of his uncle’s ears.

“What happened to you?” He asked as he prodded the blackness. The change in Ghost was immediate. His ears flattened to his skull and he bared his teeth at Jon in a silent growl. Jon stumbled back and held his hands up, calmlingly. “S’alright.” He soothed the sore wolf, “It’s only me.”

A twig snapped to Jon’s left and his blad was halfway from his scabbard before he realised who it was. “Uncle.” He greeted as he returned his blade to his sheath.

“Jon.” He replied as he took a seat on a nearby log. “Sam said you wanted to see me.”

“I do.” Jon replied, “But Sam was meant to bring Roderick and the Greatjon too.”

“We’re here.” The Greatjon hoarsely whispered as he approached out of the darkness, Sam and Roderick Walton at his side. “What have you called us for?”

“Craster has no sons.” Jon stated. Uncle Benjen shifted uncomfortably on his log, while the Greatjon frowned. “Aye.” The Greatjon said. “What of it?”

“Where are they all?” Jon asked, “For a man with so many daughters why does he have no sons?”

“The wildlings believe he eats them.” Uncle Benjen said as he stared back towards Craster’s Keep. Jon gave his uncle a flat stare and his uncle shrugged. “That’s not what his daughter-wife told me.”

Uncle Benjen looked at him sharply. “You spoke to one of his wives?” He hissed.

“Aye.” Jon replied, his voice hard. “And she told me the truth of things, more truth than we would ever get from Craster.”

“What has she been telling you?” Uncle Benjen asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

“He gives his sons to his gods. She worries for the child within her womb. She fears he will give it to his gods too if it’s a boy.”

The Greatjon frowned. “Our gods are cruel boy. If Craster thinks his sons are the price he must pay for the protection of our gods, then so be it. It is a sad fate for the babes, but I am no Green Man to judge on matters such as this.”

“Not our gods.” Jon replied. “His gods. The Cold Gods. The ones in the night. The White Shadows. The Others.”

Jon’s declaration was met with stunned silence before his uncle sneered. “Are you hearing yourself Jon? Others?” He spat with derision. “You’ve been listening to too many of Old Nan’s tales.”

Jon went to respond, but he was cut off by Roderick Walton. He stepped forward, menacingly. “You knew.” He stated as he glared at Uncle Benjen. Uncle Benjen looked shocked for a second, before his features twisted into a scowl. “All men that spend any time beyond the wall learn of what Craster does. I learnt it from Qhorin Halfhand, who learnt it from a ranger, who learnt it from a ranger, who learnt it from Craster himself. No man agrees with it, but Craster is the friend the Watch and I need in these lands.”

Jon stared at his uncle shocked. “You knew?” He asked, his voice gutted with disbelief. Uncle Benjen looked at Jon sadly. “Aye, Jon.” He replied, “But there is something you must understand. They are rumours and no more than that. Old Nan would tell you the Others have been gone for eight thousand years, while my Maester would say they never existed at all.”

“And if the rumours are true.” The Greatjon snarled, his voice wroth. “What then? Why didn’t you bring this before your brother and the High Council. We could have devoted some men to discerning the truth of them!”

Uncle Benjen snorted angrily. “If I brought before my brother every rumour and fishwife’s tale that ran throughout these lands I would never leave Winterfell again for the rest of my life. You hear many strange things out here, and the return of the Others,” Uncle Benjen scoffed, “that’s the most mundane of them all.”

“I will discern the truth of them.” Jon said as he turned back to Craster’s Keep. “Rouse your men, Roderick. We take Craster captive tonight, before the sun has risen. Be careful to wake none of the Black Brother’s or my uncle’s men. I want no treachery now.”

“Jon!” Uncle Benjen, aghast. “We are under guest right! You cannot break guest right!”

“Not me.” Jon replied, “And nor is Roderick Walton and any of his men, or Greatjon Umber and any of his men.”

Uncle Benjen leapt to his feet. “No.” He barked, his voice made of steel. “Your father may have granted command of this expedition, but he placed you under the command of me and these other men. You will not touch Craster, on this night or any of the nights to come.”

“No.” The Greatjon rumbled, his voice dark with hurt and betrayal. “We take Craster tonight. End him now, and even if they are just rumours, we have still saved nineteen women from misery and who knows how many more to come…”

Uncle Benjen narrowed his eyes at the Greatjon. “You would place such stock in rumours and myths such as those? Stock enough to break guest right?”

The Greatjon’s gaze turned distant. “To the south Giants and Mammoths and Direwolves are but a myth.” He stated, “I myself have seen men that can bind monsters with their wits alone, men that have survived what would kill lesser men and your own brother was both a wolf and a man. All of these are stranger and more obscene than cold gods that are worshipped by wildings. What is there that makes you think that Others cannot exist too?”

“I’ve lived in these lands!” Benjen almost roared, “If any Others were living amongst us, then you would be sure that I would have seen or heard of them!”

“Would have you?” Roderick Walton asked, his voice neutral. “You’ve just shown us that you’re willing to turn a blind eye to such things.”

Uncle Benjen stewed in silence, his eyes dark with wroth and anger, but Jon was done with the arguing. Action had to be taken, it was either now or never. “For all that I don’t agree with what my uncle has said tonight, he was right about one thing. I am under your authority, my lords.” Jon turned to Roderick and pierced him with the fiercest gaze he could muster. “The Greatjon and my uncle have made their will known. The decision rests with you, Lord Commander. Shall we take Craster tonight, or shall we continue to let him continue his abominable practices?”

The Lord Commander watched Jon with empty eyes, before turning to Uncle Benjen. “I’m sorry Benjen.” He said coolly. “But you don’t know what signs my men and I have been seeing. I’m the closest thing there is to a Green Men without actually being one, and some of the things I have seen in the last few months, written in the stars, in the boughs of the weirwoods and in the realms of my dreams have left me scared. Craster may hold the answer to the questions that I have because of them. We take him tonight, and we end this now.”

Uncle Benjen scoffed in anger and shook his head. “You’re all fools.” He hissed, his voice black. “And where shall we rest when we come back this way? Where shall we find food and shelter when the wrath of the wild is battering at us? In five years, when a Black Brother bears news of the next King-Beyond-The-Wall, where shall he find the respite he needs to survive?”

Roderick looked away, to the distant tips of the frostfangs, which could be just seen in the predawn darkness. “Better to rest in the wild, than rest in the halls of a man such as Craster.”

Uncle Benjen shook his head and unclipped his sword from his belt. He threw it at Jon’s feet. “Take it boy.” He spat. “I want nothing to do with the rest of tonight, and neither do any of my men. Let it nor be said in these lands that the Hardstark did not warn against this course.”

With that he turned his back, and strode away.

“Go after him.” Jon told the Greatjon. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

The Greatjon nodded and strode after him, while Jon turned to the Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors. “Rouse your men quickly. Arm them and armour them and gather them in silence before the gate. I want this hall free of Craster’s name before the sun has risen.”

Roderick nodded and rushed off, while Jon and Sam strode up the hill towards Craster’s Keep, blade and axe in hand and ready to spill the blood of whoever stood in their way.

Chapter 25: Tyrion II: A Clash of Kings

Chapter Text

When Tyrion had left the North, suspicion had been writ onto the faces of every man he met along the way. From Last Hearth to Moat Cailin, men greeted him with wary eyes and grim lips. Few had laughed with him, and fewer had spoken with him. It was when he was half way past Winterfell that he realised something. He was being kept in a bubble. His ‘escort’ kept him away from places where he may have learned something, and kept him on the Kingsroad. Every inn he came too was deserted of smallfolk and only inhabited by the grim Winter Wolves. His own men were kept on a tight leash, Jyck and Dywen told to stick with Tyrion in order to not be confused as bandits and killed.

In the end, Tyrion managed to figure out what had happened after a chance meeting with a trader on the road just before Moat Cailin. Most of his stock was normal price, books and silks and cloths and the like. His steel and foodstuffs though had been priced through the roof, as high a rates as Tyrion had ever seen.

Tyrion had read more books than he cared to count. He had read of the Conquest and the Dance and all the Blackfyre Rebellions, from the first to the last. He had read of wars in Essos and Westeros and the lands beyond The Jade Gates. He knew the signs of war when they came, and high prices for Steel and Foodstuffs, the bread and butter of any war, was a sure sign a war was being waged somewhere close by.

The fact that Tyrion’s head was still attached to his shoulders, and Tommen’s corpse was not swinging from the gates of Winterfell, told Tyrion that the Starks were yet to choose a side in the war. As he lay awake at night he often wondered what Cersei had done to spark it. Who else would have sparked it? Robert was many things, a warmonger amongst them, but his days of fighting real wars were long gone. Tyrion would be surprised if the whor*monger King was even still alive.

Moat Cailin was where he was at now, locked up in a small room underneath one of the monstrosities that these northmen called towers. His own men had been sequestered in their own rooms, and the guards at all their doors ensured they would not wander where they were not welcome. Tyrion knew not if it was day or not, the cell he was in was windowless, the only light being a candle that was burning concernedly low.

Tyrion would have spent the time in the cramped cell reading, but all of his possesions had been seized by the young boy with the Bull-Headed helm. He was now the Master of the Moat from what Tyrion had understood. Where Brynden Tully had gone, Tyrion did not know, but it did not bode well either. The Blackfish was a master at war and fought and survived more battles than perhaps any other man in the realm, Ser Barristan Selmy being the exception. If he had left the service of the Stark’s to defend his homeland, then Tyrion would be walking right into the middle of a war zone. He knew not which way the riverlords would fall when it came to war, but Tyrion knew that the blackfish was no friend of Tyrion’s and neither his father.

His thoughts were interrupted by a pounding at his door, before it was thrown open by one of the guards. “Gather your things.” The man barked, “You’re to be escorted through the gates within the hour.”

Tyrion smiled and picked up the one candle in the entire room. “Mind if I keep this as a memento of my wonderful visit to the bastion of the First Men?”

The guard rolled his eyes at his companion before grasping him by the collar of his shirt and yanking him out of the room. “C’mon.” The other guard grumbled, “We don’t have all day. Lord Durrandon wants to speak to you too before you leave.”

Tyrion frowned at the guard. Maybe he had heard wrong. “Lord who?”

“Lord Durrandon.” The guard barked back, before hitting him across the back of his head with the butt of his spear. “And stop asking so many questions. Keep your mouth shut and this will be easier for all of us.”

The two guards guffawed as Tyrion stumbled, but Tyrion ignored them both and instead turned his attentions to this Lord Durrandon. As far as Tyrion knew the Durrandon line was dead, rendered extinct by the Targaryen’s during the conquest. All that was left of the legacy of the Storm King’s was… “The boy.” Tyrion muttered to himself. He snorted in amusem*nt. So the bastard had been made a lord had he? He was sure Cersei would be glad to hear it. Perhaps Lord Stark wanted to sit a king of his own upon the Iron Throne? A nice little puppet that would be well in touch with his first men roots.

Tyrion was marched through the castle and towards the main gates, where he found his men and all of his belongings awaiting for him along with Lord Durrandon.

This was the first time Tyrion had seen the boy up close, and the resemblance to Robert was uncanny. The same powerful arms, the same strong jaw, the same coal black hair and striking blue eyes and the same hammer, resting by his side. The biggest difference between Robert and the boy though was that Robert would never have been found with a book in his hands, while the boy was pawing through one as Tyrion approached.

“Lord Tyrion.” The boy greeted as Tyrion arrived, before snapping the book shut. “Would you mind telling me where you got this?”

He held the book up and Tyrion smiled sheepishly. It was The Bloody Blessed Bastard. Almost impossible to find outside the North, it recounted the life and times of Brandon Snow, one of the more fascinating men to have ever lived in Tyrion’s opinion. Tyrion also knew that the northerners were highly protective of their bastard, and protected writings on him at all costs. He had thought he had hidden it well, but clearly not well enough.

“I found it.” Tyrion replied, “I stopped in at a small inn a few days ride south of the wall, and someone had left it lying in the room I had rented.”

“And you just decided that since it was their unclaimed, it was your right to claim it?”

Tyrion shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone telling me no.”

The boy grunted back, before passing the book to one of the guards. “See that taken to the library.”

“I assume I don’t get to keep my book then?” Tyrion asked.

“You assume correct.” The boy replied. “Now come. Mount up. I’ll escort you as far south as the end of the Crannogs, but by then you will be on your own.”

Tyrion nodded, before rushing over to check if the rest of his belongings where still there. He had collected more than one oddity on this trip that he wanted to check where still there.

“Fear not.” He heard the boy say. “You can keep the rest of the stuff you took. None of it is that valuable or important anyway.”

Tyrion grunted in acknowledgement, but checked them all the same. The shard of mammoth’s horn was still there, as was the few other books he had collected and the obsidian blade he had picked up from a trader in Winterfell. Such blades were all the rage in the north, and used for ceremonial purposes he was told. Tyrion had even been told that such a blade had been the one to end Rhaegar Targaryen’s life as well, thrust into his heart by the Burnt Lord.

The Burnt Lord was a man that Tyrion had almost desperately wanted to meet, but yet alas, the man was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t been seen in four years by northern standards and nine by southern standards. Where he was now, no one seemed to know, not even Lord Stark. Tyrion had discreetly inquired after him when he had been in Winterfell but most of his questions where either met with cold stares or fearful glances. The Burnt Lord was just as much of a mystery to the realm as he was when he had first sallied south with his armies all those years ago.

“Are you coming, Lord Tyrion?” The boy called from atop his own horse, “Or would you prefer that we returned you to your cell?”

With a start, Tyrion realised that everyone was waiting on him and he hopped astride his little pony as fast as he could. With a kick to its flanks, he was trotting after the boy and his guards, while Tyrion’s own men trailed behind them.

Their trip through the neck was dismally boring. Many times Tyrion tried to goad the boy into conversing with him, but he shrugged him off with grunts, shrugs and one word answers. At night, Tyrion couldn’t bear to be outside his tent as the swamps spooked him. Often he thought he was seeing movement in every shadow, and from what chatter he did manage to overhear, he understood the crannogmen where watching them.

For three days they made their way down the narrow causeway of the Neck, and in the middle of the morning on the fourth, they finally made it out of the neck and into the rolling pastures and low hills of the Riverlands. “It is here that I leave you, my lord.” The boy told him, his horned bull’s helmet making his voice echo strangely.

“Ah.” Tyrion said, strangely saddened. The boy’s stubbornness had worn off on Tyrion, and he found himself enjoying his company on the road. He reminded him of what he had hoped Robert to be before he had known the man. “I’m sorry to hear it. You won’t provide an escort for me to King’s Landing.”

“No.” The boy replied. “My orders were to see you to the end of the Neck and then to return to Moat Cailin. You’re on your own from here on out.”

“Farewell then.” Tyrion said as his horse picked its way forward, Jyck and Dywen already a few meters ahead.

The boy raised a hand in farewell, before turning around and marshalling his troops into two marching columns. Within minutes they were gone, back into the black bogs from which they had come.

When they were well and truly gone and Tyrion had put a good hour of hard riding in between him and the Neck, he turned to his men. “We are going to ride straight for the Twins.”

“The Twins, m’lord?” Jyck asked dubiously, “Whatever for?”

“I have a wish to live, Jyck.” Tyrion replied. “I’m almost certain that somewhere between here and King’s Landing is a hostile army that Lord Stark wants me to bump into on the way.”

“An army?” Dywen asked, “What would an army be around for? For there to be an army there needs to be a war.”

“Exactly.” Tyrion replied. “And there is a war nearby, of that I am certain.”

“What makes you say that?” Jyck asked.

“The Merchant.” Dywen replied, his eyes alighting with understanding. Dywen was an older man and had been in service to his family for a long time. His hair was not yet grey, but he was definitely old enough to have seen and remembered Robert’s Rebellion. “His prices. They were too high.”

“Aye.” Tyrion replied, “That was one of the things that determined such a war was occurring, but I have been wary of such a thing as this since leaving the wall. It was written onto the face of every man I came across. I saw it in the weariness in their eyes. I saw it in the droop of their faces, and the way that every second man carried a sword or spear.”

“The Twins though?” Jack asked, “Why the Twins? They’d be just as likely to sell us to the highest bidder.”

“Aye they would.” Tyrion replied, “And it’s a good thing that no man bids higher than a Lannister.”

At this Dywen laughed. “That’s true enough.”

The next few days were tense, and every noise and shadow had his men jumping to their feet and reaching for their swords, but no one came for them and they encountered no one on their way to the twins. The villages were deserted or locked, and the holdfasts opened their gates to none.

It was late in the afternoon when Tyrion spied the Twins, where the Lords of the Crossing had their seat. The bridge was a massive arch of smooth grey rock, wide enough for two wagons to ride abreast. One glance was sufficient to tell that the realm was indeed at war. The battlements bristled with spears and scorpions, there was an archer at every crenel and arrow slit, the drawbridge was up, the portcullis down, the gates closed and barred.

Jyck began to curse as soon as he saw it. “There’s no way they’re going to let us through there.” He said, “They’ve got that place locked up tighter than a virgin’s c*nt.”

“Be patient.” Tyrion advised, “Dywen, raise my banner.”

Dywen did so, and soon enough a sally port opened, a plank bridge slid across the moat, and a dozen knights rode forth to confront them, led by Lord Walder Frey’s many sons.

Ser Stevron Frey, Lord Walder’s heir, spoke for them. He looked much like a weasel, as did all his brothers. So too did Tyrion’s cousins, the ones that were his through his Aunt Genna. It seemed that Lord Frey had strong seed, though not necessarily good seed.

“Ser Stevron!” Tyrion cried at once, “It is so good to see my father’s good family again! It has been far too long!”

“Lord Tyrion.” Ser Stevron replied gravely, though Tyrion thought he saw a hint of amusem*nt in the knight’s pale grey eyes. “My father would be most honoured if you would share meat and mead with him in the castle and explain your purpose here.”

“Of course.” Tyrion replied, with a wide grin. “I would be honoured to share a meal with your father.”

He had gotten his foot in the door. The coming hours would tell if this was a wise course or not, or perhaps a course that had not needed to be taken at all. They rode forward, across the sally bridge and into the Twins.

Tyrion had once heard it said that Lord Walder was the only lord in the seven kingdoms who could field an army from his breeches. When Lord Walder greeted Tyrion in the great hall of the East Castle, Tyrion understood what they meant. He was surrounded by twenty of his sons and more daughters, grandchildren, bastards and grand-bastards than Tyrion cared to count.

“Lord Walder!” Tyrion called in greeting, “It is a pleasure to finally meet you after so many years! My father and aunt have told me so many stories about you!”

“Have they now?” Lord Walder asked, his eyes squinting at Tyrion suspiciously.

“Of course.” Tyrion laughed, “Stories of your cunning and your wealth, your large family and larger armies!”

Lord Walder sneered at him. “Quit your bleating boy.” He growled, “You’re nowhere near as convincing as you think, imp. Tell me what you want and this’ll be over faster than you can say!”

“I want passage of course.” Tyrion replied. “Passage over your bridge, and perhaps some men at arms to escort me back to Casterly Rock and my father.”

Lord Walder began to laugh. It was an ugly sound, somewhere between a grunt and a cackle. “And would you like me to open my coffers while you’re here? Perhaps you’d like me to present all my daughters and granddaughters to you, naked as their name days and bent over for you, aye?”

“Why would I want such things?” Tyrion replied, “I haven’t asked for much, Lord Walder, just passage…”

“Just passage!” Lord Walder cried. “Just Passage! In times like these, giving you just passage could see me losing my head!”

“Losing your head?” Tyrion scoffed, “I assure you, Lord Walder, should anyone threaten you for helping me, my father will see you both protected against your foes and rewarded for assisting me!”

At this the whole crowd of Frey’s tittered. “Have you not heard, Lord Tyrion?”

“Heard what?” Tyrion asked, fighting to keep calm.

“Your father’s claws have been plucked from the way the Valemen are telling it.”

“What do you mean?” Tyrion asked, horror creeping into his voice.

“Lord Ronnel Arryn captured your brother, Jaime, and then fell upon and defeated the Vanguard’s your father had sent to get him back. They say he captured Ser Addam Marbrand’s vangaurd, fought off the Mountain’s and then routed what men were left. They say he rides against your father even now, gathering more and more swords to his cause!”

Tyrion’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Lord Ronnel Arryn?” He asked, “Whatever happened to Lady Lysa and Lord Robin and Denys Arryn?”

At this the whole hall burst into roars of laughter. “Where have you been Imp?” One Frey cried as tears streamed from his eyes. “Both Denys and Lysa are dead, Lady Lysa by Lord Stark and Lord Denys by your own sister! As for the boy, no one knows where that bastard has gone.”

Tyrion frowned as he took in this news. “Well then,” he said once the laughter had died down enough for him to be heard, “I guess it is time we negotiate then.”

“Negotiate?” Lord Walder asked, “Whatever for? The way I see it, it is simple. We clap you in chains and see you to Ronnel Arryn. We hears he has a penchant for Lannister blood at the moment.”

To Tyrion’s surprise though, no one moved to do such an act. It seemed the decision had not yet been made. “Why haven’t you then?” Tyrion asked.

At this question, Lord Walder’s face puckered like a fish. “Arryns.” He snorted with disdain, “proud and splendid, blathering on about their honour. Lords of the Eyrie, Protectors of the Vale, and recently Hands of the King, great jobs those two have done!” He cackled. “One died, pushing the realm to the brink of war, and the other pushed it off the brink! They think they’re so great, they can come and ask for my help if they want it so badly!” He snorted angrily. “Not even a rider!” He exclaimed, “Not even a raven!”

“Well here I am.” Tyrion stated. “Asking for your help.”

“And yet what is the point?” Lord Walder asked, “Why would I help you when the fall of your house seems to be nigh?”

Tyrion laughed out aloud at that. “Any man who discounts my father so cheaply must not value his life very much. Ronnel Arryn is a boy, my father a veteran of three wars, and more battles than most men in this realm. When the time comes, my father will emerge victorious as he always has.”

Lord Walder nodded at Tyrion. “That’s a fair point.” He groused, “But I still ain’t sending any of my troops to die for your father. I’d say your father has a lot of battles to lose before he has any hopes of winning this one.”

“Perhaps.” Tyrion replied with a lot more conviction than he felt, “But he will win it regardless.”

“I’ll get you to the other side of the river.” Lord Walder said. “But if your father loses this war, you were never here. Do you hear me?”

“Aye.” Tyrion replied. “I hear you. There’s many boats around this part isn’t there? Jyck here, knows how to handle one of them, don’t you Jyck?”

At Tyrion’s prodding Jyck nodded. “Aye.” He exclaimed. “I do.”

Lord Walder nodded. “Good. Get out of here then. I have no more need for you in my hall.”

And with that, his meeting with Lord Walder was over. As quickly as the Frey’s had come they disappeared and Tyrion found himself beside Ser Stevron once more, riding his horse over the Green Fork, until he was safe on the Western Bank of the river.

“Thank you, my lord of Frey.” Tyrion cried as he and his two companions, along with two sellswords Tyrion had managed to secure the services of, rode away from the dismal castle and on towards safety hopefully.

Two weeks passed by, and Tyrion had never seen a more beautiful sight than the one of his father’s war camp outside the walls of Riverrun. Never had tents looked so enticing and smoke smelt so good.

They were met by outriders led by Ser Flement Brax more than a mile from the camp. The fact that Tyrion had managed to get so close without being approached before greatly concerned him. Tyrion was not as versed in the arts of war as his father, but if Tyrion could get this close without wanting to hide, how close could their enemies get?

“Lord Tyrion.” Ser Flement exclaimed when he saw him. “We thought you to be in chains!”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Tyrion replied. “I’m sure my father will have much to say on the matter. Will you take me to him?”

“As you say, my lord.” Ser Flement replied, before turning his horse around and guiding them back towards the Lannister camp. He called to the sentries manning the fortifications and three lines of pickets were removed to allow them access.

Lord Tywin’s camp was sequestered on the western bank of the Green Fork, and stretched over several leagues. The sellsword Bronn had estimated the camp to be twenty thousand when he had first spied them encampment from afar, and Tyrion guessed that he could not be far off. The common men were camped out in the open, but the knights had thrown up tents and some of the High Lords had erected pavilions as large as houses. Tyrion spied the red ox of the Presters, Lord Crakehall’s brindled boar, the burning tree of Marbrand, the badger of Lydden.

Over the banks of the river, Riverrun loomed ominously. All its gates were barred shut, and defenders walked its walls. The fact that two of those walls were not under siege did not seem to occur to the castle’s defenders, whom instead seemed to keep just as vigilant watch on the empty east as they did the lion filled west.

He found his father’s pavilion erected in the centre of the camp, larger and grander than any other pavilion Tyrion had seen. Outside, a pair of house guards in crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms stood guard under inn’s sign, on either side of the doorway. Tyrion recognised their captain. “My father?”

“In the common room in the middle, m’lord.”

“My men will want meat and mead.” Tyrion told him. “See that they get it.” He entered the tent, stepped through a silken door, and there was Father.

Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, was in his middle fifties and yet hard as a man of twenty. Even seated, he was tall, with long legs, broad shoulders and a flat stomach. His thin arms were corded with muscle.

Ser Kevan sat beside him, and it was him who saw him first.

“Uncle.” Tyrion greeted as his uncle’s eyes rose in surprise. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Tyrion!” His uncle cried as he got to his feet. “We thought you captured or…worse.”

Tyrion smiled at his father, who had not moved a muscle since Tyrion had entered the tent, save for his eyes which followed Tyrion’s movements coldly. “Sorry to disappoint.” He chuckled darkly, “Though a few times it came quite close. Though not as close as it has come for Jaime, aye?”

“Jest all you want,” His father snarled, “But you will not jest of that!”

Tyrion shrugged. “It’s either laugh or cry. Jaime would have wanted me to laugh.”

