None could argue destiny has a sense of humor. Kronos blasting his grandson across space and time might have spelled doom for the prophecy, yet in a world of ice and fire, the tangled threads of fate are unraveled as the Hero awakens for the Maiden.
A Hero for the Maiden
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Chapter 1 (The Marooned Hero)
None could argue destiny has a sense of humor. Kronos blasting his grandson across space and time might have spelled doom for the prophecy, yet in a world of ice and fire, the tangled threads of fate are unravelled as the Hero awakens for the Maiden.
Introducing my PJO Xover with ASOIAF Plot Bunny!
Enjoy this chapter that has been edited by Gladiusx.
This story is crossposted on other websites, and I will be releasing a chapter every once in a while, until I catch up.
The Marooned Hero
Percy woke up with a gasp. Years of intense training and his demigod instincts had him on his feet instantly as he looked around, taking stock of his situation. His head was pounding, and his muscles ached. He held his head to stave off the encroaching headache as he found himself in some sort of deserted and filthy alley. It was midday, with the sun high in the sky, trying its best to scorch the earth. He could smell the scent of the sea hidden among piss and shit. Not too different from a typical Bronx alley, but the brick buildings seemed alien to him. Not to mention, something was missing in the air? Something he had gotten used to for a long time, but as he tried to recall it, his headache intensified.
The last thing he remembered was giving the dagger to Luke, trusting Annabeth's words that he would redeem himself. He would never know if Luke was being genuine, as the Time Lord had managed to wrest control at the last second, unleashing a mighty roar, and then… nothing.
No, not nothing. He thought hard as his head felt like it was going to split. Something happened, but his memories were fuzzy. Annabeth… where was she? Instinctively, he knew that she was gone. Unreachable. He wanted to rage against such a thought, yet at the same time, he had the distinct impression that he had already had this argument with himself and had accepted the inevitable.
Percy wandered towards a nearby street, where he could hear loud noises. He froze as he stepped on something slimy. Looking down, the demigod was shocked that he was completely naked, although his body sported signs of healing bruises and blackened marks of fire. It confused him, as the curse of Achilles should have kept him safe from any damage. He looked around for anything to at least cover his privates, ignoring the slimy feeling on his bare feet as he didn't even want to know what he stepped on.
After tearing away a curtain from its window and then tying it around his waist into a makeshift kilt, Percy made his way outside the alley… only to gawk at the scene in front of him.
There were people. Many people. All of them were filthy and dirty and stinky. An entire crowd of thousands of hungry and angry-looking men, women, and children dressed in rags and dirty clothes were throwing shit and debris at a well-dressed group. With his six feet in height, Percy could easily see over most of the crowd of shorter mortals. He didn't know how, but he could tell with a glance that almost everyone around him had not a single drop of divine blood in them.
Almost.
The folks in fancy costumes were mostly taller than the surrounding rabble, but Percy could feel a tiny, almost untraceable amount of divinity in one of them. A legacy, perhaps?
He observed his surroundings, and for a moment, he thought he had entered a set for a medieval movie of sorts. A quick glance, however, told him that there were no cameras, no actors, and that tall blonde kid with the punchable mug certainly had murder and hatred on his shit-drenched face.
"HOUND! Cut through those filthy peasants! I am their King, and they dare strike me?"
Gods, the brat sure had a whiney voice to match his face, and his headache really didn't agree with it. Percy noticed a tall man in plate armor and wearing a helm in the shape of a snarling dog, immediately urged his massive black stallion forward threateningly, but the crowd would not budge. The man seemed to shrug, uncaring, the act showing half his face covered in burn scars, then he cut a swath among the poor folks with his longsword, starting with the woman who had been blocking the road.
It was then that Percy fully acknowledged that this was real as he stared at the bloody bodies of men and women and how the nobles didn't bat an eye at the violent death. Except for one familiar-looking red-haired girl who gazed in muted horror at the bloody scene.
"What are you waiting for, dog? I said kill them. Kill the traitors. KILL THEM ALL!"
The crowd suddenly went ballistic at the brazen order and charged at the royal party, while others stood back and chanted the names of kings. There was a King Robb, a King Stannis, and a King Renly; whoever they were, their names seemed to incense the blonde king and what looked to be his mother or maybe older sister.
Percy looked on in growing revulsion at the group as the beautiful blonde noblewoman shouted from the window of a carriage. "Back to the Red Keep, Sers. Do what you must to protect your King!"
"At once, Your Grace. Men! Shields up, present spears. Make way for the King or suffer the consequences." A man in a gold cloak and an iron prosthetic hand moved in a shield formation with his troops and shouted warnings at the crowd. They were unheeded as the crowd pelted them with projectiles.
Percy ignored the retreating royals as the surrounding crowd descended into a bloody frenzy. People were pushing each other to the ground as one of the nobles, either a child or a dwarf, threw a fistful of silver coins while he rushed off. Another group had dragged a short Hispanic-looking man from his horse and were in the process of clubbing him. Yet another daring group charged the man with the scarred face, only to be cut down with a horizontal slash of his longsword. Percy silently hoped his horse would buckle underneath him, and to his surprise, it faltered as it stared at him inquisitively. This caused the man to overextend on his next swing and miss. Before he could recover, he was dragged down from his massive horse by another group, cursing and swinging his sword wildly.
"Whoops."
Instinctively, Percy called out to the impressive stallion with his mind to come to him. The horse looked at him, then back to its master, then back to him. It gave one last look to its master before shaking its head with a snort and cautiously made its way around the crowd towards him.
So many people were getting killed and trampled, and Percy didn't even know where to start to help if he could. There were too many unknowns, so for now, he would focus on his own safety. It would help if he was on horseback, and that horse looked fully kitted for war, with at least one dagger strapped to its saddle. If only he had Riptide, though sadly, he would need to find pants with pockets to know if the sword would return to him from whatever happened to him.
Suddenly, A feminine shout grabbed his attention. The bratty king looked terrified from the shouting crowd and, even as he rode away, pushed the red-haired girl riding next to him, causing her horse to rear up in a panic and for her to disappear into the crowd.
Percy had no clue where he was or when he was, but he knew one thing for sure. That girl looked just like Rachel, and he could sense that drop of divinity burning brightly from her.
Even before a plan formed in his head, his legs were already on the move at the sight of the girl getting dragged by a trio of men into an alley. The men reminded him of the worst drug addicts he had to deal with on the streets back home. Filthy, scummy looking, half their teeth rotten, the other half missing. Utter leeches on society whom no one would miss.
One of the trio was pawing at the girl's chest as he ripped off her dress, while the other two were trying to both drag her and unbuckle their pants at the same time. The girl was a tough cookie, however, and struggled mightily, biting the fingers of the one covering her face and elbowing the bastard undressing her.
"Hey, assholes! Let her go."
That grabbed their attention, and Percy could safely tell that the girl was not Rachel. Not with her bright blue eyes and the lack of freckles on her face. That would not stop him from saving her, however, especially as now that he was close, he could tell that the divinity he sensed in her was burning brighter by the second. Or was she touched by the gods somehow? Even as he gazed at her, he could feel the divinity in her almost turn to him in curiosity.
"Whatchu want? Want a bit of noble whore cunt? Then wait fer your turn, you fooking whoreson."
Horeson? It was a strange way to insult someone. The dialect, while sounding English, was like nothing he had heard before. More importantly, how did they know that his father was the lord of horses? Wait.
It took him a couple of seconds to understand that the son of a bitch in front of him just called his mother a whore. For Percy, who prided himself on his talent in taunting others without resorting to such low blows, this caused him to instantly see red.
The Little Bird
Sansa Stark did not believe in heroes. Her stay in the South had shown her the hard way that beneath all the glamour and finery of Southron Chivalry, they were all deceitful and shameless; Honor and justice were simple words that were given lip service, if at all. She herself felt it as she slowly but surely turned into a monster like them.
It all started when she betrayed her family near the Ruby Fork to protect her golden prince. The gods surely cursed her at that moment, for she had lost her dear Lady due to her own cowardice. It felt like a hole had formed in her heart at that moment that had yet to heal.
It was all her fault. She should have helped Arya instead of someone she thought she knew. No hero would come out of the woods to help her, for she did not deserve it.
Then there was the accursed tourney. While many disregarded her as she sat in the stands and watched the joust, she listened as the surrounding nobles conversed with each other with a polite demeanor, swearing oaths and making promises as easily as breathing. Only to curse and insult each other once they believed they could not hear, cackling with their other friends how they planned to backtrack on their words. Mayhaps they couldn't hear, but Sansa heard it all.
Then, it culminated with her father's betrayal by the men he trusted. She was unable to learn much, but she knew that the Gold Cloaks' commander had sworn an oath to her father to obey his commands, yet he betrayed her father regardless. She was in attendance in court when the shameless cur named Slynt bragged to Joffrey about how he so easily turned his cloak on her father. Then the nobles in court praised him, actually praised him for his bravery in deceiving the dumb and barbaric brute of a Northerner.
Served the oathbreaker right to be banished to the Wall when he tried something similar with the Imp.
It was all her fault. She should have trusted her father that there must have been a reason he needed to smuggle them out of the city. No hero would come to her father's aid as he helplessly watched his men get cut down.
If only Sansa could know who else betrayed her family that day, for surely many had let her father down. Where was Lord Renly with his smiles and easy promises? Where was Ser Barristan with his stoic duty and kind words and tales of glory and honor? Where was Lord Baelish, who swore to help them as a favor to his foster sister, her mother?
It didn't matter. Lord Renly was dead, Ser Barristan was gone, and Lord Baelish had done nothing as she suffered. Always there with his smirk or silly quip.
Then there was her… for how would her family prepare for betrayal from within?
How could Sansa have been so foolish? To disobey her father's orders and tell the queen his secrets? The gods were surely fair, for they had punished her in the worst ways possible, as she was forced to see everyone she knew from Winterfell get killed for her treachery. Her father, losing his head to Ice of all things? Oh, how Sansa longed to hold her sister Arya one last time, but she was gone. Presumed dead by all.
She was a kinslayer in all but the deed itself. None as accursed as the kinslayer. It was all her fault. No hero would come from the crowd to stop her father's execution, for it was the gods' decree that she should suffer for her sins.
Then the humiliations came. Joffrey, in his mercy and generosity, forced her to watch her father's head every day. Then, once court was in session, he would have her continuously swear fealty to him and curse her family publicly. She couldn't stand it. Sansa regretted dearly when the Hound stopped her from pushing the royal bastard off the rampart the first time he showed her Eddard Stark's head on a spike. Every time afterward, the guards had been too vigilant, and she suspected the Hound had warned them.
Then… Robb descended from the Neck like a winter storm, shattering Ser Jaime's army and taking him captive. Sansa didn't have the luxury to celebrate or feel any joy from the news, as Joffrey had taken that as a direct insult. The craven cur would not dare attack Robb himself, so he satisfied himself by having her publicly beaten when he held court.
It was all her fault. She could have ended this war by pushing the bastard to his death. It was the one chance for Sansa Stark to be the hero she wished others would be, yet she failed.
Sansa thought she could handle the humiliation of swearing fealty to the false king. The surrounding nobles must have held a smidgen of sympathy for her family and her father, for they had never harmed them and treated all honorably.
The beatings showed her their true worth. Knights and ladies, noblest of the lands, sycophants, and lickspittles, all of them eagerly jeered at her as she was stripped half-naked and then beaten by the knights of the Kingsguard. How the mighty have fallen, not a single noble dared to speak up in the defense of a fourteen-year-old girl.
It was all her fault. Her fault, Her fault, Her fault! Oh, how she wished she could kill herself and deny the Iron Throne a valuable hostage, for surely Robb was hampered by the fact she was imprisoned?
However, Sansa Stark was craven. Death terrified her; it would be so easy to jump from her room's window headfirst into the ground. Would she feel any pain? Maester Luwin had described the human body to her once and explained how the brain controlled pain. If her head shattered like a melon, would she feel it?
She looked on in muted horror at the chaotic scene before her, her brooding temporarily forgotten. How did it come to this? They had just left the docks as Myrcella Baratheon's large escort sailed to Dorne. The blockade had caused the price of bread to nearly triple every moon, which culminated in her current conundrum. Joffrey could have simply walked away or at least pretended to help the poor mother with the dead babe. Instead, he ordered the Hound to kill them, and the brutish dog didn't hesitate to cleave that woman in half, her dead child abandoned on the streets.
Worse, Sansa was not even feeling surprised…
Joffrey was a monster in human flesh, and she had learned to always expect the worst from him. He surrounded himself with similar monsters, and like son, like mother, she thought as she glanced at the Queen Regent and the ugly look on her face as she commanded the retinue to return to the castle. A reckless man had then charged out of the crowd and tried to drag Joffrey from his horse, only for Ser Moore to separate his head from his body.
It all descended to chaos from there. Joffrey, the craven, had panicked and galloped away screaming like a child, but not before pushing her off her horse. Why would he even do that? A scapegoat? As Sansa was dragged to an alley, she wondered if this would be her end.
Raped over and over in a filthy alley before having her throat slit and then dumped in the gutters? Or would they preserve her body for the pot of brown? To feed the filthy rats they call humans who populate this wretched city?
Something primal howled inside her in denial. She would not accept this! Sansa struggled with all her might, biting at the filthy hand covering her mouth and tasting vile blood. She kicked and elbowed, even as she felt her dress rip and warm air hit her skin.
There were no heroes. None will come for her. She had to become her own hero. There were no–
"Hey, assholes! Let her go."
Her captors froze at the sudden shout, and Sansa couldn't help but halt her struggling for a moment as she stared at the source of the voice that dared stop her assailants. It was a man.
And what a man he was.
The stranger was practically naked, with a single red and green kilt designed in alternating squares around his waist to cover his modesty. He was tall but not as tall as her father, yet his tanned body rippled with muscles and power. Then her eyes found his face, and she was shocked to see how young he was, he couldn't be older than sixteen! Even younger than her brothers.
His disheveled, coal-black hair was swept to one side. Sansa's eyes lowered to meet eyes that looked as green as the sea in the early morning sun.
The boy, no, man, for even if his face was boyish, his body was definitely that of a warrior, met her eyes and frowned at her captives.
They said something to the man, but she couldn't catch it. Whatever it was, it enraged the man, and within a heartbeat and the next, she found herself unhanded as two of her captors were struck so hard that their jaws shattered. Sansa quickly recovered and elbowed the third man holding her in the guts, using his surprise to her advantage. The raper quickly turned tail and ran, while her savior picked up a pebble and threw it with deadly accuracy at the running man's head.
Sansa watched with morbid fascination as the pebble sank into his skull in a burst of blood, and the man fell like a puppet with its strings cut. Her heart beat fast as she tried to preserve her modesty and redress herself.
Her savior frowned slightly. "Was aiming for the legs." He quickly turned to her. "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?"
"I'm fine. Thank you for saving my life."
"It was no biggie." He smiled gently, but the phrase confused her. "When I saw you being dragged off like that, I moved without thinking. My mom always said to help anyone in need, especially if it's a beautiful girl like you."
Whatever Sansa was about to say was interrupted by the arrival of the massive black horse that the Hound blasphemously named Stranger. For a moment, she worried its master was right behind it. Only, the horse slowly trotted to her savior, who gently held his hand forward as he stared into the stallion's eyes.
"Be careful! I've seen that horse bite the fingers off anyone who wasn't its–" Her eyes widened as she saw the normally bad-tempered horse whinny softly before allowing the man to pet his nose.
"You're a good horse, aren't you? Wanna ditch Scarface and become mine instead?" Sansa was shocked to find the horse reply with a nod and another happy neigh. The man turned to her, "Sorry about that."
He had a lopsided grin that did things to her chest, and she could feel heat rushing to her face despite the situation. She shook her head furiously. No. Sansa will not be tricked by another pretty face, no matter the circumstances of–
"I'm Perseus Jackson, but call me Percy. What's your name? Will you be alright out there by yourself?" She froze at the question. Was he serious? He didn't know who she was.
Schooling her face, she carefully inspected the man as he patiently waited by his new horse, while the streets beyond were ravaged by mayhem.
For a short moment, Sansa almost believed this to be another trick designed to let her guard down, but something inside her told her otherwise. She had learned the hard way to properly judge people from her stay in this wretched city, and everything about the man told her he was the most genuine person she had met so far in the South.
"I am Sansa Stark." His face betrayed nothing, showing absolutely no recognition of her name, which further flummoxed her. "Why do you ask? Are you offering to escort me back to the Red Keep? If so, I can promise that the royal family will pay you handsomely for saving my life and returning me unharmed."
She couldn't hide the bitterness of her words, and Perseus – no, Percy's smile didn't waver, but he must have noticed how reluctant she was to return to that cage.
"Well, I just woke up a while ago in a strange land, in a strange time and with strange people. No clothes, no money, no food, so I wouldn't mind a reward and some directions. Are you sure you want to go there, though? I don't mean to brag, but I'm quite strong, you know," his grin turned delightfully feral. " I can take you anywhere you need, people like us need to stick together, after all."
Percy flexed his impressive muscles as if giving a show, and Sansa couldn't help but be endeared to the boyish charm of the man. She did not believe in heroes, but she needed to think about this rationally. The man saved her for a purely altruistic reason; He did not know her name, and she had never heard of a house Jackson. Could he be a foreigner? His manner of speech was odd in a manner she never heard before, along with the queer words and odd dialect.
"What do you mean, people like us?"
He blinked. "You know, like us? Got a bit of extra power? A bit of voodoo? What do you call it in these lands? Hmm, perhaps with how faint it is, you never noticed?" The man thought aloud in low whispers that she barely caught. Power? If she had any kind of power, then it would have saved her from the many times she was beaten on Joffrey's orders.
Before she could formulate a response, they heard hurried footsteps from the opposite end of the alley they were in as a squad of Red Cloaks, fully armed and armored, approached. They were led by a tall man with a hooked nose and a cruel smile. His long dark hair and drooping black mustache were matted with blood and mud, and his drawn sword was still dripping red.
Sansa recognized him as one of those new Kettleblack sellswords that Cersei surrounded herself with after Lord Tyrion sent most of the Lannister guard out of the city. The precise name eluded her, neither did she care to know it, for her eyes were set solely on the grim visage of the man who killed her father.
"You!"
The no-name sellsword smirked, thinking she was talking to him. "Indeed, it is I, Ser Osfryd Kettleblack. We have come to retrieve you, Lady Sansa. The Lord Hand has even lent us the King's Justice, just for you. Now, please come here, and we shall be off to the safety of the Red Keep. King's Landing is not safe at the moment, I would suggest you avoid dealing with the riff-raff."
He sneered at Percy, who stood protectively next to her, holding a dagger she had seen the Hound use to cut his chicken. The five men slowly approached them, walking over the corpses of her potential rapers. Sansa noticed that only Kettleblack had his sword drawn, with three of his squad mates walking languidly with no worry. Ser Illyn, however, seemed unsettled as he looked at Percy and drew Ice from his back.
"That's a nice blade you have there." Percy whistled in appreciation. "Where did you get it? You don't look very comfortable holding it, methinks."
Ser Illyn remained silent, though he did twitch his arms awkwardly, obviously unused to the length of her father's blade.
"Silence, beggar! Leave now, and we might spare your life. Or don't. What did the king say earlier? Kill them all, eh?"
"Aye, let's just kill the fucker. Do you think the king will let us rough the girl up again? Maybe he would let us have some fun for a change." One of the men cackled menacingly as he drew his sword. They were barely ten feet away now and itching to attack.
"You dare?" Yet Sansa was still focused on Payne. "You dare bare the ancestral sword of House Stark at me? My father's sword, whom you killed?"
The men cackled again, "Your father was a traitor, girl. Now stop wastin' time and come here." One of the red cloaks rushed the last few feet toward her, and Sansa flinched.
A flash of white, and suddenly, the hand was no longer reaching to grab her but lay on the ground instead. Severed.
Silence struck the alley before the guard screamed in agony. Another flash had his throat slit. Percy flicked the blood on his dagger away with a wave of his hand. Sansa could almost swear she saw the blood flow away unnaturally, but that couldn't be.
"I don't usually use a dagger." His earlier playful voice was gone, replaced with a slight baritone full of menace. "I don't like killing either. Mortals are much more fragile than I remember."
Mortals?
The red cloaks looked at Percy warily, their weapons drawn. The sellsword took a step back as he hid behind the other three guards, "Y-you! You dare kill a guard under the king's command? You're fuckin' dead!"
They attacked, and Percy charged at them with nothing but a dagger and a kilt around his waist. He dodged a savage slice from Payne, which cleaved into the ground from how sharp Ice was.
"Sansa." Percy turned to her, and at the same time, he threw a quick jab with his offhand at Ser Ilyn's chin, but the old knight was wary and retreated behind the other guards. "Do you want out of this city?"
She gaped at him. The question was so simple, yet the answer was so complicated. Did she want to get out of here?
Yes, a thousand yes!
How would they do it, though? There were too many people who wanted her dead and even more who wanted her alive. No matter how strong Percy was, he couldn't fight an entire city on his lonesome. No, there were no heroes. But the man in front of her might just be—
"Don't think." His confident voice broke through her thoughts as he effortlessly evaded the attacks from two guards at the same time. "Just answer me. Do you wish to leave this city?"
The answer came easily enough as she cried out, "Yes! I want to leave this wretched city and watch it burn to the ground!"
Percy blinked as he dodged three attacks at the same time, almost flowing around them like water. "Well, that's extreme, but sure, I'll take you out of here and get you home. Do you want that big ass sword as well? Sounds like it should belong to you."