“He shouldn’t want you to do anything. He should be here now, leading hosts in my name. Instead I’ve got you. What am I to do with you in war?”

Tyrion tried not to let his anger or shame show on his face, but from the way his uncle looked at him, Tyrion guessed he had failed. “How is your war going?”

Tyrion noticed anger play across his father’s features, while his uncle winced. When no response was forthcoming, Tyrion saw fit to provide his own. “That bad is it?”

Father nodded at Uncle Kevan, and Kevan unrolled the map at his side. “It’s rapidly going from bad to worse. When your brother was captured, it took us time to assemble our armies. Your father sent two vanguards too break the Arryn host, one under Ser Addam Marbrand, the other under Ser Gregor Clegane. Both were defeated, Ser Addam was captured and Ser Gregor beaten off. Lord Tully refused to call his banners in aiding either side so much of the riverlords have taken to declaring for one side or the other themselves. Bracken and Blackwood have taken the opportunity to rekindle their old conflict, while The Blackfish has gathered an army of woodsmen to his cause and is harassing us everywhere we turn. He’s been killing our outriders, looting our baggage trains and disrupting our supply lines. He is the reason that this is a half assed siege. The only positive is that he is harassing the Arryn’s in equal measure.”

“And how is our dear friend, Ronnel going?”

“As well as can be for a boy so green he pisses grass.” His uncle replied. “The Arryn’s are sweeping west and south, intent on crushing us and Joffrey and anyone else who gets in their way.”

“And that’s not even the worst of it.” His father finally spoke. “Renly has declared himself a king, wedding the Tyrell wench and gaining the banners of the Reach. My scouts and spies suggest his host is as much as 80,000 strong.”

Tyrion whistled lowly. That was an impressive number, larger than even the host that Aegon the Conqueror had defeated on the Field of Fire. “What of Stannis though?” He queried, “Has he sat by and let his younger brother take his crown?”

“Joffrey’s crown.” Father snapped back, and Tyrion nodded in agreement. “And as for what he has done…well he is the most dangerous of them all. Of all them, he is the true enemy, the one that I fear.”

“What has he done?” Tyrion asked, fear creeping into his own voice. Any man his father feared, was one to watch.

“The Spider has sent me many ravens. He speaks of ships and swords gathering to the isle, the strength of Blackwater Bay. He speaks of shipbuilding and the hiring of sellswords. He speaks of Stannis bringing a shadow binder from Asshai. Of those, I am not concerned. But the Spider says that the Onion Lord of the north has come to serve him.”

“The North has declared for Stannis?”

“Not yet.” Uncle Kevan replied. “Though what they plan to do is anyone’s guess.”

“The Onion Lord advised him to sign the services of Torrhen Snow. And he did.” His father declared, ignoring him and his uncle.

Tyrion’s heart dropped in his chest. Of all the foes Tyrion feared to face, Stannis and Torrhen were at the very top of the list, behind only The Burnt Lord and perhaps his own father. He could still remember the day that Torrhen Snow had sailed into Lannisport upon his Black Leviathan, bringing treasures and rarities from beyond the Sunset Sea, the first man in history to do so. “That is…”

“The bitterest of blows.” His father admitted, “I had hoped to win him to our side, and had already sent the envoys. He alone could have ended Stannis for us, and instead he may be the one to end us.”

“Is it that bad?” Tyrion asked. For his father to admit that they might not win this war, was like the sky falling on all of their heads. Something no man expected to see.

“Worse.” His uncle replied. “Cersei has run King’s Landing into the ground. Denys and Alys Arryn, dead. Mark Ryswell, dead. Ser Barristan Selmy, dismissed and now missing.”

“Dead, dismissed and missing?” Tyrion asked.

“Aye.” His father growled, his voice tense with anger. “Madness. Rank Madness. Selmy lent honour to the name of any king whom commanded him, and Ryswell was a fine sword and a finer rider. Commoners and Lords alike loved him, as did the northmen.”

His hand curled into a fist. “And now his death haunts us…The Crag has been sacked and taken in his name. Four days ago three and a half thousand northmen fell upon it, led by three boys.”

“It’s another grievous blow.” His uncle confessed. “They are led by Asher Forrester, Edric Darkstark and Rickon Riverstark. It was the Riverstark ships that got them there.”

“So the North has entered the war then?” Tyrion asked, dreading the answer. “Will the Neck soon erupt with banners of white and grey?”

“Thank the gods not.” His father replied. “Lord Stark has advised me that he will be staying neutral in the conflict for now, but he has sent envoys to each and every declared king in this war. Our envoys await us in King’s Landing supposedly. Who they are, I do not know. You will find out soon enough, I suppose.”

“And what of the Greyjoys?” Tyrion asked, “Have they picked a side yet, or crowned one of their own?”

His father looked at him strangely. “I will deal with the Greyjoys. I hope to make friends of them. If they can keep Renly occupied until we have either dealt with the Arryn boy or Stannis we will have done well for ourselves.”

“The Ironborn are our enemies though.”

“They were the Stark’s too yesterday. Now their houses are as close as can be. Tomorrow they will be as close to us as well. With what I have offered them, they cannot refuse.”

“Do we march for King’s Landing then?” Tyrion asked.

“You do.” Father replied as he turned around.

“I do?” Tyrion exclaimed, “What am I meant to do in King’s Landing?”

“Rule.” His father replied curtly.

Tyrion hooted with laughter. “My sweet sister may have a word or two to say about that!”

A sneer flickered across his father’s features. “Let her say what she likes. Her son needs to be taken in hand before he ruins us all. Half the small council is missing as well, they will need replacing.”

“Who will?”

“Baelish was killed by Lord Stark, Pycelle by Denys Arryn. Stannis and Renly were the other two members. All we have left to us is Lord Varys. No wonder Joffrey is making so many mistakes. He needs a firm hand to keep him in line. If Cersei cannot curb the boy, you must. And if anyone is playing us false…”

Tyrion knew. “Spikes.” He sighed. “Heads. Walls.”

His father nodded approvingly. “Try not to make us anymore enemies while you are there. We have enough as it is. If you can, pay off the North and Dorne with seats on the council. Keep them out of the war, or even better bring them into the war on our side. Be careful though, we have no friends in either places.”

“We have no friends anywhere it seems.” Tyrion remarked. “But I will do my best to make us some.”

---

“You!” Cersei cried as soon as she saw him, “What are you doing here!?”

Tyrion grinned crookedly. “I’m here to deliver a letter from Father.” He plucked the sealed scroll from his sleeve and extended it to her, for her to read. She glared at him, before plucking the scroll from his fingers and breaking the seal.

While she busied herself reading it, Tyrion found himself a bottle of wine and settled into a comfy couch. The ride from Riverrun had been long and hard, and Tyrion had feared he wouldn’t make it. Falcons and Fish were nowhere to be found though, and Tyrion’s journey had been as uneventful as a journey could be when a war was being waged.

“Has father lost his senses? Or did you forge this letter?” She read it once more, with mounting annoyance. “Why would he inflict you on me? I wanted him to come himself.” She crushed Lord Tywin’s letter in her fingers. “I am Joffrey’s regent, and I sent him a royal command.”

“And he ignored you.” Tyrion pointed out. “He has quite a large army, he can do that. Nor is he the first. Is he?”

Cersei’s mouth tightened. He could see colour rising. “If I name this letter a forgery and tell them to throw you in a dungeon, no one will ignore that, I promise you.”

Tyrion smiled widely. “Please.” He begged, “Do it. Throw me in the cells. It’s a sight I would love to see!”

Cersei looked at him strangely. “Have you gone mad?”

“No.” Tyrion replied, “But it seems you have. Throw me in a Black Cell? Do you think father would just stand by and let you throw me in a cell? He’s already upset with you enough as it is.”

Cersei paled. “He is?”

Tyrion snorted. “Why wouldn’t he be? From memory his exact words were ‘Cersei has run King’s Landing into the ground.’ What was I to make of that?”

Cersei scowled. “It hasn’t been my fault. The Small Council is all but non-existent. All I have to help me run this kingdom is the eunuch and I grow sick of his voice. I want to tear his tongue out.”

“Best you don’t do that.” He replied casually. “That co*ckless wonder spins many stories that are crucial to the war effort.”

Cersei scoffed into her goblet. “What would you know of war?”

“Less than Jaime and more than you.”

Tyrion noted Cersei’s gaze tremble at the mention of their brother’s name. Cersei had always thought herself subtle, but Tyrion knew how to read her like a book.

“You want Jaime back.” Tyrion stated softly. “So do I.”

Cersei lifted her gaze to his.

“You want to see Joffrey remain on his throne.” Tyrion continued. “So do I.”

Tyrion took a sip of wine before continuing.

“You want to make father proud.” He stated. “So do I.”

Tyrion got to his feet and grasped his sister by the hand.

“You want to live.” He whispered. “So do I. Our goals are aligned Cersei. I’m only here to help, nothing more.”

Tyrion put on a madman’s grin. “You can call me am monster, but I am your monster. You call me cunning and I am. I will do everything within my power to see House Lannister survive this war and Joffrey and you as well.”

After a long moment of silence, finally Cersei deigned to respond. “It may be worth the trying, but make no mistake, Tyrion. You shall be the King’s Hand in name, but my Hand in truth. You will share all your plans and intentions with me before you act, and you will do nothing without my consent. Do you understand?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Do you agree?”

“Certainly.” He lied. “I am yours, sister.”

For as long as I need to be.

“So now that we are of one purpose, we ought to have no more secrets between us. How did you kill Robert?”

“He did that himself. All we did was help. When Lancel saw that Robert was going after boar, he gave him strongwine. His favourite sour red, but fortified, three times as potent as he was used to. The great stinking fool loved it. He could have stopped swilling it down any time he cared to, but no, he drained one skin and told Lancel to fetch another. The boar did the rest. You should have been at the feast, Tyrion. There has never been a boar so delicious. They cooked it with mushrooms and apples, and it tasted like triumph.”

“Truly, sister you were born to be a widow. Now if we are done, I will be off.”

“Where are you going?” Cersei asked, “I haven’t given you leave to depart.”

“Father tasked me with bringing either the North or Dorne into the fold with us, and I hear that two northmen are fresh in the city.”

And with that, Tyrion left. Outside Cersei’s room Tyrion nodded to Ser Mandon and made his way down the long vaulted hall. Bronn fell in beside him. Of Chiggen there was no sign. “Where’s our friend?”

Bronn shrugged. “Not sure. He got bored of waiting around. He felt an urge to explore.”

“I hope he doesn’t steal anything important.” Tyrion sighed. “Try to find him. And while you are at it, send someone to find these two northmen that Lord Stark sent. Have them brought to me in the Tower of the Hand.”

Bronn nodded and strode away, while Tyrion continued on to his new quarters in the Tower of the Hand. He had barely gotten himself acquainted with his new chambers before he heard a knock on the door and in strode Bronn with the two northmen that Lord Stark had sent as envoys.

“I found them, m’lord.” Bronn stated, “Not far from here.”

“Yes.” Tyrion stated as he observed the two with unease. “You found them.”

Domeric Bolton stepped forth and extended a hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Tyrion.” He said in his soft voice. His pale eyes shimmered unnaturally, while his paler skin seemed to glow. “I’m afraid we didn’t get much of chance to talk while you were at Winterfell.”

“No.” Tyrion said as he shook the hand and turned his gaze to the other. “We didn’t.”

“Lord Tyrion.” Ramsay Snow said as he smirked at him. He was clearly lowborn, his voice being much different to his brothers and there was something frightening about the way he smiled and the way his eyes shifted.

Tyrion hadn’t met these two before at Winterfell, but he had heard much about Lord Bolton’s boys. Dangerous, deadly and powerful, the two half-brothers were as feared as any other in the north. Their relationship was as queer as it was strong, and Tyrion knew few who did not shiver at the name Bolton and shudder at the name Ramsay.

“My Lords,” Tyrion greeted, “We have much to discuss, please…take a seat. Bronn, tell someone to fetch some wine and food.”

Bronn rushed away and Domeric and Ramsay lowered themselves into the chairs Tyrion had drawn up for them.

“Tell me,” Tyroin stated while they waited on wine, “what is your liege lord’s stance on the war within the south, here?”

Domeric and Ramsay glanced at each other and a full conversation seemed to be had in the span of a few moments, before both turned to him and Domeric spoke. “He is against it, Lord Tyrion. War is a horrible thing, as he well knows. He wants nothing to do with it. He wants no northern men or woman to die in the south anymore.”

“So why then have three and a half thousand northmen fallen upon the Crag and sacked it, and even as we speak raiding and raping their way through the Westerlands.”

Domeric frowned. “They have nothing to do with us. They have acted outside the authority of Lord Stark and he has forsworn them all as oathbreakers and traitors. If any of them survive the war, they will not be welcomed home.”

“Why then?” Tyrion asked, “Do you know why they attacked?”

“Of course I do.” Domeric replied. “Your brother killed Mark Ryswell, did he not?”

“He didn’t.” Tyrion lied. “The grievous act was done by one of Lord Arryn’s guardsmen. Jamie saw it with his own ey-“

A dagger slammed into the table. “For every lie you tell me, I will tear one of your fingernails out.” Ramsay stated casually as he watched Tyrion over the pommel of the knife.

“Mark Ryswell was the uncle of both Rickon Riverstark and Edric Darkstark.” Domeric continued flatly, “And Asher Forrester loved him as an uncle of his own. Mark Ryswell was loved throughout all the north. When they put forth the call to avenge him many came.”

Tyrion continued to stare at Ramsay in horror, who only stared back at him.

“Please excuse my brother, Lord Tyrion.” Domeric said when Tyrion continued to stare only at Ramsay, “I apologise if his outburst surprised you, but he doesn’t like liars.”

Tyrion turned back to Domeric, but kept an eye on Ramsay. “No need to apologise.” He replied, “But from what I’ve heard your brother doesn’t like all sorts of men.”

Domeric smiled sadly. “Aye. Ramsay can be…temperamental at the best of times, but I assure you, all he does, he does to please our father.”

Tyrion smiled tightly. “That I can understand.” He raised his glass of wine in a toast. “To fathers,” He said, “Overbearing and otherwise.”

“To fathers.” Domeric echoed as he lifted his own glass of wine.

Ramsay Snow took no part in the toast, but he yanked his dagger from the table and returned it to his belt.

Tyrion poured both men another cup of wine, before settling back into his seat. “So tell me,” He said, “What does Lord Stark want to see?”

Domeric shrugged. “An end to the violence?” He suggested, “The disbanding of armies?”

“The quicker House Lannister prevails in this war, the quicker such things can happen.” Tyrion suggested back.

“Would they?” Ramsay asked, as he finally entered the conversation. “I’ve met the boy you would crown king over all of us. Those that lay claim to his crown are a lot more impressive than him. I’m yet to hear of Stannis beating young girls in his throne room.”

Tyrion stared into the contents of his cup. “From what I hear,” Tyrion replied, “He is not the only one in this city with a penchant for young girls.”

Ramsay burst into laughter, while Domeric’s lip curled downwards. “I don’t mind that he’s naughty, Lord Tyrion.” He chuckled darkly, “I just loathe that he’s sloppy.”

“Regardless,” Domeric interrupted, “He is a boy playing at being king. Three kings have claimed your nephew’s throne, what makes your nephew better than all of them?”

“What does Joffrey have?” Tyrion exclaimed. “He has the backing of House Lannister, the mightiest and richest of all the southern houses. He holds the Iron Throne and holds King’s Landing too. He is the true heir of Robert Baratheon, named and recognised before the sights of gods and men?”

“Is he though?” Domeric asked softly, “Rumours have been swirling. Letters have been sent. Lords and now Kings are claiming many things.”

“Careful, Lord Domeric.” Tyrion warned, “What you speak of is treason.”

“The same treason Mark Ryswell died for?” Ramsay asked.

Tyrion ignored the jibe and pushed on. “I want peace more than anyone.” He gestured to his small body. “This frame is not built for war. I am built for libraries and whor*houses, pleasure boats and feasting halls. I want peace between Starks and Lannisters, and I want to see the treaty King Robert and Lord Stark signed.”

Domeric started at this, and shifted in his seat. “You want to uphold the treaty?” He asked.

“Aye.” Tyrion implored. “I will uphold the treaty. Take a seat on the small council, Lord Domeric. I will see you named as Master of Laws, and as long as I sit on the council, you too will have a seat beside me.”

“And what do you want in return?” Domeric asked.

“The North Remembers they say.” Tyrion stated, “Remember my kindness when another king comes for this throne. Remember that House Lannister held to the treaties that came before us.”

Domeric nodded slowly. “I will.” He said as he got to his feet, “I don’t think I will ever forget you, Tyrion of House Lannister.”

Chapter 26: Viserys III: Widow's Watch

Chapter Text

In the distance Widow’s Watch burned. The gates of the Shivering Sea had well and truly been smashed open by Viserys and his armies, and it was a glorious sight to see. For so long, Viserys had been working towards such a time as this; a time when Westeros would tremble at his family’s name once more. And here he was taking the first step.

The Dovhakin rocked gently as she surged towards the beach where less than an hour before the majority of his fleet had landed, spilling his army onto Westerosi soil. Widow’s Watch had been caught unprepared, just as Viserys had planned. The gates had been shut, but not barred, and it only took two slams with their ram before they spilled open.

Viserys had watched with delight as his vanguard of six thousand had gotten into the castle, and then fought for it. Minutes later, his main force, another ten thousand men, arrived and then the battle was all but one. Pockets of resistance still held on parts of the walls, and in the main keep, but they would not last much longer.

“It is done, my king.” Ser Willem Darry said from where he stood beside him. “War will be had now, for good or for worse.”

“Aye.” Viserys replied. “War will be had. First for the Ursuper’s Cur and then for the Ursurper himself. I will see his corpse on the end of my blade before all this is done.”

“It will be a glorious day.” Ser Willam Darry affirmed. “The day when dragons retake what is rightfully theirs.”

The ship shuddered as it slid along the beach, before stopping. It was done. There was no going back now. Viserys drew his sword, and jumped from the side of the ship, onto the beach below. He dropped to his knees, and kissed the ground in front of him. The sand tasted of salt and rotting seaweed and grit, and yet Viserys had never tasted anything so sweet as this. This was his land, and he was glad to be back.

When he had last set foot on Westerosi soil he had been a boy of eight with a mother still and others as well. So many friends he had lost, so many friends he had made. But now he was back, and back with a vengeance. He got to his feet, and behind him the last remnants of his army spilled onto the beach as the rest of his ships beached themselves. A rear guard, four thousand strong, and now his entire army was here.

“Burn them all.” Viserys told Ser Willem as the last of his troops disembarked from the ships. “We will not run now. It will be to victory or to death. Burn all the ships, and let the ashes scatter to the wind. We will not run now.”

Viserys wasn’t sure why he repeated himself, all he knew was that never in his life had he been so scared or so excited. As Ser Willem Darry barked out commands to his personal guard, Viserys turned his attention to the burning castle before him. The stench of smoke and salt hung in the air, while the screams of the wounded and dying drifted by on the westerly wind.

As Viserys attempted the ascent up to the castle, the smells and sounds only grew stronger, and the first signs of blood and bodies could be seen. The furthest ones from the castle were clearly his own, but as they drew closer to the walls, the bodies became intermingled with those of the defenders.

Fire and Blood.

He had done what he had promised his mother all those years ago and brought fire and blood to those who had spurned them.

“Your grace!” Called Ser Jaremy Rykker, “Widow’s Watch is ours! All the defenders are dead or captured.”

“At what cost?” Asked Ser Willem, his voice grave. He knew war, he had seen it before. “How many of our own did we lose?”

“Sixteen.” Ser Jaremy replied with a wide grin. “Three of our own, nine sellswords and four of the Volantenes.”

“What of the Lord and Lady of this place?” Viserys asked. “Where are they?”

“Lord Flintstark is dead, your grace.” Rykker replied, “He chose to fight rather than surrender. It didn’t get him far. They shot him with crossbows. He didn’t even get to wet his blade. His wife died when we put the central keep to the flame.”

“Did they have any children then? Do we have any hostages?”

“One.” Rykker replied. “A boy named Cregan of five namedays. His brothers and sisters were all killed with their mother. We are holding him in one of the towers we didn’t burn.”

Viserys nodded slowly, considering his options. “Kill him.”

“Pardon?” Ser Jaremy asked, confusion and horror written onto the lines of his face.

“Kill the boy.” Viserys replied. “We have no need for him.”

“He’s a boy of five!” Ser Jaremy exclaimed. “You can’t mean to kill a boy of five!”

“Of course I do.” Viserys replied coolly. “Do you think the Burnt Lord would have had mercy for me had he captured me and my mother on Dragonstone? Of course not. When all is said and done, House Stark will be but a distant memory for Westeros. The boy is of House Flintstark is he not?”

“He is.” Ser Jaremy grudgingly replied.

“Then kill him.” Viserys stated. “Or tell me to get someone else to do it. I’m sure Corin Vardy would prove amenable.”

Ser Jaremy nodded stiffly before striding away. Viserys turned from him and to Ser Elyas Willam, the commander of his outriders and scouts. “Send out your outriders now to the west and north. I have no doubt that someone has seen the smoke and is coming to lift the siege of this place. I want to know who is and where they are coming from.”

Ser Elyas nodded, before mounting his horse and spurring it away and out the ruined gates of Widow’s Watch.

Runners were sent and the captains and commanders of his army were gathered in one of the still standing towers. They came when he called, Donarrio Heroti, Jamen Xan Xerox and Corin Vardy splattered in blood and gore and sporting cuts and bruises. Qavo Nogarys had fared the best of all his Essosi captains and you would not have known he had just fought a battle were it not for the long scratch that graced his shining silver breastplate. Lord Orton, Ser Willem and Ser Jaremy hadn’t been in the vanguard and thus hadn’t seen much of the fighting, though Ser Jaremy’s hands were stained with blood regardless. Viserys gave him an approving nod as he came in, but Ser Jaremy refused to nod back. His face was pale, and his eyes seemed to be in some distant place.

“Good Sers,” Viserys greeted them once they were all gathered, “It is done.”

“Your grace.” They responded in unison. “It is done.”

“We have landed.” Viserys warned them all. “For all of now, it is either to victory or death. The north remembers they say. If we lose our war, they will never forget what we did here, or what we are about to do. They will have no mercy for you. You are bound to me now, even more than you were before.”

“We have always been bound to you, your grace.” Lord Orton told him. “From your first day, to your last.”

It was not Lord Orton that Viserys was concerned about though. His loyalty was assured to him, as was the loyalty of all the westerosi exiles. They would know no peace while Robert sat the throne, only Viserys could see them delivered back to their homelands and titles.

The sellswords had nothing inhibiting them from betraying him though, nothing but for their oaths, which was only as good as the depth of his coffers. He watched all of them warily, Donarrio Heroti and Jamen Xan Xerox with their faces of stone and Corin Vardy too. Of all of them, he feared Vardy and his charming grins and easy laughs. Vardy’s loyalties were fickle, and his skill with a blade was as good as any that Viserys had seen. If any of these men were to betray him it would be Vardy, for sure.

“You are right, your grace.” Vardy spoke as poured himself a fine vintage of wine he had looted from the cellars. “Our cause is bound to yours. These northmen are vengeful, angry men. I know. I have worked and lived amongst them. There will be no mercy for any of us, if you are to lose.”

He drew his sword, and placed it at Visery’s feet. “Here is my sword. It is yours from this day, to your last. My men will march beside you in battle, while our counsel shall be yours in peace.”

“Rise, Ser Corin.” Viserys replied, “We have a war to plan. By now, Lucerys Velaryon’s ships will be sailing into the Bite, engaging the fleets of the Stark’s. Soon, Volantis’ armies will muster and march on King’s Landing. All of Westeros will tremble before us, but only if we can move before they have the time to gather back to strike at us.”

“Our goal is Moat Cailin.” Ser Jaremy Rykker said as he stepped forth. “Without it, our cause is doomed to failure. If anyone but us holds it, Westeros is not split in two, and we and our allies will be crushed by the might of a united Westeros.”

“That cannot happen.” Ser Willem Darry put in. “Westeros’ armies are vast and well equipped. We will have a hard enough time of subduing the north, let alone all the seven kingdoms.”

“We will though.” Viserys stated. “Mine is the blood of Aegon the Conquerer, Maegor the Cruel and Jaeherys the Conciliator. On my shoulders rest the legacy of a three hundred year dynasty. We will not falter now, not after all the highs and lows my house has been through. These kingdoms were destined to be mine, my mother promised them to me on my deathbed. I will take them, with fire and blood. Now tell me, my lords and sers, where goes our war from here?”

“We must burn it all.” Corin Vardy warned as he swept his hand over the map in front of them. “From here, to the kingsroad, we must take what supplies we can and burn what is left behind. If we leave anything behind, you can be assured the northmen will use it to fuel the armies they’ll use to crush us. I say we ride straight for Moat Cailin, bypass White Harbour entirely, and take them in the rear while their pants are still down.”

“A good plan.” Jamen Xan Xerox agreed. “Speed is of the essence now. We cannot afford to linger long in any place.”

“White Harbour won’t just sit on our hands and watch us pass though. They’ll ride out to meet us.” Donarrio Heroti stated.

“Good.” Qavo Nogaryos stated, speaking for the first time in a long time. When Qavo spoke, Viserys listened. He was learned in the ways of war. “We have twenty thousand men. White Harbour will not be able to field more than five. If they march out to greet us, we will crush them with four times their number and then White Harbour shall be ours too. If they take the wise course, and sit behind their walls, we march straight past and take Moat Cailin. Either way, we win. A great Victory shall be ours. By this time in a moon’s turn, either their greatest fortress or their greatest city will have fallen to us.”

At this Viserys stirred. “Why not do both?” He asked.

“Both?” Ser Willem asked, confused. “What for?”