"Fuckin' cunt! Stand still already, n' stop talking like we ain't here."
Kettleblack charged through the rudimentary formation the guards had created to box Percy in. Her savior simply sidestepped a slash from the false knight before throwing a mighty punch at his head that dented his steel halfhelm. While the knight was dazed, Percy had overextended, and the other red cloaks rushed him to capitalize.
Only for Percy to jump many feet over them and stomp feet first on their faces, bringing the two guards to the ground with a shattering crack. The pouring blood, broken helms, and the gory remains of their brains - they were dead before they even knew it. Sansa could even see a stray eyeball rolling on the ground.
Ser Ilyn tried to cut Percy in half, only for him to jump again, contorting his body horizontally and delivering a powerful kick to the King's Justice's right shoulder, breaking the armor through sheer strength and rendering the bones to pieces. The man gave a rasping scream yet still held onto Ice with his offhand despite being knocked into the brick wall to the side. Yet, Percy followed relentlessly, stabbing Payne's left shoulder, cutting through tendons and ligaments, then backhanded his face, knocking a few teeth out. The King's Justice collapsed on the ground, dead or not, Sansa did not care.
Kettleblack had recovered enough to back away, although he kept stumbling along the wall. "S-stay away, you-you monster! What kind of demon are you? N-no, don't come near. Please, just spare my life. I swear I won't tell anyone I found you."
Percy ignored the bumbling man as he picked up Ice. He lifted it with one hand and gave a few experimental swings. "Good sword. Much bigger than I'm used to, but also a lot lighter than I thought." He turned back to her as he walked after the sellsword. "Would you mind if I use it for a while? I promise to take good care of it."
Sansa stared in disbelief as the man who came out of nowhere and saved her from a terrible fate, easily and effortlessly beat five veteran warriors, just looked at her expectantly. It was almost as if he believed she would refuse him.
"You can't expect me to use it myself," Sansa forced her weary body to do a curtsy that would probably make even Septa Mordane tut with disappointment. "Please, wield it in my name and the name of House Stark."
Percy gave her that crooked grin of his that she was really starting to like. "As you command, princess."
A swing of the sword and Kettleblack's screams were cut short, his head rolling uselessly on the ground, paving the dirty cobblestones crimson.
Sansa gazed impassively at the bloody scene in front of her. She should have been horrified at the strewn guts and cut limbs in the alley, yet she felt nothing at all as she stared at the sellsword's horrified face etched into his decapitated head.
Except for a primal sort of satisfaction.
"Are you alright, Sansa?"
She turned to Percy, no, her savior, "I've been better. Are you alright? You didn't hesitate to kill all these men."
The man shrugged as he ripped Ice's fur-lined half-scabbard, the same one that belonged to her father, from Payne's body and tied it around his back. "While I'm not used to killing people, I have learned to live with it. Death and struggle come hand in hand with people like us."
People like us, this is the second time he mentioned that. She wanted to ask him what he meant, but she didn't feel this was the right place or time for this.
"By the way, this guy's still alive." She turned to find Percy pointing to Ser Ilyn Payne. Indeed, he was still breathing, yet with his crippled arms and broken jaw, he would never be able to harm anyone.
"Leave him. The fool doesn't even know how to read or write, and without a tongue, he won't be able to tell anyone what happened here." Her cold voice echoed in the alley, yet a part of her was disgruntled. It called to have the man suffer in life instead of enjoying the mercy of a quick death. Without a word, she grabbed a brick from the ground and shattered the man's kneecaps in two savage blows.
She breathed heavily for a moment before throwing the brick away. Sansa wasn't sure if her father's murderer could still recover from this. Perhaps she should–
"A bit overkill, don't you think?" Percy's calm voice broke through her thoughts.
"He killed my father, an honorable man who always taught me to treat people well and in the same way I want to be treated. Yet the people in these lands still betrayed and killed him in a sham trial."
"Wow, cold much?" She turned to glare at Percy only to see him grinning in jest. Sansa couldn't stop the grin that appeared on her face.
"Your father sounds like a good man."
"He was the very best the North had to offer." She moved to the still patiently waiting stallion; noticing Percy's confusion, she gestured to his half-naked body, "Maybe you should get some actual clothes to wear?"
"You expect me to dress in dead men's spoiled underwear?"
It didn't take a genius to translate that to small clothes, and now that he mentioned it, all the men he killed had soiled their clothes before expiring.
"At least grab a cloak or something. Also, help me get on this horse."
Percy chuckled, "Your wish is my command, princess."
Swiftly, he grabbed one of the red cloaks from the ground and wore it around his shoulders, then moved to hoist her on the stallion's back before sitting behind her. Sansa blushed when he held her waist with one hand, the other holding Ice.
"Alright, uhh… whatever your name was," Sansa bit her tongue in amusement as Percy was talking to the horse. "Okay, I will name you after an old friend of mine. Take us to the docks, Blackjack."
The horse whinnied, and they galloped away from the alley towards the docks. The further they rode, the more chaotic the streets were, with fighting and looting everywhere. Stra – no, Blackjack was amongst the most powerful horses she had seen, and the Hound was not frugal in armoring him in the best barding he could find. Idly, she remembered that he had won the joust in the tourney of the Hand. Clearly, some of that gold was spent on his horse as it easily trampled anyone foolish enough to obstruct them. Percy did not hesitate to ruthlessly kick away any grabbing hands or slash at them with Ice, quickly clearing a bloody path as the rest of the crowd decided to take their chances elsewhere.
They had been riding for a while now, and they could already see the gates leading to the Blackwater Rush and the harbor. Cersei Lannister might have insisted on sending a large portion of the Royal Fleet of Kingslanding to escort her daughter, yet there were still many ships moored at the docks. The gates were thankfully open, as the rioting had not yet spread here, and the harbor was always busy, yet its defenders were clearly on high alert.
"It's the Stark girl. She's escaping!"
The shout caused terror to rise in her heart as she saw a company of red cloaks led by another one of the Kettleblacks, supported by nearly a hundred gold cloaks, block their only way to the gate through Fishmonger's Square.
"Keep going, buddy." Sansa fidgeted as her savior didn't slow down and urged Blackjack to continue galloping.
"Percy, they have crossbows and pikes! They will easily kill us."
Sansa couldn't hide the fear in her voice. The only reason she wasn't truly panicking was Percy's confident demeanor.
"Do you trust me, Sansa?"
The red-haired girl looked forward as the guards called for the gate to close and shouted at them to halt.
"In the name of King Joffrey, halt. Halt, I say, or we shall shoot!"
The gate would take at least a few minutes to close due to its massive size, so she wasn't worried about it. No, her fear stemmed from the archers and crossbowmen on the walls and the shield wall that was forming to block their path. There was no way they would be able to get out of this unscathed, yet she was well beyond stopping now.
Sansa swore to herself right then and there. She will get out of this wretched city, or she will die trying.
"I do!"
Percy closed his eyes for a moment of concentration before they snapped open, and Sansa could swear his eyes gleamed with power. She even thought the air started to shake around them with the sound of rushing water, but it must have been her imagination.
"Then hold tight. Things are about to get bumpy."
The twanging sound of bows and mechanical clicks of crossbows interrupted whatever question she had. Time seemed to slow down as she found a veritable rain of arrows heading to them. Before Sansa could even breathe, Percy swung Ice multiple times in quick succession, causing all the bolts and arrows to either shatter on the Valyrian Steel blade or be deflected to the ground.
The guards stared in shock at the inhuman strength and reflexes the black-haired rider showed, yet they did not have the time to call for another volley before Blackjack crashed into their lines, Percy swinging Ice in devastating arcs. Heads were separated, including Kettleblack's, and limbs flew everywhere, yet Blackjack didn't stop. And neither did Percy's swings.
Sansa was covered in blood and gore, but she did not care one bit. Her eyes fell on some of the surviving guards, and their shocked faces caused her to burst out in hysterical giggles.
Gods, the world was going crazy, and she felt just as mad!
"Onwards, my loyal steed. To the docks!" Sansa pointed at the harbor… just as a resounding roar came from upriver. She stared in utter bewilderment as the forty-foot-tall walls were drowned in a large shadow. Slowly, Sansa looked up to find a sight so ludicrous that she could do nothing but continue laughing.
It was like a wall of brackish water. A massive wave, easily over fifty feet high, crashed into the top of the wall dousing the braisers and dragging dozens of gold cloaks and other guards along it as it rushed back into the river. Blackjack flinched for a second, but a soothing, "Keep going," from Percy urged the horse to gallop through the wide open gates and into the rushing water.
For a moment, Sansa held her breath, only to find herself dry and capable of breathing normally. She looked around and found herself inside some sort of bubble, Blackjack riding through the water like it didn't exist for a few more seconds before the water receded back to the river.
They were met by a scene of utter chaos.
"W-what was t-that?"
She hated how her voice quivered, but none could blame her for the sight in front of her. The harbor was utterly wrecked. Of the dozens of ships that were still docked a few hours ago, barely a handful were still intact while the port facilities themselves were washed away. She could see cranes and crates and many other things floating downriver.
Along with dozens of dead guards and dockworkers.
"Something people like us can do, though it had never tired me so much before." Came the exhausted voice of her savior. She turned around the saddle and gasped. Percy was breathing heavily, but that wasn't what worried her. It was the two bolts sticking out of his left shoulder.
"You're hurt!"
"It looks worse than it actually is," her reckless savior chuckled. "I guess my protection really is gone."
She wanted to ask what he was talking about, but the sound of groaning caught her attention. There were many dead, but even more still alive.
"We need a ship." Percy's voice was weakening, and Sansa feared for the worse.
"There's no way any crew will accept us when all the city is after us." Sansa refuted, but she still searched for any ship that looked seaworthy.
"I don't need a crew. I can pilot any kind of ship by myself."
Another queer word, but the meaning was pretty clear. Sansa would have wondered if he was crazy, but after seeing in person his prowess and the seeming power he held over water, she decided to trust him.
He was her only hope to get back to her family.
"Does it matter the size of the vessel?" Percy shook his head, "Then what about this one?" Sansa pointed at a massive Carrack with two main masts, one smaller front mast and a similar one in the rear.
She was sure they had proper terms, but she never had to learn what those were. The only reason it grabbed her attention was the name. The Silver Lady. She wasn't sure who its owner was, but it appeared empty enough.
"Good choice," Percy nudged Blackjack towards the ship that was moored the closest to the sea, which allowed it to avoid getting damaged from the flash flood.
They rode onto the open gangway to find the ship deserted. Once they dismounted, Percy sheathed Ice and pulled out the quarrels from his shoulder.
"Are you sure you're alright?" She asked hesitantly.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just give me a sec," He raised his hands and closed his eyes, and instantly, Sansa could see the whole ship come alive with ropes untying themselves. The anchor miraculously ejected itself from the river, the sails unfurled, and the ship started moving away from the destroyed harbor.
They could hear alarmed shouts from deeper in the ship, and a door burst open to allow a dozen sailors led by an officer clad in the split colors of House Baratheon of Kingslanding. To think the one intact ship was a part of the Royal Fleet.
"Who the fuck are–"
That's as far as he went before Percy waved his hand with an annoyed grunt and caused a wave of water to splash onto the deck and wash the men away into the sea. Another wave had the water splash on his injured shoulder, and Sansa was shocked to find his wound visibly knit itself together.
"Sorry about that. I should have checked to see if the ship was empty." He gave a strained smile as he looked at his visibly healing shoulder, "not sure why it's so slow to heal."
Oddly enough, Sansa couldn't muster any sympathy for the sailors that were just washed into the river.
"You call that slow!?" She was more surprised at her unexpected bout of calmness despite the insane magic that she had seen Percy casually use. Yet, for some reason, she felt like this was completely normal. As if some part of her had always known this was possible, and she ought to accept it as a commonplace.
"Uh, yeah? I'm built different, you see." Another one of his crooked grins caused her to blush, despite the completely nonsensical explanation. "Let's get out of here. Got any directions?"
The ship was quickly sailing away from the city, although as they passed by the Red Keep, a few catapults started firing at them. They were too fast for anything to reach them, however, and soon they were out in the Blackwater Bay.
"North," seafaring was not a part of her education, but she tried her best to remember the maps Luwin had taught her with. "I think if you could just sail to the north-east, we should be able to leave Blackwater Bay. From there, we just follow the coastline northward until we reach my home."
Any of her knowledge of the coastline was rudimentary at best. Her curious looks over the occasional maps of Westeros only gave her surface knowledge of the land and its coasts.
"But we should be fine so long as we sail in that general direction for a couple of days?"
"Yes," Sansa nodded as the ship turned north-east.
"Good." Percy sighed wearily, "I'll check the captain's quarters later to see if they have a map or something."
That… seemed like a great idea, and she couldn't help but berate herself for not thinking of it first. It was also soothing to know that the man before her knew what he was doing.
"Percy?" The Stark princess hesitantly called out to her savior, causing him to turn to her from where he was unbuckling Blackjack's barding.
"Yeah?"
She ignored the strange phrasing, there were a million questions warring in her mind right now, but Sansa settled on the most important ones. "Why did you save me? Who are you really? What did you mean by us being the same?"
The man's smile turned forlorn, "I don't think I'm from around here… But I feel that you're my only hope to figure where the Hades am I. There's a sliver of divinity in you, but it feels like it's been dormant for a long time." Sansa was struck speechless at her savior's words which only confused her further. "As for what I am? I'm a hero."
It was said so matter-of-factly that Sansa could do nothing but wholeheartedly believe it. At that moment, nothing really mattered anymore, and she burst out into a bout of hysterical laughter once more.
Heroes did exist after all.
The world suddenly shook as a massive shockwave reverberated through the bay, causing the ship to slightly list before stabilizing. Sansa and Percy quickly moved to the stern of the ship to witness the River Gate that they just escaped from be covered in a conflagration of green flames that consumed all of the harbor. So high was the green mushroom cloud that it even dwarfed the Red Keep, though sadly, the fire didn't reach the cursed castle where her prison was, nor did it spread to the rest of the city. There were, however, plenty of rocks and debris falling on those who had oppressed her, and she watched with glee as the city that was her nightmare was shattered like never before. It was a few minutes later that the cloud dissipated, but the flames raged on, and Sansa could see the massive gap along the walls that was once the River Gate.
"Well," Percy's voice was full of mirth as he turned to her. "You did want to burn the city."
Sansa's uncontrollable giggles and cackles echoed across the bay.
Some may wonder why Percy can so easily kill people, and I will reply that by The Last Olympian, Percy had already bloodied his hands with demigod blood. Essentially, this is an AU Percy who does not need to worry about his books getting cancelled for an adult rating.
Which brings me to a bit of headcanon towards Percy's mindset, Percy had stopped seeing mortals as fellow humans. Not in a derogatory way, but rather in a realistic and fatalistic way. They are just too fragile compared to him or other demigods.
Wildfire was placed under all the gates of Kingslanding and we know that the older it gets, the less stable it is, though not necessarily more powerful. Its a miracle that no one bumped into any of the jars causing an explosion and I'm starting to think earthquakes aren't a thing in Planetos. If Daenaerys could revive magic by hatching dragons a million miles away, what do you think Percy's presence would cause? His stunt caused structural damage that caused one of the jars to explode, taking the whole cache under the River Gate with it. At least I didn't cause a chain reaction, lol.
Want to support me or read ahead? Join me on Pat(re)on.
Introducing my PJO Xover with ASOIAF Plot Bunny!
Enjoy this chapter that has been edited by Gladiusx.
This story is crossposted on other websites, and I will be releasing a chapter every once in a while, until I catch up.
The Marooned Hero
Percy woke up with a gasp. Years of intense training and his demigod instincts had him on his feet instantly as he looked around, taking stock of his situation. His head was pounding, and his muscles ached. He held his head to stave off the encroaching headache as he found himself in some sort of deserted and filthy alley. It was midday, with the sun high in the sky, trying its best to scorch the earth. He could smell the scent of the sea hidden among piss and shit. Not too different from a typical Bronx alley, but the brick buildings seemed alien to him. Not to mention, something was missing in the air? Something he had gotten used to for a long time, but as he tried to recall it, his headache intensified.
The last thing he remembered was giving the dagger to Luke, trusting Annabeth's words that he would redeem himself. He would never know if Luke was being genuine, as the Time Lord had managed to wrest control at the last second, unleashing a mighty roar, and then… nothing.
No, not nothing. He thought hard as his head felt like it was going to split. Something happened, but his memories were fuzzy. Annabeth… where was she? Instinctively, he knew that she was gone. Unreachable. He wanted to rage against such a thought, yet at the same time, he had the distinct impression that he had already had this argument with himself and had accepted the inevitable.
Percy wandered towards a nearby street, where he could hear loud noises. He froze as he stepped on something slimy. Looking down, the demigod was shocked that he was completely naked, although his body sported signs of healing bruises and blackened marks of fire. It confused him, as the curse of Achilles should have kept him safe from any damage. He looked around for anything to at least cover his privates, ignoring the slimy feeling on his bare feet as he didn't even want to know what he stepped on.
After tearing away a curtain from its window and then tying it around his waist into a makeshift kilt, Percy made his way outside the alley… only to gawk at the scene in front of him.
There were people. Many people. All of them were filthy and dirty and stinky. An entire crowd of thousands of hungry and angry-looking men, women, and children dressed in rags and dirty clothes were throwing shit and debris at a well-dressed group. With his six feet in height, Percy could easily see over most of the crowd of shorter mortals. He didn't know how, but he could tell with a glance that almost everyone around him had not a single drop of divine blood in them.
Almost.
The folks in fancy costumes were mostly taller than the surrounding rabble, but Percy could feel a tiny, almost untraceable amount of divinity in one of them. A legacy, perhaps?
He observed his surroundings, and for a moment, he thought he had entered a set for a medieval movie of sorts. A quick glance, however, told him that there were no cameras, no actors, and that tall blonde kid with the punchable mug certainly had murder and hatred on his shit-drenched face.
"HOUND! Cut through those filthy peasants! I am their King, and they dare strike me?"
Gods, the brat sure had a whiney voice to match his face, and his headache really didn't agree with it. Percy noticed a tall man in plate armor and wearing a helm in the shape of a snarling dog, immediately urged his massive black stallion forward threateningly, but the crowd would not budge. The man seemed to shrug, uncaring, the act showing half his face covered in burn scars, then he cut a swath among the poor folks with his longsword, starting with the woman who had been blocking the road.
It was then that Percy fully acknowledged that this was real as he stared at the bloody bodies of men and women and how the nobles didn't bat an eye at the violent death. Except for one familiar-looking red-haired girl who gazed in muted horror at the bloody scene.
"What are you waiting for, dog? I said kill them. Kill the traitors. KILL THEM ALL!"
The crowd suddenly went ballistic at the brazen order and charged at the royal party, while others stood back and chanted the names of kings. There was a King Robb, a King Stannis, and a King Renly; whoever they were, their names seemed to incense the blonde king and what looked to be his mother or maybe older sister.
Percy looked on in growing revulsion at the group as the beautiful blonde noblewoman shouted from the window of a carriage. "Back to the Red Keep, Sers. Do what you must to protect your King!"
"At once, Your Grace. Men! Shields up, present spears. Make way for the King or suffer the consequences." A man in a gold cloak and an iron prosthetic hand moved in a shield formation with his troops and shouted warnings at the crowd. They were unheeded as the crowd pelted them with projectiles.
Percy ignored the retreating royals as the surrounding crowd descended into a bloody frenzy. People were pushing each other to the ground as one of the nobles, either a child or a dwarf, threw a fistful of silver coins while he rushed off. Another group had dragged a short Hispanic-looking man from his horse and were in the process of clubbing him. Yet another daring group charged the man with the scarred face, only to be cut down with a horizontal slash of his longsword. Percy silently hoped his horse would buckle underneath him, and to his surprise, it faltered as it stared at him inquisitively. This caused the man to overextend on his next swing and miss. Before he could recover, he was dragged down from his massive horse by another group, cursing and swinging his sword wildly.
"Whoops."
Instinctively, Percy called out to the impressive stallion with his mind to come to him. The horse looked at him, then back to its master, then back to him. It gave one last look to its master before shaking its head with a snort and cautiously made its way around the crowd towards him.
So many people were getting killed and trampled, and Percy didn't even know where to start to help if he could. There were too many unknowns, so for now, he would focus on his own safety. It would help if he was on horseback, and that horse looked fully kitted for war, with at least one dagger strapped to its saddle. If only he had Riptide, though sadly, he would need to find pants with pockets to know if the sword would return to him from whatever happened to him.
Suddenly, A feminine shout grabbed his attention. The bratty king looked terrified from the shouting crowd and, even as he rode away, pushed the red-haired girl riding next to him, causing her horse to rear up in a panic and for her to disappear into the crowd.
Percy had no clue where he was or when he was, but he knew one thing for sure. That girl looked just like Rachel, and he could sense that drop of divinity burning brightly from her.
Even before a plan formed in his head, his legs were already on the move at the sight of the girl getting dragged by a trio of men into an alley. The men reminded him of the worst drug addicts he had to deal with on the streets back home. Filthy, scummy looking, half their teeth rotten, the other half missing. Utter leeches on society whom no one would miss.
One of the trio was pawing at the girl's chest as he ripped off her dress, while the other two were trying to both drag her and unbuckle their pants at the same time. The girl was a tough cookie, however, and struggled mightily, biting the fingers of the one covering her face and elbowing the bastard undressing her.
"Hey, assholes! Let her go."
That grabbed their attention, and Percy could safely tell that the girl was not Rachel. Not with her bright blue eyes and the lack of freckles on her face. That would not stop him from saving her, however, especially as now that he was close, he could tell that the divinity he sensed in her was burning brighter by the second. Or was she touched by the gods somehow? Even as he gazed at her, he could feel the divinity in her almost turn to him in curiosity.
"Whatchu want? Want a bit of noble whore cunt? Then wait fer your turn, you fooking whoreson."
Horeson? It was a strange way to insult someone. The dialect, while sounding English, was like nothing he had heard before. More importantly, how did they know that his father was the lord of horses? Wait.
It took him a couple of seconds to understand that the son of a bitch in front of him just called his mother a whore. For Percy, who prided himself on his talent in taunting others without resorting to such low blows, this caused him to instantly see red.
A*H*M
The Little Bird
Sansa Stark did not believe in heroes. Her stay in the South had shown her the hard way that beneath all the glamour and finery of Southron Chivalry, they were all deceitful and shameless; Honor and justice were simple words that were given lip service, if at all. She herself felt it as she slowly but surely turned into a monster like them.
It all started when she betrayed her family near the Ruby Fork to protect her golden prince. The gods surely cursed her at that moment, for she had lost her dear Lady due to her own cowardice. It felt like a hole had formed in her heart at that moment that had yet to heal.
It was all her fault. She should have helped Arya instead of someone she thought she knew. No hero would come out of the woods to help her, for she did not deserve it.
Then there was the accursed tourney. While many disregarded her as she sat in the stands and watched the joust, she listened as the surrounding nobles conversed with each other with a polite demeanor, swearing oaths and making promises as easily as breathing. Only to curse and insult each other once they believed they could not hear, cackling with their other friends how they planned to backtrack on their words. Mayhaps they couldn't hear, but Sansa heard it all.
Then, it culminated with her father's betrayal by the men he trusted. She was unable to learn much, but she knew that the Gold Cloaks' commander had sworn an oath to her father to obey his commands, yet he betrayed her father regardless. She was in attendance in court when the shameless cur named Slynt bragged to Joffrey about how he so easily turned his cloak on her father. Then the nobles in court praised him, actually praised him for his bravery in deceiving the dumb and barbaric brute of a Northerner.
Served the oathbreaker right to be banished to the Wall when he tried something similar with the Imp.
It was all her fault. She should have trusted her father that there must have been a reason he needed to smuggle them out of the city. No hero would come to her father's aid as he helplessly watched his men get cut down.
If only Sansa could know who else betrayed her family that day, for surely many had let her father down. Where was Lord Renly with his smiles and easy promises? Where was Ser Barristan with his stoic duty and kind words and tales of glory and honor? Where was Lord Baelish, who swore to help them as a favor to his foster sister, her mother?
It didn't matter. Lord Renly was dead, Ser Barristan was gone, and Lord Baelish had done nothing as she suffered. Always there with his smirk or silly quip.
Then there was her… for how would her family prepare for betrayal from within?
How could Sansa have been so foolish? To disobey her father's orders and tell the queen his secrets? The gods were surely fair, for they had punished her in the worst ways possible, as she was forced to see everyone she knew from Winterfell get killed for her treachery. Her father, losing his head to Ice of all things? Oh, how Sansa longed to hold her sister Arya one last time, but she was gone. Presumed dead by all.
She was a kinslayer in all but the deed itself. None as accursed as the kinslayer. It was all her fault. No hero would come from the crowd to stop her father's execution, for it was the gods' decree that she should suffer for her sins.
Then the humiliations came. Joffrey, in his mercy and generosity, forced her to watch her father's head every day. Then, once court was in session, he would have her continuously swear fealty to him and curse her family publicly. She couldn't stand it. Sansa regretted dearly when the Hound stopped her from pushing the royal bastard off the rampart the first time he showed her Eddard Stark's head on a spike. Every time afterward, the guards had been too vigilant, and she suspected the Hound had warned them.
Then… Robb descended from the Neck like a winter storm, shattering Ser Jaime's army and taking him captive. Sansa didn't have the luxury to celebrate or feel any joy from the news, as Joffrey had taken that as a direct insult. The craven cur would not dare attack Robb himself, so he satisfied himself by having her publicly beaten when he held court.
It was all her fault. She could have ended this war by pushing the bastard to his death. It was the one chance for Sansa Stark to be the hero she wished others would be, yet she failed.
Sansa thought she could handle the humiliation of swearing fealty to the false king. The surrounding nobles must have held a smidgen of sympathy for her family and her father, for they had never harmed them and treated all honorably.
The beatings showed her their true worth. Knights and ladies, noblest of the lands, sycophants, and lickspittles, all of them eagerly jeered at her as she was stripped half-naked and then beaten by the knights of the Kingsguard. How the mighty have fallen, not a single noble dared to speak up in the defense of a fourteen-year-old girl.
It was all her fault. Her fault, Her fault, Her fault! Oh, how she wished she could kill herself and deny the Iron Throne a valuable hostage, for surely Robb was hampered by the fact she was imprisoned?
However, Sansa Stark was craven. Death terrified her; it would be so easy to jump from her room's window headfirst into the ground. Would she feel any pain? Maester Luwin had described the human body to her once and explained how the brain controlled pain. If her head shattered like a melon, would she feel it?
She looked on in muted horror at the chaotic scene before her, her brooding temporarily forgotten. How did it come to this? They had just left the docks as Myrcella Baratheon's large escort sailed to Dorne. The blockade had caused the price of bread to nearly triple every moon, which culminated in her current conundrum. Joffrey could have simply walked away or at least pretended to help the poor mother with the dead babe. Instead, he ordered the Hound to kill them, and the brutish dog didn't hesitate to cleave that woman in half, her dead child abandoned on the streets.
Worse, Sansa was not even feeling surprised…
Joffrey was a monster in human flesh, and she had learned to always expect the worst from him. He surrounded himself with similar monsters, and like son, like mother, she thought as she glanced at the Queen Regent and the ugly look on her face as she commanded the retinue to return to the castle. A reckless man had then charged out of the crowd and tried to drag Joffrey from his horse, only for Ser Moore to separate his head from his body.
It all descended to chaos from there. Joffrey, the craven, had panicked and galloped away screaming like a child, but not before pushing her off her horse. Why would he even do that? A scapegoat? As Sansa was dragged to an alley, she wondered if this would be her end.
Raped over and over in a filthy alley before having her throat slit and then dumped in the gutters? Or would they preserve her body for the pot of brown? To feed the filthy rats they call humans who populate this wretched city?
Something primal howled inside her in denial. She would not accept this! Sansa struggled with all her might, biting at the filthy hand covering her mouth and tasting vile blood. She kicked and elbowed, even as she felt her dress rip and warm air hit her skin.
There were no heroes. None will come for her. She had to become her own hero. There were no–
"Hey, assholes! Let her go."
Her captors froze at the sudden shout, and Sansa couldn't help but halt her struggling for a moment as she stared at the source of the voice that dared stop her assailants. It was a man.
And what a man he was.
The stranger was practically naked, with a single red and green kilt designed in alternating squares around his waist to cover his modesty. He was tall but not as tall as her father, yet his tanned body rippled with muscles and power. Then her eyes found his face, and she was shocked to see how young he was, he couldn't be older than sixteen! Even younger than her brothers.
His disheveled, coal-black hair was swept to one side. Sansa's eyes lowered to meet eyes that looked as green as the sea in the early morning sun.
The boy, no, man, for even if his face was boyish, his body was definitely that of a warrior, met her eyes and frowned at her captives.
They said something to the man, but she couldn't catch it. Whatever it was, it enraged the man, and within a heartbeat and the next, she found herself unhanded as two of her captors were struck so hard that their jaws shattered. Sansa quickly recovered and elbowed the third man holding her in the guts, using his surprise to her advantage. The raper quickly turned tail and ran, while her savior picked up a pebble and threw it with deadly accuracy at the running man's head.
Sansa watched with morbid fascination as the pebble sank into his skull in a burst of blood, and the man fell like a puppet with its strings cut. Her heart beat fast as she tried to preserve her modesty and redress herself.
Her savior frowned slightly. "Was aiming for the legs." He quickly turned to her. "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?"
"I'm fine. Thank you for saving my life."
"It was no biggie." He smiled gently, but the phrase confused her. "When I saw you being dragged off like that, I moved without thinking. My mom always said to help anyone in need, especially if it's a beautiful girl like you."
Whatever Sansa was about to say was interrupted by the arrival of the massive black horse that the Hound blasphemously named Stranger. For a moment, she worried its master was right behind it. Only, the horse slowly trotted to her savior, who gently held his hand forward as he stared into the stallion's eyes.
"Be careful! I've seen that horse bite the fingers off anyone who wasn't its–" Her eyes widened as she saw the normally bad-tempered horse whinny softly before allowing the man to pet his nose.
"You're a good horse, aren't you? Wanna ditch Scarface and become mine instead?" Sansa was shocked to find the horse reply with a nod and another happy neigh. The man turned to her, "Sorry about that."
He had a lopsided grin that did things to her chest, and she could feel heat rushing to her face despite the situation. She shook her head furiously. No. Sansa will not be tricked by another pretty face, no matter the circumstances of–
"I'm Perseus Jackson, but call me Percy. What's your name? Will you be alright out there by yourself?" She froze at the question. Was he serious? He didn't know who she was.
Schooling her face, she carefully inspected the man as he patiently waited by his new horse, while the streets beyond were ravaged by mayhem.
For a short moment, Sansa almost believed this to be another trick designed to let her guard down, but something inside her told her otherwise. She had learned the hard way to properly judge people from her stay in this wretched city, and everything about the man told her he was the most genuine person she had met so far in the South.
"I am Sansa Stark." His face betrayed nothing, showing absolutely no recognition of her name, which further flummoxed her. "Why do you ask? Are you offering to escort me back to the Red Keep? If so, I can promise that the royal family will pay you handsomely for saving my life and returning me unharmed."
She couldn't hide the bitterness of her words, and Perseus – no, Percy's smile didn't waver, but he must have noticed how reluctant she was to return to that cage.
"Well, I just woke up a while ago in a strange land, in a strange time and with strange people. No clothes, no money, no food, so I wouldn't mind a reward and some directions. Are you sure you want to go there, though? I don't mean to brag, but I'm quite strong, you know," his grin turned delightfully feral. " I can take you anywhere you need, people like us need to stick together, after all."
Percy flexed his impressive muscles as if giving a show, and Sansa couldn't help but be endeared to the boyish charm of the man. She did not believe in heroes, but she needed to think about this rationally. The man saved her for a purely altruistic reason; He did not know her name, and she had never heard of a house Jackson. Could he be a foreigner? His manner of speech was odd in a manner she never heard before, along with the queer words and odd dialect.
"What do you mean, people like us?"
He blinked. "You know, like us? Got a bit of extra power? A bit of voodoo? What do you call it in these lands? Hmm, perhaps with how faint it is, you never noticed?" The man thought aloud in low whispers that she barely caught. Power? If she had any kind of power, then it would have saved her from the many times she was beaten on Joffrey's orders.
Before she could formulate a response, they heard hurried footsteps from the opposite end of the alley they were in as a squad of Red Cloaks, fully armed and armored, approached. They were led by a tall man with a hooked nose and a cruel smile. His long dark hair and drooping black mustache were matted with blood and mud, and his drawn sword was still dripping red.
Sansa recognized him as one of those new Kettleblack sellswords that Cersei surrounded herself with after Lord Tyrion sent most of the Lannister guard out of the city. The precise name eluded her, neither did she care to know it, for her eyes were set solely on the grim visage of the man who killed her father.
"You!"
The no-name sellsword smirked, thinking she was talking to him. "Indeed, it is I, Ser Osfryd Kettleblack. We have come to retrieve you, Lady Sansa. The Lord Hand has even lent us the King's Justice, just for you. Now, please come here, and we shall be off to the safety of the Red Keep. King's Landing is not safe at the moment, I would suggest you avoid dealing with the riff-raff."
He sneered at Percy, who stood protectively next to her, holding a dagger she had seen the Hound use to cut his chicken. The five men slowly approached them, walking over the corpses of her potential rapers. Sansa noticed that only Kettleblack had his sword drawn, with three of his squad mates walking languidly with no worry. Ser Illyn, however, seemed unsettled as he looked at Percy and drew Ice from his back.
"That's a nice blade you have there." Percy whistled in appreciation. "Where did you get it? You don't look very comfortable holding it, methinks."
Ser Illyn remained silent, though he did twitch his arms awkwardly, obviously unused to the length of her father's blade.
"Silence, beggar! Leave now, and we might spare your life. Or don't. What did the king say earlier? Kill them all, eh?"
"Aye, let's just kill the fucker. Do you think the king will let us rough the girl up again? Maybe he would let us have some fun for a change." One of the men cackled menacingly as he drew his sword. They were barely ten feet away now and itching to attack.
"You dare?" Yet Sansa was still focused on Payne. "You dare bare the ancestral sword of House Stark at me? My father's sword, whom you killed?"
The men cackled again, "Your father was a traitor, girl. Now stop wastin' time and come here." One of the red cloaks rushed the last few feet toward her, and Sansa flinched.
A flash of white, and suddenly, the hand was no longer reaching to grab her but lay on the ground instead. Severed.
Silence struck the alley before the guard screamed in agony. Another flash had his throat slit. Percy flicked the blood on his dagger away with a wave of his hand. Sansa could almost swear she saw the blood flow away unnaturally, but that couldn't be.
"I don't usually use a dagger." His earlier playful voice was gone, replaced with a slight baritone full of menace. "I don't like killing either. Mortals are much more fragile than I remember."
Mortals?
The red cloaks looked at Percy warily, their weapons drawn. The sellsword took a step back as he hid behind the other three guards, "Y-you! You dare kill a guard under the king's command? You're fuckin' dead!"
They attacked, and Percy charged at them with nothing but a dagger and a kilt around his waist. He dodged a savage slice from Payne, which cleaved into the ground from how sharp Ice was.
"Sansa." Percy turned to her, and at the same time, he threw a quick jab with his offhand at Ser Ilyn's chin, but the old knight was wary and retreated behind the other guards. "Do you want out of this city?"
She gaped at him. The question was so simple, yet the answer was so complicated. Did she want to get out of here?
Yes, a thousand yes!
How would they do it, though? There were too many people who wanted her dead and even more who wanted her alive. No matter how strong Percy was, he couldn't fight an entire city on his lonesome. No, there were no heroes. But the man in front of her might just be—
"Don't think." His confident voice broke through her thoughts as he effortlessly evaded the attacks from two guards at the same time. "Just answer me. Do you wish to leave this city?"
The answer came easily enough as she cried out, "Yes! I want to leave this wretched city and watch it burn to the ground!"
Percy blinked as he dodged three attacks at the same time, almost flowing around them like water. "Well, that's extreme, but sure, I'll take you out of here and get you home. Do you want that big ass sword as well? Sounds like it should belong to you."
"Fuckin' cunt! Stand still already, n' stop talking like we ain't here."
Kettleblack charged through the rudimentary formation the guards had created to box Percy in. Her savior simply sidestepped a slash from the false knight before throwing a mighty punch at his head that dented his steel halfhelm. While the knight was dazed, Percy had overextended, and the other red cloaks rushed him to capitalize.
Only for Percy to jump many feet over them and stomp feet first on their faces, bringing the two guards to the ground with a shattering crack. The pouring blood, broken helms, and the gory remains of their brains - they were dead before they even knew it. Sansa could even see a stray eyeball rolling on the ground.
Ser Ilyn tried to cut Percy in half, only for him to jump again, contorting his body horizontally and delivering a powerful kick to the King's Justice's right shoulder, breaking the armor through sheer strength and rendering the bones to pieces. The man gave a rasping scream yet still held onto Ice with his offhand despite being knocked into the brick wall to the side. Yet, Percy followed relentlessly, stabbing Payne's left shoulder, cutting through tendons and ligaments, then backhanded his face, knocking a few teeth out. The King's Justice collapsed on the ground, dead or not, Sansa did not care.
Kettleblack had recovered enough to back away, although he kept stumbling along the wall. "S-stay away, you-you monster! What kind of demon are you? N-no, don't come near. Please, just spare my life. I swear I won't tell anyone I found you."
Percy ignored the bumbling man as he picked up Ice. He lifted it with one hand and gave a few experimental swings. "Good sword. Much bigger than I'm used to, but also a lot lighter than I thought." He turned back to her as he walked after the sellsword. "Would you mind if I use it for a while? I promise to take good care of it."
Sansa stared in disbelief as the man who came out of nowhere and saved her from a terrible fate, easily and effortlessly beat five veteran warriors, just looked at her expectantly. It was almost as if he believed she would refuse him.
"You can't expect me to use it myself," Sansa forced her weary body to do a curtsy that would probably make even Septa Mordane tut with disappointment. "Please, wield it in my name and the name of House Stark."
Percy gave her that crooked grin of his that she was really starting to like. "As you command, princess."
A swing of the sword and Kettleblack's screams were cut short, his head rolling uselessly on the ground, paving the dirty cobblestones crimson.
Sansa gazed impassively at the bloody scene in front of her. She should have been horrified at the strewn guts and cut limbs in the alley, yet she felt nothing at all as she stared at the sellsword's horrified face etched into his decapitated head.
Except for a primal sort of satisfaction.
"Are you alright, Sansa?"
She turned to Percy, no, her savior, "I've been better. Are you alright? You didn't hesitate to kill all these men."
The man shrugged as he ripped Ice's fur-lined half-scabbard, the same one that belonged to her father, from Payne's body and tied it around his back. "While I'm not used to killing people, I have learned to live with it. Death and struggle come hand in hand with people like us."
People like us, this is the second time he mentioned that. She wanted to ask him what he meant, but she didn't feel this was the right place or time for this.
"By the way, this guy's still alive." She turned to find Percy pointing to Ser Ilyn Payne. Indeed, he was still breathing, yet with his crippled arms and broken jaw, he would never be able to harm anyone.
"Leave him. The fool doesn't even know how to read or write, and without a tongue, he won't be able to tell anyone what happened here." Her cold voice echoed in the alley, yet a part of her was disgruntled. It called to have the man suffer in life instead of enjoying the mercy of a quick death. Without a word, she grabbed a brick from the ground and shattered the man's kneecaps in two savage blows.
She breathed heavily for a moment before throwing the brick away. Sansa wasn't sure if her father's murderer could still recover from this. Perhaps she should–
"A bit overkill, don't you think?" Percy's calm voice broke through her thoughts.
"He killed my father, an honorable man who always taught me to treat people well and in the same way I want to be treated. Yet the people in these lands still betrayed and killed him in a sham trial."
"Wow, cold much?" She turned to glare at Percy only to see him grinning in jest. Sansa couldn't stop the grin that appeared on her face.
"Your father sounds like a good man."
"He was the very best the North had to offer." She moved to the still patiently waiting stallion; noticing Percy's confusion, she gestured to his half-naked body, "Maybe you should get some actual clothes to wear?"
"You expect me to dress in dead men's spoiled underwear?"
It didn't take a genius to translate that to small clothes, and now that he mentioned it, all the men he killed had soiled their clothes before expiring.
"At least grab a cloak or something. Also, help me get on this horse."
Percy chuckled, "Your wish is my command, princess."
Swiftly, he grabbed one of the red cloaks from the ground and wore it around his shoulders, then moved to hoist her on the stallion's back before sitting behind her. Sansa blushed when he held her waist with one hand, the other holding Ice.
"Alright, uhh… whatever your name was," Sansa bit her tongue in amusement as Percy was talking to the horse. "Okay, I will name you after an old friend of mine. Take us to the docks, Blackjack."
The horse whinnied, and they galloped away from the alley towards the docks. The further they rode, the more chaotic the streets were, with fighting and looting everywhere. Stra – no, Blackjack was amongst the most powerful horses she had seen, and the Hound was not frugal in armoring him in the best barding he could find. Idly, she remembered that he had won the joust in the tourney of the Hand. Clearly, some of that gold was spent on his horse as it easily trampled anyone foolish enough to obstruct them. Percy did not hesitate to ruthlessly kick away any grabbing hands or slash at them with Ice, quickly clearing a bloody path as the rest of the crowd decided to take their chances elsewhere.
They had been riding for a while now, and they could already see the gates leading to the Blackwater Rush and the harbor. Cersei Lannister might have insisted on sending a large portion of the Royal Fleet of Kingslanding to escort her daughter, yet there were still many ships moored at the docks. The gates were thankfully open, as the rioting had not yet spread here, and the harbor was always busy, yet its defenders were clearly on high alert.
"It's the Stark girl. She's escaping!"
The shout caused terror to rise in her heart as she saw a company of red cloaks led by another one of the Kettleblacks, supported by nearly a hundred gold cloaks, block their only way to the gate through Fishmonger's Square.
"Keep going, buddy." Sansa fidgeted as her savior didn't slow down and urged Blackjack to continue galloping.
"Percy, they have crossbows and pikes! They will easily kill us."
Sansa couldn't hide the fear in her voice. The only reason she wasn't truly panicking was Percy's confident demeanor.
"Do you trust me, Sansa?"
The red-haired girl looked forward as the guards called for the gate to close and shouted at them to halt.
"In the name of King Joffrey, halt. Halt, I say, or we shall shoot!"
The gate would take at least a few minutes to close due to its massive size, so she wasn't worried about it. No, her fear stemmed from the archers and crossbowmen on the walls and the shield wall that was forming to block their path. There was no way they would be able to get out of this unscathed, yet she was well beyond stopping now.
Sansa swore to herself right then and there. She will get out of this wretched city, or she will die trying.
"I do!"
Percy closed his eyes for a moment of concentration before they snapped open, and Sansa could swear his eyes gleamed with power. She even thought the air started to shake around them with the sound of rushing water, but it must have been her imagination.