“We’ll split the army up.” Viserys stated as he leant forward over the table, “Four thousand men under the command of Qavo Nogaryos will march on White Harbour, while another four thousand will march north for the Hornwood under the command of Ser Jaremy.”

“The Hornwood?” Corin spat, “What do we want with the Hornwood?”

“Nothing.” Viserys snarled, “But I want to draw the strength of White Harbour out from behind their walls. Qavo will join battle with them, and then stage a retreat, falling back north. Ser Jaremy will turn his host around, rejoin Qavo and crush the strength of White Harbour, while Ser Willem commands another four thousand against the city. The remaining eight thousand will do as we originally planned, duping the garrison of Moat Cailin into marching north, before doubling back and taking the fortress. We take White Harbour and make sure we get hostages. From what I know, Lord Manderly has two granddaughters. Their capture alive shall be key. With them in our grasp we can knock one of the most powerful houses of Westeros out of the war against us.”

Viserys’ new plan was met with silence.

“That’s a risky plan.” Corin Vardy eventually stated. “The chances of failure are high.”

“So too was our chances of surviving the march from Volantis to the Shivering Sea. We did it though. And we survived.” Viserys stared each of his men in the eye. “We aren’t going to win this war by playing safe. We have to take risks if we want to win. This is a big risk, but if it pays off, all of Westeros will tremble to hear our names. We do this plan, or we do no plan. We do this plan, or we die.”

One by one, his men nodded their assent. Some firmly, some with hesitation. Viserys nodded back at them. “Speed is key if we are to win. Tell your men to get a good night’s rest. We leave at first light in the morning.”

The captains nodded and rushed off to do as he bid. Ser Willem Darry stated behind, as did Ser Jaremy.

“Are you sure of this plan, your grace?” Ser Willem asked, “It is not often wise to change the plans of battle the moon before a battle.”

“Of course I’m not sure.” Viserys replied. “But what other choice do we have? I will not have any brand me a coward. I will not lose this war, I cannot afford to. For you perhaps there may be mercy. For me there will be none. I will only find a quick death if Lord Stark is feeling merciful and a long one if he is not.”

“You are preparing to lose.” Ser Jaremy stated, and Viserys snarled at the knight. “I am preparing to win.”

The door opened, and Ser Elyas Willam stepped into the room. His blade was drenched in blood, but his face was flushed with victory. “Our outriders caught wind of three different hosts gathering in three different places. We fell upon all of them, one by one, and crushed them all. Three hosts of five hundred men each, all gone.”

Viserys nodded. “You have done well, Ser Elyas. I will remember your service. Now leave me, all of you. I would have some alone time with Ser Willem.”

The other two knights left, and Ser Willem sat down in the chair next to Viserys. “Tell me the truth, Ser Willem, what do you think of my new plan?”

Ser Willem looked thoughtful for a moment, before turning to the boy he had known from birth. “Like all of your grand plans, Viserys, if it works, it will prove you to be one of the greatest military minds in history. If it doesn’t work…well then we all die.”

Viserys hummed and closed his eyes.

“I do have one question though.” Ser Willem queried, “You spoke much of which troops would be going where and who would be leading them, but throughout your entire plan, I never heard where you would be.”

Viserys’ eyes snapped open and he stared at the point on the map where he would be going. “I will be going to pay back some debts.” He snarled as he stabbed the map with point of his finger. Under the red dot that represented the city, the name of the place was written in glossy black ink.

Winterfell.

Chapter 27: Robb II: The Summer Kingdom

Chapter Text

Around Robb, steel crashed on wood and the grunts and screams of fighting and wounded men. He was in the middle of the crush of men, his sword in his hand and his shield strapped to his arm. At his back, Wylis Manderly grunted and hacked at the opponent he was facing.

Through the slit of Robb’s visor, he noted a new challenger approaching. If this knight had shown up in the training yard in the North, he would have been laughed right out of it. His armour was silver, and decorated with sapphires and twining black vines, while on his back rested a cloak of forget-me-nots swen to a heavy woollen cloak. Golden roses decorated the crest of his helm, yet there was nothing amusing about the length of deadly steel that shimmered and shined in his hands.

Robb in contrast, must have looked like a pauper to those watching. He was only dressed in worn plate armour, with a coat of black mail and a simple helm of good steel. His sword did not shimmer and shine, and yet it was no less dangerous or deadly than the blade of his opponent.

“Fight me, Robb Snow!” The knight before him cried as he raised his sword and shield.

Robb grinned savagely behind his helm. If this one wished to make this fight personal, then so be it. The blood began to pound through Robb’s ears and his heart beat faster and faster in his chest. He raised his own sword and leapt into a run to meet the knight before him. His feet pounded along the soft turf, while the wind whistled through the slits in his visor.

With a crash, he fell upon his opponent, his blade flashing downwards in a dangerous arc towards the knight’s head. The knight managed to raise his blade to block it, but he had not the strength to hold the force of the blow, and instead thrust the blow aside.

Robb’s blade fell to the side, while the Knight of Flowers thrust back at Robb. Robb caught the blade in his gauntlet before slamming his shield into the other knight’s breastplate. The other knight, stumbled back, driven away by the strength of Robb’s blow and Robb noted with a hint of satisfaction that the other knight was winded.

Robb padded forward slowly, circling to the knight’s left. Around him, the tumult of the melee was dying down and he noted the numbers of men on the sidelines growing. Behind him, he heard movement, a squishing of mud between boots and instinctively ducked. The blade sailed over where his head had been moments before, and he rammed upwards into shoulder of the knight that had attacked him from behind.

The knight was tall and wrapped in enamelled blue plate armour. The armour was worn, covered in chips and dents and gouges. Clearly this one had been where the fighting had been fiercest. The knight’s cloak was little more than rags, but the edge of the blade he held was still as sharp as ever. Behind him, he heard the other knight getting back his bearings. Robb had to end this quick. He doubted the two of them would be kind enough to finish each other off, before the survivor turned for him. Doubtless it would be the other way around.

The blue knight took a step to Robb’s right, putting Robb more directly in between the two other survivors.

Robb turned his head to check where the Knight of Flowers was, and that was when the blue knight struck. He barrelled into him from behind, driving him to the floor. They tumbled around on the floor, exchanging punches, kicks and gouging at each other’s armour, trying to find a weak spot.

Robb managed to get one foot under the blue knight’s stomach and he kicked out with all his might. The blue knight sprawled backwards, into the mud, while Robb scrambled to find his sword. He found the hilt of one, in the mud, but it wasn’t his own. He picked it up all the same, and spun just in time to catch the blade of the Knight of the Flowers who had chosen this moment to re-enter the fray.

With a growl of anger, Robb lashed out with the blade. He swung powerful, sweeping arcs that drove the Knight of the Flowers back across the yard. The Knight tripped on something and fell backwards and Robb didn’t hesitate to end it there. His sword flashed down, but he was stopped when a blade crashed into the side of his helm. He stumbled to the side, his head ringing.

Grunting and shaking his head to clear it, Robb found himself beginning to get frustrated. He felt something bubbling within his chest, and he ripped off his helm and pitched it at the blue knight, before tackling the Knight of Flowers to the ground.

He wrenched off the helm of the knight beneath him and began pounding his fists into the other knight’s face.

“Loras!” Came a cry from the gallery, “Loras!” The voice was soft, and effeminate.

The voice seemed to stir something within the knight beneath him and Loras Tyrell flashed out with his own fist and caught Robb on the jaw. Robb punched Loras one final time, harder than he ever had before, and this time the Knight of the Flowers didn’t punch back. Robb grunted and rolled off him, before getting back to his feet.

The blue knight was watching him warily, pacing on the edges of his vision, his sword still clutched in his hands. Robb smiled, blood dribbling from where he had bitten his tongue when Loras Tyrell had punched him back.

“Well done.” He told the blue knight, “You’ve outlasted them all, but you won’t outlast me.”

The blue knight didn’t deign to respond, only continued to pace on the edges of his vision. Robb shrugged and retreated from the blue knight. The blue knight followed up, determined to push the advantage, but Robb had found what he was looking for. Crouching into the yard, he picked up a discarded long handled hammer. He wasn’t used to this weapon, but he had seen Gendry wield one enough that he felt he knew the basics. Hammers weren’t like swords after all, you needed no skill, just an ungodly strength.

Robb reached deep inside of himself and drew on all his rage and anger, and the reserves of energy he felt that were depleted. With a roar he launched himself back at the blue knight, determined to end the fight in one powerful swing.

The head of the hammer came around upon the knight’s left side, and he tried to dodge it. The hammer struck true though and the blue knight tumbled to the floor, dazed and clutching his arm. He groaned and rolled onto his back. “I yield.” Robb heard, and he nodded in satisfaction before dropping the hammer and turning to the king and queen who watched it all.

King Renly Baratheon looked absolutely delighted, a wide smile playing across his features while he clapped in congratulations. Next to him, his queen looked greatly displeased. She very pretty, with a doe’s soft eyes and a mane of curling brown hair that fell about her shoulders in last ringlets. Her smile was shy and sweet, though her dainty lips and delicate brow were curled into a frown at this moment.

Robb bared his bloody grin at the pair of them, before spitting a wad of blood and saliva out of his mouth and onto the ground next to him. He fell to one knee before them both.

“You were all Lord Tarly promised you to be and more!” Renly cried at Robb. Lord Randyll Tarly nodded at that, his mouth set in a grim line, and Robb nodded at the Lord of Horn Hill in appreciation. “Rare is the man who can fend of Ser Loras, and rarer the man that can fend of both Ser Loras and Brienne of Tarth.”

At the last knight’s name, the crowd erupted in jeers and cheers. A Beauty! A Beauty! They cried and Robb frowned.

“Pardon, your grace?” He asked as he turned to the blue knight who was limping away, “Did you say…Brienne?”

The blue knight turned at the mention of his name. The poor man looked defeated, cradling his injured arm and stooped over in shame and defeat.

“Good ser!” Robb cried as he approached the blue knight. “Remove your helm so I may see the face of the man who fought so well. It has been a long time since I have been challenged in the way you challenged me.”

The knight shook his head, and went to turn away, but Robb caught the knight by his good arm and pulled him back towards the king. “Come!” Robb cried, loud enough for all to hear. “The king must meet such a fine fighter as yourself. Remove your helm, good ser, so all here may know your name!”

The knight reached up and pulled his helm from his head, except it wasn’t a he beneath the helm, but rather a she.

“My…lady?” Robb asked with a confused glance at the king. The lady only knelt before her king in response, her head bowed in deference. When Robb saw her face he understood why men called her a beauty. It wasn’t said with love, it was spoken with mocking. She had shoulder length hair, blonde and brittle, while her features were broad and coarse and covered in freckles. Her teeth were prominent and crooked, and Robb pitied her more than any other in this camp of corpses.

“You are a fine fighter, Lady Brienne.” Robb told her, “Few I have faced have given me the challenge you have. You remind me a bit of a good friend of mine, Lady Dacey Mormont. Like you, she fights alongside men, and does it well too.”

Brienne nodded her head slightly, though she still looked sad.

“Not as well as you do though, Lord Robb!” Renly cried from his throne, “The last of one hundred and nineteen mounted riders! Name any boon of me, and if it is within my power I shall grant it to you!”

Robb turned back to the king, as the poor girl went to slink away. “With all due respect, your grace, I have been ordered to not partake in any activities that may tie me to the cause of one king, and thus I cannot accept such a boon. In my place, I beg you grant the boon to the lady Brienne of Tarth. She fights as well as any other I have faced, and you would find few who could have defeated her on this field here today.”

Renly laughed as Brienne turned around in shock. “Well said, Lord Robb, well said. You are a shining light of chivalry, and all men could take lessons from you. You are right I believe. If you forfeit your prize as victor, then it falls to Brienne of Tarth to claim the prize as the winner of second place.”

“Only because she hung in the back while the true men fought!” Someone cried behind him, and Robb whirled round. “Who said that?”

No one responded. “Who said it!?” Robb roared. “Come down here, and face her yourself you craven dog! I fought against both Ser Loras and Lady Brienne. She may not be the better swordsman, but she is the better warrior!”

Whomever had called it, refused to respond and Robb turned back to Brienne and the King. “The boon is hers, your grace.”

Renly nodded before turning to Brienne himself. “As the champion of the great melee at Bitterbridge, you may ask me of any boon that you desire. If it lies in my power, it is yours.”

“Your grace,” Brienne answered, “I ask the honour of a place among your Rainbow Guard. I would be one of your seven, and pledge my life to yours, to go where you go, ride at your side, and keep you safe from all hurt and harm.”

“Done.” He said, “Rise, rise as Brienne the Blue, a knight of my seven.”

When Renly cut away her torn cloak and fastened a rainbow in it’s place, Brienne of Tarth looked as though the world had been served to her on a platter. Her smile was proud, and her voice was strong as she said, “My life for yours, your grace. From this day on, I am your shield, I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Around them, the press of observers and men melted away, while Robb sought out Wylis Manderly and his own men.

His father had given him two hundred Winter Wolves too serve as an escort while he was in the south. They were captained by Wylis Manderly, who had proven himself a fine fighter, and a finer eater. Renly had placed him and his men in a place of privilege close to Renly’s own pavilion. As his father had told him, Renly was doing much to curry favour with Robb, and in turn no doubt he hoped to curry favour with his father.

“Lord Robb!” Wylis Manderly cried, and he emerged from the press of men, his wide frame and broad belly serving as a ram to push him through. “Come, come, the men caught a stag for us! We shall eat well tonight!”

Robb smiled at the captain of his men, before following him across the camp. Around him the men of the Reach congratulated him on his win and patted his back. Some japed with him, some laughed with him, but all of them scraped before him.

They feared him, he knew it.

It was Lord Tarly’s fault, well Lord Tarly’s and his father’s. Lord Tarly had told not a soul of what had happened at the battle of God’s Eye and neither had his father. When facts lacked, men spread falsehoods and what great falsehoods had been spread.

Robb had heard a hundred different tellings of the tale, from an overwhelming crush of northmen to an army of wargs and skinchangers to an army of children of the forest and giants. Stories abounded freely, and those stories made men fear to make an enemy of him.

They arrived within the confines of their own tents and found that true to Wylis’s word, a stag was being turned over a spit, fine slices of venison already collected on a plate that had been set next to the cookfire.

Wylis Manderly chortled with delight when he saw them and hurried to take a seat by the fire. A squire brought him a flagon of wine, while another brought him the choice serving of the stag.

Robb turned away and returned to his tent, pulling off his dented and bloody armour and removing his chainmail and leathers. His tattered cloak fell to the floor, and Robb wiped down his torso with a wet cloth, inspecting himself for new wounds. Aside from a few bruises and a smattering of scratches, Robb wasn’t in too bad a state.

He placed on his surcoat, before exiting the tent. It had been late afternoon when the tourney had finished, and now it was early evening. The stars were just beginning to peek through in the sky and the horizon was painted in a myriad of pinks, oranges and reds.

“Come join us!” Wylis boomed when he emerged, “This venison is among the finest I have tasted!”

Robb smiled gratefully at the heir to White Harbour, before shaking his head and turning away. “I need to clear my head. I’ll be back in a little bit.”

Wylis shrugged and returned to his venison and wine, while Robb strode off to find some peace and quiet. His walk took him through the sprawling camp, until he was atop a hill overlooking it all. It gave him a fine view of the lands around, as well as the lone figure following him up the path.

Robb tensed and loosened the dagger in its scabbard at his waist, while the figure made their way up towards him. They were wrapped in a black cloak with a cowl that covered their form and hid their face in shadows.

It was only when the figure was almost next to him that he recognised who it was. “Queen Margaery” He greeted, with a dip of his head.

She tilted her head up to look at him, and Robb smiled at her warmly. She smiled back shyly, her dark hair framing her pretty face. “Lord Robb.” She greeted back with a coy smile.

“Where is your lord husband?” Robb asked as he looked around, “Does he often let his queen run around without an escort?”

Margaery laughed softly. “No he doesn’t.” She shrugged then, “But I doubt Renly will be missing me.”

“At this hour?” Robb replied, “I don’t know many men who wouldn’t be missing their lady wives at this time of evening.”

Margaery shrugged and looked over her shoulder. “Renly is at war. There will be time enough for that in peace.”

“If Renly makes it to the peace that is.”

“You don’t think he will.” She said it as a statement, not a question.

Robb smiled grimly. “No. He won’t.”

“What makes you so certain?” Margaery asked, “Renly is a true king, in name and countenance.”

Robb laughed at that. “And yet kings are coming to be as common as lords now. Renly is but one of five kings, and easily the least of them.”

“The least?” Margaery cried, anger clouding her soft features.

“The least.” Robb growled back. “Ronnel Arryn is waging a war and winning, while even Balon Greyjoy is beginning to stir on his isles. What he plans to do is anybody’s guess, but it won’t be good for anyone that doesn’t have salt and iron flowing through their veins. Joffrey, boy and coward he may be, but he holds the legal claim and the Iron Throne, something which your husband doesn’t have at all.” Robb shivered. “And Stannis? Stannis is the greatest and most dangerous of them all. With Torrhen Snow by his side, all of Westeros should be trembling. And what has Renly done?” Robb asked with a sneer. “He’s sat here playing at war, hosting tourneys and wasting enough resources to fuel my father’s armies for a year.”

“Stannis has a pirate prince.” Margaery scoffed, “Pirates are good for raiding, but not for war.”

“Torrhen is no pirate.” Robb replied. “Torrhen is a dangerous man, with more power than any man has the right to wield. As long as Stannis has him by his side, Stannis has the advantage in this war.”

“Torrhen has ships, I will give him that, but so do we.” Margaery boasted. “We have all the strength of the Shield Islands and the Arbour and the Mander behind us, close to three hundred ships!”

Robb roared with laughter at that statement. “Do you know who Torrhen’s father is?”

Margaery shook her head. “Not off the top of my head. Pirates don’t interest me, bastard pirates interest me even less.”

“Beron Saltstark.” Robb told her. “And Beron claims that Torrhen is ten times the admiral that he ever was. Do you know what Beron is famed for?”

“Sinking the Redwyne fleet.” Margaery replied in a small voice. “During the siege of Storm’s End.”

“Aye.” Robb glanced off to the river, where he could see the outlines of a few river barges resting on its banks. “He was outnumbered two to one. Odds could be worse, but they were still pretty formidable. And he won.”

“He won with the help of sorcery.” Margaery scoffed. “My father spoke of that night often. He spoke of a monster that came out of the water and swallowed the ships whole!”

Robb chuckled gently. “I see your father has a penchant for tales too. I’ve met your monster. In the north we call him Willy. He’s quite a friendly chap.”

“Friendly? Are you jesting with me?” Margaery looked at him askew. “Torrhen Snow doesn’t have one of those does he?”

“I don’t know.” Robb replied, “But I’ve always assumed they don’t call him the Black Leviathan for nothing.”

Margaery narrowed her eyes at him. “Now I know your jesting with me. Leviathan’s don’t exist.”

Robb only shrugged in reply. “Maybe they don’t, perhaps they do. It’s a big world out there, and I’ve only seen one very small corner. Perhaps somewhere out there, there is leviathans and dragons and half a hundred other mythical beasts. Who knows? Perhaps to them, humans are mere myths?”

Margaery giggled softly. “What a strange notion.” She told him.

“Almost as strange as you being married to a sword swallower.”

Robb’s statement cut through the air like a sword, and Margaery stared at him with wide eyes. Robb reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair away. “I know a thousand men that would die to hold a woman like you in their arms.”

“Don’t.” Margaery snapped sharply as she slapped his hand away. “I don’t care to hear your lies, regardless of what truths you think you know.”

At this Robb laughed. “Then you’re wiser than all the other women I have lain with.”

“And has it been many?” She challenged him.

“Enough.” Robb shrugged. “Most of them are falling over themselves as soon as I say that very line.”

“And most women are fools, little more than pawns in a game.” Margaery huffed. “I don’t want to be a pawn though. I want to be more than that.”

“You want to be a queen.”

“No.” Margaery told him. “I want to be the queen.”

At this Robb smiled sadly. “Well best of luck to you then. With a husband like yours though, I doubt you will be one long.”

“You think this kingdom is doomed?” Margaery asked him, her eyes searching his.

Robb smiled strangely. It felt half a sneer, quarter of a smirk and all loathing. “We have a name for kingdoms such as your Lord Husband’s, Lady Margaery.”

“What do you mean?” Margaery asked, her soft features creased into a frown.

“In the North we call Kingdoms such as this one a summer kingdom.”

“A summer kingdom?”

“Aye.” Robb replied, his voice grave. “A summer kingdom, held together by a summer crown and protected by the knights of summer.” He gestured around him at the sprawling camp. On the evening breeze smatters of conversation and laughter drifted to the place where they both stood, overwatching it all. “They laugh and jest now, and they speak of the glories to come. They speak of the battles they will fight in, the men they will kill and the wars they will win. When the cold winds rise though, when the hard times come, these knights will fall and die like flies.”

“My husband’s host numbers one hundred thousand men. They will not fall or die easily.” Margaery boasted.

“They will.” Robb assured her, “They are treating this war as a tourney, where much honour and glory and riches are to be won. They don’t understand. War is no tourney. There’s no riches to be won, only lost.”

“What would you know of war?” Margaery scorned him, “You’re a boy of sixteen, scarce older than me. You’ve seen no wars, known no battles and killed no men. Who are you to lecture men such as these on war and battle?”

“No.” Robb replied softly, his voice sad. “I haven’t seen a true war. I know men who have though.” He shuddered involuntary. “Their stories didn’t leave me wanting to fight in war, only hoping I would never see one.”

Robb turned to Margaery and looked at her by the light of the moon. He smiled sadly at her. “And yet, here I am. Seeing a war I never hoped too.”

Margaery’s frown softened under Robb’s sad gaze, and she turned to observe the sprawling mass of men before her. “No one wants to see war.” She told him, “Lest of all me or my family. The Reach has always been famed for chivalry, not killing. But as you said, it is here, and we must deal with it nonetheless.”

“War can always be avoided.” Robb replied. “All it requires is men to sit down and talk.”

“Then tell your father to come and talk.” Margaery challenged him. “Tell him to come and talk to Renly, and how together they will forge a greater kingdom than any other kingdom that has come before, or shall come after. With your father’s armies and my husband’s own, none will be able to stand against us.”

Robb looked Margaery in her eyes, his eyes hard. “Rhaegar made the same offer to my grandfather, I am told. Rhaegar spoke to my grandfather of a dynasty that would last a thousand years, of how their names would be written into the history books, of how Westeros would become the centre of the world, its name known as far as the lands beyond the Jade Sea.”

Robb paused and sat down on the grass, and Margaery followed suit. “And what did your grandfather tell Rhaegar in reply?”

Robb smiled wryly. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“I guess.” Margaery replied with a small smile of her own, “But surely he must have spoken more words than just a no. He must have had words other than just a simple no to share with Rhaegar?”

“He never liked to speak of the war.” Robb shifted and lay down upon the soft grass. “I only ever heard him speak of Rhaegar to me and my brother once. He told us what Rhaegar’s last words were.”

“And what were where they?” Margaery queried, her doe’s eyes holding his captive. “Were they a last declaration of his love for a woman? A regret perhaps? A word of wisdom?”

“Nothing of the sort.” Robb replied. “All he ever said, was only a dragon can kill a dragon.” Robb frowned. “That was all he had to say from the Trident to King’s Landing, even as my grandfather plunged his black blade into his heart, allegedly.”

Margaery frowned. “Only a dragon can kill a dragon? What does that mean?”

Robb shrugged. “I don’t know. Neither did my grandfather. Were they words of knowledge or the mumblings of a madman? Who knows? Rhaegar is dead, and so too his legacy. Let it all rest. The Targaryen’s are gone. They are gone, and I would prefer to leave it that way.”

“Fair enough.” Margaery replied with a shy smile, before she collapsed down onto the grass next to him. “Let us speak of something happier. Tell me of what you wanted to be before the war came.”

“Before the war came?” Robb asked, “I wanted to be the Lord of Winterfell. I wanted to be a King. I wanted to be the greatest Northman to have ever lived. They were the dreams of a child though, and we are living in the realms of men now.”

Margaery looked at him askew. “By the gods you are grim.”

Robb burst into peals of laughter at the young queen’s statement. “Grim? My friends find me to be very light hearted I will have you know! My own brother considers me to be little more than a japing fool!”

Margaery laughed back at him, before getting back to her feet. “I must be gone before I am missed.” She told him. “I wanted to make my own measure of the envoy of the Lord of Winterfell.”

Robb waggled his eyebrows at her. “And have you?” He asked.

She smiled at him but didn’t deign to respond, before shrugging her dark cloak back on, and turning away. Just for a second, as she turned, the starlight reflected back at him in her doe’s eyes, while her soft lips were curled into a knowing smirk and Robb’s breath hitched in his throat.

She was different this girl.

“I warned you.” Robb told her, days later as the lords and soldiers packed their tents.

She looked at him, and for the first time he saw uncertainty in her doe’s eyes. “They’re yet to fall.” She told him. “Look at them.” She said as she pointed at her brother and the king, side by side. “There rides the chivalry of the Reach and the strength of the Stormlands.”

“There rides two corpses.” Robb replied, “Even if they do not know it yet. With Rodrick Greyjoy on the Shield Islands sits the raiders and reaver’s of the Iron Islands. Tried and tested warriors, each and every one. Many of them are the veterans of a hundred battles in Essos, most of them with the Company of the Rose.”

“My brother fears no Ironborn, tried and tested, greybeard or even ones as green as grass.” She challenged, iron in her tones. “As you said they are raiders and reavers, not warriors and knights.”

“Winter is coming, Margaery. And with winter, this summer kingdom shall come to an end.”

She threw him a reproachful look. “Why do you only spew prophecies of our doom? Is there nothing you see here that makes you think that we will survive the trials to come?”