"Then hold tight. Things are about to get bumpy."
The twanging sound of bows and mechanical clicks of crossbows interrupted whatever question she had. Time seemed to slow down as she found a veritable rain of arrows heading to them. Before Sansa could even breathe, Percy swung Ice multiple times in quick succession, causing all the bolts and arrows to either shatter on the Valyrian Steel blade or be deflected to the ground.
The guards stared in shock at the inhuman strength and reflexes the black-haired rider showed, yet they did not have the time to call for another volley before Blackjack crashed into their lines, Percy swinging Ice in devastating arcs. Heads were separated, including Kettleblack's, and limbs flew everywhere, yet Blackjack didn't stop. And neither did Percy's swings.
Sansa was covered in blood and gore, but she did not care one bit. Her eyes fell on some of the surviving guards, and their shocked faces caused her to burst out in hysterical giggles.
Gods, the world was going crazy, and she felt just as mad!
"Onwards, my loyal steed. To the docks!" Sansa pointed at the harbor… just as a resounding roar came from upriver. She stared in utter bewilderment as the forty-foot-tall walls were drowned in a large shadow. Slowly, Sansa looked up to find a sight so ludicrous that she could do nothing but continue laughing.
It was like a wall of brackish water. A massive wave, easily over fifty feet high, crashed into the top of the wall dousing the braisers and dragging dozens of gold cloaks and other guards along it as it rushed back into the river. Blackjack flinched for a second, but a soothing, "Keep going," from Percy urged the horse to gallop through the wide open gates and into the rushing water.
For a moment, Sansa held her breath, only to find herself dry and capable of breathing normally. She looked around and found herself inside some sort of bubble, Blackjack riding through the water like it didn't exist for a few more seconds before the water receded back to the river.
They were met by a scene of utter chaos.
"W-what was t-that?"
She hated how her voice quivered, but none could blame her for the sight in front of her. The harbor was utterly wrecked. Of the dozens of ships that were still docked a few hours ago, barely a handful were still intact while the port facilities themselves were washed away. She could see cranes and crates and many other things floating downriver.
Along with dozens of dead guards and dockworkers.
"Something people like us can do, though it had never tired me so much before." Came the exhausted voice of her savior. She turned around the saddle and gasped. Percy was breathing heavily, but that wasn't what worried her. It was the two bolts sticking out of his left shoulder.
"You're hurt!"
"It looks worse than it actually is," her reckless savior chuckled. "I guess my protection really is gone."
She wanted to ask what he was talking about, but the sound of groaning caught her attention. There were many dead, but even more still alive.
"We need a ship." Percy's voice was weakening, and Sansa feared for the worse.
"There's no way any crew will accept us when all the city is after us." Sansa refuted, but she still searched for any ship that looked seaworthy.
"I don't need a crew. I can pilot any kind of ship by myself."
Another queer word, but the meaning was pretty clear. Sansa would have wondered if he was crazy, but after seeing in person his prowess and the seeming power he held over water, she decided to trust him.
He was her only hope to get back to her family.
"Does it matter the size of the vessel?" Percy shook his head, "Then what about this one?" Sansa pointed at a massive Carrack with two main masts, one smaller front mast and a similar one in the rear.
She was sure they had proper terms, but she never had to learn what those were. The only reason it grabbed her attention was the name. The Silver Lady. She wasn't sure who its owner was, but it appeared empty enough.
"Good choice," Percy nudged Blackjack towards the ship that was moored the closest to the sea, which allowed it to avoid getting damaged from the flash flood.
They rode onto the open gangway to find the ship deserted. Once they dismounted, Percy sheathed Ice and pulled out the quarrels from his shoulder.
"Are you sure you're alright?" She asked hesitantly.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just give me a sec," He raised his hands and closed his eyes, and instantly, Sansa could see the whole ship come alive with ropes untying themselves. The anchor miraculously ejected itself from the river, the sails unfurled, and the ship started moving away from the destroyed harbor.
They could hear alarmed shouts from deeper in the ship, and a door burst open to allow a dozen sailors led by an officer clad in the split colors of House Baratheon of Kingslanding. To think the one intact ship was a part of the Royal Fleet.
"Who the fuck are–"
That's as far as he went before Percy waved his hand with an annoyed grunt and caused a wave of water to splash onto the deck and wash the men away into the sea. Another wave had the water splash on his injured shoulder, and Sansa was shocked to find his wound visibly knit itself together.
"Sorry about that. I should have checked to see if the ship was empty." He gave a strained smile as he looked at his visibly healing shoulder, "not sure why it's so slow to heal."
Oddly enough, Sansa couldn't muster any sympathy for the sailors that were just washed into the river.
"You call that slow!?" She was more surprised at her unexpected bout of calmness despite the insane magic that she had seen Percy casually use. Yet, for some reason, she felt like this was completely normal. As if some part of her had always known this was possible, and she ought to accept it as a commonplace.
"Uh, yeah? I'm built different, you see." Another one of his crooked grins caused her to blush, despite the completely nonsensical explanation. "Let's get out of here. Got any directions?"
The ship was quickly sailing away from the city, although as they passed by the Red Keep, a few catapults started firing at them. They were too fast for anything to reach them, however, and soon they were out in the Blackwater Bay.
"North," seafaring was not a part of her education, but she tried her best to remember the maps Luwin had taught her with. "I think if you could just sail to the north-east, we should be able to leave Blackwater Bay. From there, we just follow the coastline northward until we reach my home."
Any of her knowledge of the coastline was rudimentary at best. Her curious looks over the occasional maps of Westeros only gave her surface knowledge of the land and its coasts.
"But we should be fine so long as we sail in that general direction for a couple of days?"
"Yes," Sansa nodded as the ship turned north-east.
"Good." Percy sighed wearily, "I'll check the captain's quarters later to see if they have a map or something."
That… seemed like a great idea, and she couldn't help but berate herself for not thinking of it first. It was also soothing to know that the man before her knew what he was doing.
"Percy?" The Stark princess hesitantly called out to her savior, causing him to turn to her from where he was unbuckling Blackjack's barding.
"Yeah?"
She ignored the strange phrasing, there were a million questions warring in her mind right now, but Sansa settled on the most important ones. "Why did you save me? Who are you really? What did you mean by us being the same?"
The man's smile turned forlorn, "I don't think I'm from around here… But I feel that you're my only hope to figure where the Hades am I. There's a sliver of divinity in you, but it feels like it's been dormant for a long time." Sansa was struck speechless at her savior's words which only confused her further. "As for what I am? I'm a hero."
It was said so matter-of-factly that Sansa could do nothing but wholeheartedly believe it. At that moment, nothing really mattered anymore, and she burst out into a bout of hysterical laughter once more.
Heroes did exist after all.
The world suddenly shook as a massive shockwave reverberated through the bay, causing the ship to slightly list before stabilizing. Sansa and Percy quickly moved to the stern of the ship to witness the River Gate that they just escaped from be covered in a conflagration of green flames that consumed all of the harbor. So high was the green mushroom cloud that it even dwarfed the Red Keep, though sadly, the fire didn't reach the cursed castle where her prison was, nor did it spread to the rest of the city. There were, however, plenty of rocks and debris falling on those who had oppressed her, and she watched with glee as the city that was her nightmare was shattered like never before. It was a few minutes later that the cloud dissipated, but the flames raged on, and Sansa could see the massive gap along the walls that was once the River Gate.
"Well," Percy's voice was full of mirth as he turned to her. "You did want to burn the city."
Sansa's uncontrollable giggles and cackles echoed across the bay.
Some may wonder why Percy can so easily kill people, and I will reply that by The Last Olympian, Percy had already bloodied his hands with demigod blood. Essentially, this is an AU Percy who does not need to worry about his books getting cancelled for an adult rating.
Which brings me to a bit of headcanon towards Percy's mindset, Percy had stopped seeing mortals as fellow humans. Not in a derogatory way, but rather in a realistic and fatalistic way. They are just too fragile compared to him or other demigods.
Wildfire was placed under all the gates of Kingslanding and we know that the older it gets, the less stable it is, though not necessarily more powerful. Its a miracle that no one bumped into any of the jars causing an explosion and I'm starting to think earthquakes aren't a thing in Planetos. If Daenaerys could revive magic by hatching dragons a million miles away, what do you think Percy's presence would cause? His stunt caused structural damage that caused one of the jars to explode, taking the whole cache under the River Gate with it. At least I didn't cause a chain reaction, lol.
Want to support me or read ahead? Join me on Pat(re)on.
This seems like a great concept. Looking forward to more.
Chapter 2 (Setting Off)
Well, that was quite the reception. Here's another chapter, then, with a much slower pace. More to my style, I suppose.
Want to read three chapters ahead? You know where to find me.
I will reiterate that this is firmly AU. Not everything will be similar to canon; in fact, a lot of things will be rewritten due to the way Martin butchered the war. Tywin outpacing the blitzkrieg comes to mind.
I will leave a timeline of events post-chapter to get an idea of what to expect.
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
1st day of the 7th moon, 299,
Streets of Kingslanding,
Tyrion
The day was turning out worse by the minute, but not half as bad as being thrown into the sky cells. The omens were all there – he had awakened with a headache, and there had been no wine in his room to boot. Normally, Tyrion did not give credence to such signs, having never attended a sermon of his own volition, but when it came to his wine, he was willing to see the light.
His musings were cut short as the baying of the smallfolk nearly had him jumping from his tailor-made saddle. The surrounding streets were drowned in chaos as he urged his horse to gallop through the rioting peasantry. The Hand of the King had seen that rabble dragging Ser Aron Santagar from his palfrey and were already clubbing him to death. He would have faced a similar fate if not for his blessedly short legs and large steed. It only bought him seconds before he threw his coin sack at the crowd, instantly dispersing them.
The fools did not realize that it was all stags and not the kind that could be eaten.
Tyrion snickered again as he glanced around, only for his smile to vanish and his heart to nearly drop. His foolish nephew had just pushed the Stark girl off her mare, urging his destrier towards him.
"Make way for your king! Make way or die, damn you." Several white cloaks joined their king and echoed his warnings, cutting down anyone foolish enough to get in the way.
Tyrion was forced to continue riding in their wake lest he join the Hound on the ground. Only time would tell whether the shorter Clegane could survive the surging mob. With a grimace, he motioned for Bronn to guard his rear. The sellsword quickly circled him with a few other sellswords he recruited, warding off attacks.
Once they had made it out of the Hook and regrouped at the foot of Aegon's hill a few minutes later, the Lord Hand rounded on his nephew. "You damn fool! You just lost us our most important hostage!"
Predictably, Joffrey's unblemished face reddened with rage. "How dare you speak to me like that? I am the king! I should have your tongue ripped out for this."
Seven above, Tyrion had no time to deal with this pointless petulance now! Before he could retort with a well-placed slap, his sister's wheelhouse stopped beside them, the queen dowager sticking her head from the window. "Why are you dawdling about? We must make way for the Red Keep!"
"The Stark girl is missing," Tyrion hissed out, looking at the riot down the hill. "Without her, what stops Robb Stark from killing our brother?" Cersei might have been proud and arrogant, but she loved Jaime even more than he did.
Realization quickly dawned upon her face, judging by her widening green eyes. "Osmund!" She barked out. "Take the guards and your brothers and find the little wolf harlot, preferably before she's dead or despoiled. Bring her back to me no matter what, or I shall be greatly displeased!"
The three Kettleblacks, shadowing Cersei's wheelhouse as her guards, nodded before commandeering squads of red cloaks and gold cloaks. Tyrion noticed the King's Justice refusing to relinquish command of his Lannister men to the sellswords.
"Ser Ilyn, join the men. That's an order from the Hand." The mute man looked reluctant to follow the commands of a lowly sellsword. Yet the Payne knight knew better than to displease the son of Tywin Lannister and nodded stiffly after a few heartbeats. Tyrion glanced at Bronn, who subtly inclined his head. They had matched any coin that Cersei had given the sellsword brothers, and the Hand was certain they were firmly in his pocket.
Soon, a few squads were formed and split up, searching for the Stark girl. Joffrey had already ridden ahead, his Kingsguard in tow, before Cersei urged her coachman to hurry. Tyrion wasted no time to follow as he could see a mob approaching from a side alley.
The Red Keep was just a few hundred feet away.
.
.
.
Tyrion finally sighed in relief as the bronze gates of the Red Keep closed behind them. After dismounting and ensuring all the gates were closed and the men-at-arms were on high alert, Tyrion found Joffrey and his mother atop the ramparts.
"I will have all of their heads on spikes! All those stinky, dirt-ridden traitors–" His nephew's outraged shrieks were predictable but annoying.
Yet the fury did not seem to die off, and Tyrion growled in annoyance, "You set your dog on them! What did you imagine they would do?" Joffrey shook with rage, but his mother held his shoulder.
"They dared to strike their king – their lives were already forfeited!" Gods, did his foolish sister lose her wits entirely?! For the first time ever, Tyrion found himself speechless at this imbecilic behavior.
The Imp rued the day his nephew would turn six and ten and officially ascend to the Iron Throne. Sadly, that day was getting closer than any of them could prepare for.
Yet, for good or for bad, his words gave Joffrey some pause. "Yes," the future king looked at the churning city curiously. "Where is my dog anyway?" A small mob had already gathered under the gates, hurling insults and curses up the curtain wall.
"Why are those traitors still alive? They dare insult their king, archers, take them down!"
For a painfully long heartbeat, Tyrion seriously considered smacking some sense into his foolish nephew, but his attention was drawn by the nearby guardsmen. Many were pointing south, and Lester, a petty captain in the Lannister guard, had taken out a Myrish Fareye and was looking at the River Gate, nearly a mile away. Tyrion commandeered one for himself and stood atop a chest box to see what the fuss was all about.
Being a dwarf had its downsides – even with the crate beneath his misshapen legs, the most he could see was the roofs of the houses, and he had to stand up on his toes, only to glean a lone man riding atop a very familiar horse. The Hound's steed was easily recognizable with its size and unique barding, but the rider was new, with the crimson cloak he had clearly stolen and the naked body underneath. Not only that, but he was holding a small slip of a thing with red-haired curls that suspiciously reminded him of Sansa Stark.
A platoon of soldiers formed a shield wall in the center of the square, with archers and crossbowmen on the gate and walls aiming at them. A volley of steel-tipped projectiles was released, making Tyrion curse out loud.
The Stark girl was useless to them dead!
Yet, under his disbelieving gaze, Sansa and the rider did not turn into a pincushion filled with steel.
The rider swung the oversized greatsword with a single arm so fast eyes could not track and somehow managed to deflect the rain of arrows. The enormous horse below charged through the gold cloaks, crushing and trampling its way through while the greatsword danced through the air, it's unique dark ripples obvious even from this distance, relieving any who dared come near of their heads.
The rippled steel glinted through the sun, yet there was only one sword of that size and make in the city. What happened to Ser Illyn?
Tyrion's fareye was snatched, and he glared at his nephew as he watched the rest.
"They're getting away," Joffrey seethed, jaw clenched.
"They will never be able to make it past the gates." Tyrion sighed at his petulant nephew. He admired the rider's valor, but such things were fleeting in the end. No matter how skilled, the man would tire sooner or later, and the lack of armor would prove to be his undoing. Only he worried the doltish gold cloaks would kill the Stark girl in the process.
Alas, there was not much he could do but wait.
A terrible rumble came from the Blackwater Rush and drew everyone's attention. Tyrion blinked in confusion and rubbed his eyes, but the enormous wave that formed above the river did not go away. Shouts and cries of awe and panic filled the ramparts as the water rose and crashed into the city walls, washing away the defenders as if they were rats in the gutter.
For a painfully long moment, everyone grew quiet as the impossible unveiled before them. Yet the silence was pierced by an angry yet terrified shriek.
"I-It's her! The d-damned witch, I saw her! Sansa Stark called that wave!"
Joffrey's exclamation woke Tyrion from his stupor, and he stared at him incredulously. "Give me that."
Tyrion snatched the fareye back and looked at the ruined docks. Not a single ship was intact after that flash flood, and he lamented the failure of his plan before it could even take hold. How would he lure Stannis' fleet with fire ships now?
No, wait. There was one ship left, and it was already sailing away. Looking through the fareye, Tyrion glimpsed the dark-haired man looking towards the bay, his face hidden from him, but another figure was clear to him. The womanly figure of Sansa Stark, her tattered dress showing her nubile form, with her red hair and blue eyes, glared murderously in his direction, and the Hand of the King knew what had to be done.
If they couldn't capture Sansa Stark alive, she was better off dead. Robb Stark could not be allowed to forge another alliance to strengthen his position against House Lannister.
Thankfully, to enter the Blackwater Bay from the city's harbor, any ship would have to pass under the Red Keep's walls, giving him the perfect opportunity.
"Man the Catapults. Sansa Stark is escaping on that ship, man those catapults, damn you!" The shocked men-at-arms finally started moving, but not fast enough for his taste. "Faster, damn it. I want that ship at the bottom of the bay!"
The men fumbled in a hurry, and Joffrey, of all people, was the one to support him. "You heard my uncle. I want that witch dead!"
Alas, by the time the catapults were ready and hurling stones, the ship was already too far. Tyrion gritted his teeth in frustration while Cersei comforted Joffrey as he bemoaned the evil witch's escape.
"Don't worry, sweetling. Your grandfather will bring those mutts to heel, one way or another."
Tyrion tiredly rubbed his temples. Doubtlessly, his dearest sister would foist the honor of informing their Lord Father of today's events to him.
Gods, the day had turned into a disaster. Too many nobles went missing from the royal retinue, including his cousin Tyrek. Did the Seven finally decide to strike down House Lannister for their numerous sins?
It mattered not; gods scarcely cared for mortals. He needed to revise his plans for the defense of the city, and he needed to-
Boom!
The world shook, causing many to fall painfully, including Tyrion. A few were clinging to the merlons, while a handful of guardsmen had lost their footing and fell off the parapets, only to meet the cobbled ground with a nasty wet crunch.
His ears were ringing, and it took Tyrion a couple of moments to struggle back to his feet, cursing inwardly. Nobody even bothered to help the poor dwarf.
Yet the moment he climbed atop the wooden crate, his mind went blank.
The River Gate was replaced by a steaming whirlwind of dust and fire as poisonous jade-like flames danced atop the water. Tyrion watched with morbid fascination as the massive green mushroom cloud climbed to the heavens before raining slagged rocks and debris down on the city.
He snorted at the rioting rabble that looked like rats trying to run away from the flash flood and the falling stones that smashed through houses as if they were made from straw. Alas, his amusement was short-lived – the city's curtain wall looked like some enormous giant had ripped off a hundred-foot-wide hole, leaving behind green flames dancing atop the water. The harbor was completely gone.
Defending the city from Stannis Baratheon had become far more challenging all of a sudden…
"Green piss! Didn't you plan to beat Stannis' fleet with that stuff?" Bronn's words caused everyone to stare at him, and Tyrion groaned at his guard's loose tongue.
Percy
He stood on a beach, unsure if he was awake or asleep, only that he came to be on the shoreline. The sky was roiling with tension as if someone had provoked Zeus, and the island he found himself on was rocky and barren.
Staring at the raging waves, Percy felt a deep sense of hostility, as if the sea itself loathed his very being. Looking around the beach, there was nothing of note but a single man sitting by a cliff's edge, dressed in a tattered green robe. He was holding a fishing rod with a line falling deep into the turbulent waves.
This was definitely a dream; with a sigh, Percy gathered himself and approached the desolate figure. Almost immediately, the demigod recognized him – even old, frail, and gray, his father was unmistakable.
Poseidon turned to face him and gave him a tired yet warm smile that filled Percy's heart with joy.
"Dad!"
"Percy, my son." Poseidon's voice was as tired as he looked. "I'm so glad to see you, hale and hearty."
Percy hugged his father tightly before letting go as he noticed how impossibly thin he was. "Why are you so…old?"
Even that was mildly phrased – the god of the sea was all but skin and bones.
"I am but the spark that resides in you, in all of my children," his father's voice was filled with something dreadfully heavy. "Even so, I barely survived your crossing to this world. I am all that remains from your father, Percy."
Despite already suspecting, the words knocked the strength from his knees, and Percy had to sit down. Being in a different world altogether was daunting enough, but… His powerful father, who seemed so unstoppable, smashing his way through hordes of Oceanus' minions, looked like a pale shadow of himself. Percy shook himself; his demigod instincts kicked in, helping him focus on the present.
"So I really am in a different world?"
"Indeed," Poseidon grimaced. "I do not feel the connection to my divinity, and it took all I had just to protect your mind from the eldritch horrors of this plane."
"Eldritch?"
"See for yourself," Poseidon pointed at the stormy skies, where Percy could feel, if not see, a malevolent being glaring at him. It took him a moment to focus, but he finally saw what his father was pointing at. A malicious golden eye glared murderously from the heavens, and even as he watched, a face seemed to coalesce around it before dispersing. It was as if the being was trying to remember what it was like to have features.
"He reminds me of Zeus, but far more malicious," Which was something that Percy never thought possible…
"Might be because it is the closest equivalent to a sky god in these lands." Percy's father shrugged as he checked the line of his fishing rod. "Another twisted one lurks in the seas, hungering with greed. If I were not a part of you, I would have been long devoured."
Percy grimaced – seeing his father wasting away was one thing, but hearing it felt like the last nail in the coffin.
His father tapping into his own powers to survive didn't matter to him – the demigod had received indirect aid from his sire more times than he could remember. It was only natural for a son to support his father, just as the father had supported his son.
"Anyway, forget about me. How do you feel, Percy?"
"I'm not sure?" Percy shook his head as his mind wandered towards the last hour… or was it day? His memory was all jumbled up. "All I remembered was waking up in some back alley, rescuing a girl before sailing away on a ship. Typical demigod adventure, except everything else was a haze."
His father chuckled, the voice coming as a wheeze, but it gradually gained strength to his familiar full belly laughter. A lopsided grin made its way to Percy's face – it was heartening to see his old man looking so cheerful despite everything.
"What happened on Olympus?" Percy asked once his father finished laughing. "In the throne room, after you sent Typhon on a one-way trip to Tartarus, what happened? The last thing I remember was giving the dagger to Luke. He was about to stab himself, but then… nothing."
"I can only guess, my son," Poseidon smiled wanly. "I could tell my father had somehow blasted you to Chaos. Yet such a move cost him his very being, as my main self could not sense him anymore. I can confidently say that we won the war."
"That's…good." Percy was not sure how to feel about it, and he still ended up sacrificing himself for Olympus despite believing in Rachel's words.
You are not the hero.
But it was nice to know his efforts ultimately helped secure victory.
"Unfortunately, Chaos is not to be underestimated. Through a combination of your protection, your sword, and a last-ditch effort from my main self, you managed to survive. How you ended up here, however, shall forever remain a mystery. I just woke up myself, you know. I was hoping you would tell me more about what you've seen earlier."
His hand automatically reached for his pocket but found it empty. A deep sense of loss drowned him like a tidal wave, and Percy's shoulders slumped. Achilles' curse was as much a burden as a blessing, and he would not miss it. Invulnerability paled before skill and personal strength. Not to mention, sleeping for a good part of his day was not worth it. Anaklusmos, on the other hand…
Flashes of the events of the past day flooded his mind, and Percy grabbed his head as he recollected himself.
"I remember now." Poseidon's sea-green eyes gleamed with interest. "I woke up in a city alley but knew something was off. I couldn't tell at the time, but I don't think there is Mist in this world."
"Oh? What makes you say that?"
"I had better senses for once." Percy grinned at his father. "I could even recognize a spark of divinity in a girl I mistook for Rachel. Although, now that I think about it, it might not have been divine at all."
Poseidon hummed as he flicked his rod upwards as something bit. After another moment of silence and visible struggle, the weakened god of the seas handed him the rod. "Your turn, Percy. I'm afraid your old man isn't as strong as he used to be."
The son of Poseidon hurriedly grabbed the rod and pulled. Whatever had bitten was strong and feisty. He felt his father place a hand on his shoulder, "Focus on the catch. I will scan your memories and see if you missed something."
Normally, Percy would be appalled at allowing anyone into his mind, but this was his father. A heartbeat later, he could feel Poseidon's presence in his mind as he recalled the memory of his escape from that city.
"I see. So that's how it is. Nice catch, Percy."
"What?" Percy distractedly replied, as whatever bit into the fishing rod was tougher than he expected. "I haven't even reeled this thing in yet."
"Oh, I'm not talking about that. Red hair? Blue eyes? And no freckles? Such a rare specimen, as expected of my son." Percy could feel the smile on Poseidon's face, and he groaned at the old lecher.
"Really, Dad? I barely know the girl. Isn't it bad enough that I flirted with her barely a minute after knowing her?"
"Is that the only thing you feel embarrassed about? How about the hundreds of people you killed in your escape from the city?" His father's voice quickly turned cold and Percy felt like a bucket of ice dropped on his back.
"I… I did kill them…didn't I?" It was all Percy could do to hold on to the rod and not let his prey escape. "Oh gods, so many people…" Percy took a deep breath to calm himself. It was not the first time he had seen dead people, nor was it the first time he had killed. It had never been so close and personal before, and never had he caused the death of an innocent and so many of them at once.
"It is okay, my son. I'm glad you are at least feeling remorse." His father's voice returned to gentle and kind. "You would not believe how many people I would kill in a simple tantrum. When you have so much power at your grasp and little accountability, it is so easy to forget how fragile mortals truly are."
"That doesn't make it right."
"No, it doesn't. All you can do is to be careful in the future. Life is precious, but don't be a fool about it. If someone threatens you and yours…"
"I'll beat them down, of course."
"Good lad. Still, you are taking this surprisingly in stride. Perhaps because the lovely lady you saved seemed a bit on the… ruthless side?"
"Perhaps. From my understanding, she was a hostage. Forced to watch her father's murder," Percy resumed his struggle against his prey with a vengeance, and he could feel it losing its strength. Soon, he would catch whatever it was living in a sea in his mind.
That sounded weird… also why the heck was his mind a barren island? Whoever decided that had forgotten to at least place some seaweed. Percy could almost hear Annabeth sighing seaweed brain in exasperation.
"Well, I'm afraid I won't be of much help, son. I cannot reinforce your powers, nor can I speed up your healing in the water anymore. I can't even help you to navigate this foreign sea, although I will certainly help you along with matters of knowledge, particularly when it comes to ships and navigation."
"Thanks, Dad. You're finally living up to the old mentor archetype." Percy grinned as he pulled one last time, and a shadow sprang from the ocean. They both stared at the strange creature that was not a fish at all as it let go of the line and landed on the rocky cliff, hissing and spitting at them.
It was a cat.
"Well, I was never the best at explaining omens, but I think you might come upon a kitty soon." Poseidon grabbed the admittedly large golden cat as it yowled loudly and patted its head, causing it to quickly calm down, close its green eyes, and purr. "A feisty kitty who is really a softy inside."
"I see." Percy dropped the rod and looked at his surroundings, noticing that they were getting a bit blurry. "I think I'm waking up."
"That you are. Now, remember Percy. I am here if you want to talk, but I'm afraid to say I'm more powerless than a piece of steak in front of a hellhound. You are the one with all the power here, so don't be afraid to use it, but know that it will drain you more than usual. I'm sure you have already noticed that."
"Duly noted," Percy nodded, the memory of the exhaustion from the flash flood still fresh.
"You are already in the sights of the divine in this world. If you try to hide your powers, they will think you are weak. Better to show off and make them think twice before causing you trouble." His father petted the purring cat as he sat on a rock and threw him one final smile.
"I see, go on with life, kick the butt of anyone who bothers me, and cause storms and tsunamis. Got it." Percy grinned at Poseidon, and he thought he saw the fading world gain a bit more color.
"Basically, yeah. By my mother, I was never a great planner. That was usually my dear Amphitrite." Poseidon's face fell as he thought about his wife.
"You too, huh? I miss Annabeth already."
"Who knows, Perseus? This Sansa girl is a princess. Might as well stick with her and see where destiny takes you."
He did not comment on using his true name, and Percy idly wondered if his father was trying to warn him against living up to the name. Perseus did mean destroyer, after all.
"I'll talk to you later, Dad."
Poseidon nodded, and Percy felt the world fade away as he woke up on the deck of a ship, face-to-nose with a large horse.
"Hey, boss. You're finally awake. You don't have a carrot on you, do you?"
The demigod of the sea sighed at the horse. He might have been concussed when he named him Blackjack, but it appeared he was correct on the name choice. This horse preferred carrots to doughnuts, although he was sure if he got the chance to try baking some, the horse would love them as well.
Or maybe he should look for peanuts instead?
"Let me check the hold." He stood up and stretched before he grabbed the overly large sword with a fancy rippled blade and tied it to his back.
Looking around the ship, the son of Poseidon realized he had subconsciously put the vessel on autopilot, heading northeast. The problem was, as his father mentioned, he had no idea where exactly he was going. Nor did he know where the girl went.
"Sansa?" He called inside the galley. Percy remembered the events of the day so far, but he was not sure why he was sleeping on the deck instead of one of the cabins he was checking right now. If he had to guess, the ship was reserved for high command or perhaps nobility – he was unsure of the hierarchy of these lands. Still, the cabins looked clean and comfortable despite being a military vessel; clearly a flagship to lead other ships of a fleet but not expected to engage in combat.
"Sansa? Are you here?" He called again as he checked the fourth cabin room he came across. There were more cabins here than expected and little to no armaments to be seen.
"In here. Don't enter, I'm cleaning myself," came the muffled voice from a cabin down the hall.
"Okay, once you're decent, come meet me on the deck. We need to discuss some things."
A short pause before the girl replied, "Understood."
Was the language barrier still confusing her? Percy recalled how she would stare blankly whenever he used modern slang, but there was no way he could bring himself to talk like he was in a drama play.
Shrugging, he went to check the hold and the pantry. Percy should have done that straight away once they were on deck, but they were busy sailing, and him sleeping.
Once he was in the hold, He groaned in annoyance. Of course, it would be empty of food or any supplies. It would make sense since they absconded with the ship while it was not even moored in the harbor proper. The Silver Lady must have been waiting for a chance to find a pier and resupply. Weren't those people rioting because of lack of food as well? Thankfully, he did manage to find a bag of hard tack, salted meat, and some dried fruit. Too little for an actual crew, but enough to last the two of them for a few days.
Percy still needed to find something for his horse to eat.
After further investigation, he finally found an old bag of horse feed in a section of the hold that must have doubled as a stable. More of a stall than a stable due to its small size, probably built to host the steed of some noble. Judging by the extensive cobwebs, it had been quite a while since it had seen any use. Checking the bag of feed, it looked edible enough, but Blackjack would ultimately decide.
Stopping by the Captain's cabin, Percy checked inside, finding a large and comfortable swinging bed, a square table, and by the wall, a wardrobe, causing him to grin. Finally, he could wear actual clothes instead of the ridiculous make-shift… skirt.
A few minutes later, he abandoned his kilt for a white wool shirt that he left the top unbuttoned to bare half his chest in an attempt to fight the heat. He also had brown linen pants, a belt with a steel buckle, and weird leather sandals. Sadly, none of the boots fit his feet, but he definitely rocked the swashbuckler outfit well. Something was missing though and as he looked over himself he realized the problem. Not enough blue. Checking the wardrobe again, he found a blue sleeveless vest and wore but left the buttons untied. Much better.
Hesitantly, Percy placed his hand in his pants pockets, hoping to be wrong. A sigh of sorrow flew out of his mouth as he could not find Riptide. It appeared his sword truly was gone forever.
Shaking his head, the son of Poseidon tied Ice around his back again. He was glad for the special half-sheath that allowed him to easily unsheathe the blade one-handed without pulling the whole thing from his back. The wolf fur was comfy, but he could feel it fraying slightly from the sea air. A moment of focusing later, and Percy had sucked all the salt from the fur, making it good as new.
Once dressed, the demigod of the sea noticed one of those old-fashioned desks with a wooden cover; he was unsure what they were called, but he was happy to find maps and ledgers inside it. His happiness was cut short, however, when he realized he could not read a single thing!
It was not just his dyslexia at work, for the language looked like English, but it was such an odd dialect that he could barely make sense of it. Ironically, it reminded him of when he first met Zoe Nightshade. The Huntress of Artemis had spoken in a strange, antiquated way. His mind drifted towards Anaklusmos again, which housed Zoe's immortal essence. Gods, Percy had irreversibly lost another part of his friend…
Shaking his head, he did what a demigod did best – pushing the sorrow away to a deep corner of his mind. Sadly, no matter how he focused, Percy failed to make tails or ends of the maps. Well, it seemed like he would have to rely on his new friend – at least Sansa Stark seemed like an intelligent girl.
Returning to the deck, Percy gave his horse the bag of feed he found, receiving an unamused look from Blackjack.
"That's the best I could find, boy. Unless you want to try moldy bread or dried fruit."
The horse snorted something that sounded suspiciously like 'cunt' as it lowered its head into the bag, but nah. There was no way… right? Percy looked on as it grumpily ate, wondering if he got saddled with a foul-mouthed steed.
Looking around the deck, the son of Poseidon took in the vessel they found themselves in.
It was strangely designed, as while it looked like a Carrack, It was missing the most obvious detail of a ship from his world with the same design.
Cannons.
Instead of a gun deck below, the ship used the space where the cannons would be placed for more cabins and storage rooms. There was a large empty room with plenty of folded hammocks where Percy guessed the sailors would sleep. He wondered about the technological level of this new world, for it seemed to combine elements of medieval, renaissance, and that fancy word Annabeth mentioned…
Bark?
Barack?
No, Baroque.
The maps he just saw were highly detailed, which hinted at a high level of cartography, and yet, he recalled most of the ships that were in the harbor were medieval galleys. Impractical things that required a lot of manpower to row and inefficient sailing designs.
The ship nerd in him wanted to redesign the whole thing, supported by the ship god in his head. Unfortunately, the fact he was dyslexic and did not know the language stopped him from using some of those parchment rolls and ink he found in the captain's cabin.
Shaking his head, Percy shuffled that for later, now – now he had to speak with Sansa and set a proper course.
Something stirred to the south, making him whip his head that way. The weather was beautiful, with no clouds and the sun shining brightly. Yet far to the south, where he could barely glimpse a shoreline, he could feel a storm brewing. Something inside told him it was not natural, as if something was actively forming that storm. Something divine.
Considering the discussion with his father, He had a solid guess on the culprit.
"Perseus? Are you here?"
"Over here." He turned to the beautiful red-haired girl he saved, who might possibly be his ticket to some semblance of a stable and peaceful life. The girl had abandoned her tattered gray dress for a simple white shirt, where she was forced to leave the top half unbuttoned due to her ample chest. She also wore leather pants that were a tad on the longer side, clearly not meant for women. Her long hair was let down, reaching her elbows in slightly messy curls, and she had a dagger secured on a leather belt.
Give her leather boots, some freckles, green eyes, and Sansa could easily be Rachel's sister.
The thought had come like a blow, almost knocking the air out of his lungs. Would he ever see or speak to his mother again? Or his friends?
Was he lost to his world?
Or was he…? His dad had not raised the topic, and the demigod had not asked…
Regardless, Percy had promised to return Sansa to her home. If the titan war had indeed been won, getting back to Earth could wait a bit.
Only… he had to figure out how to do it first.
"What is it that you wished to discuss?" The girl leaned on the railings as she looked at him, speaking in what he would call a posh accent despite her attire. He felt Sansa did not know how to behave around him, though he was sure she liked him. At least enough to trust him with her father's sword.
"Well, first, would you mind reminding me what happened after we sailed away from that city? My memory is hazy, and I might have gotten my head knocked too hard. Why was I asleep on the deck?"
The girl looked at him strangely before smiling slightly, forming cute dimples in her cheeks. "You said you were going to check the captain's cabin but suddenly changed your mind and declared it was nap time. Do you expect a lady such as I to be able to drag you to a cabin? You seemed comfortable enough, and Str–Blackjack hovered over you protectively."
Percy scratched his head as he nodded. Honestly, he already guessed all of that, but it was as good of an icebreaker as he could get. "Alright, second thing, there are hardly any supplies on the ship. Food is limited, and while there is a stove and oven in the kitchens, there isn't anything fresh to use."
His eyes were glued on the girl as she bit her lip in thought, and his demigod hormones started acting up at the sight. Sansa was beautiful, easily more so than any of the demigods he had met due to how natural her beauty was, but now was not the time; he averted his eyes from her curves as he buried his emotions.
Percy had no idea how far their destination was, but from what he knew of sea travel, their trip could take weeks, if not months. Even with his powers, he could only have a ship of this design sail at 15 knots an hour in the best-case scenario. Maybe 20 knots if the wind was on their side, but considering his limited powers, the son of Poseidon doubted he would be able to pull such a stunt off continuously. On the contrary, judging by that storm he felt earlier, the local sky god hated him more than Zeus.
"Do we have salt?"
"No, but that wouldn't be a problem for me. I can separate sea salt from seawater. Same for fresh water, we will never run out of either so long as we are on sea."
The girl's brilliant blue eyes widened before sighing. "I nearly forgot how…magical you are. Why don't we catch fish and salt them?"
"Sure. We can keep the dried fruits for Blackjack while we settle for the tack and fish." Eating fish was odd for him, especially since Percy could understand and talk to them, but he would do it if nothing else was on hand, just like now.
Then again, no marine life here owed him any allegiance, and he would admit to having a taste for his father's subjects.
"Anything else?" The girl was taking their survival seriously, and Percy grinned at her earnestness.
"I found maps and other ledgers in the captain's cabin." The girl perked up in interest. Even that was done with grace – Percy had to admit the somehow haughty facade looked good on her. She didn't even seem to notice as it came so naturally to her. "Unfortunately, I could not understand a single word written on them. I could identify the letters, but I couldn't read anything. I was hoping you would look them over and make sure we are on the right heading. I will help with navigation, of course."
"Sure, that is acceptable. Thank you, Perseus, for all you have done for me." Sansa smiled at him warmly, causing his grin to widen even as he acknowledged how beautiful the sight looked on her.
"Call me Percy, and don't mention it." The girl's face scrounged in confusion, accentuating her full lips and causing him to sigh at the language barrier. "Now, I think I am due for an in-depth briefing on this world I find myself in. Tell me everything."
"Everything?" Her impossibly blue eyes blinked in confusion.
"Politics, geography, history," a feral grin found its way to his face, "and most importantly, the religions and gods of this world."
The girl nodded solemnly and made her way to the captain's quarter, Percy following her for a long-overdue lesson, trying to steer his gaze away from her lithe hips and perky butt. Hades, his mother had taught him better than this!
An island in the Cinnamon Straits,
The man who would be god.
The sun had set hours ago, but the soft glow of the moon eerily fought with the darkness of the night.
Euron Greyjoy stood on the beach of the small island that he had conquered. It was so small that it only had one village, which now lay in ruins. His men had the surviving villagers and their families trussed up in binds and dragged to an altar, where one of his captive warlocks was preparing the ritual. His crew slit their throats, allowing pools of blood to fill the carved runes on the stone platform.
This was it. He had sailed all the way to Asshai and trekked the treacherous road to Stygiai for this ritual. This was a major step on his path to godhood, and nothing would stop him from succeeding. In his hands laid the treasure that would pave the way to immortality.
A dark gray gemstone with swirls of golden tentacles.
He could feel the heat and the life inside it even as he approached the altar. It had been a fossilized egg when Euron found it. His previous attempts to hatch the thing had all failed, but something had changed.
The world sang from two flux points, one somewhere near the Red Waste, and another, more recent far to the west – the ripples could be felt all the way even here. And just like that, his last attempt to hatch the thing had breathed life into it.
With luck smiling upon him, now, all he needed was to hatch it. But to do so required sacrifice, yet he wouldn't do it with the crude ways of the Valyrians. Sacrificing thousands of unwilling slaves to hatch a single dragon egg just because he did not have Valyrian blood…
Euron did not lack patience, but if he had to wait to collect those thousands of sacrifices, his egg would have turned to stone again.
He stopped by the warlock as his men dragged the last sacrifices – a father and his daughter.
"P-please, have mercy, at least for my daughter! You have already killed everyone else. What have we ever done to deserve this?" The man fell to his knees, head touching the sand in a position of absolute submission. The words were spoken in the regional common tongue of the Jade Sea, an amalgamation of Qartheen, Yi-tish and Lengii. It was vindicating for all the time Euron spent learning the myriad tongues spoken in every corner of the world.
After all, how could he truly enjoy reaving when you could not fully understand the victim's despair and loathing?
Euron smiled. Ah, such a sweet opportunity. There was power in kinship, one of the long-forgotten reasons kinslaying was frowned upon.
"Your weakness is your sin, but I'm not merciless to deny the plight of a distraught father… So long as you show me your sincerity, I promise your daughter will live. Now, are you willing to die for your daughter? Such a beautiful lass, I guarantee she would become an excellent courtesan or even rise high in the court of the Shan of the Isle of Elephants!" Euron allowed the words to sink into the weathered man as he beheld his daughter, for she truly was a beauty with her olive skin, long locks of raven hair, large teats and even larger arse. Her eyes that were of the darkest amber stirred a heat in his loins for he could not wait to break her in. "No matter her fate, she will become the woman of someone powerful, this I swear."
The girl's eyes were wide with terror, and tears flowed freely down her cheeks to her half-naked form. Those savages were barely dressed in clothes, and a bit of rough handling from his mutes, probably one of his own get, had the girl naked.
The man gazed at his gagged daughter, struggling in vain in the hands of his mutes before turning back to Euron resignedly, "How can I trust you?"
"A blood pact, with my dear Qartheen here as a witness. May the gods strike one of my sons down if I go back on my word." Euron pointed to a few of his bastards for emphasis. They stood silently on the side, looking like younger twins of him, albeit with no eyes covered.
The fisherman sighed before nodding, the girl struggling mightily as muffled screams came from her gag. The men released the father while the warlock beckoned them to a large empty basin set on an open fire that Euron placed his egg in. Soon, all three of them had cut their palms and grabbed each other's hands as they swore their oaths.
"I, Euron Greyjoy, swear to take care of Parawara's daughter and to see to her wellbeing so long as he completes our bargain. He shall slit his own throat and feed his blood to the dragon egg until the gods claim his soul."
The fisherman looked at the egg in the bowl in disgust, but a whimper from his daughter had him straighten his shoulders. "I, Parawara, accept this bargain, and if Euron Greyjoy reneges on the spirit of this deal, then may all the divines in this world and beyond feast on his soul."
Euron simply grinned, his lone eye gleaming as the oath took hold. The fisherman grabbed the offered obsidian dagger, gave one last look to his daughter, and then stabbed himself in the jugular. Parawara fell forward, and as the lifeblood of the most noble of sacrifices filled the basin, Euron's grin widened as the dragon egg vibrated. He looked on with bated breath as the egg's vibrations increased until it stopped for a moment, causing him to freeze in worry.