“There is plenty.” Robb replied, “It is not your strength I doubt, but rather the weakness of your foes.”

She threw him a last look of anger, before turning and striding away.

“Lord Robb!” He heard, and he turned to see Renly striding towards him, dressed in green and gold armour. “Will you ride with us for the Shield Islands? Will you defend this realm from the enemies that besiege it?”

Robb shook his head, with a look of deep regret on his face. “Unfortunately not, your grace.”

“Balon Greyjoy and my uncle Brandon were said to be the closest of friends. I have no wish to draw ire from the living or dead by besmirching my blade with the blood of the Ironborn.”

Renly smiled sadly, before nodding and extending a hand. “This is farewell then. I shall see when I return to march my infantry on King’s Landing.”

“You will, your grace.” Robb replied. “Until then, good fortune in the wars to come.”

Chapter 28: Tommen I: The Ways of War

Chapter Text

When Tommen had first met Alaric he had thought he was cruel and bitter and not a little unlike Joffrey. Alaric’s eyes were often squinted in anger and his lips seemed to be curled in a permanent scowl.

It wasn’t until Artos Stark, Alaric’s older brother, had introduced the two of them properly that Tommen had discovered that perhaps there was more to Alaric Stark than met the eye. Tommen found that behind the bitter sneers and angry snarls was someone who cared deeply for his family, and had a love for wolves that rivalled Tommen’s love for kittens.

Their slowly blossoming friendship had been cemented when Alaric had gifted Tommen with a shadow cat cub. Tommen had named it Ser Pounce and it was the only shadowcat that any of the wolves that prowled throughout Winterfell seemed to be kind to. The howls of wolves and screams of the shadowcats often echoed around the city as they fought with one another.

Alaric had told Tommen that the wargs who controlled such animals had to be kept in separate barracks because often they would start fighting too. Alaric had told him that often the nature of a wargs companion could bleed into the warg, just as the wargs nature could bleed into his companion.

Tommen had stopped letting Ser Pounce sleep on his bed after that, though it was most probably for the best. Ser Pounce had very sharp claws that tore up all the cushions. The maid didn’t like it when Ser Pounce tore up the cushions.

“Tommen!” Ser Oswell cried as he rapped him across the head with his wooden training sword. “Focus.”

In the corner Ser Pounce took personal offence and came bounding over, his chubby little belly wiggling funnily. It leapt up and managed to snag the end of Ser Oswell’s coat, before growling and hissing and trying to pull Ser Oswell to the ground.

Ser Oswell clicked his tongue in annoyance, before gripping the little shadowcat cub by the scruff of his neck and lifting him off the floor. Ser Pounce growled and tried to bat at Ser Oswell with his paws, but he couldn’t reach.

Tommen couldn’t help but giggle, only adding to Ser Oswell’s annoyance. “Stupid cat.” He muttered as he flung it away into a nearby hay bale. “Stupid northerners. Stupid oversized pets.” He grumbled.

“Focus Tommen,” He barked, before turning to find Alaric, but Alaric had already gone. In the corner, his direwolf pup, Walton was being chased by the cook. It most probably had something to do with the oversized haunch of meat that it had clutched in its mouth.

Ser Oswell sighed in exasperation. “Why did I ever agree to this? Why don’t I get to guard the intelligent, coherent older brother? Why am I stuck with the eight year olds?”

He sighed and turned away. “It was the same when I was in the kingsguard.” He continued as he walked away. “I always got the sh*t jobs. Ser Oswell…go and find some food. Ser Oswell…go and set up camp. Ser Oswell…go guard the King as he enters the whor*house. And make sure you don’t get distracted too…”

Ser Oswell’s voice drifted away as he left and with a start, he noticed that Ser Oswell had given up on them. He turned around looking for Alaric, but he couldn’t see him anywhere. He couldn’t have gone far could have he?

“Alaric?” He called tentatively. “Alaric, where are you?”

“Up here.” He heard Alaric cry, and he looked up to see him crouched on the roof of the armoury, his white raven perched on his shoulder.

“What are you doing up there?” Tommen asked.

“Bad news has come.” Alaric replied as he watched the Maester’s Tower. “Look.” He pointed and Tommen turned to see a flurry of black ravens flying forth from the tower.

“Do you reckon my mother and father are alright?” Tommen asked. “Myrcella will be fine won’t she?”

Alaric looked down at him, but didn’t respond. After a moment, he rose to his feet. “What happened to Ser Oswell?”

“He left.”

Alaric grunted and swung over the side of the roof, before scaling the wall and jumping to the ground. “Come,” He said as he strode past him, “Let’s go to the godswood.”

Tommen trotted after him, and Ser Pounce pursued them both. They walked in silence. Something was wrong. Alaric had guessed it from the Master’s Tower and now they saw he was right. They passed by the guard barracks where men where shouting and saddling horses. In the blacksmith Mikken and all his apprentices were hard at work, fitting men and sharpening swords.

“What’s going on?” Tommen asked Alaric.

“Something is wrong.” Alaric repeated stubbornly. Then he paused and his face filled with concern. “Maybe Jon has been hurt.”

They came to the gates of the godswood and Alaric gestured for Tommen to be quiet. Together, the two of them came to the great weirwood where they found figures huddled around the tree, arguing.

Lord Stark was there, as was the Lady Ashara. So too was Artos and a small man that Tommen did not recognise. Tommen went to greet them but Alaric grasped him by the arm and pulled him into the shadows.

“How could have this happened?” Lord Stark was saying, “You told me he was dead!”

The small man scowled. “That is what I was told too.”

“You are meant to make sure that the reports you receive are true, and clearly the one you gave me was not!”

“I’m sure Bowen didn’t deliberately make the mistake.” Lady Ashara interrupted.

“Of course not!” Artos cried, “No one is disputing whether or not his incompetence wasn’t deliberate, but the North is still burning because of it! He failed at his task!”

The small man sneered at the young lordling, before a snake head slithered out of his cape and draped itself around his neck. It hissed at Artos and spat venom. “I won’t take insults from a boy so green he pisses grass!”

“Enough.” Lord Stark snapped. “It has happened. Fighting amongst ourselves does no one good.”

“We need Jon back, father.” Artos said as he turned to Lord Stark. “The Wall and the Night’s Watch can hold the Wildings. We need him back to fight the Targaryens.”

Next to him, Alaric stiffened. Tommen looked at him, confused. The Targaryen’s were meant to be dead and gone. Father had told him so. So too had mother.

“Viserys Targaryen is the greater threat.” The small man agreed. “He must be dealt with as soon as possible.”

Lady Ashara rubbed her temples. “How did this happen? Where are all the skinchangers under your command?”

“In the South, my lady.” Bowen replied. “That or watching Lucerys Velaryon wing his way into the Bite.”

“And Kyle Waterman?” She asked. “Where is he?”

“In the Bay of Krakens.” Lord Stark told her, his voice grave. “Along with half of our eastern fleet.”

Artos groaned and put his head in his hands. “This is horrible. Do we know where Viserys is now?”

“He should be within a day or two from Ramsgate.”

“Do they know he is coming?” Lord Stark asked.

“I don’t know.” Bowen replied. “Rider’s, ravens and wargs have been sent but I have no way of knowing if any of them have arrived.”

Lord Stark sighed and turned to look at the great weirwood that stretched into the sky behind them. At the bottom of the tree the skull grinned up at him, as if it was laughing at Lord Stark’s sadness. “This is a tragedy.” He said. “Not since before the conquest have enemies set foot on Northern soil. We must rebuff him, and fast. We need to set a perimeter now, and stop him and his men from breaching it.”

“How much land shall we be prepared to lose though?” Artos asked.

“It is not the land I am worried about.” Lord Stark replied. “Land can be reclaimed, it is the people. Most of our population lives on the prime farmland that is in the region that Viserys Targaryen has just attacked. It will take perhaps a year or two to reclaim the land from destruction. It will take decades to replace those people.”

“We must evacuate them all, before Viserys turns inland and wreaks havoc upon them.”

“Yes.” Artos exclaimed. “We need to move them all. We’ll tell them to pack up and leave. Head for the big cities and holdfasts. White Harbour, the Hornwood, Oldcastle, Hell Hold and Bloody Hall.”

“What they can’t take, they will need to burn.” Bowen warned. “Anything they leave behind, Viserys will use.”

“The cost though…” Lady Ashara muttered. “It will be astronomical…and winter is coming.”

Lord Stark looked up. “Order Lord Bolton to march down and reinforce the Hornwood. Tell him to stop Viserys from marching further North at all costs. Order Galbart Glover to march and reinforce Torrhen’s Square. The Wintercity and Barrowton must muster all our forces. We will be the perimeter. Viserys cannot be allowed to break further into the North.”

“And those in between? What of White Harbour?”

“As Artos said, they need be evacuated.” Lord Stark said. “Send the Winter Wolves out. They are to make sure that all the villages and towns are fully abandoned. No one gets left behind. They will need to take them to all the major holdfasts and cities.”

“That will put a large strain on supplies.” Lady Ashara warned. “We may not be able to feed them all.”

“We will.” Lord Stark replied. “Open the Winter Granaries. Use them.”

Lady Ashara looked absolutely aghast. “But they are for...”

“I know.” Lord Stark groaned. “But what choice do we have? Hopefully we can expel Viserys quickly enough to put in another harvest before winter comes.”

“We must call Jon home.” Artos said. “We need him, and the Greatjon too.”

Lord Stark turned to Bowen, who shrugged. “He is at the Fist of the First Men now. It will take a moon’s turn to see him back at the wall, and then another moon’s turn to have him back here, and then another moon’s turn to see him with an army marching against Viserys.”

“We do not have time for that.” Lord Stark. “I shall lead the armies, as is my duty. We will have to do without them. We shall call for the rest of the Weirwood Warrior’s though. They shall attend us, and serve against Viserys for us. They broke his brother’s armies, they can break his too.”

“Done.” Bowen said as he turned to leave. “I shall order word sent at once.”

Bowen rushed away and Lord Stark turned to Artos. “Go and gather your arms and armour. You will be riding with me against them when the time comes.”

Artos grinned like a fool and leapt into the air. Lady Ashara made a small sound of protest but it died in her throat when Alaric stepped out of the bushes they had been hiding in. “Alaric!” She cried, “What are you doing here? And is that you too Tommen?”

Tommen crept out from the bushes too and smiled up at her sheepishly. She marched over and slapped Alaric across the back of the hand. “You shouldn’t be eavesdropping. Or you, Tommen.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Lord Stark said. “It is better if Tommen knows what he rides to war for.”

As one, all of them turned to stare at Lord Stark incredulously. “You can’t mean to take Tommen to war can you?”

“I do.” Lord Stark replied, his voice quiet. “Tommen is a prince of the realm and my squire. He must learn of war sooner or later. I would have him learn of it now, so unlike my sons he learns the truth of it and see’s no glory in it.”

And that was that. Tommen was going to war. The Lady Ashara yelled and hissed at Lord Stark but he wouldn’t be moved. Alaric begged to come as well, but Lord Stark bent to Lady Ashara on that and he wasn’t going.

This only served to upset Alaric even more, and he had spent two whole days on the roof of the broken tower because of it. No one could get him down, and he eventually only came down because Artos threatened to ride off to war and die without saying goodbye to him.

The next week was filled with rushing men, snorting horses and swords training from Ser Oswell and Lord Stark when they could spare time from him. Most of his time though was spent with Alaric and Artos though, speaking about what was happening and how father would be arriving with the armies of the south at any moment. Artos said that Mrycella would come to keep him company and that Joffrey would be left in King’s Landing. Mother would come too, he said and Uncle Jaime would kill Viserys just like he killed The Mad King.

Alaric said very little, preferring to spend his days climbing the walls and toying with the Valyrian steel dagger that he said he stole from father.

Ravens were arriving with news almost on the hour, and little of it seemed to be good. Viserys had taken Ramsgate and sacked all the lands south of the Hornwood. One minute he was marching with his full strength on White Harbour, and then he was marching with half his strength against the Hornwood and then he changed his mind and decide to march against White Harbour again.

Many of the reports Lord Stark received contradicted each other, and the most ludicrous that Tommen had heard was that Viserys was striking for Moat Cailin. Tommen was just a boy, but he had never seen a formidable castle than Moat Cailin.

The week came to an end however and one morning Tommen woke up and saw an entire army assembled on the plains outside of the Wintercity. Then Lord Stark came to see him, and he was being made a set of little armour and a little sword and he was given a horse too, a real horse, not a pony.

“You keep care of my father and brother for me.” Alaric told him when he was being fitted with his new made armour. “I can’t lose them. Especially Artos. Look after him. Don’t let him die.” Alaric had been on the brink of tears, and his voice shook.

Tommen had nodded seriously. “I promise.” He said solemnly. “I won’t let them die. I’ll die first.”

“No.” Alaric had cried. “Don’t let any of you die. All of you come back. I don’t want to be left alone here again.”

“You won’t be left alone.” Tommen had said, “You’ll have Arya and Dyanna.”

But he was wrong about that too. The next morning Arya and Dyanna were gone as well, along with a man called Ethan Glover. Tommen had never been scared of Lord Stark before, but he was with him when they got the news, and Lord Stark had almost decapitated the poor man who brought the news. He had cursed Ethan Glover, his own father, and Arya and Dyanna too. He had wept and wailed and cursed and cried before retreating to his own chambers.

The next morning dawned clear and bright. Lord Stark emerged from his chambers in iron and furs with Ice in his hands. He had come to Tommen’s chambers, helped him dress in his armour and then together they made their way to the courtyard where Artos awaited them along with all the captains of the army.

They said some words, prayed a prayer and then they all marched to war.

Chapter 29: Jon VII: The Fist of the First Men

Chapter Text

At Craster’s Keep they had been a strong party of one thousand, one hundred and twelve men. Now they numbered just below one thousand. Death, division and disunity had splintered them apart quicker than any wildling host could have.

It was at Craster’s that they had split. The morn that Craster was killed his Uncle Benjen had mustered all the men loyal to him and left. The only one of his men he had left behind was Qhorin Halfhand. “You are a foolish boy,” He had rebuked as he rode away, “But I have no intention of returning your corpse to my brother. You will not listen to my counsel, but I beg you listen to his. If you do, you might just survive this fool’s quest yet.”

Jon hadn’t responded, instead watched him in stony silence. The Greatjon hadn’t been so silent. His wrath had been fearsome to behold. “Oathbreaker!” He had roared at Uncle Benjen, “Wildling Lover! Traitor!” The insults had been many but the Hardstark had weathered them all with icy indifference as he rode away.

The next to go was Sam. “Where we are going is no place for women, Sam.” Jon had told him as Craster’s wives and daughters had filed out of his ramshackle keep. “You started them down this path, Sam. You will finish it with them.”

“Take ten of the Winter Wolves and Benton Hellstark and ride for the Wall. You will be enough, we know there are no wildings in between here and there.” Jon had instructed him.

“What then?” Sam had asked.

“Go home.” Jon had told him. “Your time with me is done. It is time for you to return to your father and become the Lord we all know you are.”

Samwell Tarly had stared at him stoically for a moment, before breaking down into tears and clasping him in a bear hug. “I’ll miss you.” He had told him. “You’ll have to come visit me down south someday. The air’s much warmer down there.”

Jon had laughed. “So warm, I think I’d melt.”

Sam had laughed too and then he was gone as well, along with Benton Hellstark and ten winter wolves. And so they had become nine hundred and eighty seven.

Two days later a Winter Wolf was thrown from his saddle while scouting and died of a broken neck. That night, two black brother’s got into an argument and ended up drawing knives. One of them slashed the other’s neck and Lord Commander Mormont was forced to slash the survivor. And so they had become nine hundred and eighty four.

The next day, a pack of gaunt wolves attacked a group of black brother’s as they were foraging for food. They beat them off but not before one of them had been vanquished.

The men began to mutter. Craster’s Curse they called it. The gods were punishing them the Winter Wolves were muttering. It was the price for slaying Craster under his own roof the black brother’s grumbled. Jon had caught more than one of them glaring at him as they rode past him and the Lord Commander.

Lord Commander Mormont had been most wrathful himself. “If you were one of my men boy I would have ripped the head from your shoulders for that. I came to Craster’s Keep in good faith, partook of his bread and salt and drank of his mead. I slept under his roof. You sullied my honour and the honour of all my men with what you did.”

If he was being honest with himself Jon was just glad that the men of the Night’s Watch had stayed. He had been worried they were going to march back to the Wall too. Jon knew the Weirwood Warriors were good, but the cost of facing off against a wildling horde with them and the Winter Wolves alone would have taken their toll on all of them. If any other parts of his force abandoned him, Jon would be forced to return to his father without breaking any of the wildling hosts and with his tail tucked between his legs.

The shame would be painful, but losing so many fine men for a pointless stand would be even more so. “Was I wrong?” He had asked Roderick Walton a few days later. “Are the gods punishing us?”

“Perhaps.” Roderick replied. “Perhaps not. As for the gods, he who dares to claim to know their will is often the first to be struck down. Mistakes have been made, Lord Jon, and not all of them by you. Focus on the wars, Jon, not the battles. Craster was but a battle. Mance Rayder is the war.”

The next morning it was found that a Winter Wolf by the name of Bor had gone missing overnight. It was then that whispered mutters became the spoken word. “We must head back!” A black brother with boils all over his face cried, “The gods have cursed us.”

“We partook of his bread and salt!” A Winter Wolf whined, “And we slew him! What did we think would happen?”

Mors Cassel had been there when the grumbling began and he had simply drawn his sword and lain it at Jon’s feet. “My sword is yours, my lord.” His wolves had come and lay down at his feet too, all ten of them. “My wolves as well. From this day to your last day. Your enemies are my enemies, your friends are my friends. If gods have cursed you, let them curse me too. If men wish to fight you, let them fight me first.”

That had done wonders for stopping the Winter Wolves from complaining, but the black brother’s still whined. Surprisingly it was Lord Commander Mormont and Qhorin Halfhand who had convinced them to go on. “Brothers!” Mormont had called, “Men of the Night’s Watch!”

His men had quietened to listen to him. “Mance Rayder lies somewhere to the North of us. He means to break the Wall and bring red war to the Seven Kingdoms. Well, that’s a game two can play. Why turn back when we can bring the war to him?”

“There are thousands of them!” Someone called.

“We’ll die!” Cried another.

“Die,” screamed Mormont’s raven, flapping it’s black wings. “Die, die, die.”

“Many of us.” The Old Bear said. “Mayhaps, even all of us. But as another Lord Commander said a thousand years ago that is why they dress us in black. Remember your words, brothers.”

“For we are the swords in the darkness, the watchers on the walls…” Qhorin Halfhand had cried as he raised his voice.

“The fire that burns against the cold.” Ser Mallador Locke drew his longsword.

“The light that brings the dawn,” others answered and more swords were pulled from scabbards. Then all of them were drawing and it was near three hundred upraised swords and as many voices crying, “The horn that wakes the sleepers! The shield that guards the realms of men!”

After that and Jon cracking open one of the casks of wine, most of the men of the Night’s Watch seemed to find some courage. The next day no one died and their courage only grew. The talk of Craster’s Curse died down.

They made good progress over the next four days and then they had made it too the Fist of the First Men. It was there that they had set up camp. In the ruins of the great stone fortress that his father had raised and the Thenn’s had torn down their party made camp.

The ice over the well in Fort Firstfist was cracked and the men had fresh water. Furthermore, one of the Weirwood Warrior’s discovered a sealed storeroom filled with blood sausage and grain. The men were feasted well that night, and Jon and Lord Commander Mormont had decided to send out some scouts.

“They should be back by now.” Thoren Smallwood said as he leant into the small campfire within the warmest and most complete room within the ruins. “If you had have let me and my men go, we would have been back days ago.”

“I trust Roderick Walton.” Lord Commander Mormont growled. “He’ll bring us back word of them.”

“Have you heard from Qhorin?” Jon asked as he sipped on the mulled wine Dolorous Edd and Garth Mormont had prepared. Qhorin had been sent west into the Skirling Pass along with a few Weirwood Warriors to scout out if there were any Wildlings there.

“No.” Mormont replied, “Though he should not be back for days yet.”

Outside a horn blew once. They all waited with bated breath, but it did not blow again. “Someone is finally back.” The Greatjon grumbled. “Now we’ll know where to wage our war.”

The door to the tent flew open and in strode Roderick Walton, great golden eagle perched upon his shoulder and his Grey War Wolf trotting at his heels. Of his black one, it was nowhere to be seen.

“We found them.” He said.

Thoren Smallwood leapt to his feet, while the Old Bear gave a grim smile.

“Where?” Jon asked, scarce daring to believe their luck.

“The Frostfangs.” Roderick replied, “By way of the Milkwater.”

The men in the room quieted at that. “What were they doing in the Frostfangs?”

“Looking for something.” Roderick replied as he shrugged off his white cloak and took a seat next to the fire. “There’s a giant’s graveyard there. They’re digging it up.”

“What does Mance want with dead giants?” Thoren asked.

“Who knows?” The Old Bear rumbled, “Who cares? What I want to know is how big his horde was?”

“Wildlings…perhaps ninety thousand. Ones that could fight though…not even half of that. He has all of them with him. Old men, young boys, babes and their mothers and little girls too.” Roderick turned to Jon. “Give me and my men half a chance, Lord Jon, and we’ll cut through them like a knife through cheese. I’ll slay the turncloak myself.”

Jon shook his head at the Lord Commander of the Weirwood Warriors. “There will be no need for that.” He told him. “We will stand against them together, or not at all.”

“We will need more men.” The Greatjon said as he got to his feet. “We will not be able to take on a horde of that size with what we have.” He turned to the Old Bear. “How long will it take your fastest men to ride to Castle Black and bring more men?”

“Too long.” Jon said. “It took us a month to get here. Perhaps a few riders moving fast could make it back in three weeks, but it would take them just as long, if not longer to make it back with a meaningful force. And that’s without accounting for the actual gathering of the forces.”

“Perhaps we could treat with him.” Ser Mallador Locke suggested. “Maybe he can be brought off with gold or supplies.”

The Greatjon spat on the floor twice. “That’s what I think of meeting with Mance.”

Jon glanced up at Roderick Walton. “Are they moving?”

“No.” Roderick replied. “They’ve set up camp in a valley, and it doesn’t look like they have moved in a long time.”

“Do you reckon they will move soon?” Jon asked.

“I doubt it.” Roderick replied. “It would take time to prepare to move a host of that size. I have men watching the valley. At the first sign of movement, they will send me word.”

“Good then.” Jon said as he turned back to the fire. “We still have some time. Not a lot, but more than we need.”

“What are you planning boy?” Thoren Smallwood asked, his eyes squinted in suspicion. “More madness?”

“Aye.” Jon told him honestly. “More madness. We’ll need my uncle and all his men back, and then some more.” He got to his feet and strode to the window. It faced east. “I’ll ride out tonight. He shouldn’t be too far, two weeks if I’m lucky.”

“He doesn’t want to come back.” The Old Bear muttered. “From what I remember he called this a fool’s quest.”

“He’ll come back.” Jon replied. “He has too. I’ll do whatever it takes. We need him, and his men.”

“One hundred men will help boy,” Thoren told him, “But it won’t make much difference against a horde of that size.”

“A hundred won’t. Another one thousand will.”

“And where will you pull these one thousand men from?” The Greatjon asked.

“Hardhome.” Jon exclaimed. “The garrison of Hardhome. They are made up of the finest Winter Wolves my father had, and they’ve spent years in these lands as well. We won’t be able to destroy their horde, but we will be break them and end all murmurings of kings in these lands for another one hundred years.”

The room was silent. No one looked convinced. “Hardhome is further than Castle Black.” Ser Mallador argued. “We’d be better off sending riders to them.”

“Aye it is closer.” Jon agreed. “And it will be quicker for a rider to get there. But it won’t be quicker to march an army back.” Jon ran to the map they had unrolled on the floor. “Hardhome has ships. We can load the Winter Wolves onto the ships and sail them straight up the Antler River. A week of sailing and it’ll put them only a few days march from here.”

“Aye.” The Old Bear agreed. “That could work. We’d have what…two thousand men at that point. Mance would not brush us aside easily.”

“And not from here either.” The Greatjon agreed. “We wouldn’t even have to march out to meet them. We could fortify the Fist; caltrops, pits and stakes. He would lose ten of his for every one of us, and he would still need the god’s fortune to win the day.”

“He could just march right past us though.” The Old Bear muttered, “What then?”

“No he couldn’t.” Thoren Smallwood disagreed. “He couldn’t leave a force as large as we are at his rear. We would be too big of a threat for him. If he ignored us he’d find himself trapped between the brothers on the Wall and the brothers at the Fist.”

“It is decided then.” Jon said. “I’ll ride out tonight.”

“With who though?” The Greatjon asked. “You won’t survive these lands long by yourself.”

“I’ll take Jorge Snow and Arthur Glenmore. Garth Mormont will come too. We should make good time just the four of us.”

“I will come too.” The Greatjon said.

“No.” Jon responded. “You are needed here. The more men I take from this fist, the more dangerous everyone’s job becomes. This is a journey that needs be done with as few men as possible.”

The Greatjon shook his head but he did not voice any more protests. Jon nodded at them all. “I’ll see you all in a few weeks. Until then, keep safe.”

With that he turned and marched out the door. He found Arthur Glenmore and Jorge Snow not far away, crouched around a campfire with a few Winter Wolves and two brothers of the Night’s Watch. The son of Karlon Northstark looked up as he approached. His bushy brown beard was streaked with white with frost and his arms were tucked into the pits of his arms.

Regardless though, he smiled when he saw him and raised a hand in greeting. Jon waved back, before sitting on the fallen boulder next to him. “Have we found them yet?” Arthur Glenmore asked.

“Aye.” Jon replied. “They are camped up in the Frostfangs, along the banks of Milkwater.”