His fear was unfounded, for a gray wing burst out of the eggshell, and a soft screech heralded his success.
Euron's manic laughter as the dragon broke free of its shell and jumped to his shoulders reverberated over the beach. The pirate could feel heat in his loins rising from the sheer power he now held and turned to the fisherman's daughter. He grabbed the nubile girl and took her right over her father's still-warm corpse. Even as the sound of gurgling came from one of his sons, Euron did not care as he removed the gag from the girl's mouth, allowing her screams to sound out.
The sound of someone falling on the ground had him glance sideways, finding one of his whelps bleeding from all seven orifices before succumbing to death. Euron grinned in ecstasy. It was so easy to fool the arrogant gods, and one like him would not care about curses or his countless get; He could always make more, just as he was doing now.
His dragon jumped from his shoulder to the corpse of his son, belching small streams of dark golden flame at the carcass and biting into the flesh. All the while, Euron rutted into the girl, and his crew watched on as he preferred them to be.
Silent.
He seeded the crying girl, knowing it would quicken before pulling his knife. It would not do to have a talkative woman onboard.
Poseidon shall be along for the ride, but don't expect any sort of powerups from him. He is but a shade in Percy's mind, there for advice as well as knowledge.
The first ripples of Percy's appearance are here! If Daenerys can bring magic back by hatching eggs, then what the heck do you think would happen if a demigod of the sea drops in to say hello and decides to stay permanently?
Our favorite insane pirate did not have to throw away that dragon egg he claimed to have gotten.
Now for the timeline, we know that GRRM planned for a five-year time skip but had to scrap it. If any of you read my editor, Gladiusx's, story, Shrouded Destiny, you would get an idea of what I'm trying to write here. So, here goes:
My main motive is to make some sense of the times needed for armies to muster and travel. Even with my adjustments, the times are still unbelievably fast. I probably won't get everything right either, but I will do my best.
One important thing to note about the Westerosi calendar in my story (complete headcanon and mainly for my own sanity). It's thirteen months of twenty-eight days instead of the confusing mess that is the Gregorian calendar. It comes out to 364 days, which is pretty close to the 365 days we have.
Robert's Rebellion starts two years early, and every event that could have happened in those years and were relevant to the story is pushed back by those two years. For example, the fight with the kingswood brotherhood happened in 277 instead of 279, and the defiance of Duskendale was in 275 instead of 277. Rhaegar marries Elia in 278 instead of 280, and Rhaenys is born that same year, 278.
Anyone born before 283 shall remain the same age, which means that Jaime was 13 when he fought the Smiling Knight (Good for him, the badass he is), and Lyanna was also 13 when she was kidnapped (Doesn't look so good for Rhaegar, eh?)
Here are other events of importance; some of them are earlier due to shenanigans (my whim), and others might pop up later in the story.
279: Tourney in Harrenhal. Year of False Spring
280: Robert's rebellion starts. Winter
281: Rebellion ends. Jon Snow and Robb Stark are born. Spring
282: Daeneyrs Targaryen is born. Loras Tyrell is born. Summer
283: Margery Tyrell and Joffrey Baratheon are born near the end of the year. Summer
284: Sansa Stark is born. Fall
285: Winter
286: Shireen Baratheon is born. Spring
287: Arya Stark, and Myrcella Baratheon are born. Summer
288: Brandon Stark and Tommen Baratheon are born. Summer
289: Greyjoy rebellion begins mid-year. Fall
290: Greyjoy rebellion ends six months later, with Theon becoming a ward of Ned. Winter
291: Winter
292: Rickon Stark is born. Spring
293-303: Long summer begins (lasts ten years).
297: Jon Arryn dies early in the year. Robert makes his way to the North, and Ned becomes Hand.
298: Jon Snow arrives at the Wall. Ned arrives in Kingslanding and is arrested barely two months later. War erupts, and Robb takes a few months to muster his troops and march south.
299: Ned is executed on the first day of the year.
These are the most important events to be aware of before reading the story. It combines both the timeline of the show with the aged-up characters but incorporates them into the book timeline and its events. I will not be using anything else from the show, neither events nor characters, for that matter.
Want to read four chapters ahead? Look me up on Patreon
Want to read three chapters ahead? You know where to find me.
I will reiterate that this is firmly AU. Not everything will be similar to canon; in fact, a lot of things will be rewritten due to the way Martin butchered the war. Tywin outpacing the blitzkrieg comes to mind.
I will leave a timeline of events post-chapter to get an idea of what to expect.
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
1st day of the 7th moon, 299,
Streets of Kingslanding,
Tyrion
The day was turning out worse by the minute, but not half as bad as being thrown into the sky cells. The omens were all there – he had awakened with a headache, and there had been no wine in his room to boot. Normally, Tyrion did not give credence to such signs, having never attended a sermon of his own volition, but when it came to his wine, he was willing to see the light.
His musings were cut short as the baying of the smallfolk nearly had him jumping from his tailor-made saddle. The surrounding streets were drowned in chaos as he urged his horse to gallop through the rioting peasantry. The Hand of the King had seen that rabble dragging Ser Aron Santagar from his palfrey and were already clubbing him to death. He would have faced a similar fate if not for his blessedly short legs and large steed. It only bought him seconds before he threw his coin sack at the crowd, instantly dispersing them.
The fools did not realize that it was all stags and not the kind that could be eaten.
Tyrion snickered again as he glanced around, only for his smile to vanish and his heart to nearly drop. His foolish nephew had just pushed the Stark girl off her mare, urging his destrier towards him.
"Make way for your king! Make way or die, damn you." Several white cloaks joined their king and echoed his warnings, cutting down anyone foolish enough to get in the way.
Tyrion was forced to continue riding in their wake lest he join the Hound on the ground. Only time would tell whether the shorter Clegane could survive the surging mob. With a grimace, he motioned for Bronn to guard his rear. The sellsword quickly circled him with a few other sellswords he recruited, warding off attacks.
Once they had made it out of the Hook and regrouped at the foot of Aegon's hill a few minutes later, the Lord Hand rounded on his nephew. "You damn fool! You just lost us our most important hostage!"
Predictably, Joffrey's unblemished face reddened with rage. "How dare you speak to me like that? I am the king! I should have your tongue ripped out for this."
Seven above, Tyrion had no time to deal with this pointless petulance now! Before he could retort with a well-placed slap, his sister's wheelhouse stopped beside them, the queen dowager sticking her head from the window. "Why are you dawdling about? We must make way for the Red Keep!"
"The Stark girl is missing," Tyrion hissed out, looking at the riot down the hill. "Without her, what stops Robb Stark from killing our brother?" Cersei might have been proud and arrogant, but she loved Jaime even more than he did.
Realization quickly dawned upon her face, judging by her widening green eyes. "Osmund!" She barked out. "Take the guards and your brothers and find the little wolf harlot, preferably before she's dead or despoiled. Bring her back to me no matter what, or I shall be greatly displeased!"
The three Kettleblacks, shadowing Cersei's wheelhouse as her guards, nodded before commandeering squads of red cloaks and gold cloaks. Tyrion noticed the King's Justice refusing to relinquish command of his Lannister men to the sellswords.
"Ser Ilyn, join the men. That's an order from the Hand." The mute man looked reluctant to follow the commands of a lowly sellsword. Yet the Payne knight knew better than to displease the son of Tywin Lannister and nodded stiffly after a few heartbeats. Tyrion glanced at Bronn, who subtly inclined his head. They had matched any coin that Cersei had given the sellsword brothers, and the Hand was certain they were firmly in his pocket.
Soon, a few squads were formed and split up, searching for the Stark girl. Joffrey had already ridden ahead, his Kingsguard in tow, before Cersei urged her coachman to hurry. Tyrion wasted no time to follow as he could see a mob approaching from a side alley.
The Red Keep was just a few hundred feet away.
.
.
.
Tyrion finally sighed in relief as the bronze gates of the Red Keep closed behind them. After dismounting and ensuring all the gates were closed and the men-at-arms were on high alert, Tyrion found Joffrey and his mother atop the ramparts.
"I will have all of their heads on spikes! All those stinky, dirt-ridden traitors–" His nephew's outraged shrieks were predictable but annoying.
Yet the fury did not seem to die off, and Tyrion growled in annoyance, "You set your dog on them! What did you imagine they would do?" Joffrey shook with rage, but his mother held his shoulder.
"They dared to strike their king – their lives were already forfeited!" Gods, did his foolish sister lose her wits entirely?! For the first time ever, Tyrion found himself speechless at this imbecilic behavior.
The Imp rued the day his nephew would turn six and ten and officially ascend to the Iron Throne. Sadly, that day was getting closer than any of them could prepare for.
Yet, for good or for bad, his words gave Joffrey some pause. "Yes," the future king looked at the churning city curiously. "Where is my dog anyway?" A small mob had already gathered under the gates, hurling insults and curses up the curtain wall.
"Why are those traitors still alive? They dare insult their king, archers, take them down!"
For a painfully long heartbeat, Tyrion seriously considered smacking some sense into his foolish nephew, but his attention was drawn by the nearby guardsmen. Many were pointing south, and Lester, a petty captain in the Lannister guard, had taken out a Myrish Fareye and was looking at the River Gate, nearly a mile away. Tyrion commandeered one for himself and stood atop a chest box to see what the fuss was all about.
Being a dwarf had its downsides – even with the crate beneath his misshapen legs, the most he could see was the roofs of the houses, and he had to stand up on his toes, only to glean a lone man riding atop a very familiar horse. The Hound's steed was easily recognizable with its size and unique barding, but the rider was new, with the crimson cloak he had clearly stolen and the naked body underneath. Not only that, but he was holding a small slip of a thing with red-haired curls that suspiciously reminded him of Sansa Stark.
A platoon of soldiers formed a shield wall in the center of the square, with archers and crossbowmen on the gate and walls aiming at them. A volley of steel-tipped projectiles was released, making Tyrion curse out loud.
The Stark girl was useless to them dead!
Yet, under his disbelieving gaze, Sansa and the rider did not turn into a pincushion filled with steel.
The rider swung the oversized greatsword with a single arm so fast eyes could not track and somehow managed to deflect the rain of arrows. The enormous horse below charged through the gold cloaks, crushing and trampling its way through while the greatsword danced through the air, it's unique dark ripples obvious even from this distance, relieving any who dared come near of their heads.
The rippled steel glinted through the sun, yet there was only one sword of that size and make in the city. What happened to Ser Illyn?
Tyrion's fareye was snatched, and he glared at his nephew as he watched the rest.
"They're getting away," Joffrey seethed, jaw clenched.
"They will never be able to make it past the gates." Tyrion sighed at his petulant nephew. He admired the rider's valor, but such things were fleeting in the end. No matter how skilled, the man would tire sooner or later, and the lack of armor would prove to be his undoing. Only he worried the doltish gold cloaks would kill the Stark girl in the process.
Alas, there was not much he could do but wait.
A terrible rumble came from the Blackwater Rush and drew everyone's attention. Tyrion blinked in confusion and rubbed his eyes, but the enormous wave that formed above the river did not go away. Shouts and cries of awe and panic filled the ramparts as the water rose and crashed into the city walls, washing away the defenders as if they were rats in the gutter.
For a painfully long moment, everyone grew quiet as the impossible unveiled before them. Yet the silence was pierced by an angry yet terrified shriek.
"I-It's her! The d-damned witch, I saw her! Sansa Stark called that wave!"
Joffrey's exclamation woke Tyrion from his stupor, and he stared at him incredulously. "Give me that."
Tyrion snatched the fareye back and looked at the ruined docks. Not a single ship was intact after that flash flood, and he lamented the failure of his plan before it could even take hold. How would he lure Stannis' fleet with fire ships now?
No, wait. There was one ship left, and it was already sailing away. Looking through the fareye, Tyrion glimpsed the dark-haired man looking towards the bay, his face hidden from him, but another figure was clear to him. The womanly figure of Sansa Stark, her tattered dress showing her nubile form, with her red hair and blue eyes, glared murderously in his direction, and the Hand of the King knew what had to be done.
If they couldn't capture Sansa Stark alive, she was better off dead. Robb Stark could not be allowed to forge another alliance to strengthen his position against House Lannister.
Thankfully, to enter the Blackwater Bay from the city's harbor, any ship would have to pass under the Red Keep's walls, giving him the perfect opportunity.
"Man the Catapults. Sansa Stark is escaping on that ship, man those catapults, damn you!" The shocked men-at-arms finally started moving, but not fast enough for his taste. "Faster, damn it. I want that ship at the bottom of the bay!"
The men fumbled in a hurry, and Joffrey, of all people, was the one to support him. "You heard my uncle. I want that witch dead!"
Alas, by the time the catapults were ready and hurling stones, the ship was already too far. Tyrion gritted his teeth in frustration while Cersei comforted Joffrey as he bemoaned the evil witch's escape.
"Don't worry, sweetling. Your grandfather will bring those mutts to heel, one way or another."
Tyrion tiredly rubbed his temples. Doubtlessly, his dearest sister would foist the honor of informing their Lord Father of today's events to him.
Gods, the day had turned into a disaster. Too many nobles went missing from the royal retinue, including his cousin Tyrek. Did the Seven finally decide to strike down House Lannister for their numerous sins?
It mattered not; gods scarcely cared for mortals. He needed to revise his plans for the defense of the city, and he needed to-
Boom!
The world shook, causing many to fall painfully, including Tyrion. A few were clinging to the merlons, while a handful of guardsmen had lost their footing and fell off the parapets, only to meet the cobbled ground with a nasty wet crunch.
His ears were ringing, and it took Tyrion a couple of moments to struggle back to his feet, cursing inwardly. Nobody even bothered to help the poor dwarf.
Yet the moment he climbed atop the wooden crate, his mind went blank.
The River Gate was replaced by a steaming whirlwind of dust and fire as poisonous jade-like flames danced atop the water. Tyrion watched with morbid fascination as the massive green mushroom cloud climbed to the heavens before raining slagged rocks and debris down on the city.
He snorted at the rioting rabble that looked like rats trying to run away from the flash flood and the falling stones that smashed through houses as if they were made from straw. Alas, his amusement was short-lived – the city's curtain wall looked like some enormous giant had ripped off a hundred-foot-wide hole, leaving behind green flames dancing atop the water. The harbor was completely gone.
Defending the city from Stannis Baratheon had become far more challenging all of a sudden…
"Green piss! Didn't you plan to beat Stannis' fleet with that stuff?" Bronn's words caused everyone to stare at him, and Tyrion groaned at his guard's loose tongue.
A*H*M
Percy
He stood on a beach, unsure if he was awake or asleep, only that he came to be on the shoreline. The sky was roiling with tension as if someone had provoked Zeus, and the island he found himself on was rocky and barren.
Staring at the raging waves, Percy felt a deep sense of hostility, as if the sea itself loathed his very being. Looking around the beach, there was nothing of note but a single man sitting by a cliff's edge, dressed in a tattered green robe. He was holding a fishing rod with a line falling deep into the turbulent waves.
This was definitely a dream; with a sigh, Percy gathered himself and approached the desolate figure. Almost immediately, the demigod recognized him – even old, frail, and gray, his father was unmistakable.
Poseidon turned to face him and gave him a tired yet warm smile that filled Percy's heart with joy.
"Dad!"
"Percy, my son." Poseidon's voice was as tired as he looked. "I'm so glad to see you, hale and hearty."
Percy hugged his father tightly before letting go as he noticed how impossibly thin he was. "Why are you so…old?"
Even that was mildly phrased – the god of the sea was all but skin and bones.
"I am but the spark that resides in you, in all of my children," his father's voice was filled with something dreadfully heavy. "Even so, I barely survived your crossing to this world. I am all that remains from your father, Percy."
Despite already suspecting, the words knocked the strength from his knees, and Percy had to sit down. Being in a different world altogether was daunting enough, but… His powerful father, who seemed so unstoppable, smashing his way through hordes of Oceanus' minions, looked like a pale shadow of himself. Percy shook himself; his demigod instincts kicked in, helping him focus on the present.
"So I really am in a different world?"
"Indeed," Poseidon grimaced. "I do not feel the connection to my divinity, and it took all I had just to protect your mind from the eldritch horrors of this plane."
"Eldritch?"
"See for yourself," Poseidon pointed at the stormy skies, where Percy could feel, if not see, a malevolent being glaring at him. It took him a moment to focus, but he finally saw what his father was pointing at. A malicious golden eye glared murderously from the heavens, and even as he watched, a face seemed to coalesce around it before dispersing. It was as if the being was trying to remember what it was like to have features.
"He reminds me of Zeus, but far more malicious," Which was something that Percy never thought possible…
"Might be because it is the closest equivalent to a sky god in these lands." Percy's father shrugged as he checked the line of his fishing rod. "Another twisted one lurks in the seas, hungering with greed. If I were not a part of you, I would have been long devoured."
Percy grimaced – seeing his father wasting away was one thing, but hearing it felt like the last nail in the coffin.
His father tapping into his own powers to survive didn't matter to him – the demigod had received indirect aid from his sire more times than he could remember. It was only natural for a son to support his father, just as the father had supported his son.
"Anyway, forget about me. How do you feel, Percy?"
"I'm not sure?" Percy shook his head as his mind wandered towards the last hour… or was it day? His memory was all jumbled up. "All I remembered was waking up in some back alley, rescuing a girl before sailing away on a ship. Typical demigod adventure, except everything else was a haze."
His father chuckled, the voice coming as a wheeze, but it gradually gained strength to his familiar full belly laughter. A lopsided grin made its way to Percy's face – it was heartening to see his old man looking so cheerful despite everything.
"What happened on Olympus?" Percy asked once his father finished laughing. "In the throne room, after you sent Typhon on a one-way trip to Tartarus, what happened? The last thing I remember was giving the dagger to Luke. He was about to stab himself, but then… nothing."
"I can only guess, my son," Poseidon smiled wanly. "I could tell my father had somehow blasted you to Chaos. Yet such a move cost him his very being, as my main self could not sense him anymore. I can confidently say that we won the war."
"That's…good." Percy was not sure how to feel about it, and he still ended up sacrificing himself for Olympus despite believing in Rachel's words.
You are not the hero.
But it was nice to know his efforts ultimately helped secure victory.
"Unfortunately, Chaos is not to be underestimated. Through a combination of your protection, your sword, and a last-ditch effort from my main self, you managed to survive. How you ended up here, however, shall forever remain a mystery. I just woke up myself, you know. I was hoping you would tell me more about what you've seen earlier."
His hand automatically reached for his pocket but found it empty. A deep sense of loss drowned him like a tidal wave, and Percy's shoulders slumped. Achilles' curse was as much a burden as a blessing, and he would not miss it. Invulnerability paled before skill and personal strength. Not to mention, sleeping for a good part of his day was not worth it. Anaklusmos, on the other hand…
Flashes of the events of the past day flooded his mind, and Percy grabbed his head as he recollected himself.
"I remember now." Poseidon's sea-green eyes gleamed with interest. "I woke up in a city alley but knew something was off. I couldn't tell at the time, but I don't think there is Mist in this world."
"Oh? What makes you say that?"
"I had better senses for once." Percy grinned at his father. "I could even recognize a spark of divinity in a girl I mistook for Rachel. Although, now that I think about it, it might not have been divine at all."
Poseidon hummed as he flicked his rod upwards as something bit. After another moment of silence and visible struggle, the weakened god of the seas handed him the rod. "Your turn, Percy. I'm afraid your old man isn't as strong as he used to be."
The son of Poseidon hurriedly grabbed the rod and pulled. Whatever had bitten was strong and feisty. He felt his father place a hand on his shoulder, "Focus on the catch. I will scan your memories and see if you missed something."
Normally, Percy would be appalled at allowing anyone into his mind, but this was his father. A heartbeat later, he could feel Poseidon's presence in his mind as he recalled the memory of his escape from that city.
"I see. So that's how it is. Nice catch, Percy."
"What?" Percy distractedly replied, as whatever bit into the fishing rod was tougher than he expected. "I haven't even reeled this thing in yet."
"Oh, I'm not talking about that. Red hair? Blue eyes? And no freckles? Such a rare specimen, as expected of my son." Percy could feel the smile on Poseidon's face, and he groaned at the old lecher.
"Really, Dad? I barely know the girl. Isn't it bad enough that I flirted with her barely a minute after knowing her?"
"Is that the only thing you feel embarrassed about? How about the hundreds of people you killed in your escape from the city?" His father's voice quickly turned cold and Percy felt like a bucket of ice dropped on his back.
"I… I did kill them…didn't I?" It was all Percy could do to hold on to the rod and not let his prey escape. "Oh gods, so many people…" Percy took a deep breath to calm himself. It was not the first time he had seen dead people, nor was it the first time he had killed. It had never been so close and personal before, and never had he caused the death of an innocent and so many of them at once.
"It is okay, my son. I'm glad you are at least feeling remorse." His father's voice returned to gentle and kind. "You would not believe how many people I would kill in a simple tantrum. When you have so much power at your grasp and little accountability, it is so easy to forget how fragile mortals truly are."
"That doesn't make it right."
"No, it doesn't. All you can do is to be careful in the future. Life is precious, but don't be a fool about it. If someone threatens you and yours…"
"I'll beat them down, of course."
"Good lad. Still, you are taking this surprisingly in stride. Perhaps because the lovely lady you saved seemed a bit on the… ruthless side?"
"Perhaps. From my understanding, she was a hostage. Forced to watch her father's murder," Percy resumed his struggle against his prey with a vengeance, and he could feel it losing its strength. Soon, he would catch whatever it was living in a sea in his mind.