“How many?” One of the black brother’s asked. “Seventy thousand the scouts told me.”

Low murmuring filled the fireplace and a sense of despair settled over the group. “I ride tonight in pursuit of my uncle and his men.” Jon told the men. “We will have need of him and his men before our wars are done.” He grasped Jorge around the shoulders and stared Arthur Glenmore in the eye. “Will you come with me brothers? Will you ride with me?”

Arthur Glenmore grinned with delight and drew his sword from its sheath before thrusting it into the air. “Does the High Septon worship the seven?”

“No.” Jorge replied drily. “He worships R’hollr.”

The men laughed and Arthur looked momentarily put out by Jorge’s interruption, before a grin graced his features once more and he stood. “When do we leave?”

“We ride tonight do we not?” Jorge asked.

“Aye.” Jon replied. “Tonight, before the sun has set. I mean to get a few good hours of riding in before we run out of daylight.”

“A very sensible idea.” Jorge told him. “Will it be just us?”

“Us, Garth and Ghost.”

“Great!” Arthur Glenmore replied. “Four men and one dog is a good number for a quest. All the tales and Old Nan agree. It’s a lucky number.”

“No more lucky than seven and no less lucky than six.” Jorge snorted before shaking his head. “Well then,” He said as he rode to his feet. “Shall we ride?”

“Aye, Jorge.” Jon replied. “I’ll see you both at the gates within the hour.”

They both nodded and went about gathering the rest of their things before striding away. Jon nodded at the rest of the men present, before turning and seeking out the company of the last pack brothers he had left here.

Surprisingly, he found Brynden Bloodstark and Smalljon Umber together. Unsurprisingly, they were both brawling. The Smalljon had a bloody nose, while Brynden Bloodstark had one black eye and blood dribbling out of his mouth. A few black brothers were surrounding them, egging them on, along with Daryn Hornwood and Harrion Karstark.

Smalljon swung a right hook, but Brynden ducked out of the way and followed up with a knee into his groin. The Smalljon grunted, before snapping his arm out and grabbing Brynden around the throat.

“Enough.” Jon commanded. The Black Brothers turned on him scowls, before ducking their heads and slinking away. The Smalljon ignored him, only continuing to grasp Brynden by the neck. “Enough.” Jon said louder.

The Smalljon turned and saw him, and dropped the Bloodstark heir straight away. “Jon.” He greeted.

“Jon.” Jon greeted back. “Brynden.” He said as he inclined his head at him.

The Bloodstark bared a bloody grin. “Thon.” He slurred. “We were jutht hawing thome fwun.”

Jon smiled tightly at the pair of them. “I’m leaving.”

Daryn Hornwood started at that. “What?” He cried. “Why?”

“We have need of my uncle.” He told them. “I expect you all to be alive when I get back. Until then, Daryn is in charge.”

Daryn gaped at him, but Jon gave him no chance to protest. He turned and marched away. He found Garth and Ghost waiting for him by his horse when he got back. Garth had Longclaw strapped to the saddle of his own horse, while Jon’s spare sword was at the saddle of his. “Your supplies and belongings are packed, Lord Jon.”

Jon nodded at the boy, before swinging astride his horse and spurring it on to the gates. At the gates he found Jorge and Arthur awaiting him, along with Roderick Walton and the Greatjon. “My lords.” He greeted as he approached. “Brothers.”

Roderick Walton nodded at him. “Good luck, Lord Jon. Godspeed to you, and all your men.”

Jon nodded and turned back to the Greatjon. “Look after all these men, Lord Umber. And if I do not return…give the wildlings hell for me…and then take your blooded blade to that f*ckwit Robert calls a son.”

The Greatjon grinned at his first statement and burst into roars of laughter at his second. “It shall be done, my Lord.”

Jon shared one last laugh with him, before turning his horse and leading his small party down the great earthen ramp that was the entrance to Fort Firstfist. Ghost sprung away and disappeared into the scrub, while Jorge Snow pulled out a carven lute and put it to his lips. He began to play, and not very well either.

Arthur casually pulled his bow from his back and nocked an arrow onto the string. “If you plan to play that from here to wherever the Hardstark is I will put an arrow through your tongue, you know that right?”

Jorge scowled at him, but put the lute back in his pack. Jon smiled. It was good to be away from the mass of men and back with those he knew best. Two weeks riding lay before them now, two weeks of bliss and peace, and then two moons of war.

Jon only hoped he would prove to be the one who could conquer this King-Beyond-The-Wall. He wouldn’t be the first Stark to die at a wildlings blade after all.

And if Craster had taught Jon anything it was that Wildlings were not the worst things that prowled these woods…

Chapter 30: Davos II: Storming Storm's End

Chapter Text

Madness. There was no better word for it. Madness.

“You cannot be serious, your grace.”

“He is an usurper!”

“He is your brother, your own blood!”

“King’s Landing is by far the greater prize!”

“We’ll never take King’s Landing with this army!”

Around Stannis the tumult raged on. Stannis himself was a man of iron, unflinching and unmoving amongst the storm of voices. They all raged and screamed and argued. Davos did not utter a word. He was one of the few who did not. The only other silent ones where Torrhen Snow, his own son Allard and the Red Woman. Everyone else saw fit to put their two bobs in though. They could not see what Davos could though.

Stannis had set his course, and he would not be bent from it. If Hands and Lords and Knights could not bestir this king from the course he had set what hope had a smuggler?

At last, the Red Woman rose from her seat and added her voice to the tumult. No doubt it was her whose plan this was. “Victory will be ours.” Her presence seemed to dominate the room, and the ruby on her neck glowed with the light of fire. “I have foreseen it in the flames.”

To this the King’s men jeered, while the Queen’s men cheered.

“f*ck the flames!” The Bastard of Nightsong called, “And f*ck the Red whor* too!”

Davos did his best not to smile, while Torrhen roared with laughter. Rolland Storm was a good man and true, but sometimes he was as all bastards are…hot-headed.

Stannis rose at his words. “Silence.” His voice was like the crack of a whip, cutting through the chaos of the council. He stood and looked out at his retainers and advisors. His hands were set upon the painted table, his jaw clenched. “Storm’s End will be ours.” He glanced at the Red Woman, “Melisandre has foreseen it in the flames.”

Davos stood. “Storm’s End has never fallen to siege nor to storm, your grace, as you yourself well now. How has the Red Woman proposed to take it?”

“It’s not the Red Woman’s proposal.” Stannis ground out, “She only assured me that the plan would work.”

Davos’ heart sunk in his chest. With horror, he turned to Torrhen. Now he understood his silence. He did not speak because he knew the outcome of this meeting before even walking into this room.

“Well whose plan is it then?” Axell Florent asked, voicing the question on everyone’s lips.

“Mine.” Torrhen claimed proudly as he got to his feet, “With significant contributions from Allard Seaworth and Donnard Snow.”

Ser Axell scoffed and spat on the floor. “And how do you propose to do that?” He scorned him, “I pray you remember the name of that place, bastard!”

Davos could not help but agree with the Castellan of Dragonstone. Davos knew better than most what would greet Torrhen, Allard and their great fleet there. They would find nought but grief and death there, and that was if they were lucky.

“I am the first storm and the last.” Torrhen replied as he drew himself to his full height, “I am many things, Ser Axell, and if I say that Storm’s End will fall, Storm’s End will fall. The Red Lady herself has foreseen my victory in the flames.”

The Red Woman cleared her throat. “I have not foreseen whether this plan will or not work, Lord Torrhen, I have only seen Storm’s End with the banners of the true king flying over them. I merely agreed to your plan because I believed it to be the one to place the true king the least at risk.” Her eyes glinted with a strange malignancy and Davos did not like the treachery that lurked beneath her mysterious grin.

Have you truly seen their victory? He wondered, Or have you seen an opportunity to get rid of a dangerous and feared foe?

“And if Torrhen fails?” Davos asked of the Red Woman, “What then?”

Her smile stayed in place as she turned to him. “I assure you, Lord Davos, just as multiple tools can be used to break down a door, so too does the Lord of Light have multiple tools to do his bidding. Sooner or later Storm’s End will fall, though whether it be through the hand of Torrhen Snow or someone else is yet to be seen.”

“But you still think that it is fair to send those boys to what could be their deaths on the off chance that they could have a victory?” Davos asked, “Because you saw some flags flying over the castle in the flames that danced in your hearth fire? Is that it?”

“I am only mortal, Lord Davos, and it is possible I have read the flames wrong, but the Lord of Light has strongly suggested to me that Torrhen Snow and his boys shall be victorious.” The Red Woman purred.

Torrhen bristled at the insult and dropped his own hand to his sword. “I assure you, Lord Davos, these boys that sail with me are more than capable of taking Storm’s End. Formidable as it may be, I assure you we have tricks up our sleeve that no man in Westeros has ever seen. The true king shall have back his ancestral home before this moon is done, or I swear I shall not live to see the next moon.”

A few of the queen’s men looked quite pleased with that, but Davos only despaired. Did he not understand? It was not just his life he was putting on the line there, but the lives of all those who had sworn to follow him.

My sons included. Davos thought as his heart broke in his chest.

“I promise you, Lord Davos.” Torrhen assured him with a much gentler tone, “I have no intention to die anytime soon, regardless of the plans of others.”

“So be it.” Davos spoke, his voice cracking. “With the King’s approval do what you must.”

“Do I have your approval, your grace?” Torrhen asked as he turned to the king, “Need be, my men and ships can be ready to sail within two days. We only need to load the fresh water and supplies.”

Stannis glanced at Ser Axell. “How long until my own fleet is ready to sail?”

“A fortnight, your grace.” Ser Axell replied, “Add another week if we are taking the banners with us.”

Stannis returned his gaze to Torrhen and Allard. To their credits, neither of them flinched before him. “Tell me now, and tell me true. Can you do it?”

“Undoubtedly.” Torrhen replied.

“I ask not you, but your mate.” Stannis replied as he watched Allard carefully. “You seem to wish to die, that one is of Lord Seaworth’s blood. He comes from no nobler stock. He will not lie to me. So tell me, Allard Seaworth, can you do it? Will Storm’s End fall to you, or will you fall to Storm’s End?”

Allard barely paused before responding to the king. “Storm’s End will fall to us, your grace. We have been rewriting the history books ever since we first breached the Black Leviathan. To rewrite them again is no great task for men of the calibre we have.”

Stannis nodded at that and sat back down. “So be it then. Sail as soon as possible. The less time Renly has to prepare for your arrival, the better. And do not fail me. Do not fail me.”

Torrhen bowed low, almost mockingly so before getting to his feet and leaving the room. With his exit, half the tension seemed to leave the room and many of the room’s inhabitants visibly relaxed.

Davos supposed to one who did not know him, Torrhen would seem much like a mad dog. One you wished to keep on side, but wary of it turning on you without rhyme or reason.

“Do you think he can do it, your grace?” Rolland Storm asked, “Will he take the place?”

“Who knows?” Stannis replied with a quirk of his lips, “But if he doesn’t he’ll die in the trying. That’s for sure.”

“She means for you to die.” Davos told him later, “I see it in her eyes. I know not what she foresaw in her accursed flames, but it was nothing good for you. I know that much.”

“She does.” Torrhen replied, “and I doubt she would mourn my departure from this world.”

Davos grasped the Black Leviathan harshly by the arm and pulled him back towards him. “If you wish to sail to your death, Torrhen, then so be it. That is on you. But I beg of you, Torrhen, remember who sails with you. They are all fine boys, and not deserving of death at their age.”

Torrhen yanked his arm back with a dark scowl. “I beg of you, Lord Davos, remember who they sail with. I am the Bastard of the Saltsmaw, kinslayer and kingslayer, Captain of the Black Leviathan, King of the Stepstones and Lord of the Hall of a Hundred Hulls. I sail the greatest ship ever seen on the Narrow Sea. The Red Lady fears me…and so too she should. Just as she has foreseen the fall of Storm’s End, I too have foreseen her death.”

Davos stepped back and watched the young captain warily. Magic still made him uneasy.

“Yes, Lord Davos.” He said as he stepped forth, “I have forseen her death, just as she has no doubt forseen mine. She foresees mine in the flames, and I foresee hers in my dreams. Just as I have also seen Storm’s End fall to me. She intends for me to die, that is true, but I intend to live. I have seen and fought and stormed against many things many times more fearful and formidable than Storm’s End.” He paused and sighed, “You forget who I am, Lord Davos.” He said again, “You forget who I am.”

“What else have your dreams shown you, Torrhen?” Davos asked, “For my dreams are for my sons, who I have no wish to bury. My father always said it was a terrible thing to bury your own child...and he would know more than most.”

Torrhen’s gaze softened and he clasped Davos by the shoulder and pulled him close. “I know Davos.” He said, his voice as soft and gentle as that of his when he was a boy, “I love them too. And I swear to you, Davos, before the sights of gods old and new that Allard and Mathos will live to see and return to their home on the Isle of Salt. Allard is my closet friend Davos, and has been for sixteen years now. I would not sacrifice his life for anything, not even my own.”

With a last smile of reassurance he turned and strode away, his black cloak billowing in the wind behind him.

It was hours later that Davos found the men of the three leviathans down by the docks, Matthos and Allard amongst them. Dale was with them too, and it warmed Davos’ heart to see his sons back together again, as they had been when they where young. “Father!” Allard cried as he approached, “come and drink with us! The men here want to hear stories of your days as a smuggler!”

Davos smiled kindly at the group of young men, before recognising an older face amongst them. A face had known from the time before he was a Lord and still a smuggler. “Salladhor?” He breathed out in disbelief, “Is that really you?”

The pirate of Lys smiled as he approached, “Aye, old friend.” He replied, “It has been far too long since I have seen you. Do you know how long it took me to find a new buyer for all my stolen goods?”

Davos laughed and grasped the man in a hug. “Tell me, Salladhor, how is it that you found yourself in service to the Black Leviathan? When we last spoke you told me you bowed to no man.”

Salladhor Saan’s easy grin melted away from his face. “Much like all of us came to serve him with the exception of those who come from your homeland. He conquered us. All of us, and none could stand against him or his infernal ship. When I am forced to either kneel or die, I will kneel every time.”

“And now he serves Torrhen well.” Allard said tightly, “Bringing to our kings fleet 24 war galleys and untold riches. In turn Torrhen has named him Lord of Bloodstone.”

Salladhor’s grin curdled even further. “Lord of Bloodstone.” He spat, “Once I was King of that place, and Torturer’s Deep as well.”

“And now Torrhen is king of those places. As well as half a hundred others, and indeed all the Stepstones.” Allard chuckled at the old pirate.

Salladhor’s eyes flashed and his hand drifted to his sword before he got up and strode away, kicking aside a cabin boy and a barrel as he left.

“That is no man to take lightly, Allard.” Davos warned.

“Neither is Torrhen.” Allard replied simply before he too turned and strode away.

“Will you come with us to take Storm’s End, father?” Matthos asked him.

“Nay.” Davos replied, “My place is here, by King Stannis’ side. Dale shall go with you though, in my place.”

“I shall?” Dale asked, the surprise evident on his face.

“Indeed.” Davos replied as he pulled his eldest son and heir aside. “Make sure they all return to home alive. Think of your mother and do not let them die.”

Dale nodded gravely. “It shall be done, father. I promise”

“Good.” Davos sighed as he hugged him tight. “Look after yourself as well.”

“I will.” Dale replied.

It was a moon later that Davos himself arrived at Storm’s End in the presence of Stannis with all his gathered power behind him. As they rounded the cape that hid Storm’s End from view, not a man breathed easy. They had heard nothing from Torrhen since he had left Dragonstone with all his fleet, and none knew if they had even made it or had succumbed to the storms that plagued the area.

If they were sailing to friends or to enemies no one knew, not even the Red Woman who lingered by Stannis’ side even now.

Storm’s End at last came into view and everyone searched the towers for a hint of a banner. A breeze sprung up, and from the top of a drum tower a banner unfurled.

The cloth of gold was clear, as too was the onyx stag within the burning heart.

The Black Leviathan had done it.

The Storm had come. And Storm’s End had fallen.

Chapter 31: ROBB III: The Summer Storm

Chapter Text

It had been a week to the day when the news arrived that Storm’s End had fallen. The Black Leviathan himself, Robb’s old pack brother, had done the foul deed.

“He came in the night…” The messenger said through stuttering teeth. Outside a storm raged. He was soaked to the bone, and no doubt cold as well. “I’ve never seen anything like it…”

“Like what?” Olenna Tyrell bit out, “Quit your dithering boy and tell us what you saw!”

“Three ships…larger than any I’ve ever seen before. We don’t know when they arrived or how they got in. The gates were barred, the drawbridge drawn…but they were there. The Leviathan led them with his horrid thick blade.”

“They must have scaled the walls.” Ser Baelor Hightower stated. “There is no other way in.”

“Scaled the walls of Storm’s End?” Lord Penrose asked in disbelief. “That is impossible. Have you ever seen the place, Ser?”

Ser Baelor fixed the Stormlord with a cold eye. “Nay, Ser.” He replied, “But how else would they have gotten in?”

“Maybe Lord Stannis told them of a secret entrance?” Mace Tyrell suggested.

“Yes.” Lord Penrose mused as he clicked his fingers, “That must be it. Stannis held that castle for a year against the might of the Reach. There would be few alive who would know it better.”

The mention of the disastrous siege of Storm’s End brought a few smiles to the faces of the Stormlords while Mace Tyrell shifted uncomfortably.

“A secret entrance and scaling the walls of Storm’s End?” Olenna Tyrell scoffed, “Are you all hearing yourselves right now?”

“Mother.” Mace whined at her.

“Don’t mother me.” She snapped back. “What does all your speculation matter! The deed is done, the milk spilt and Storm’s End has fallen.”

Olenna had brown beaten her way into these meetings, a fact that Robb was most amused by. As far as he knew women were not permitted in the war councils of the south.

“What do we do now?” Someone asked.

“King Renly must return.” One of the Stormlords said. “We must reclaim our homes.”

“And what of our homes?” A Reachlord bit back. “Shall we just leave the Ironborn to reave and reap as they please?”

“Our King has lost his ancestral home.” Lord Penrose scoffed, “What good is a King without a castle? Renly must return. Storm’s End must be retaken before we do anything else.”

The room burst into chatter and yelling, each lord and notable knight arguing which way they should march. A clear division had began to run down the room, and one that could prove to be very damaging to King Renly’s cause.

The Stormlords had firmly entrenched themselves in the camp of men whom believed that Storm’s End should be recaptured first. The Reachmen had largely gone to the idea that the Ironborn were the greater threat.

These men had been enemies not too long ago, and their ancestors had fought each other. Bad blood lingered here, and Robb saw the effects of it clear as day.

Mayhaps the scars of Rickard’s Rebellion were not so healed over and forgotten as Robb’s father had supposed.

In the end it mattered not. The debate turned to whether or not a messenger should be sent to Renly, but the messenger from Storm’s End revealed he was not the only messenger to depart from Storm’s End that day. “We heard at Bitterbridge that Renly had departed for the Shield Islands.” The man had said over the din, “So I rode for here and my companion rode for Renly. The third has ridden for Stonehelm. Lord Guilin Swann still has a force, we are hoping to raise his levies to relieve the castle.”

“King Renly will return.” Lord Penrose said. He was being most vocal tonight. “Until he does, we must wait.”

“If Renly wishes to be King of Westeros it is all of Westeros that he should care for,” Lord Humfrey Hewett spat, “not just his home.”

“That would be King Renly to you.” Lord Lester Morrigan spat back with venom. The room erupted into roars and yells. A pushing match began near the center table while Mace Tyrell shrieked at them all from his high seat.

Robb chuckled at that and stood from his seat. He had heard enough now. Regardless of their bitterness and hate for each other these camps would not move without first hearing from Renly.

Once they had heard from Renly though…that is when the fire would begin to burn.

A summer kingdom. Held together by summer knights.

He pushed through the masses of men, and then outside into the cold night air. The rain was still pouring down and the wind was still blowing a gale. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and pushed on into the rain and the mud.

Autumn has come and soon they shall fall and die like flies.

Lightning rent the sky apart above him and thunder lashed his eardrums.

I am the first storm and the last. Robb had remembered Torrhen saying that at some point. “Is this your doing, brother?” He mused aloud, “Did your studies of sorcery finally get you somewhere did they?”

His only reply was the gale’s howling cry, whistling through the tent town. With a dry laugh he stopped and tilted his head back. The rain fell on his face, and the chill leached into his skin, but nothing had felt quite so good in so long.

Renly’s kingdom was falling to pieces around him, being nibbled from all sides. Robb was ecstatic and he had no clue why.

Is it because I was right? Is it because Torrhen is home? Is it something else?

Whatever it was that was the cause of his joy, it slipped from his mind’s grasp and Robb determined to put it aside. He had too many things to do, too much to think of, to waste too much time thinking of himself.

The days that followed the storm and the news of the fall of Storm’s End were filled with simmering tension and an underlying anger. The whole camp was on edge, poised for a war against an as of yet undetermined foe, awaiting word from their king.

Robb reveled in the uncertainty, jesting aloud and deepening the tension where he could. Stormlord and Reachlord came to him seeking his support in the council and he offered all who came his condolences and his ear. Not once did he commit to anyone’s cause, but every man who came to him left him even more certain of the justness and righteousness of their position.

On the third day, in the late hours of the afternoon, Queen Margaery herself came to speak with him. “Lord Robb.” She greeted him, her handmaidens trailing along behind her.

“My ladies.” He replied with a bowed head. “Have you come to explore the camps?”

“No.” Margaery replied shortly, “I’ve come to talk.”

“Well then please,” Robb said as he extended his hands around. “Take a seat and let us talk.”

They sat by the fire as her handmaidens made themselves at home around his men’s camp, greeting and speaking with all of his men in turn.

“Can I offer you food or drink, my lady?” Robb asked.

“No.” Margaery replied, “I hope not to be here long.”

Robb shrugged and leant back, “Tell me what you wish to speak of then.”

For a while they sat together in silence, as Margaery seemed to gather her thoughts. Eventually she spoke.

“I’ve been thinking on our talk the other night, on the hill. And you are right. Stannis is a formidable enemy to have.” Margaery began, “And the Greyjoy’s have a certain low cunning about them too. If we faced them alone, I would be confident in our ability to defeat them. Yet we must face them both at the same time.”

Margaery’s voice grew small and she glanced about furtively. “It is a challenge I am not sure we can overcome.”

Robb hummed in agreeance and stared into the flames of the campfire. “My lady…” Robb began carefully, “Forgive what must come across as brashness, but what drove this idea? Did you truly think this kingdom would last?”

“We did.” She replied softly, “We do.”

Margaery glanced back at him. “Renly has the capacity to be a great king, I know it.” She wrung her hands, “he is kind, and caring and funny…a fundamentally good man.”

“He has the capacity to be kind, and caring and funny,” Robb replied carefully, “But we all do when the situation suits us.”

Robb plucked a stick from the floor and began poking around the coals of the fire, “In truth, my lady, were it not for Renly’s incredible ability to make friends, an ability I’ve heard the late King Robert once had, this Kingdom would never have been born. Do not misunderstand or mistake Renly for anything other than what he is; an usurper.”

“At best he stole his throne from his brother, at worst he stole it from his deceased brother’s son.” Robb sighed heavily. “There is no honour in that; nothing good about it all.”

He felt and heard the misery that poured off the young Queen. “We all know the truth of Joffrey…Lord Arryn called him illborn, it was the truth he died for.”

Robb raised a brow at her. “The status of Joffrey’s birth does not exclude Stannis’ claim.”

Margaery did not reply.

For a moment they sat in silence, the crackling of the flames and the low chatter of conversation around them their only companion.

“You sound like you are in support of Stannis’ claims, my lord.” Margaery said lowly as she stared into the flames, “Is that your lord fathers wish as well? To see Stannis rule over us?”

“We have no stake in this war yet.” Robb replied blankly. “And my own opinions on the war and the throne do not matter. Only my father's, and if not his, then my brother’s.”

“Tell me true, Robb.” Margaery replied as she turned to him, fierceness entering her gaze. “Who you Northmen are truly backing. Do you think we are all so blind to the moves your father has made?”

Robb frowned and stared right back at her, defiance in his gaze. “What moves, my lady?”

She scoffed at him. “The Onion Lord sails with Stannis, sits in with his councils, and yet you expect us to believe that your father has not backed a side? We have not forgotten either who it is that sailed the ships that took Storm’s End. As you yourself were so proud of pointing out, Torrhen is a Northmen, raised alongside you and your brother. In exile, he may be, but I suspect his exile is not as forced as we all suppose it to be. You speak of him fondly enough.”

She narrowed her eyes and glared at the men around, “And what of the Westerlands and the army of Northmen that fell upon it? They have sworn themselves to Ronnel Arryn’s cause we hear, in the name of Mark Ryswell.”

“And Joffrey,” she choked out, “even illborn bastard Joffrey Waters has Domeric Bolton and Ramsay Snow in his court. And what did Renly get, a single bastard.”

Her last word hung in the air between them, thick and cloying. He heard the insult she had meant there. In the end he only shrugged, unflappably calm about it. “Aye,” he replied, “He gave you a bastard. His own bastard. Me.”

“Do we not deserve more support?” She asked, fire spitting from her eyes. “Is Renly not everything a true King should be?”

Again, Robb shrugged. “What would you have me do, my lady?” He asked, “I have no name, hold no lands and command no armies.”

“Help us.” She beseeched him as she grabbed his hand. “Your word would have weight, your fealty would bring support.”

Robb smiled bitterly at the Queen of this Summer Kingdom as he pulled his hand away, “I am but a lowly bastard, my lady.”

Margaery sighed and shook her head, relapsing into silence.

“Why did you come here, my lady?” Robb asked her, “Why have you been seeking me out? First on the hill, and now here…I have heard whispers too. You are asking my men about me.”

Margaery did not move, her face did not betray her thoughts. “They say you are a powerful man, Lord Robb, and I am in desperate need of help.”

Robb refused to reply, and only held his silence.

“There is murmurings.” Margaery began, “Within the camps. Stormlord and Reachlord alike are dissatisfied.”

“It seems our little summer kingdom is coming to an end.” Renly’s queen smiled sadly as she looked up at him, “Winter is coming.”

Robb stirred at this. “Winter is coming.”

“We thought Renly would have gathered more support than this.” She admitted, “Obviously the Lannisters and Stannis would never accept it, but we had hoped that the Martell’s and the Tully’s would have backed him. We thought Ronnel Arryn could have been convinced…and we never would have thought that the Ironborn would rise up against us.”

“No plan survives first contact with the enemy.” Robb replied. It was something his father had told him years ago and it was ringing truer than ever today.

“No.” The Lady Margaery replied, sadness marring her face, “No they do not.”

“And you’ve come to me.” Robb said, “Because you are afraid of treachery.”

She hushed him as soon as he spoke the word and glanced around. “It is not a matter of if anymore…but when.”

“Who?” Robb asked.

“All of them, we suspect.” She replied, “Renly has crippled himself. He has sent his most loyal troops to face off against the Ironborn while he returns to us. Loras has been given command. The men we have left to us here, their loyalty goes as far as victory.”

“How many men does your father have left in this camp?” Robb asked as he turned his gaze to the stars above them.

“We have one thousand men with us here.” She replied, “The rest ride with Loras, or are still in Highgarden.”

“You are not worried about the numbers are you?” He asked, “You have plenty of men. What worries you then?”

“It is likely that fighting will break out between the High Lords rather than the common levies. It is then that the skill of your arm matters, not the mass of your men.” She reached across the fire and grasped his hand, “You’ve already proven your superior to them. You won the tourney of Bitterbridge against all the odds. We have need of your sword arm now.”

She squeezed his hand and leant in towards him. “I have need of your sword arm now.”

Robb sighed and stood, pulling his hand from her grasp again. “I am here as a diplomat, my lady,” he told her, “but you have my guarantee, should anyone, stormlord or reachmen, come to harm you or take you as their hostage, my sword will defend you.”

“I thank you my lord.” Margaery said as she stood to stand beside him. “For the promise, and the hope.”

With that she stood on her tiptoes and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek, before turning and gliding away, her handmaidens falling in behind her.

She never glanced back, not once, but Robb did not need her to. The memory of her eyes was burned into his mind, and the coolness of her lips on his cheek lingered hours after she was gone.

In the morn, Renly returned. He had been gone a week, but somehow made it back in three days.

Robb was not there for his return to his court though, instead choosing to remain in his camp with his men. That was where he was when the call went around camp that Stannis was coming from the east, that his banners were on the horizon.

And so it was that Robb was one of the first to greet the small party that Stannis led to treat with his brother. There was five people in the party, four men and one woman.

Stannis Baratheon himself led them, and Robb found that the tales he had been told of the man did not quite do him justice. There was an iron gaze about the man, an indomitable will that could not be broken.

On his left was a red haired, red robed woman that could only be Melisandre of Asshai, while next to her rode a large eared man that must have been Lord Alester Florent.

And behind them came the two men that brought the first genuine smile to Robb’s face since he had left the North.

“Davos!” He cried in delight as he surged to his feet, “And if it isn’t the Black Leviathan himself?”

Chapter 32: Jon VIII: The Corpse that Lived

Chapter Text

The child’s corpse was a confronting sight to see. Was it not for its pale skin, its lips so blue…and if not those unseeing eyes that saw everything, Jon would have been fooled into thinking the girl had just fallen asleep there. She could not have been more than six, younger even than Alaric.

Those eyes would haunt him long after they buried her corpse, Jon knew. They where so blue, they almost seemed to have a glow about them.

“The frost must have gotten her.” Jorge said, ever the voice of reason.

“No.” Quiver replied emphatically, “She moved. I saw them all move.”

“How many more did you say there where?” Jon queried as he turned his head.

“At least twenty.” Quiver said as he scrambled around frantically, peering behind trees and bushes. It was as if he expected them to jump out of the woods around them at this very moment. “Maybe even more.”

Jon looked around dubiously, but loosened his sword in his scabbard nonetheless.

Around them the remains of the wildling camp stretched on. To Jon it seemed a great many more than twenty people had lived here once. In the snow a steel axe gleamed, hoar frost coating the blade of it.

Jon swung down and off his horse and picked it up, inspecting it. Good steel was valued more than gold by the wildlings, as they did not have the means to forge their own weapons. “This makes no sense.” Jon muttered as he tested the weight of the axe in his hand, “Why would the wildlings leave good steel such as this?”

He swung the axe about before palming it off to Jorge. “They’ve left everything. Their clothes, their tents, the tools…”

“Maybe they were running?” Quiver said, “I don’t know…but they were all here a few hours ago.”

“Running from what?” Jorge asked. “What could scare off a group of wildlings twenty plus strong?”

“A bear?” Garth suggested, “Maybe a direwolf?”

“Has to have been a bloody big bear.” Quiver whispered as he fingered the string of his bow.

“And why leave the girl?” Jorge asked as he turned back to the corpse. “It’s easy to forget an axe. Easy to forget even your tent. It is no easy thing to forget a child.”

“If you're running for your life I bet you’d forget everything.” Garth piped in, “I remember when the wildlings raided the Beartown, everyone forgot about me. Even mother.”

“Your mother would forget her head if it wasn’t bolted to her neck.” Jorge muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Jon to hear.

Jon fought the urge to smile and nodded thankfully at his squire. “A fair point, Garth.”

He nodded at the corpse. “Prepare the girl for her rites, Garth. That is the least of respect we can give her.”

“And what of the other wildlings?” Quiver asked. “What if they come back while we look after this corpse?”

“What would you have us do, Arthur?” Jon asked, his voice strained. Normally Quiver was a very rational man, but his time beyond the wall was wearing his nerves thin. It was wearing everyone’s nerves thin.

“Flee.” Quiver replied darkly. “We’ll never make it to Hardhome. Let’s head back to the fist. We’ll gather all the men and return to the Wall. The Wall has not been breached in ten thousand years. We could hold it against Mance Rayder and the wildling hordes for a hundred years.”

For a moment Jon considered it. They where less than a quarter way to Hardhome, the Fist not so far behind them. It was not the worst idea Arthur had ever had. “No.” Jon eventually replied, “The whole point of this endeavour was to nip this threat in the bud before it ever reached the Wall. And if we retreat to the Wall, we are as good as abandoning Hardhome. If there’s more to discover out here, then discover it we will. We ride for Hardhome. We need my Uncle’s men more than anything else out here.”

Jon watched the war play out on Arthur’s face, but eventually his duty overran his fear and he nodded. “As you say, Jon.”

Jon turned his horse away, and rode a few paces away. Jorge and Arthur trailed behind while Garth dismounted to prepare the corpse. “I have no wish to linger here.” Jon admitted, “But I cannot leave that corpse as is. She was but a child, and a Wildling, but that does not make her any less deserving of a peaceful rest.”

Jorge dismounted his horse, not agreeing but neither disagreeing. “I shall prepare a fire to burn her corpse.” He said, “The ground here is much too cold to dig anyway, and there’s no rocks to make a cairn.”

Quiver nodded fervently. “Yes.” He said, “A fire. We need fire. I’ll gather the wood.”

Jorge smiled and hefted his new found axe. “I’ll get to test out my new axe.”

Garth’s screams interrupted them. Jon’s sword was half out of his scabbard by the time he spun around to see something he’d never thought he’d see in his life. The girl’s corpse was moving, grasping at Garth as it pulled itself off the floor. Garth was wrestling with the child, but the corpse seemed to be overwhelming him.

It was one of Old Nan’s stories come to life in front of him, so unbelievable that Jon was seized by horrified indecision.

The same fear did not grip Jorge.

He barrelled past, his hatchet in hand.

Jorge’s movement broke the indecision within Jon, and with a leap Jon was half a step behind. It was far too late for Garth though.

With a terrible, screeching cry, the child buried her teeth into Garth’s neck. His squire roared in pain as crimson blood stained the snow red.

Jorge reached them first and took the girl’s head off with one terrible blow of his axe. The body flopped backwards into the snow, thrown from the force of Jorge’s blow.

To Jon’s horror and disbelief the headless corpse rose, while the head snapped and screeched from where it sat in the snow.

“What the f*ck…” Jorge muttered as he took a faltering step backwards, “What sorcery is this?”

An arrow whizzed past Jon’s head and struck the corpse in the heart. It did not even flinch, only shambled forward.

Jon dropped to his knees next to Garth. His squire was crying, clutching the wound at his throat. “Jon…” The boy sobbed as tears streamed down his cheeks, “I want to go home. I want my father. I want to see my mama. I don’t want to die.”

“It’s alright.” Jon said as he ripped part of his tunic off and pressed it to the wound, “You’ll be right. We’ll fix you up and get you home.”

Jorge yelled in horror as he kicked the corpse backwards. It fell to the floor, only to rise again.

“Kill it!” Jon cried as he cleaned Garth’s wound as best he could, “I don’t care what it takes, find something that kills it!”

“Hack it limb from limb!” Quiver cried as he rushed past, “Take its legs and arms. Without them it won’t be able to move!”

Ghost emerged from the bushes behind the corpse and leapt upon it. The corpse tumbled to the floor, pushed down by the weight of the direwolf. “Good boy!” Jon cried, nearly sobbing in relief at the sight of his wolf. He had missed the direwolf’s presence sorely lately. Whether Ghost had been nearby all along, or only come at the sounds of the screams Jon did not know, but it did not matter. He was here now, and that was all that mattered.

Beneath him Garth bled out upon the snow, his tears and blood mingling as they dripped down his neck and onto the cold floor.

“Jon…” Garth cried as he grasped his hand tightly, “I don’t want to die. I want to go home, Jon! Can we go home?”

“Yes, yes.” Jon whispered as he choked back tears, “We’ll take you home, back to Bear Island. We’ll go hunting elk in the Bearwood, we’ll swim in the bay and sail down the coast.”

“We’ll go fishing for salmon too?”

“Yes.” Jon choked out, half a laugh and half a sob, “We’ll go catch so many salmon the cook won’t know what to do with them all.”

The screaming and yelling behind him abated, and Jon felt a hand come to rest upon his shoulder. Quiver knelt beside him with bandages and dressings and went to work.

Quiver was the best woodsman in Jon’s Wolf Pack, and one of the better archers. Only Theon Greyjoy could truly boast to be better than Quiver.

He dressed the boy's wound as best he could, before Garth’s eyes closed and he slipped into sleep.

Quiver turned to Jon then. “There is not long left now, Jon. The girl bit through nearly everything.”

There was so much blood. Blood everywhere. Jon’s hands were coated in it, and the snow was stained so red he could scarce it had all come from just one boy.

A tear slid down Jon’s cheek. The thought of bringing only Garth’s bones home to Lord Jorah haunted him. It would break the man, Jon knew.

Jon turned his head, mind turning back to the corpse. “What happened to the girl?”

“There won’t be any rising from that.” Jorge replied as he made his way over, face grim.

There were body parts scattered all throughout the snow, many of them still twitching.

Jon closed his eyes for a second and buried his face in his hands. “What the f*ck just happened?” He muttered to no one in particular. “A corpse that lives? Have you ever heard of insanity like that?”

For moment’s Jon sat there, cradling his squire in his arms. He looked up at Jorge. “Prepare a fire.” He managed to get out. “We will take him with us.”

He turned to Quiver then. “Make a litter. We’ll pull him behind us on the horse.”

“Jon.” Jorge said quietly as he came to rest a hand upon his shoulder, “There is no coming back for Garth. We all know it. We would be better served preparing a grave, or a pyre.”

“He comes with.” Jon hissed out through his tears.

“Jon!” Quiver’s warning cry cut through his grief sharper than any knife. Jon looked up. To the North of them, on the edge of the treeline there was a set of shining blue eyes burning into the dusk.

Then there was another, and another and soon enough the whole treeline was filled with them.

Jon clambered to his feet, Garth’s corpse forgotten. “Run.” He whispered hoarsely as he staggered away, “Run!” he yelled, as they all bolted for the horses. Jon threw himself into the saddle, lashed Garth’s horse to his own and then spurred the animals away.

Behind them the hill came alive with movement as what must have been a hundred corpses clambered after them, eyes shining blue.

Chapter 33: Tommen II: Lessons to be had

Chapter Text

It was on the plains outside of White Harbour that Tommen first saw the enemy.

There was not so many of them as he had expected there to be.

When Lord Stark had gathered his army on the plains outside of Winterfell it had seemed that half the world had gathered to rid the North of the Targaryen scourge. That camp had stretched further than Tommen could walk and as far as he could see.

This camp seemed pitiful in comparison.

Lord Stark spurred his horse forward, pulling the myrish spyglass he carried to his eye. “How many men did the scouts say Viserys landed with?”

His advisors glanced among one another. “Sixteen thousand i believe.” One eventually responded.

Jaremy Darkstark stirred on his horse, his eyes as dark as his name. Only the Clegane brothers scared Tommen more than this man. Tommen had never seen him smile, never even seen him smirk. “Is the Beggar Prince with them?” He asked, his voice hungry. “Have we found him yet?”

Lord Eddard glanced over at the Darkstark uneasily. “No…” He replied shortly, “He has escaped us for now.”

“Shame.” Jaremy said as he sat back in his saddle. “And has Lord Bowen given us word yet from inside any of the camps?”

The diminutive Crannogman who hung at the back of the group edged his way forward, throwing the Darkstark a glare. “I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again…this will take time. I’ve got eyes in the camp in front of us and that is it for now.”

“And what have you learned Bowen?” Artos Stark spat from his horse. Artos and Bowen Blackmyre did not like each other, not since the incident in the Godswood. ‘Little men and little boys do not get on’ had been Ser Oswell’s way of describing things.

“Artos.” Lord Stark warned, “You will speak with respect when addressing Lord Bowen. I told you before that now is not the time for disunity. When the snow’s fall and the white winds bl-”

Artos whirled on his father, eyes blazing, but Lord Stark would have none of it. “Say another word, Artos and I’ll send you back to your mother.”

Artos’ face flushed a deep crimson and for a long second, Tommen thought that Artos meant to try his father’s wrath, but in the end Artos bowed his head and rode away. Only once he was gone did Lord Stark open his mouth again. “Bowen.” He said, “What word have you from within the camp?”

“They’re led by a Volantene Captain, a certain Qavo Nogarys.” He said, “His orders are to besiege and take White Harbour, and I’ve received further word that he has specific orders to capture the Manderly girls alive. Viserys intends to leverage them as hostages.”

“Four thousand men to take White Harbour?” Lord Bolton whispered, “Forgive me for stating the obvious, my lords, but either we’re being duped or Viserys Targaryen is perhaps the most incompetent fool on this side of the Narrow Sea.”

“He landed in the North didn't he?” Lord Jorah Mormont pointed out, “The first enemy to do so since before the conquest. He can’t be that incompetent?”

“I wouldn't rule out incompetence just yet,” Oswell Whent muttered, “We mustn’t forget who his father was…and I’ve always said that incompetence falls upwards.”

“Have the scouts found any other armies around?” Lord Stark interrupted. “Is there any sign of these missing sixteen thousand men? Has there been any reports of Viserys anywhere?”

“There is a force some four thousand strong to the east of us.” Bowen replied, “And as to Viserys not as of yet at least. I don't have as many eyes here as I would like. Just what we brought from Winterfell.”

Lord Stark nodded. “That I understand, but understand this.” He turned a withering gaze upon Lord Bowen Blackmyre. “In the future, this will never happen again. Once Viserys is dead and his armies are scattered to the winds, then answers will be demanded of us on how this happened. On that day, there must be men to take responsibility. I expect your name to be amongst the first to do so, Lord Bowen. Do you understand?”

Lord Bowen bowed his head in deference to his liege. “I do.”

“Good.” Lord Stark replied, “And let me tell you now, Bowen, that today will be the last time you bring me excuses. From here on out, I will have answers from you and your men on what I ask. Not one step backwards from here, not one secret slipped by.”

Bowen raised his head, his eyes burning. “I will not fail you, my lord. The Warg Legion will not fail again.”

Lord Stark did not reply, instead turning his gaze back to the camp across from them. “Do they know we are here, Lord Bowen?”

The Crannogman’s eyes rolled back and flashed white for a moment and then they were his own eyes again. “Aye,” He said, “They do.”

“Then there is no need to wait.” Lord Stark said, “We attack now. Order the men into battle formations. We march when the sun sits high.”

At once the host descended into the ordered chaos of warfare. Horn’s were blown, voices bellowed and the glittering river of steel and blood that trailed behind them unfolded like the wings of some great eagle, assembling upon the hills to the north of White Harbour.

Tommen himself saw to Lord Stark, as was his duty.

Duty was a word that Tommen was familiar with now. Gone were the days that Tommen spent at his mothers knee, gone where the kittens and toys and plush pillows. Some days Tommen missed that old life.

Some days he did not.

Today he did.

“Lord Stark?” He said timidly one all the others had gone and it was just them overlooking the battlefield, “What if we lose?”

The Lord of Winterfell turned his gaze upon his squire. Tommen had never felt as small as he did in that moment. “We will not lose Tommen,” Lord Stark replied, “Not against foes like these in my own lands. The cost to repel them may be high, but we will not lose.”

The Lord of Winterfell scoffed as he beheld the battlefield. “A lesson is to be had here Tommen.”

He raised his hand and pointed out the camp across from them. “Arrogance has doomed them.” Lord Stark said, “Had they stayed together, kept the army as one, they may have had a chance in taking White Harbour and prolonging their war for just a little while. They would have lost but the cost to us would have been higher. This Viserys fancies himself as a master tactician it seems.”

Lord Stark looked back at him. “Time to disabuse him of that notion. He might find the trap he’s set will fail miserably.”

“Trap?” Tommen asked, confused.

“There’s four thousand men to the east and four thousand men down there.” Lord Eddard replied. “Viserys meant for the Manderly’s to engage with this force before his reserve swung down to break the Manderly’s. If it wasn’t to be them, it was to be us.”

Lord Stark clenched his gauntlet clad fist. “They should have brought more men if they meant to beat me.”

To left and right the Northern army stretched like wings of steel and blood, pounding with horses and men. Banners fluttered in the wind, and the rows of freshly polished weapons and armor glistened in the sunlight.

Never had Tommen seen a sight so glorious.

Lord Roose Bolton and Lord Jorah Mormont rode in from each side. “We are ready, my lord.” Said Lord Jorah.

“As are we.” Said Lord Bolton.

“Then let us end it.” Lord Stark said as he pulled his helm over his head. “Blow the horns, Thorin.”

Thorin Oakenstark raised his gilded horn to his lips and blasted thrice. As one the army began it’s first tottering steps forward. Bolton and Mormont dashed away to join their troops. Lord Eddard turned to the Oakenstark. “Take the Karstark cavalry and your own infantry and guard the flank to the east.”

The dwarf nodded at his liege.

“You only need to hold until we’re done with the rabble down here.” Lord Stark continued. “Then I’ll march the whole levies over to crush them too.”

The Oakenstark nodded and like the others dashed away to do as he was bid.

“Tommen.” Came Lord Stark’s last command, “You are to stay with the men of Ironwrath. Lord Gregor Forrestor is in command of the rearguard. Listen to what he tells you and follow his commands. Take no risks.”

With that Lord Stark was gone, and moments later the army was too. Next to only Lord Gregor, the battle seemed so far away.

The armies crawled towards each other at a snails pace it seemed, before the glittering ranks of men descended into a chaotic crush.

Sooner or later, Tommen began to notice men starting to flee from the back of the Targaryen army. It began as a trickle, but soon enough was a full scale retreat. Onceit began, half the army turned about to support the Oakenstark whom was just beginning to engage with the other host, while the rest of them ran down those who fled.

Once the true fighting had began it all seemed to end so terribly quick.

Once it had ended, Tommen found himself back by Lord Stark’s side, trailing behind as he walked the field of battle. “This is the duty of a good commander, Tommen.” He said as they walked, “To walk the field of battle once it has ended. To look upon those that died on your orders, and died for your orders. You must understand the gravity of war, the finality of death and what it is you send your soldiers into. A commander who does not value the lives of his men will not be valued by his men. Should your men not value you, they will not fight for you when the time comes.”

When they found the corpses of Northmen, Lord Stark prayed a silent prayer and gave them their last rites. Where they found the corpses of the sellswords and Essosi, Lord Stark looked upon their faces and inspected them gravely.

The battlefield was a terrible place. Corpses were strewn across the ground, blood and viscera so thick in some places that it coated the grass red. The smell was worst of all, worse even than what King's Landing smelled like.

It was not just men that had died either. The corpses of horses were there too, and even some wolves. Worse was finding the dying animals. They still screamed and thrashed. Tommen found listening to that harder than listening to the battle when it was going.

What came after was worse.

The battlefield was a terrible place.

Never had Tommen seen a sight so terrible.

Chapter 34: Viserys IV: The Wolf within the Walls

Chapter Text

“My lady.” Viserys greeted her as she emerged from her dressing chambers. The maid beside her screamed in terror, before falling into a faint.

Viserys snorted in wry amusem*nt as his men laughed. “Weak stomach for surprises?”

Lady Ashara Stark nee Dayne did not bat an eyelid at his presence, nor his barb or even the maid that lay prone on the floor. “You’ve aged since I last saw you.” Was all she said to him, as calmly as if they were discussing the weather.

Viserys tilted his head. “I can’t even remember you.” He replied honestly, “I do remember your brother though. I was always so enamored with him as a boy. Ser Arthur Dayne.”

Viserys laughed bitterly. “The news of his betrayal…that betrayal stung deepest of all of them. I always thought he would fight to the very end, no matter how bloody that end would be.”

Viserys stood and walked forward. “Where is your brother, Lady Stark?”

Ashara shrugged. “Why do you ask, ser?”

“You are speaking to a king.” Ser Elyas spat. “Address him as such.”

The Lady of Winterfell smiled wryly. “The King of what ser? Beggars?”

Viserys slapped her for that one. The crack echoed around the room and her head whipped around. She turned back to him, her cheek bright red.

“Forgive me, my lady.” Viserys said quietly as his hands trembled in front of him, “That was poorly done. I should not have hit you so, but neither should you have mocked me so.”

Lady Ashara did not respond for a moment, only looked around the room at the other occupants. “I suppose you’ve killed the guards?” She asked with a hint of grief in her voice.

“Yes.” VIserys replied as he pulled his hands down and toyed with the blade at his side. “The ones we needed to at least. My men hold the inner keep. Winterfell, and the rest of this city, they are still in the hands of your husband's men.”

Lady Ashara hummed in response.

“You will be confined to your chambers my lady.” Viserys told her, “Ser Elyas, Ser Fargen, Zamir and Morwick will be with you at all times. Should you need anything, do not hesitate to let them know.”

Viserys turned and began to walk for the door. “I have matters to attend to for now. We shall sup together tonight, I think.”

Viserys turned and smiled back at her. “We can reminisce on all those times in King’s Landing when we were younger. It shall be such fun.”

With his piece said, his prize captured and feeling as content as he’d ever felt in life, Viserys departed the room. His victory was upon the horizon, he could smell it. If the Moat was taken, and the Lady Ashara was his hostage, Ned Stark would have no choice but to come to the negotiating table

Outside he bumped into Ser Daemon, whom came over with his usual co*cksurety. “The city and the castle still sleep, your grace.” He told him, “When you’re ready to announce our presence we will.”

“Who have we captured?” Viserys asked, “Anyone else of particular value?”

“The Maester.” Ser Daemon replied, “The Steward. Half a dozen highborn children and twice that in lowborn ones.”

“And what of Lord Stark’s children?” Viserys asked, “Have we found them?”

“No.” Ser Daemon replied, “Though I’m not sure any of them are here. The Maester and the Steward have said little of anything, but the children we’ve captured said they’re all gone.”

“Didn’t Lord Stark have two daughters?” Viserys asked, “Surely he wouldn’t have taken them to war.”

“They say they’re gone.” Ser Daemon said back with a sneer, “No one seems to know much of anything of them. I’d say the sons all went with Lord Stark to fight Vardy and Nogarys.”

Viserys hummed as he strode. “Question the steward and Maester again. Sharply.”

Ser Daemon grinned widely. “It shall be done, your grace.”

“And send Ser Brayden to me. It is high time I announced my presence here.”

When at last all the hostages were gathered, and the doorways guarded, did Viserys dare to ascend to the entrance to the Inner Keep. Below, two Stark guards still stood, oblivious to what had happened within the building they were meant to be guarding.

Viserys nodded at the knight to his left, whom swung his axe and cut the rope holding the pulleys. At once, the portcullis dropped with a resounding clang. Down below the guards yelled out in shock.

Viserys stepped forth and revealed himself. Both of them stared up at him, mouths agape.

“Where is your commander, Sers?”

The two men did not respond, only stood in mute silence. Viserys leant forward. “Tell the man that King Viserys Targaryen has taken this fort, and captured the Lady of Winterfell along with the noble children within and the Maester and Steward. Their lives depend on what you, and your commander do from here. Treachery, deception and underhandedness shall be met with swift reprisal. I will treat properly, here, when the sun strikes noon. Find someone of high enough command to treat with me.”

Viserys leant back and watched the men scamper away. “Ready Zamir and Morwick.” He called to Ser Brayden, “These Northmen will send their wargs for us soon. We had best be prepared.”

At the chosen hour, Viserys returned to the gate. Ser Brayden stood alone, guarding it. On the ground below them was a party of six men. The man leading them was old and grey, yet carried himself well regardless. Tall built and stocky, Viserys had no doubt the man could fight.