That sounded weird… also why the heck was his mind a barren island? Whoever decided that had forgotten to at least place some seaweed. Percy could almost hear Annabeth sighing seaweed brain in exasperation.
"Well, I'm afraid I won't be of much help, son. I cannot reinforce your powers, nor can I speed up your healing in the water anymore. I can't even help you to navigate this foreign sea, although I will certainly help you along with matters of knowledge, particularly when it comes to ships and navigation."
"Thanks, Dad. You're finally living up to the old mentor archetype." Percy grinned as he pulled one last time, and a shadow sprang from the ocean. They both stared at the strange creature that was not a fish at all as it let go of the line and landed on the rocky cliff, hissing and spitting at them.
It was a cat.
"Well, I was never the best at explaining omens, but I think you might come upon a kitty soon." Poseidon grabbed the admittedly large golden cat as it yowled loudly and patted its head, causing it to quickly calm down, close its green eyes, and purr. "A feisty kitty who is really a softy inside."
"I see." Percy dropped the rod and looked at his surroundings, noticing that they were getting a bit blurry. "I think I'm waking up."
"That you are. Now, remember Percy. I am here if you want to talk, but I'm afraid to say I'm more powerless than a piece of steak in front of a hellhound. You are the one with all the power here, so don't be afraid to use it, but know that it will drain you more than usual. I'm sure you have already noticed that."
"Duly noted," Percy nodded, the memory of the exhaustion from the flash flood still fresh.
"You are already in the sights of the divine in this world. If you try to hide your powers, they will think you are weak. Better to show off and make them think twice before causing you trouble." His father petted the purring cat as he sat on a rock and threw him one final smile.
"I see, go on with life, kick the butt of anyone who bothers me, and cause storms and tsunamis. Got it." Percy grinned at Poseidon, and he thought he saw the fading world gain a bit more color.
"Basically, yeah. By my mother, I was never a great planner. That was usually my dear Amphitrite." Poseidon's face fell as he thought about his wife.
"You too, huh? I miss Annabeth already."
"Who knows, Perseus? This Sansa girl is a princess. Might as well stick with her and see where destiny takes you."
He did not comment on using his true name, and Percy idly wondered if his father was trying to warn him against living up to the name. Perseus did mean destroyer, after all.
"I'll talk to you later, Dad."
Poseidon nodded, and Percy felt the world fade away as he woke up on the deck of a ship, face-to-nose with a large horse.
"Hey, boss. You're finally awake. You don't have a carrot on you, do you?"
The demigod of the sea sighed at the horse. He might have been concussed when he named him Blackjack, but it appeared he was correct on the name choice. This horse preferred carrots to doughnuts, although he was sure if he got the chance to try baking some, the horse would love them as well.
Or maybe he should look for peanuts instead?
"Let me check the hold." He stood up and stretched before he grabbed the overly large sword with a fancy rippled blade and tied it to his back.
Looking around the ship, the son of Poseidon realized he had subconsciously put the vessel on autopilot, heading northeast. The problem was, as his father mentioned, he had no idea where exactly he was going. Nor did he know where the girl went.
"Sansa?" He called inside the galley. Percy remembered the events of the day so far, but he was not sure why he was sleeping on the deck instead of one of the cabins he was checking right now. If he had to guess, the ship was reserved for high command or perhaps nobility – he was unsure of the hierarchy of these lands. Still, the cabins looked clean and comfortable despite being a military vessel; clearly a flagship to lead other ships of a fleet but not expected to engage in combat.
"Sansa? Are you here?" He called again as he checked the fourth cabin room he came across. There were more cabins here than expected and little to no armaments to be seen.
"In here. Don't enter, I'm cleaning myself," came the muffled voice from a cabin down the hall.
"Okay, once you're decent, come meet me on the deck. We need to discuss some things."
A short pause before the girl replied, "Understood."
Was the language barrier still confusing her? Percy recalled how she would stare blankly whenever he used modern slang, but there was no way he could bring himself to talk like he was in a drama play.
Shrugging, he went to check the hold and the pantry. Percy should have done that straight away once they were on deck, but they were busy sailing, and him sleeping.
Once he was in the hold, He groaned in annoyance. Of course, it would be empty of food or any supplies. It would make sense since they absconded with the ship while it was not even moored in the harbor proper. The Silver Lady must have been waiting for a chance to find a pier and resupply. Weren't those people rioting because of lack of food as well? Thankfully, he did manage to find a bag of hard tack, salted meat, and some dried fruit. Too little for an actual crew, but enough to last the two of them for a few days.
Percy still needed to find something for his horse to eat.
After further investigation, he finally found an old bag of horse feed in a section of the hold that must have doubled as a stable. More of a stall than a stable due to its small size, probably built to host the steed of some noble. Judging by the extensive cobwebs, it had been quite a while since it had seen any use. Checking the bag of feed, it looked edible enough, but Blackjack would ultimately decide.
Stopping by the Captain's cabin, Percy checked inside, finding a large and comfortable swinging bed, a square table, and by the wall, a wardrobe, causing him to grin. Finally, he could wear actual clothes instead of the ridiculous make-shift… skirt.
A few minutes later, he abandoned his kilt for a white wool shirt that he left the top unbuttoned to bare half his chest in an attempt to fight the heat. He also had brown linen pants, a belt with a steel buckle, and weird leather sandals. Sadly, none of the boots fit his feet, but he definitely rocked the swashbuckler outfit well. Something was missing though and as he looked over himself he realized the problem. Not enough blue. Checking the wardrobe again, he found a blue sleeveless vest and wore but left the buttons untied. Much better.
Hesitantly, Percy placed his hand in his pants pockets, hoping to be wrong. A sigh of sorrow flew out of his mouth as he could not find Riptide. It appeared his sword truly was gone forever.
Shaking his head, the son of Poseidon tied Ice around his back again. He was glad for the special half-sheath that allowed him to easily unsheathe the blade one-handed without pulling the whole thing from his back. The wolf fur was comfy, but he could feel it fraying slightly from the sea air. A moment of focusing later, and Percy had sucked all the salt from the fur, making it good as new.
Once dressed, the demigod of the sea noticed one of those old-fashioned desks with a wooden cover; he was unsure what they were called, but he was happy to find maps and ledgers inside it. His happiness was cut short, however, when he realized he could not read a single thing!
It was not just his dyslexia at work, for the language looked like English, but it was such an odd dialect that he could barely make sense of it. Ironically, it reminded him of when he first met Zoe Nightshade. The Huntress of Artemis had spoken in a strange, antiquated way. His mind drifted towards Anaklusmos again, which housed Zoe's immortal essence. Gods, Percy had irreversibly lost another part of his friend…
Shaking his head, he did what a demigod did best – pushing the sorrow away to a deep corner of his mind. Sadly, no matter how he focused, Percy failed to make tails or ends of the maps. Well, it seemed like he would have to rely on his new friend – at least Sansa Stark seemed like an intelligent girl.
Returning to the deck, Percy gave his horse the bag of feed he found, receiving an unamused look from Blackjack.
"That's the best I could find, boy. Unless you want to try moldy bread or dried fruit."
The horse snorted something that sounded suspiciously like 'cunt' as it lowered its head into the bag, but nah. There was no way… right? Percy looked on as it grumpily ate, wondering if he got saddled with a foul-mouthed steed.
Looking around the deck, the son of Poseidon took in the vessel they found themselves in.
It was strangely designed, as while it looked like a Carrack, It was missing the most obvious detail of a ship from his world with the same design.
Cannons.
Instead of a gun deck below, the ship used the space where the cannons would be placed for more cabins and storage rooms. There was a large empty room with plenty of folded hammocks where Percy guessed the sailors would sleep. He wondered about the technological level of this new world, for it seemed to combine elements of medieval, renaissance, and that fancy word Annabeth mentioned…
Bark?
Barack?
No, Baroque.
The maps he just saw were highly detailed, which hinted at a high level of cartography, and yet, he recalled most of the ships that were in the harbor were medieval galleys. Impractical things that required a lot of manpower to row and inefficient sailing designs.
The ship nerd in him wanted to redesign the whole thing, supported by the ship god in his head. Unfortunately, the fact he was dyslexic and did not know the language stopped him from using some of those parchment rolls and ink he found in the captain's cabin.
Shaking his head, Percy shuffled that for later, now – now he had to speak with Sansa and set a proper course.
Something stirred to the south, making him whip his head that way. The weather was beautiful, with no clouds and the sun shining brightly. Yet far to the south, where he could barely glimpse a shoreline, he could feel a storm brewing. Something inside told him it was not natural, as if something was actively forming that storm. Something divine.
Considering the discussion with his father, He had a solid guess on the culprit.
"Perseus? Are you here?"
"Over here." He turned to the beautiful red-haired girl he saved, who might possibly be his ticket to some semblance of a stable and peaceful life. The girl had abandoned her tattered gray dress for a simple white shirt, where she was forced to leave the top half unbuttoned due to her ample chest. She also wore leather pants that were a tad on the longer side, clearly not meant for women. Her long hair was let down, reaching her elbows in slightly messy curls, and she had a dagger secured on a leather belt.
Give her leather boots, some freckles, green eyes, and Sansa could easily be Rachel's sister.
The thought had come like a blow, almost knocking the air out of his lungs. Would he ever see or speak to his mother again? Or his friends?
Was he lost to his world?
Or was he…? His dad had not raised the topic, and the demigod had not asked…
Regardless, Percy had promised to return Sansa to her home. If the titan war had indeed been won, getting back to Earth could wait a bit.
Only… he had to figure out how to do it first.
"What is it that you wished to discuss?" The girl leaned on the railings as she looked at him, speaking in what he would call a posh accent despite her attire. He felt Sansa did not know how to behave around him, though he was sure she liked him. At least enough to trust him with her father's sword.
"Well, first, would you mind reminding me what happened after we sailed away from that city? My memory is hazy, and I might have gotten my head knocked too hard. Why was I asleep on the deck?"
The girl looked at him strangely before smiling slightly, forming cute dimples in her cheeks. "You said you were going to check the captain's cabin but suddenly changed your mind and declared it was nap time. Do you expect a lady such as I to be able to drag you to a cabin? You seemed comfortable enough, and Str–Blackjack hovered over you protectively."
Percy scratched his head as he nodded. Honestly, he already guessed all of that, but it was as good of an icebreaker as he could get. "Alright, second thing, there are hardly any supplies on the ship. Food is limited, and while there is a stove and oven in the kitchens, there isn't anything fresh to use."
His eyes were glued on the girl as she bit her lip in thought, and his demigod hormones started acting up at the sight. Sansa was beautiful, easily more so than any of the demigods he had met due to how natural her beauty was, but now was not the time; he averted his eyes from her curves as he buried his emotions.
Percy had no idea how far their destination was, but from what he knew of sea travel, their trip could take weeks, if not months. Even with his powers, he could only have a ship of this design sail at 15 knots an hour in the best-case scenario. Maybe 20 knots if the wind was on their side, but considering his limited powers, the son of Poseidon doubted he would be able to pull such a stunt off continuously. On the contrary, judging by that storm he felt earlier, the local sky god hated him more than Zeus.
"Do we have salt?"
"No, but that wouldn't be a problem for me. I can separate sea salt from seawater. Same for fresh water, we will never run out of either so long as we are on sea."
The girl's brilliant blue eyes widened before sighing. "I nearly forgot how…magical you are. Why don't we catch fish and salt them?"
"Sure. We can keep the dried fruits for Blackjack while we settle for the tack and fish." Eating fish was odd for him, especially since Percy could understand and talk to them, but he would do it if nothing else was on hand, just like now.
Then again, no marine life here owed him any allegiance, and he would admit to having a taste for his father's subjects.
"Anything else?" The girl was taking their survival seriously, and Percy grinned at her earnestness.
"I found maps and other ledgers in the captain's cabin." The girl perked up in interest. Even that was done with grace – Percy had to admit the somehow haughty facade looked good on her. She didn't even seem to notice as it came so naturally to her. "Unfortunately, I could not understand a single word written on them. I could identify the letters, but I couldn't read anything. I was hoping you would look them over and make sure we are on the right heading. I will help with navigation, of course."
"Sure, that is acceptable. Thank you, Perseus, for all you have done for me." Sansa smiled at him warmly, causing his grin to widen even as he acknowledged how beautiful the sight looked on her.
"Call me Percy, and don't mention it." The girl's face scrounged in confusion, accentuating her full lips and causing him to sigh at the language barrier. "Now, I think I am due for an in-depth briefing on this world I find myself in. Tell me everything."
"Everything?" Her impossibly blue eyes blinked in confusion.
"Politics, geography, history," a feral grin found its way to his face, "and most importantly, the religions and gods of this world."
The girl nodded solemnly and made her way to the captain's quarter, Percy following her for a long-overdue lesson, trying to steer his gaze away from her lithe hips and perky butt. Hades, his mother had taught him better than this!
A*H*M
An island in the Cinnamon Straits,
The man who would be god.
The sun had set hours ago, but the soft glow of the moon eerily fought with the darkness of the night.
Euron Greyjoy stood on the beach of the small island that he had conquered. It was so small that it only had one village, which now lay in ruins. His men had the surviving villagers and their families trussed up in binds and dragged to an altar, where one of his captive warlocks was preparing the ritual. His crew slit their throats, allowing pools of blood to fill the carved runes on the stone platform.
This was it. He had sailed all the way to Asshai and trekked the treacherous road to Stygiai for this ritual. This was a major step on his path to godhood, and nothing would stop him from succeeding. In his hands laid the treasure that would pave the way to immortality.
A dark gray gemstone with swirls of golden tentacles.
He could feel the heat and the life inside it even as he approached the altar. It had been a fossilized egg when Euron found it. His previous attempts to hatch the thing had all failed, but something had changed.
The world sang from two flux points, one somewhere near the Red Waste, and another, more recent far to the west – the ripples could be felt all the way even here. And just like that, his last attempt to hatch the thing had breathed life into it.
With luck smiling upon him, now, all he needed was to hatch it. But to do so required sacrifice, yet he wouldn't do it with the crude ways of the Valyrians. Sacrificing thousands of unwilling slaves to hatch a single dragon egg just because he did not have Valyrian blood…
Euron did not lack patience, but if he had to wait to collect those thousands of sacrifices, his egg would have turned to stone again.
He stopped by the warlock as his men dragged the last sacrifices – a father and his daughter.
"P-please, have mercy, at least for my daughter! You have already killed everyone else. What have we ever done to deserve this?" The man fell to his knees, head touching the sand in a position of absolute submission. The words were spoken in the regional common tongue of the Jade Sea, an amalgamation of Qartheen, Yi-tish and Lengii. It was vindicating for all the time Euron spent learning the myriad tongues spoken in every corner of the world.
After all, how could he truly enjoy reaving when you could not fully understand the victim's despair and loathing?
Euron smiled. Ah, such a sweet opportunity. There was power in kinship, one of the long-forgotten reasons kinslaying was frowned upon.
"Your weakness is your sin, but I'm not merciless to deny the plight of a distraught father… So long as you show me your sincerity, I promise your daughter will live. Now, are you willing to die for your daughter? Such a beautiful lass, I guarantee she would become an excellent courtesan or even rise high in the court of the Shan of the Isle of Elephants!" Euron allowed the words to sink into the weathered man as he beheld his daughter, for she truly was a beauty with her olive skin, long locks of raven hair, large teats and even larger arse. Her eyes that were of the darkest amber stirred a heat in his loins for he could not wait to break her in. "No matter her fate, she will become the woman of someone powerful, this I swear."
The girl's eyes were wide with terror, and tears flowed freely down her cheeks to her half-naked form. Those savages were barely dressed in clothes, and a bit of rough handling from his mutes, probably one of his own get, had the girl naked.
The man gazed at his gagged daughter, struggling in vain in the hands of his mutes before turning back to Euron resignedly, "How can I trust you?"
"A blood pact, with my dear Qartheen here as a witness. May the gods strike one of my sons down if I go back on my word." Euron pointed to a few of his bastards for emphasis. They stood silently on the side, looking like younger twins of him, albeit with no eyes covered.
The fisherman sighed before nodding, the girl struggling mightily as muffled screams came from her gag. The men released the father while the warlock beckoned them to a large empty basin set on an open fire that Euron placed his egg in. Soon, all three of them had cut their palms and grabbed each other's hands as they swore their oaths.
"I, Euron Greyjoy, swear to take care of Parawara's daughter and to see to her wellbeing so long as he completes our bargain. He shall slit his own throat and feed his blood to the dragon egg until the gods claim his soul."
The fisherman looked at the egg in the bowl in disgust, but a whimper from his daughter had him straighten his shoulders. "I, Parawara, accept this bargain, and if Euron Greyjoy reneges on the spirit of this deal, then may all the divines in this world and beyond feast on his soul."
Euron simply grinned, his lone eye gleaming as the oath took hold. The fisherman grabbed the offered obsidian dagger, gave one last look to his daughter, and then stabbed himself in the jugular. Parawara fell forward, and as the lifeblood of the most noble of sacrifices filled the basin, Euron's grin widened as the dragon egg vibrated. He looked on with bated breath as the egg's vibrations increased until it stopped for a moment, causing him to freeze in worry.
His fear was unfounded, for a gray wing burst out of the eggshell, and a soft screech heralded his success.
Euron's manic laughter as the dragon broke free of its shell and jumped to his shoulders reverberated over the beach. The pirate could feel heat in his loins rising from the sheer power he now held and turned to the fisherman's daughter. He grabbed the nubile girl and took her right over her father's still-warm corpse. Even as the sound of gurgling came from one of his sons, Euron did not care as he removed the gag from the girl's mouth, allowing her screams to sound out.
The sound of someone falling on the ground had him glance sideways, finding one of his whelps bleeding from all seven orifices before succumbing to death. Euron grinned in ecstasy. It was so easy to fool the arrogant gods, and one like him would not care about curses or his countless get; He could always make more, just as he was doing now.
His dragon jumped from his shoulder to the corpse of his son, belching small streams of dark golden flame at the carcass and biting into the flesh. All the while, Euron rutted into the girl, and his crew watched on as he preferred them to be.
Silent.
He seeded the crying girl, knowing it would quicken before pulling his knife. It would not do to have a talkative woman onboard.
Poseidon shall be along for the ride, but don't expect any sort of powerups from him. He is but a shade in Percy's mind, there for advice as well as knowledge.
The first ripples of Percy's appearance are here! If Daenerys can bring magic back by hatching eggs, then what the heck do you think would happen if a demigod of the sea drops in to say hello and decides to stay permanently?
Our favorite insane pirate did not have to throw away that dragon egg he claimed to have gotten.
Now for the timeline, we know that GRRM planned for a five-year time skip but had to scrap it. If any of you read my editor, Gladiusx's, story, Shrouded Destiny, you would get an idea of what I'm trying to write here. So, here goes:
My main motive is to make some sense of the times needed for armies to muster and travel. Even with my adjustments, the times are still unbelievably fast. I probably won't get everything right either, but I will do my best.
One important thing to note about the Westerosi calendar in my story (complete headcanon and mainly for my own sanity). It's thirteen months of twenty-eight days instead of the confusing mess that is the Gregorian calendar. It comes out to 364 days, which is pretty close to the 365 days we have.
Robert's Rebellion starts two years early, and every event that could have happened in those years and were relevant to the story is pushed back by those two years. For example, the fight with the kingswood brotherhood happened in 277 instead of 279, and the defiance of Duskendale was in 275 instead of 277. Rhaegar marries Elia in 278 instead of 280, and Rhaenys is born that same year, 278.
Anyone born before 283 shall remain the same age, which means that Jaime was 13 when he fought the Smiling Knight (Good for him, the badass he is), and Lyanna was also 13 when she was kidnapped (Doesn't look so good for Rhaegar, eh?)
Here are other events of importance; some of them are earlier due to shenanigans (my whim), and others might pop up later in the story.
279: Tourney in Harrenhal. Year of False Spring
280: Robert's rebellion starts. Winter
281: Rebellion ends. Jon Snow and Robb Stark are born. Spring
282: Daeneyrs Targaryen is born. Loras Tyrell is born. Summer
283: Margery Tyrell and Joffrey Baratheon are born near the end of the year. Summer
284: Sansa Stark is born. Fall
285: Winter
286: Shireen Baratheon is born. Spring
287: Arya Stark, and Myrcella Baratheon are born. Summer
288: Brandon Stark and Tommen Baratheon are born. Summer
289: Greyjoy rebellion begins mid-year. Fall
290: Greyjoy rebellion ends six months later, with Theon becoming a ward of Ned. Winter
291: Winter
292: Rickon Stark is born. Spring
293-303: Long summer begins (lasts ten years).
297: Jon Arryn dies early in the year. Robert makes his way to the North, and Ned becomes Hand.
298: Jon Snow arrives at the Wall. Ned arrives in Kingslanding and is arrested barely two months later. War erupts, and Robb takes a few months to muster his troops and march south.
299: Ned is executed on the first day of the year.
These are the most important events to be aware of before reading the story. It combines both the timeline of the show with the aged-up characters but incorporates them into the book timeline and its events. I will not be using anything else from the show, neither events nor characters, for that matter.
Want to read four chapters ahead? Look me up on Patreon
yupp this will be a fine addition to my collection
Ok then this means that Sansa is 15 years old by this story
Thank god, I was concerned for a sec
Tyrion. Many like him coz he's not as bad as the rest of his family, not as malicious (such a high bar to clear...) and snarky. And he has an interesting character arc, trying to fit in with his family doing the same if less morally repugnant things as them, trying to be like his family to the rest of the nobles and ultimately getting rejected and rejecting them in turn.