“Greetings, Sers.” Viserys called as he stepped forward, Ser Brayden a step ahead, his shield held in front of them both. “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

The men on the ground shifted and looked at the greybeard. He chewed on what Viserys had said before he spat on the ground. “Rodrick Cassel.” The man ground out, “And none of us would be Sers.”

Rodrick Cassel, whom must have commanded the sorry lot, tilted his head as he looked up at him. “I could kill you now, you know.” He said, “One word is all it takes. A well placed arrow, a pot of burning oil, even a storm of swords. You’ll die.”

Viserys nodded. “I would. I will. So too will Lady Dayne. The children. The Maester. The Steward. Have I forgotten anyone, Ser Brayden?”

“The maid.” Ser Brayden growled back.

“And the maid.” Viserys agreed. “We can’t forget the maid.”

Rodrick Cassel’s face curdled, and his lip twisted down. “You hide behind children and women.” He rumbled, “For a would be king, you're a coward.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Viserys shot back, “Now shall we discuss terms or do you wish to continue to bandy threats and insults?”

“What are your terms?” Cassel asked.

“Bring me Eddard Stark.” Viserys replied. “I wish to negotiate an end to the war.”

Cassel smiled coldly. “I’ll arrange a rider at once. In the meantime, I ask that you provide proof that Lady Stark and the hostages live.”

Viserys shook his head. “My word will have to be enough. I will not risk anything from here on out.”

Viserys stepped forth boldly from behind Ser Brayden, and pushed aside the great oaken shield he bore. “And let me warn you, my lord, that I will not brook incursions into this place. From men or men within the minds of beasts.”

Viserys looked up and spotted an eagle perched upon a crenellation watching him through eyes that held far too much intelligence for an animal. It was a beautiful beast, with flowing golden feathers that glimmered in the sun. Within the shadows of the gate Morwick nodded and Zamir stirred. “Unfortunately,” Viserys continued, “I’ve no doubt you mean to ignore me on this, so an example must be made of what will happen to those whom do attempt to break my terms. There must always be one, for peace to be kept.” Viserys raised a finger and pointed it at the eagle across from him. Behind him he heard Zamir’s low chants, and then suddenly the beast burst into flames and screamed. The animals screams where like nothing human at all. Within seconds the flames had consumed the bird and the screaming stopped. What was left fell to the courtyard floor.

Cassel and his men watched on in horror. Viserys drew himself to his full height. “It will be worse for any man I find than that.” He hissed down at them, before turning his back and striding away.

That was a worthy first impression.

Viserys chuckled as he walked. The war would be over soon. Of that he was certain.

The scrape of steel on porcelain was all that broke the awkward silence that hung heavy in the room. Lady Ashara sat across from him, her food barely touched.

“Are you not hungry, my lady?” Viserys asked.

She glanced up at him, her mouth set in a line. “Not particularly.”

Viserys hummed in response. “That’s a shame.” He said as he picked up a morsel of meat, “This beef is rather quite tender. You stock your larders well. Your cellars as well. This is a fine vintage. Dornish, correct? Where’s it from? It’s color says to me it’s from Yronwood, but the taste…that is all the Lemonwood.”

“It’s a Dayne wine.” Lady Ashara replied, “From a small vineyard on the banks of the Torrentine. It was a gift from my brother once he’d heard of my daughter's birth.”

“Where are your children, my lady?” Viserys asked, “I had hoped to meet some of your family while I was here.”

“Jon has gone beyond the wall.” She replied as she pushed her peas around, “My other sons ride with their father and I don’t know where my daughters are. Their grandfather took them away.”

“What were your other son’s names?” Viserys asked as he sipped at his wine. “Jon was the eldest, but the other two…I don’t think anyone ever told me their names.”

Lady Ashara glanced at him with pursed lips. Her face was blank, but Viserys thought he could see the beginnings of panic in her eyes. “Artos is my middle son.” She replied evenly. “He’s a true Stark, that one.”

The Lady of Winterfell laughed lightly and picked up her wine glass. “So bold, so brave…even as a little boy. He never knew when to stop.”

“And the other one?”

Ashara Stark looked up, her smile still on her face. “Alaric.” She said calmly, “My little sour Alaric. Oswell once said that ‘life gave him lemons, and Alaric started sucking.’ He has a sense of humor though, just one that exists beyond most other boys his age. A heart of gold too. He’d do anything for his family.”

“And they both went with your husband did they?”

“Yes.”

“I heard you had begun fostering the young Prince Tommen as well. Is he around?”

“He is with my husband, and my other sons.”

“I would most like to meet him.” Viserys said with a wide grin.

Ashara raised an eyebrow back at him and took a sip of her wine, “I doubt that will happen, but I’ll pass on your wishes when I see my husband next.”

“Do you think it’ll be soon?” Viserys asked eagerly. “How far off is he, do you reckon?”

Ashara Dayne put down her wine glass and leaned forward. “Viserys,” She said, her voice small, “for the love I once bore for your mother, I will give you this warning. You do not want to meet my husband. Should Ned make his way back here and you have not yet fled, you will not live long afterwards. Do you think wargs are the most powerful of forces my husband commands?”

The Lady of Winterfell closed her eyes and shivered. “There are paths open to my husband that are not open to Kings. You would do well to flee. If it’s peace you want, it’s not too late to have it. All Northmen have respect for the Night’s Watch. Should you claim sanctuary there, say your vows-”

“I’ll die before I rot away on that wall.” Viserys spat, “And I would not be so confident in your husband’s omnipotence, my lady. I carry powers of my own.”

‘The red priest and the warg?” She laughed, “Once they’ve figured out what you’ve got…what you’ve done, they won’t be so scared anymore. This is a Stark building. Starks know it better than any. Once Ned gets here, you die.”

Viserys slammed his hands upon the table and stood. “You have ruined my appetite.” He snarled as he turned away.

“Shame.” Ashara laughed as she picked her fork and knife back up, “I’ve just found mine.”

In the morning, they found Ser Brayden dead. His throat had been slit. It was shoddily done. There were stab wounds on his legs too.

“Either a dwarf did this…” Zamir said, “Or a child.”

“Is the Oakenstark in Winterfell?” Viserys asked. “He’d be the only dwarf capable of something like this.”

“No.” Morwick grumbled back, “He’ll be by Lord Stark’s side for sure. He is one of his most trusted and respected commanders.”

“Then this was the work of a child.” Viserys said as he knelt down next to the corpse. “Look.” He said as he pointed to the bloody trail of stab wounds. “He got him in the knee first. Then the stomach. He finished with the knife across his throat.”

“Footsteps too…” Morwick muttered as he looked closer, “There…they are faint but he’s stood in the blood.”

“Which child though?” Viserys asked. “And why would the Northmen send a child anyway?”

“I don’t think this child was sent, your grace.” Ser Daemon replied, “What sort of child goes around killing people?”

“A rotten one.” Morwick growled back, “Children have no business murdering men.”

“Yes.” Viserys said coldly as he stood. A glimmer of understanding was beginning to cross his mind. He suspected he knew who had done this. “A very rotten child. So rotten, my guess is they would taste quite sour.”

Viserys glanced up at Ser Daemon. “Have the Maester and Steward begun to talk yet?”

“No.” Daemon grunted back, “They’re proving to be most uncooperative.”

Viserys harrumphed. “I suppose it is time that we change our tune…interrogate someone that’s not so strong in fortitude.”

And so it was that In the dark of the night they dragged her in.

“Where is the boy?” Zamir asked as he lorded over the young maid.

“Please…” The girl stuttered back, “I don’t know. Normally he never strays far from his mother.”

“Did he go with Lord Stark?” Viserys asked from his chair.

The maid shuddered and turned away, before bursting into tears. Viserys slammed his hand upon the table. “Answer me!” He roared.

“No…” The girl cried back, “No…Lord Stark would not let him. He wanted to go so bad…but they agreed on that…”

“Where is he then?” Morwick asked as he rattled his whetstone down his knife. “Is he here?”

The girl only burst into a deeper round of tears.

“So he’s here then.” Viserys shifted in his seat and smiled. “There’s still a wolf within these walls.”

“When did you see him last?” Morwick asked, “Where was he?”

The girl shook her head and looked up fearfully. Tears were running down her cheeks. “I don’t know…please Ser. I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Morwick said as he placed the edge of his knife on her cheek. “Such a pretty face…it would be a shame if something happened to it.”

“No…no…no.” The girl stuttered out between sobs, “Not me. Don’t hurt me”

“Then tell me where he is.”

“I don’t know!” The girl cried back, “Last I saw him was in the moments before you arrived…his mother had summoned him to tell him off because he hadn’t been attending his lessons.”

“How long before we arrived was that?”

“No more than a turn of a sand timer.”

Viserys stood. “Someone’s been telling us fibs.”

His blood was running cold through his veins. He could not let his emotions consume him now. That would only lead to bad outcomes. He breathed in, breathed out and thought of all that Ser Willem had taught him of controlling himself.

“In the morning we will question everyone again.” He said to no one in particular. “I will catch this wolf before Ned Stark returns. Should we hold his wife and son, he will be forced to capitulate to our terms.”

In the morning they gathered all the hostages into one room. “You’ve all been lying to me.” Was the first thing that Viserys said to them. “Not one of you shared the truth with me.”

“What truth would this be?” The Lady of Winterfell asked. Now the panic in her eyes made sense.

“Where is Alaric Stark?” Viserys asked again. “Where is your youngest son?”

“With his father.” She replied without even batting an eyelid.

It took all of Viserys’ willpower to not slap her again. Or do worse.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“He’s just a boy, Viserys.” Ashara warned. He could sense the panic in her voice. “He’s barely seven.”

Viserys turned to her. “He’s a seven year old who just murdered one of my knights!”

“He’s a child!”

“At seven I was running for my life.” Viserys snarled back, “At seven this boy is killing men thrice his age. He’s shown us all how dangerous he is. Call him here. Now.”

“He won’t come.” Ashara replied with a hard laugh, “He hasn’t listened to me for the last seven years of his life, what makes you think he’s gonna start listening now?”

“Because if he doesn't listen to you call for him, soon enough he’ll be listening to you scream.”

Ashara Stark raised her chin at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Don’t tell me what I wouldn't dare.” Viserys hissed back, “You don’t think I haven’t realized what failure means for me?”

She must have seen the truth on his face for the defiance in her seemed to die a little.

“Call your son.” He said, “And I can promise you and him peace until your husband arrives.”

For a moment, he thought she still meant to defy him but then she did it.

“Alaric!” She called, “Come here. Alaric!”

The room sat in silence, waiting to see if the boy would appear.

“Alaric!” She called again, louder this time.

Still the boy did not come.

Viserys shrugged. “If he will not listen to you call, he will listen to you scream.”

He nodded at Morwick. “Have at her.”

Morwick grinned and lurched forward. He hadn’t even touched her before the boy appeared in the doorway.

“Mother.” He greeted as calmly as if he’d been called for breakfast. “You called me.”

Viserys grinned. “Get him!”

Ser Daemon and Ser Elyas leapt after him, but the boy turned and ran. Viserys let them go.

In the end Ser Elyas returned alone, grim faced.

“He killed him.” The Reachman said.

Ashara burst into tears.

“The boy is dead?” Viserys asked, his chest hollow.

“No.” Elyas replied through gritted teeth. “Daemon is.”

Ashara’s tears turned into laughs quicker than Viserys could even comprehend.

Without thinking he turned and began laying into the Lady of Winterfell. In the end it was Morwick whom pulled him off her.

She groaned as she pulled herself off the floor. “I haven’t yet screamed.” She grit out.

“I’ll make you.” Viserys swore. “And your son too.”

“No need to.” He heard from above, and then he saw the little boy dropping from the rafters.

They fell together in a jumbled mass of limbs and bodies. Viserys grabbed the boy, but received a foot in the nose for his troubles.

It stung and for a moment he was blinded from the tears.

It was then that Alaric Stark struck.

Something went through his right eye, a finger or a heel. Something hard.

“You little rat!!!!” Viserys screamed as he pulled back from the squirming boy. When he pulled his hand away from his right eye, he could not see from it. With his left, all he could see was his hand covered in blood. His heart dropped in his chest. Frantically, he clawed at his right eye, trying to open it. It did not open.

The darkness remained.

Slowly, he turned back to the boy. In his hands was a knife. Viserys recognised the smokey ripples that ran down its length.

Valyrian Steel.

Viserys did not remember what happened next, could not think of anything for the life of him. When he was aware of himself next though, that knife was in his hand, and the boy was screaming on the floor. His hands were clenched around his own eyes, and Viserys could not see what it was that pained him so.

With a shiver, he looked down. There on the floor was an eye. A human eye. A boy's eye.

His head snapped up in horror.

What have I done?

Chapter 35: Davos III: Brothers

Chapter Text

“Brother.” Renly greeted them, an easy grin plastered across his face.

Confidence such as the one that Renly wielded in this hour must have been feigned. No usurper could be so confident when faced with the one he had betrayed. Even less so when that man was your brother.

It was feigned confidence, stupidity, arrogance or wilful ignorance. Renly was a king without a home, already fighting against the Ironborn and now he was forced to engage in a war against his own brother. His newborn kingdom was on the verge of collapse, fresh from the womb. Any other man would have wielded humility in this hour. Not Renly though.

Stannis glowered back at him, grinding his teeth so hard, Davos feared they were like to crack.

“Lord Renly.” He said curtly.

“King Renly.” Renly replied with an easy smile, “Can that truly be you Stannis?”

Stannis frowned deeply. “Whom else would I be?”

Renly shrugged. “When I saw your banner on the horizon I could not be certain. Whose banner is that?”

“Mine own.”

The red priestess stirred. “The king has taken for his sigil the fiery heart of the Lord of Light.””

“And a pirate lord as his most leal subject?” Renly replied with an airy laugh, “What ever has become of you, Stannis?”

The whole tent laughed with Renly and Stannis turned a shade of puce.

“A pirate king, Ser.” Torrhen Snow spoke at last, toying with the dirk that danced between his fingers. When he spoke the whole tent fell silent. “They very same one whom took Storm’s End.”

That wiped the easy smile from Renly’s face. “You come here to boast do you?”

The Black Leviathan shrugged. “I have no need to boast. My deeds speak for me. Where’s the admiral who can match me?”

Torrhen looked around the tent and scoffed. “Not here, that’s for sure.”

“There is no need for insults.” Robb said at last, stirring from the sidelines, “You both have a common foe, one that seeks to destroy you both. Why waste your strength against each other?”

Stannis studied him, unsmiling.

“The Iron Throne is mine by rights. All those who deny that are my foes.”

“The whole of the realm denies it, brother,” said Renly, “Old men deny it with their death rattle, and unborn children deny it in their mother’s wombs. They deny it in Dorne, they deny it on the Wall. No one wants you for their king. Sorry.”

Stannis ground his teeth and looked around. “There is the law, Renly. Bend the knee to me and I will grant to you your old position as Master of Laws on my Small Council and name you my heir until a son is born to me.”

Renly laughed. “Let me make an offer to you, brother.”

He stood. “Bend the knee to me and serve me as you did Robert. You served him well enough, I’m sure you can do the same for me.”

Stannis nearly choked on his rage. In the end it was Torrhen Snow who had something to say. “Is this a realm of debauchery and chaos or law and order?”

Renly scoffed at that. “Who are you to lecture us on order? Chaos is born in the pit of piracy.”

“Who better than I?” Torrhen challenged, voice soft. “Where once there was a hundred kings in the Stepstones, now there is only one. I bring order where I march, not chaos. I brought civilisation and order to sothoroyos, made towns and villages where once only the wild existed. I made common law in a place where it had never existed.”

Torrhen Snow stood and pulled himself to his full height. “You were born into common law, reaped its benefits all your life, and now you wish to throw it all away to claim a crown?”

“Robert lived with being called an usurper. I can do the same.”

“On the contrary,” Torrhen said, “You of all people cannot. Is this to become a realm of third sons and bastard born lords? Have you not thought of the implications of what your claim to the throne means?”

“And what’s that?” Renly asked with a dark look.

“All over Westeros the trueborn heirs of houses great and small must learn to tremour. If treachery and betrayal is good enough for their king, why is it not good enough for their brothers, their bastards, their sister’s husbands? Why is it not good enough for any man who perchances to be wandering down a road and spies a keep he likes the look of? Order is all that sets us aside from savagery.”

Silence greeted him.

Well struck. Thought Davos, These lords look half convinced.

“Silver tongued devil.” Renly spat back at last, “A pirate thinks to lecture me on law?”

He laughed loudly. Tellingly though, this time he laughed alone.

“Do you not hunger for your father’s lands and titles, Sir?” Renly’s young queen raised her voice from where she was sat beside him, “Did you not slay your trueborn siblings, and your father’s wife when you stole your ship and fled the North.”

Torrhen’s face and form stilled. His face was expressionless, his eyes blank.

Renly hooted at that. “Order.” He chuckled, “The rule of law, hm? Was that what defined you then too, or has it only come with your kingship? Bastard born and bastard lived. Black of heart, black of soul. I’ll take no lessons from you.”

Stannis had heard enough of the bleating though. He looked around at all the gathered lords, before turning back to Renly. “For the love I bore for our mother I will give you one chance and one chance only to bend the knee, and serve me as your rightful king.”

“Oh?” Renly said, his face bemused, “One chance only?”

Stannis hissed at that. “Do not mock me.”

Renly rolled his eyes and chuckled. “I would never do such a thing.”

Stannis continued to grind his teeth. “At the dawn I shall depart, when I do so I expect you to be marching behind me as my heir apparent and leal subject.”

“And if I don’t?” Renly challenged.

“Then there will be war.” Stannis said darkly, “Highgarden and all the Reach will burn until you bend the knee or die. From the Arbour to Bitterbridge, from the Shield Islands to Bandallon, there will be war.”

“You and which army?” Renly replied airily, “Those codfish lords and onion knights that have flocked beneath your banner? The pirates ilk, more suited to fighting on land than sea? I’m no fool, Stannis, not like you. I can see a fight I’ll lose and not even take it. Should you march into the Reach, you will die. Flee back to Dragonstone tonight and I may find it within myself to be merciful. Should you not, I’ll slay every man that marches beneath your banner.”

“You two are brothers.” Robb Snow said, his voice thick, “What fell thing happened between the two of you that stirred hatred such as this? If my cousin’s were to behave like this, my aunt would knock their heads together.”

Renly turned to the Bastard of Winterfell “What happened?” He asked, “Robert gave me what Stannis always wanted.”

“Not this again.” Stannis snarled, “Storm’s End was mine by rights!”

Renly laughed. “It still burns him, you see?”

“Of course it does.” Stannis said, his voice thick with bitterness and remembered grief, “I’m not so young that I cannot remember the travesties that were visited upon us during Rickard’s Rebellion. I held that keep alone and friendless for the better part of a year. While Tyrell and Redwyne feasted within sight of my walls, we starved within. I was prepared to give everything I had to defend that keep from those who sought to take it, and once the war was done it was stripped from me and handed to the most ignorant, least grateful, bastard born wretch I know.”

Lord Tyrell shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Stannis spoke, while Renly watched on through slitted eyes. “I remember too.” Renly replied quietly, “I remember Maester Cressen told you we may have need of our dead. There was no need to throw away good meat, he said.”

“Then why do you lie with those who once tried to kill us?” Stannis snarled, scorn all about him.

Renly had no clear answer.

“You remember that, but not those who forced us into that position?”

“I was only serving my king.” Mace Tyrell argued, “I held true to my oaths.”

“As Aerys did?” Robb asked, his voice full of venom. The bastard did not like the mention of the mad king. “What a great king he was. You must have been proud to serve such a noble liege.”

Mace Tyrell puffed up and turned a shade of red. “Our bastards are feeling brave tonight.”

His voice was laced with venom. More bad blood was being bred tonight.

“Father!” Margaery cried, scandalized, “You must not speak to Lord Robb like that! Apologize.”

“Oh?” Robb asked, his eyes raised in mock shock, “I’m a Lord now. What a turn of events. Mayhaps I’m ready to claim the hand of some nobleman’s daughter. My father will be so pleased.”

Mace Tyrell stood up and placed a hand on his sword. “Do not insult my daughter.”

“You are a fool.” Torrhen laughed as he came to stand by Robb’s side, “When did he insult your daughter? No wonder Stannis did so well in defying you all those years ago. If this is the man that leads the Reach, this will be a very short war.”

The pavilion was quickly devolving into a shouting mess. Reachlord and Stormlord, Bastard and Highborn, they were all at each other’s throats. Stannis stood alone, silent in the center. Davos sensed his scorn of all of them.

“Enough!” Stannis roared at last, his scorn turning to fury. His voice carried over them all and the whole tent went silent. “I have heard enough words from all of you! Lying, deceptive rats, the lot of you. If only all of you had one neck, and I had one sword to hew your treacherous heads from your dishonorable necks.”

He paused and glared around, eyes hard as iron. “In the morning I will depart. Let the honorable march with me.”

With that, the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms swept his cloak around his shoulders and snapped a quick march from the tent. Melisandre and Axell Florent followed in his wake. Torrhen did not move, but shot Davos a warm smile. Renly sighed and rubbed his brow. “Leave us, both of you.” He said to Davos and Torrhen. “My lords and I have much to discuss. You as well, Lord Robb. This is a matter for my subjects and I. Not outsiders.”

He shot a tired smile Robb's way. “Not unless you wish to bend the knee and declare for me now?”

Robb raised a single brow in answer, before turning from the tent. Torrhen bowed mockingly low before following in his wake. Davos left last, inclining his head once as he left. Outside, the three Northmen came together. “Will you come and eat with us?” Robb asked them. “We went hunting in the woods just North of here yesterday morning. Mace Tyrell took down a fine stag and Renly gifted the haunch of it to us. I’m sure Wendel is preparing it over the cookfires now.”

Davos nodded and Torrhen shrugged. “I haven’t had venison in years.” He said, “And I’d love the chance to catch up.”

True to Robb’s word, Wendel Manderly had preapred the leg of venison and when they arrived they supped like kings. “How is Jon?” Torrhen asked, “It’s been so many years since I’ve seen him.”

“He’s good. We all are.” Robb replied, “We all miss you back home. I know Jon and Theon do.”

“Theon should have come with me. Piracy and the sea is in his blood.”

Robb laughed at that. “Maybe one day he’ll come join you. I don’t know what father has him doing now.”

“Your father took him with him when he returned to the Saltsmaw. He’s got him captaining a ship in the Bite, chasing smugglers and fighting pirates.” Davos informed the pair of them. As a guardian of the Wolf Pack it was his duty to find all the boys of the Wolf Pack their roles within the North. Beron Saltstark had been eager to take the youngest Greyjoy under his wing.

Torrhen spat on the floor. “f*ck the old bastard.”

Davos shook his head. “He will forgive you someday.”

Torrhen laughed darkly. “Well I will never forgive him. I did everything he and Lord Stark asked of me. Everything. They repaid me with scorn and exile. f*ck the both of them.”

“Jon will welcome you home when the time comes.” Robb promised, “I know he will.”

“I don’t want to come home, Robb” Torrhen replied, “I have made a Kingdom of my own down here. I shall leave a grand legacy to last a thousand years.”

“The day will come where all Northmen will come home.” Robb replied, eyes shiny with fervor, “That day comes soon. You dream, don't you Torrhen?”

“Aye.” Torrhen said, his voice strangled. “You mean…the White Wolf?”

“I think so.” Robb replied, “Birthed from a direwolf’s womb into the world nearly a year ago. Jon claimed the pup as his own. I think it a sign.”

Silence greeted him at that. Torrhen looked unsure of himself for once. “You must get word to your brother, Robb.” He said at last, “My men have spotted Euron Greyjoy in the Smoking Sea. I believe he is returning to Westeros. Should word get to him of what Jon has, he will go after him. Euron is a blood mage of the lowest order. With blood like Jon’s he could end the world as we know it.”

“Blood magic?” Robb asked dubiously, “Euron Greyjoy is alone and friendless. I think he’d deal little threat to the North.”

“Little threat?” Torrhen exclaimed, “He is the only man alive who terrifies me. I fear no man, will take battle to any without flinching or shirking, but he…he is a different sort of man. Not one to be trifled with easily.”

Robb nodded at last. “I’ll have a raven sent. Father and Jon will both know. I’ll let Theon know too. He can choose to share it with his brothers and father should he wish.”

Davos stood at last and wiped his fingers and mouth with a cloth. “I must be going, Robb. I thank you for the venison, and the hospitality. Hopefully it is not so long before I am seeing you back home in the North, where we both belong.”

Robb nodded and shook his hand. “It was good to see you again, Davos.”

That was how Davos left the two old pack brothers, as they sat beneath the moon and spoke of what had been and what was yet to come.

Chapter 36: Viserys V: The Wolf of Winterfell

Chapter Text

From the darkness of the doorway he watched as activity began in the yard below.

It had been nearly a moon and a half since he had sent for Lord Eddard Stark. At last, Viserys supposed the man was coming.

He had received very little news in the Inner Keep of Winterfell. There was no way to contact his men, and no way to receive word from them.

The most he received in way of news was the cryptic visions Zamir had given them. Though lately the visions had been more and more sporadic, and even more cryptic than normal.

He would learn of everything soon enough, he knew. The fact that it was a table and chairs being set up and not a gallows, led Viserys to believe that he had been at least partly successful. They all still lived and the Northmen were finally coming to the negotiating table.

“Your grace?” The Maester said from where he was escorted by one of Viserys’ knights, “I’ve brought you more of the balm.”

Viserys took it wordlessly and began to work it into the puckered wound that ran through where his right eye had once been.

The darkness that lingered where once there had been sight burned within him, and the vengeance he had taken on the boy proved no balm either.

He would pay dearly for that, he knew.

Eddard Stark’s wrath would be great once he learned of his son’s disfigurement. That moment of weakness may have cost Viserys the peace he had hoped to reach with the Stark’s.

What is done is done. Viserys thought, It is what I do

from here that matters.

“How long until Lord Stark arrives would you say, Maester?”

“Soon, surely.” The Maester replied, “The small man down there is Bowen Blackmyre. He is one of Lord Stark’s most trusted companions. He left with him to fight your armies on the front. Lord Stark would not have returned without him.”

Viserys observed the diminutive man from the shadows. There was nothing remarkable about him, nothing to suggest that Lord Stark favored him.

“Then we had best prepare.” Viserys replied softly as he handed the remaining balm back to the Maester. “Tell Morwick and Zamir that they shall surely come soon. Gather all the hostages together. Those that are not with me will guard them. At the first sign of betrayal…kill them all.”

His knight nodded and left with the Maester.

Viserys dared to lean slightly forward to see the Crannogman better, only to pull back sharply when said man stared right at him.

Black eyes, flinty and cold, pierced right through him and Viserys took an involuntary step back, as if he was being driven into the shadows.

His heart hammered in his chest, his tongue swelled in his mouth.

What was that?

Viserys did not dare to stir for a second, only pulled himself deeper into the shadows. At last, after what felt like an eternity, he slipped away to prepare himself for Lord Stark’s coming.

It was not until much later in the morning that Lord Eddard Stark finally graced the courtyard with his presence.

Viserys was waiting behind the gates and as soon as Morwick nodded at him, Viserys stepped forth and through them.

He had chosen Ser Elyas to guard him here. Said Knight walked before him with a great oaken shield, hand on his sword and eyes flitting about.

“Lord Eddard Stark.” Ser Elyas greeted as Viserys took his place at the table. “May I introduce to you King Viserys of House Targaryen, the third of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men and Protector of the Realm.”

Lord Eddard nodded a greeting back, but said nothing. He kept his eyes locked on Viserys throughout all of Ser Elyas’ speech. His eyes bore throughViserys like nothing else ever had.

The Triachs of Volantis had looked upon Viserys with something that was akin to amusem*nt, a if Viserys was a particularly amusing circus act. It had been insulting and infuriating, but these eyes were worse.

To Viserys, it seemed as if Eddard Stark thought that Viserys was beyond his amusem*nt, beyond even his hate.

For a long and awkward moment silence reigned between all of them. Then the third man spoke. “If you have terms you wish to present,” He said, “Now would be the time to do so.”

Viserys glanced at the warriors that loomed behind the three men on the end of the table. None of them seemed at all about to spring, so Viserys dared to speak.

“Lord Eddard.” Viserys said softly, “No doubt by now you have heard of my armies presence in your lands. Widow’s Watch, White Harbour and Moat Cailin have all fallen to my forces.”

Viserys prayed that his men had done their part, for if not this would be the shortest negotiation in the history of negotiations. “I hold your home keep. Inside with me I have your wife and son, as well as a handful of high ranking servants and noble children. I have not come to negotiate from a position of weakness, but rather a position of strength.”

The Northmen shifted in their seats and glanced at one another. Lord Eddard did not stir, only watched him with pursed lips.

“As such, I ask of you to treat me and my demands with the due respect. I have proven my worth by the feats I’ve accomplished.”

The Crannogman leant forward. “Your demands, Viserys.”

“I want peace.” Viserys replied as he stared Ned Stark in the eyes. “I intend to reclaim my throne, to reclaim my kingdom. I am not fool enough to believe that is possible while you are arrayed against me.”

Viserys spread his hands placatingly as he saw the look of shock on the faces of Lord Stark’s companions. “I will not ask you to fight beside me, for I know what an insult that would be to all who died deposing my father and brother. Instead I demand that you do not partake in the war. Upon the conclusion of hostilities in the South, once I am seated back on the Iron Throne and all the Lords of Westeros have bent the knee, then I shall return to you White Harbour, Widow’s Watch, Moat Cailin and Winterfell. Your son Artos, shall come south with me and serve as my squire in name, hostage in meaning. Your Lady Wife will be held in my manse in Volantis until such a time as I am satisfied the terms of our agreement have been met.”

Viserys leaned back in his chair. “I shall also require hostages from all the great houses of the North. Officially they will be members of my court, unofficially,” Viserys shrugged, “We all know what they will really be.”

The man on Lord Stark’s left burst into laughter once Viserys had finished. “You Ser, are the greatest f*cking idiot I have ever met in my life!”

Viserys bristled and pulled back sharply. “And whom would you be, Ser?”

“Lord Roose Bolton.” The man replied through giggles, “At your service.”

“I’ve come to this table in good faith.” Viserys snarled.

“Yes,” Bowen Blackmyre replied, “And did you come to this city in good faith too?”

Viserys laughed boldly back. “With as good intentions as I ever could have for the Northmen who saw my family deposed of their rightful inheritance.”

The would-be king of the Seven Kingdoms shrugged. “I think I’ve shown incredible restraint when compared to what you people did to my brother.”

The Northmen looked amongst one another for a second, before Lord Stark nodded at Lord Bolton.

“Send them in!” Lord Bolton called as he turned his head.

Ser Elyas scrambled to his feet, jumping in front of his king. Viserys gripped the surcoat of his sworn knight and prepared to return to the safety of the castle, only to be surprised when a lone man entered the courtyard. He was clearly a warrior, powerfully built and sporting a bull headed helm.

Viserys relaxed an inch and pulled Ser Elyas back down. “And whom would this be?” Viserys asked with as much scorn as could be mustered.

“Tell the man whom you are.” Lord Bolton instructed the warrior.

The warrior reached up and removed his helm to reveal the face of a young man, scarce grown out of his youth.

“Gendry Durrandon.” The young warrior stated firmly as he tucked his helm under his arm, “Master of the Moat.”

Viserys’ eyebrows reached high onto his forehead. “Durrandon, you say?”

He did not know whether to be more curious about his status as Master of Moat Cailin or how he came to claim the name of a line of long dead kings.

“Inform us of the happenings at Moat Cailin these past few moons.” Lord Bolton instructed the boy as he resumed his seat and leaned back.

The boy leveled his gaze to the distant horizon. “We first mobilized for war when word came through that Lord Lucerys Velaryon was heading a fleet into the Bite. I sent a larger garrison of men to protect the Saltsmaw, and ordered the Wolf’s Maw closed to the merchant fleets. With the news of unrest in the south, I also ordered constant patrols down the causeway, making sure there were no forces attempting to march up it.”

The boy’s gaze flicked to Viserys. “When word arrived that Widow’s Watch had fallen and White Harbour was under siege I placed the entire garrison on siege conditions. We locked and barred the gates, opened the siege granaries and sent all the smallfolk away to Barrowton. It was the morning of the eighth when the Targaryen armies arrived.”

Viserys leant forward in his seat, his tongue thick in his mouth. He was half excited, half terrified of what he would hear next.

“For three days they prepared a siege camp, on the night of the fourth…” The boy paused and Viserys could see the clear unease on his face. “We were betrayed.” He finished.

Viserys fought hard not to yell out at the news.

“The gates were opened by my pack brother, Mors Sand.” The boy hung his head. “The Targaryen army managed to seize the outer walls of the Moat, while my men and I secured and held the Inner Keep.”

Gendry Durrandon flicked his gaze to Lord Stark. “I sent word to Lord Stark of what happened and was ordered to hold the Inner Keep at all costs and tie down the Targaryen army for as long as I could.

We held the Inner Keep for nearly a moon, there was fighting everyday. They stormed us with ladders more times than I could count, attempted to burn us out thrice and even launched dead cattle over the walls into the courtyard.”

Viserys listened with rapt attention, his glee spilling over into his broad grin. “And then?” He asked.

Gendry flicked his gaze back to Viserys. “And then Lord Stark arrived with the Northern army and the Targaryen siege of Moat Cailin was ended in a little over three hours.”

Viserys blinked. He felt as though a bucket of cold water had been poured over him. “What?” He asked.

Lord Roose Bolton smiled widely from where he sat and waved his hand at Gendry. “I think I can better fill the gaps from here, Gendry.”

He leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. “We met your first army on the grounds outside of White Harbour. To call it a battle would be an insult to every man who ever died in one. That was a rout. Then we took the second army that you had hidden in the hills to the east of White Harbour. It was Thorin Oakenstark whom took them down.”

Lord Bolton grinned like a wolf while Lord Stark sat in stony silence. “And then,” He said in a mocking repeat of Viserys’ earlier words, “We fell upon your men at Moat Cailin with near forty thousand swords in our number. They were not expecting us. They were so consumed with their little siege they did not notice us until we had fallen upon their camps. By then it was too late.”

Gendry cleared his throat. “We had been ferrying men into the Moat from Saltsmaw via the Wolf’s Maw. When Lord Stark and Bolton and Mormont arrived leading their armies, I sallied out. We broke the siege, and ended the Targaryen threat.”

“That was where we were when we received word from Rodrick Cassel that Winterfell had fallen.” Lord Bolton finished. “And thus we came here.”

At last, Lord Stark stirred. He leant forward and rested his elbows upon the table. “You will spend the rest of your life, however short it may be, rueing what could have been, Viserys.”

“You attack my homeland, kill my kin, butcher my smallfolk, invade my very home and then come and ask me for peace? You are madder than your father ever was.”

Viserys nearly choked on his rage.

“What madness ever possessed you to think that you could ever pose a threat to me with twenty thousand sellswords? I could lecture you and inform you on how I would have done it, but what would be the point in that thought exercise?”

“I’ve struck deeper into your homeland than any king before me for a thousand years.”

Ned Stark laughed at that. “So you say.” He said, “You sacked Widow’s Watch, extinguished the Flintstarks and then attempted a half assed siege of White Harbour. Your main army attacked the Moat and only took half of it even with the help of treachery, while you entered this city and invaded my home with the help of a red priest and a rogue Warg of the White Eye. What great victories have you accomplished, Viserys, to even dare to beg before me?”

Ned Stark stood and towered over the table. Viserys had never felt so small in his life. “That is all of them is it not? Maybe you slew some farmer and his wife on the way here as well? What a victory that was.”

Ned Stark’s scorn was clear for all to see.

Viserys flushed a deep shade of red, though whether it was shame or rage he could not say. “I still hold your wife, do I not? And your son?”

Ned Stark smiled for the first time since this meeting started. “Do you?” He asked.

For the first time, Viserys noticed how still the Crannogman was. His body was slumped in his chair, blood dribbling from his nose. With horror Viserys realized that the man’s eyes were cotton white.

“There are rules set by the Stark of Winterfell.” Lord Eddard said gravely, “Rules that define taxes a lord imposes upon his smallfolk, rules to determine how to deal with murders and deserters and even rules that dictate what wargs can and can’t do.”

Lord Eddard Stark tilted his head, his eyes dark and hard and cold as old ice. “Some of the rules were written by my ancestors…some of them are older than even that.”

Viserys swallowed. His mouth was so dry, he needed a drink. A stiff drink.

“Wargs are forbidden from consuming human meat while warging, so to from mating in their warg form.” Lord Stark placed a hand upon the Crannogman’s shoulder. “The greatest abomination of all though…that is to seize the body of another man. Not even the White Eye have ever stooped as low as that crime.”

Lord Stark laughed bitterly. “I am the Stark in Winterfell though. I write the rules. I will decide the punishments.”

He leaned forward and shook his head slowly. “As my wife warned you, King Viserys, there are paths open to me that are not open to Kings. This is only one of them.”

Viserys stood on shaking legs.

From behind him there came a keening scream. Viserys whipped around to see Zamir falling from the top of the gate where he had been instructed to keep watch. In the shadows where Viserys had once stood he saw the shadow of Morwick shambling forward. For a second he stood suspended on the gate’s crenellations, eyes glassy and unseeing.

Then the man tipped forward and fell.

The thud when he hit the ground was sickening. Neither him nor Zamir rose or even twitched.

“Is it done Bowen?” The Lord of Winterfell asked.

Bowen Blackmyre rose on shaking legs, blood dribbling from his nose and ears, and eyes as bloodshot as any that Viserys had ever seen. “They are all dead.” The man whispered. “You are free to enter.”

Ned Stark gripped the man’s shoulder tightly. “You have served me well Bowen. I shall see you rewarded for this.”

“Forgiveness for my failures is all I ask for.”

Eddard Stark smiled sadly down at him. “All is forgiven. Now leave us.”

Lord Stark looked up and glanced around. “All of you leave us, Gendry stay.”

The courtyard emptied in moments leaving only four of them left.

“Ser Elyas Grimm.” Lord Eddard greeted his sworn shield, “You have a father in the Reach do you not?”

His knight nodded tightly. “I do.”

“If you ever wish to see him again, surrender now.”

Ser Elyas dropped to his knees and discarded his sword and shield. Viserys did his best not to feel betrayed.

Two men came from the shadows and dragged his sworn shield away.

Then there were three.

Lord Stark edged around the table and stopped halfway down, before taking a seat on its broad expanse. The Durrandon boy followed in his footsteps and shadowed him where he went.

“You have not heard much news since you arrived here, have you?” Lord Stark asked, not unkindly.

“No.” Viserys admitted.

The closeness of his inevitable death brought a clarity Viserys had never had.

“Robert Baratheon is dead.” Lord Stark said gravely, “All of southern Westeros is consumed by war. From the Eyrie to Oldtown they all march to war. You may have won that one, had you bothered to join them. I guess now we will never know.”

“Did the Volantese kill him?”

“The Volantese?” Lord Stark said, “Not at all. As far as I know, the Volantese are still holed up behind the Black Walls are marching their armies up and down the Rhoyne.”

Another betrayal.

“I am to die then?” Viserys asked.

“Of course.” Lord Stark replied, “For what you’ve done to my wife and son alone there can be no forgiveness. Do not think I am blind to what he did to you, and what you did to him.”

Viserys bowed his head and closed his last remaining good eye. “So be it.” He said softly, “And thus House Targaryen ends with me.”

Lord Stark sighed softly. “Not quite.”

Viserys looked up to the sad face of Lord Stark. “There is another…” The man admitted, “Mors Sand we called him, but his father named him Aegon. Aegon Targaryen.”

The dots connected in Viserys’ head far too late. “You mean…”

“I saved his life.” Lord Stark admitted, “And the life of his sister and mother. I swore an oath to the only woman I ever loved that I would protect them.”

The man shook his head and turned away. “Yet he betrayed me.”

The Lord of Winterfell laughed bitterly. “The people I save are starting to make a habit of betraying me. First Lady Lysa…now Aegon. I will not let there be a third.”

Viserys swallowed. He heard loudly what went unsaid there.

“No Night’s Watch for me then?”

“No.” Lord Stark replied with a dark glint in his eyes. “You and Aegon carry the blood of kings. My green men tell me such blood is most valuable. We will find use for the two of you yet. Even as you die you can still serve the North.”

Viserys closed his eye and bowed his head. He had learnt far too much, far too late.

The Lord of Winterfell placed a hand upon his shoulder and leant close. “By the time we are done with you, Viserys, you will be begging for the mercy of a quick death.”

Chapter 37: Margaery I: The Summer Queen

Chapter Text

The sun was low upon the horizon when Renly finally called an end to his council. Margaery had been present, seated at his right hand. It was her right as his queen to sit there, and yet she had never been so unsure of herself her entire life.

From the cradle her mother and father and grandmother had all told her she was destined to be queen. She had not just been told she was to be a queen, she was raised to be a queen. Every lesson, every learning, every day was about moulding her into the queen everyone told her she was destined to be.

No one had ever told her whose queen she was to be though, and when news had come of Sharra Arryn’s betrothal to Prince Joffrey she had wept bitter tears. He was meant to be hers, and she was meant to be queen, but now another would be.

Her grandmother had consoled her with promises that she would still be queen.

“How?” Margaery remembered asking. “The Crown Prince is betrothed.”

“It is only a betrothal.” Her grandmother replied, “And many betrothals do not ever eventuate into marriage. And who knows what else could happen?”

Though Margaery had not realised it at the time, the rumblings of Renly’s ascension had been in the works even then. Nothing cleared the eyes quite like hindsight.

As promised, she had been made a queen, Renly’s queen. Never had she thought that being the queen would look quite like this.

She pushed her way through the flaps of his pavilion with all the other lords and knights that had been present. Their numbers there had been many, and Margaery didn’t think she had seen so many men around the king since the day he had been crowned at Highgarden. All of them wanted to be heard, to be seen; all of them wanted to be close when this kingdom finally fell apart.

Vultures, the lot of them.

Robb Snow had called Renly’s kingdom a Summer Kingdom, and if it was winter was truly on its way.

Margaery could already imagine the ditties the commons would make of her. “The Summer Queen. The Half Year Queen. The Queen of Corpses.”

Robb Snow had been one of the few not present at Renly’s council, and to her surprise neither had her grandmother. All throughout Renly’s kingship, and even before that, her grandmother had been present in every council. The Queen of Thorns had never been afraid of making her opinion known. Her absence, and in turn her silence, had been deafening.

Outside the war pavilion it was cold. There was a wind blowing from the North, and it brought with it a chill. Goosebumps rippled up and down Margaery’s arms. She looked about searching for her handmaidens, or her grandmother, or even a familiar face to talk to.

To her surprise, Margaery spotted both her grandmother and Robb Snow together. They were locked in deep conversation near a dell of trees not far from the pavilion. Her grandmother’s guards stood a respectful distance away, far enough to be out of earshot yet close enough to be able to intervene in the case of trouble.

Holding a smile that did not betray her racing thoughts, she made her way over to them. As she approached and could see the pair of them better, she noted that Robb was pale and had shaking hands. She caught his gaze from afar and to her surprise his eyes were dark and hooded, full of something she had not seen in his eyes before.

Fear.

She raised her smile at him, but he did not smile back, only flicked his gaze away to the distant horizon.

His mouth moved and then her grandmother was turning to her with a warm and beaming smile. “Margaery, my dear!” She cried with her usual delight, “I am so glad you have decided to join us.”

“Grandmother,” Margaery replied as she gave the wizened woman a hug, “Lord Robb.” She greeted the bastard of Winterfell.

The Bastard of Winterfell did not reply, his gaze still locked upon the horizon. Robb had always been so carefree, so happy and been a character that seemed larger than life. A brilliant swordsman who was as handsome as men came, Margaery had always thought that if a king from the storybooks was to come to life, he would have looked and behaved much like Robb. Robb even had a dire wolf follow him around like an oversized pet.

What mortal King could compare to that?

The Targaryen’s had their dragons but they were all dead and gone and Robb was living, a legend come to life.

Her grandmother harrumphed at his silence. “Did your father never teach you manners, Lord Robb?”

“Grandmother!” Margaery cried, scandalized.

“I’m a bastard.” Robb replied to her coldly, ignoring Margaery’s protests, “And tired besides. Pray excuse me, my ladies.”

Robb turned away abruptly and strode away, his cloak flapping in the wind. Margaery turned to her grandmother. “What was the meaning of that?” She asked, “What did you say to him that upset him so much?"

“No clue.” Her grandmother replied with a shrug and a wink, “You know how men are, my dear. All so prickly and quick to take offence…mayhaps I questioned his honour, or his sword arm, or the length of his member?”

Margaery eyed her grandmother suspiciously. “Maybe I’ll go ask him then?”

Her grandmother only turned away and began to hobble back to her guards. “Go ahead, my dear.” She called, “And do apologise to him if it turns out it was something I said. I should have known better than to talk with a tired bastard.”

Determined to ascertain the end of it, Margaery decided to chase down the fleeing Northmen and get to the bottom of the matter. She had no doubt she would get a clearer answer from him than from her grandmother.

As the sun dropped beneath the horizon and the first stars peeked into existence, Margaery chased down Robb. She caught up with him as he began the climb to his camp upon a low rise. “You really must break this habit, my lady.” He said to her as she fell into step beside him, “Dusk is a dangerous time to be out.”

His face was still locked deep in a frown, while his eyes were as haunted as they had been back at the dell. “You missed the King’s council.” She replied, “Your absence was noted.”

Robb only grunted in reply and kept walking. “I don’t imagine I missed much.” He said after a short moment of silence. “Much of the same arguing, I suppose?”

“Much of the same.” She confirmed with a small smile. Robb did not return it. “I would have much preferred to spend the afternoon and evening speaking with my grandmother. She is such an interesting character, though her tongue can be sharp at times.”

Robb stopped in his tracks and turned to her, eyeing her through squinted eyes. “A very sharp tongue indeed.” He replied.

“Oh?” Margaery asked, “Did she say something to you? Forgive me if she offended you, Robb, she is an old woman, and past the games younger men and women would play.”

Robb barked out a laugh, a short and strangled thing. “She did not offend or harm me in any way. As you said, she is an old woman.”

Robb turned and continued to walk back to his camp. “With a sharp tongue, and a sharper brain. As she’s so old it’s easy to forget she would easily be one of the most dangerous people in this little kingdom. They say you should never judge a book by its cover but today I learned to never judge the Queen of Thorns by her looks alone.”

Margaery frowned and tilted her head at him as she hurried to keep up with Robb’s long strides. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Your grandmother scares me.” Robb admitted. “In a way that battle never has, nor ever will. There are so few people like her…”

“Like what?” Margaery challenged.

Robb just laughed in reply, a happier laugh this time though. “Forget I spoke, my lady.”

He shrugged and smiled warmly at her, though the smile did not reach his eyes. “As I said to your grandmother, I am tired. I’m just not me when I’m tired. If my brother was here he’d tell you the same.”

Robb was fighting hard to make it seem like he wasn’t bothered, but Margaery could still see the same fears in his eyes.

“Robb.” She called softly. Something in her voice must have made him stop, for he did and turned to her. “Tell me what she said to you.”

Robb’s face crumpled and he shook his head in fear. “I cannot, my lady. It will be the death of all of us if I do.”

Margaery’s heart dropped in her chest and she pressed up closer to him, grasping his hands in hers and pulling him close. “You must.” She insisted. “I am to be queen. I could command you.”

If anything, that only seemed to upset him even more.

“Please, Margaery.” He begged her, “Just leave it be. There are some shells that are best left unturned and I intend to keep this shell that way. Leave it be, Margaery.”

The use of her name threw Margaery. Robb had never spoken her name like that. He had called her Queen Margaery once, but that had been formal and stiff. Hearing her name from his lips felt strangely intimate, and she found she liked the way it rolled off his tongue. His Northern accent was gruff and a burr, but she liked it. That was how he left her, alone and contemplating the sound of her name from his tongue on her ears.

She did not chase him, did not even wonder what it was that her grandmother had spoken to him of.

Margaery.

The word bounced around her head, echoing in her ears even hours after it had first been spoken.

It was hours later, deep in the dark of the night that she finally returned to her tent.

Renly was waiting for her, and he was not happy. He glared at her as she entered, and Margaery greeted him with a bright and false smile. “Hello, Dear.”

“Where have you been?” He barked in reply.

When she had wed him at Highgarden he had been a handsome and carefree man. A worthy king, she had thought. The war, the true war, had brought out the worst in him. Once she had thought that Renly was ill suited to war, but now she realized that it was kingship that he was ill suited to.

Life is not a tourney, and neither is war. Robb had said that once. A shiver ran down her arms as she remembered it.

“Wandering the camps.” She replied airily.

“At this hour?” He scoffed. “What were you truly doing?”

“I’m telling the truth.” She snapped as she settled down in front of her dresser.

“Were you with that bastard again?”

The question hung in the air between them, cloying thick. Margaery took a half second to gather herself before she whirled around to face her husband. “What is that supposed to mean?” She hissed.

Renly sneered. “You don’t think I’ve heard of what you’ve been up to while I’ve been away waging war? You don’t think they tell me who my lady wife spends all her time with?

Margaery took a step towards him and tilted her head at him, eyes narrowed almost to slits. “What are you saying, Renly?”

“I will not be cuckolded, Margaery.” Renly spat.

Margaery slapped him. “How dare you? How dare you?!”

Renly frowned and rubbed his cheek. “I will not be remembered as Robert will be.”

Margaery rolled her eyes and scoffed at him. “Of that, there is no danger.”

“Careful, Margaery.” Renly hissed lowly, “Careful.”

“Or what?” Margaery challenged him as she stepped forward. “What shall you do, Renly?”

Margaery paused and laughed. “Would you like to have my chastity inspected, your grace? The gods know you’ve protected it well enough.”

Renly scowled at her before turning away and retreating to the dark recess of her tent. “You are not to see anymore of Robb Snow. I forbid it.”

Margaery laughed darkly. “You men are fools.” She said, “I invest hours into trying to convince him to fight for you, and this is how I am repaid?”

“And what methods did you have to employ to convince him?” Renly pondered, “Not very successful ones clearly? Mayhaps you're not as good as you think you are?”

Margaery’s face flushed red at her husband's insinuation. “You are lucky my brothers are far away, your grace.”

Renly went to snap back at her, but Margaery cut him off. “No.” She said loudly, “I will not hear another word from you…I have no wish for your company either.”

She pointed a finger to the door. “Out.”

Renly glowered at her, but took his leave nonetheless.

Margaery spent the next hour pacing back and forth, trembling with fury one moment, quivering with shame the next.

How dare he? She thought to herself as she paced, After all my family and I have done for him?

At last, she stopped her pacing, her wrath still burning brightly within her. The shame she had felt at the beginning of the night had long since burnt away. She strode over to her dresser and pulled her darkest cloak from it, before donning it over her shoulders. With one last look at the inside of her tent, she slipped quietly out the door.

With her cloak around her, she crept through the camps, slinking from shadow to shadow.

When she came to the Northmen’s camp it was strangely empty. Either all were sleeping or all had departed for some place else.

Robb Snow’s tent loomed large in the darkness. Her heart hammered in her chest as she drew to the tent door.

With a trembling hand she reached forward and pulled the flaps back, exposing the darkness of his tent to the moonlight.

“Robb?” She whispered hoarsely into the shadows.