But unlike what is common character development, he doesn't get better for rejecting his family after they rejected him, he gets worse. He decides to turn that malice against his family. He was never a good person to begin with owing to his abusive family and Westoros' whole being itself. But his experience didn't teach him to have empathy to those in shitty situations like himself or those worse than himself. He just internalised a nihilistic and social Darwinist world view where the strong exploit the weak and isn't just that sad, but luckily I'm strong (not as strong as I'd wish) but suddenly he's weak and his character changes to go back to being strong. His journey with Faegon is basically that.
I liked show Tyrion in the beginning. Less so as the series progressed but that probably applies to every character. In the books, I liked him too. But I lost it with him much much earlier.
A symptom of the fact that, just because one suffers doesn't make them more empathetic to those who suffer (Tyrion was empathetic in that he recognised that it wasn't fair, but that he didn't really care about them).
I'm glad you don't hold back on Tyrion.
Thank god, I was concerned for a sec
Tyrion. Many like him coz he's not as bad as the rest of his family, not as malicious (such a high bar to clear...) and snarky. And he has an interesting character arc, trying to fit in with his family doing the same if less morally repugnant things as them, trying to be like his family to the rest of the nobles and ultimately getting rejected and rejecting them in turn.
But unlike what is common character development, he doesn't get better for rejecting his family after they rejected him, he gets worse. He decides to turn that malice against his family. He was never a good person to begin with owing to his abusive family and Westoros' whole being itself. But his experience didn't teach him to have empathy to those in shitty situations like himself or those worse than himself. He just internalised a nihilistic and social Darwinist world view where the strong exploit the weak and isn't just that sad, but luckily I'm strong (not as strong as I'd wish) but suddenly he's weak and his character changes to go back to being strong. His journey with Faegon is basically that.
I liked show Tyrion in the beginning. Less so as the series progressed but that probably applies to every character. In the books, I liked him too. But I lost it with him much much earlier.
A symptom of the fact that, just because one suffers doesn't make them more empathetic to those who suffer (Tyrion was empathetic in that he recognised that it wasn't fair, but that he didn't really care about them).
I'm glad you don't hold back on Tyrion.
Chapter 3 (A Maiden's Resolve)
Remember the aged-up characters? Well, Sansa is older here and much more observant of her surroundings and the geopolitical nature of Westeros…even more than her canon self.
Then again, she was considered a prodigy in her studies; numbers, geography, history, heraldry…she knew them all. With a few more years under her belt, as well as having to survive Joffrey and Cersei for nearly a year, and you get a much more interesting and mature character.
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
Then again, she was considered a prodigy in her studies; numbers, geography, history, heraldry…she knew them all. With a few more years under her belt, as well as having to survive Joffrey and Cersei for nearly a year, and you get a much more interesting and mature character.
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
Dawn of the 2nd day of the 7th moon, 299.
The Silver Lady, Blackwater Bay.
Sansa
"… And the Greyjoys had been silent since then. At least, until recently, for I'm sure those pirates would take the chance to raid and reave with the realm in chaos." Sansa concluded the history lesson of Westeros. She didn't go into details, just the basics; there used to be seven kingdoms, some dragon-riding incest-ridden foreigners conquered them with fire and blood, and then those same sister-fuckers lost their dragons and their wits and ended up going mad. The result was the current political map.
Sansa giggled to herself. It felt good to have a coarse and uncouth tongue for a change without worry of anyone looking at her strangely. That she did not actually say all those insults out loud was ignored, as she did not want Percy to think lowly of her. Then again, he did not seem all that bothered with learning that their former royal house was so inbred, muttering something about royals everywhere being the same.
"I see." The green-eyed man frowned as he looked at the map of Westeros spread on the table in the captain's cabin, an oil lantern lit for them to see in the darkness. He had finally regained his wits when Sansa first explained the seasons and, by the gods, if that wasn't a surprise for both of them! Just three moons for every season? And consistently? How did they ever get anything done with so little time before winter?
The Stark maiden shook her head inwardly and focused on her protector. It had been a day since they escaped from Kingslanding. They left the city yesterday at noon and spent the day, after Percy woke up, fishing and salting their catches. Sansa learned the hard way how to gut and clean a fish, which gave her a surprisingly satisfied feeling as she relished the sense of purpose the action gave her.
The feeling of stabbing and bleeding something strangely resonated with something deep within her.
Percy ended up taking over, however, after she ruined the fourth fish, for no matter how enthusiastic she was, Sansa had only ever held a knife for eating. He seemed queer about it, mumbling about disrespectful fish and how he shouldn't have worried about them.
It was as if he could talk to them.
The rest of the evening was spent trying to teach Percy how to read which seemed like a futile endeavor. The boy had some sort of eye malediction that prevented him from reading properly, even the fact her language was similar enough to his own did not help. Sansa was glad she at least managed to teach him the basic geography of the lands as well as the names of cities and castles. In that field, he seemed to be a savant as he easily memorized them all.
They had gone to sleep when night fell and had woken up an hour before dawn. After a fishy breakfast, they continued their lessons.
"And this landmass to the east?" He pointed at the small strip of land that was visible on the eastern side of the map.
"That's Essos and its…" Sansa proceeded to summarize the land for him. Wealthy, cultured, and sophisticated, yet slavery and barbarians were aplenty, causing the land to be in near constant strife. Percy hummed and nodded, only interrupting for clarification. It was a few minutes later when he clapped his hands in affirmation and grinned.
"I can now honestly confirm that this world is nuts!"
Sansa blinked, and the Stark maiden was reminded that he truly was from another world. Moreover, "Nuts? As in those things squirrels like to eat?"
The dark-haired young man grimaced, "It's a figure of speech, meaning crazy." At her blank look, he sighed, "When something is incredibly strange and mad, it would be nuts. Because squirrels can fit so many nuts in their cheeks that it's strange and mad?"
"I… see." Sansa hummed and flicked a loose hair away from her eyes, gazing at the boy who stared at her hair. It brought a smile to her face; it was always good to be appreciated, so long as he remained a gentleman about it. "So why do you think it's nuts?"
"This world is both alien to my own, yet so similar, reminding me of the Middle Ages. Have you discovered the steam engine yet? Cannons? Gunpowder?" At her confused look, he continued listing strange and fantastical-sounding things. He couldn't explain how they worked, but the more Sansa heard, the stranger it sounded than even godly powers.
"What about magic? Or the gods? Do you know anything about them? Are they active?"
"Gods? Bah. If the gods exist, then they would not have left me to rot in that wretched city." Sansa scowled at the bitter reminder. "They would not have let my father die, even when he was the most pious of us. I lost count how many times over the past year I've prayed to them for salvation in the Sept, yet all I received was silence."
The very idea that the gods were true and watched upon them in apathy caused Sansa to feel so betrayed. She jerked when she felt Percy place a gentle hand on her shoulders and squeeze in assurance. Sansa could not help but lean into the warm touch; the gesture felt soothing after all the abuse she had gone through, and it surprised her she did not shy from a male's touch after what Joffrey had his guards do to her on a daily basis.
"Not sure what a sept is, but from my experience, the gods prefer not to involve themselves in matters of the mundane no matter how much we mortals wish they would." Percy smiled sadly, and she couldn't help but think she preferred his lopsided grin. "After all, if all your problems could be fixed with a wave of the hand of some big guy in the sky, then what would life be worth?"
"But not a single answer? Not even a sign that they heard me but couldn't help?" The Stark maiden insisted, her blue eyes looking into the other boy's sea-green eyes, unconsciously pleading for an answer.
"I'm not sure, as I don't know the divines here, but maybe you're praying to the wrong gods?" Percy shrugged, but the question rang with her. Sansa had been raised on the New Gods by her mother, but she was not ignorant of the Old Gods for Eddard Stark never neglected teaching all of his children about the old ways.
She bit her lips in thought as she unconsciously moved closer to the boy. "You sound so confident that the gods exist. Almost as if you know them personally."
"That's because I do. I am the son of one of them, after all." Sansa's heart skipped a beat as she thought she had misheard him. But no, the words had been spoken in utmost seriousness, and his face did not possess even a shred of deception, and Sansa found herself believing the unbelievable.
She knew he was special, she would have to be blind and daft not to believe so, but this? Percy had shown powers that had never been seen nor heard of since the Age of Heroes for him to be a mere sorcerer. Not to mention that since she woke up, there had been this niggling feeling in her mind when she looked at the boy. It was a strange and heavy feeling that reminded her of the soothing waters of a spring yet the unstoppable waves of a storm.
Percy, with a rueful smile on his face, proceeded to explain his side of the world to her; and what a strange world it was! Towering buildings that would make the mightiest of castles look like a pebble, gods, and goddesses bedding mortals wantonly, creating offspring like Percy. Monsters hunting those demigods and them fighting back. In all that fantastical explanation, one thing stood out the most to her.
"You're a bastard?" Sansa's eyes widened before she could stop herself.
"Hey, now, that's uncalled for." Percy's eyebrows scrunched into a frown as he folded his hands defensively. The Stark maiden lamented her misstep and worried she offended him. "I might not be the best guy around, but I like to think I treat people well enough."
Sansa was confused for a second before realizing it was probably another word lost in translation. "I-I meant, you were born out of wedlock."
"Ah, that kind of bastard. Yeah, I suppose I was. My Dad was infamous for siring children on anything that could move," the boy paused as he smirked. "According to him, his immortal wife was mostly cool about it, but I wouldn't know. My mother had nothing but respect when she spoke of him, and he gave her his blessings when she married another mortal. He also gave me these awesome powers, too, so I give the god a lot of leeway when it comes to judging him."
Sometimes, the deluge of words that escaped from her protector's mouth confused Sansa greatly. Many meanings overlapped, making her unsure of what exactly he was saying.
"So, what kind of god was he?" This was all so surreal to her, and the more answers she got, the more questions she had. Still, Sansa was entranced with the topic and edged even closer to the demigod, that feeling she sensed from him becoming even stronger as he spoke. It was as if confirming his divinity was making it more real.
"God of the sea. I can swim fast, dive deep, breathe underwater, and control ships and the waves. I can even cause storms, mist, and fog because my father was also known as the storm bringer. Basically, I'm virtually unstoppable so long as I'm in the sea." Percy grinned as he flexed his biceps jokingly. "Oh, and I can speak to horses as well."
A list of impossible things that no human should ever be capable of, and Sansa was seriously wondering if the tales from the Age of Heroes had more credence than she thought. "Horses?"
"Is that what caught your attention?" The handsome man's lopsided grin caused her face to heat up as she unconsciously smiled. Gods, that smile would turn any insipid maiden to mush, yet she was stronger than that. Good looks no longer deceived her! "My father created horses from sea foam, or at least a breed of horses in my old world. Anyway, what about you? I can still feel power from you. At first, I thought you were also a demigod, but now I'm not so sure. It's not as obvious as divinity, but it's certainly some sort of power."
And there it was again. Sansa never had any sort of powers, or at least nothing she could feel, though she would admit to having sharper senses lately. "I know magic existed in the past, and it's a taboo topic, but Westeros has two major religions. The Old Gods are mainly worshiped in the North, and the Faith of the Seven in the South. There's the Drowned God of the Ironborn too, I suppose, but no one cares about them."
Percy's face turned thoughtful as she explained. "Drowned God, huh? Tell me as much as you can about all three of them."
And Sansa did. The simplistic practices of the Old Gods, the overly elaborate and wasteful ceremonies she witnessed in the Septs of the South, and what she could remember from Theon's boasting and some of the men-at-arms' tales about the Drowned God. Percy seemed overly interested in the whole matter, especially the sea deity, which would make sense considering his father.
For a moment, Sansa worried that he was a liar and secretly just another reaver pretending to be a savior, but she discarded such a notion immediately. She had gotten very good at discerning lies from the truth during her stay in the Red Keep, and all her instincts told her that Percy Jackson was the most honest man she had ever met.
"What about beasts and creatures? Anything mystical?"
The Stark maiden told him what she knew – the Children of the Forest, Giants, the Others, Dragons, the mythical griffins, selkies, and all the others big or small she could remember.
"I see." Percy's eyebrow was scrunched as he took his time processing what she said. "Were there any people known to have magical powers? Specifically, people from your family?"
"There are tales of the Children of the Forest and the First Men intermarrying. The Starks of old were said to defeat their magical rivals and take their daughters for wives." Sansa recited from her teachings with Luwin. "Tales of skinchangers and wargs still prevail, and…" She choked a sob as her thoughts went to the most obvious sign of magic she had experienced.
"What is it, Sansa?" Percy's hands grabbed her when she faltered, and she easily leaned on him for support.
"My family, we all received a direwolf pup. They were beyond loyal and would follow our commands as if they could read your mind. My half-brother claimed it was a gift from the gods, that the Old Gods thought highly of the Starks and gave them a gift for protection. There was a dead mother direwolf, killed by a massive stag, whelping six pups in the process. Oh…Oh gods! Was that…"
She looked up at the resident expert in the arcane to see his solemn face and belatedly realized she was hugging the man tightly. Percy didn't shy away from the hug and placed his chin over her head as he thought deeply. "I think that was indeed an omen. I'm still too ignorant of the world here to be confident, though. What happened to your wolf?"
"… She died because of me. I betrayed my family, my pack, and the gods took her away from me. What they can give, they can so easily take." Sansa's eyes misted, and she allowed the tears to fall freely as she hugged the demigod closely, inhaling his scent and enjoying how he rubbed her back in comfort. Unbidden, she recalled her loyal direwolf; Lady was so obedient and innocent of any wrongdoing, yet her father was forced to kill her because of Cersei Lannister.
The fucking queen! It was all her fault. Cersei Lannister caused this whole mess, and Sansa would not rest until she ripped her head off with her own bare hands! Something savage was growling deep in her mind, and Sansa heaved through her sobs as the idea took hold of her. To watch Cersei Lannister scream in despair as she gutted her precious Joffrey and hung his entrails on a weirwood, even the idea of killing kind Myrcella and innocent Tommen, who had never done her any ill, appealed to her. If only to watch the bitch wail in grief.
Yes! Yes, that was what she should do.
Sansa's lips widened into a manic grin as she hugged her savior closer and sank deeper into his muscled chest, tasting something delicious yet metallic but ignoring it. Cersei would be the last, dying only after seeing her ill-bred spawn perish before her eyes. Then, maybe she could have Robb send Jaime Lannister to her, and he could follow in the footsteps of his cursed progeny. If the loss of her children would break Cersei, then her lover would send her to the pits of despair, and only then would Sansa give her the mercy of death.
A slow, agonizing death, of course.
But no, why stop there? The whole cursed lineage of Lann the Clever should be obliterated from the lands. That wretched line that dared to provoke the Direwolf. They shall receive the same treatment as the Dragons! The more she thought about it, the more the idea–
"Sansa… you're starting to make me itch." A hand flowed through her hair before gently pulling her away from the warm flesh she was clinging to. Breaking out of the trance she was in, Sansa looked up to see Percy's blushing face twisted in discomfort.
It was then that the Stark maiden tasted liquid in her mouth and instinctively gulped, suddenly feeling warmth run through her. She noticed the bite mark on the demigod's flesh and how it was slightly bleeding. Sansa recoiled from the horror of her thoughts and looked at her gentle hero, who was trying to look everywhere but down… and she noticed that at some point, her shirt had unbuttoned itself, allowing her generous cleavage to be nearly exposed.
Sansa separated from her protector and distractedly fixed her clothing, but couldn't bring herself to feel embarrassed. What was that? Why did her thoughts get so… brutal? Percy idly waved his hand, allowing a stream of seawater to flow from the open porthole and splash on his chest. She looked in wonder as the bite marks quickly healed, barely leaving a mark. The demigod had done something similar yesterday yet it was still as magical seeing it for the second time.
"Are you okay?" Percy's sea-green eyes finally met her gaze, but his face was still flushed. Sansa should have felt happy about the powerful warrior looking so flummoxed by her beauty, yet the maiden could only think about the fact she practically marked him.
Gods, that was embarrassing!
She shook her head as she remembered that Percy was trying to comfort her. It was sweet and Sansa was grateful for the gesture.
"I'm sorry. I just…" she struggled for a moment to remember the prior conversation, but she found herself lost in the demigod's sea-green eyes. "I just haven't gotten over the loss of Lady, my direwolf."
"You called your direwolf, Lady?" The boy grinned, his lips crooking lopsidedly, causing her to giggle in return.
"Better than my brother, he called his Shaggydog."
"No, that's still better than Lady."
They continued to banter for a few more minutes, and Sansa was glad for the distraction. While there was no doubt in her mind that she wanted to see both Cersei and Joffrey dead at her feet, her thoughts had taken a strange path.
Once there was a lull in the conversation, Percy looked like he had another question for her, and Sansa merely smiled at him, encouraging him to ask away.
"So, you mentioned Northmen hate going south, right?" Sansa nodded, "then what brought half of your family to that city?"
It was a fair question, and for the next hour, Sansa explained to her new friend the happenings of the last two years. From Jon Arryn's death, the King's visit to Winterfell, and her father's appointment as Hand of the King. What happened afterward was unclear, as she wasn't privy to her father's dealings, but she knew he was betrayed by everyone he knew. Including herself.
Before she realized it, Sansa was in Percy's arms again as she had to relive all those moments of pain and betrayal as well as the very real possibility that her sister was most likely dead.
"I would not lose myself to guilt if I were you." Percy soothed after she confessed to her treachery. They had long abandoned the maps and the table, simply sitting on the wooden floor, while leaning their backs to the wall. Sansa enjoyed the demigod's warmth as he placed a hesitant arm around her shoulders. "You messed up, and now you gotta live with it. Instead of moping and brooding, you should look to the future and make amends. You have a clear target of your hatred, that bitch queen you mentioned and the pansy ass sissy boy with the punchable face."
It took Sansa a moment to understand the insult, and couldn't help but snicker. She smiled at the young man and his simplistic approach to life and how he did not judge her moment of weakness.
A gentle squeeze from the demigod had Sansa blush slightly. Percy looked more confident as he held her, unlike earlier when he blushed like a maid, and Sansa couldn't help but feel endeared to him. As she stared into his sea-green eyes, Sansa was again reminded of their proximity. Gods, what would her mother think if she saw her so close to a man?
She shook her head inwardly. Her mother was who knew where and what Catelyn didn't know, wouldn't harm her.
A comfortable silence overcame them, and they simply enjoyed each other's presence. At least until a gust of wind came from the open shutter, threatening to damage the maps. They stood up, Sansa shut it close, but noticed Percy staring curiously at the map.
"What's this straight line here?"
"That's the Wall."
"…The Wall? Come on, Sansa, I haven't a clue whether that's a name or a place."
Giggling, the red-haired girl explained to her companion about the seven-hundred-foot Wall hewn out of ice and the ancient order protecting the realm from the savages living beyond it.
"Let me guess, those savages have giants and other monstrous animals with them?"
"I… believe so? My uncle Benjen would tell tales of them and other fantastical creatures he found beyond the wall."
"Hmm, sounds like Canada." She had no idea what Canada was, and judging by Percy's distaste, it was probably nothing good. "So your uncle is there?"
"And my half-brother, Jon."
"Oh? Half-brother? You were so surprised about me being born out of wedlock, yet your father didn't seem to have problems doing the same, huh?"
Normally, such a vile comment would elicit retribution for questioning her father's honor, but judging by his teasing smile, Percy did not mean any offense. Then again, she was the one to insult him earlier, even if accidentally. He was from a different world, and she would need to teach him how to properly behave with nobles even if they're mortals.
…Mortals. That fact still surprised her and Sansa had to revise her mindset. She needed to acknowledge the fact that a man with Percy's powers could not, and should not, be treated as a regular human. He had no peers, and all the etiquette and courtesies of the nobility would not apply to him. The Stark princess needed to do everything in her power to keep Percy on her side, whether through promises or friendship.
Or more. The idea of taking him as a husband to solidify his loyalty to her came suddenly, and Sansa shook her head. Regardless of her budding affection for the demigod, she was still a noble daughter of House Stark, one of the oldest and most powerful Houses, hailing from a storied lineage of kings and heroes. Sansa's hand was a valuable commodity, and it would be up to Robb or her lady mother to decide who her husband would be. Considering the North's current woes, it would make more sense to use her hand and virtue for alliances that would benefit Winterfell.
"Uh, Sansa? Are you sure you're alright?" Percy's voice seemed to come from a hundred miles away, yet her mind was even further.
The Stark maiden had learned the hard way not to fall for shallow flattery and good looks, as her father had warned her when he tried to convince her to leave the city.
What had he said? A high lord worthy of her, brave, gentle, and strong. Percy might not be a high lord, but so far, he encompassed all three other descriptions perfectly.
Was it… was it so bad for her to be selfish once more? For her to choose her own husband and at the same time make sure he would strengthen her House?
A hand settled over her forehead, causing her to flinch.
"You keep dozing off, are you sure you're alright? You didn't catch a cold or something now, did you?" The concern in the boy's voice as she stared into his kind eyes had her heart skip a beat, and Sansa knew what she had to do.
The Stark princess would have loved to have more time to judge the situation better or even talk to her mother, but needs must. The opportunity was here, and if her family complained about Percy's bastardy, then the very fact his father was a god would have to placate them.
Not that Robb would have a problem with that, considering how high he thought of Jon. Now, how to even begin to discuss this with the demigod?
"I'm fine," she shook her head and faked a yawn. "Just a bit tired, but I am sure the morning breeze will wake me up."
"If you're certain." Percy shrugged and stretched, and without thought, she mirrored the action, subtly pushing the prodigious teats she inherited from her mother out. She grinned when the boy's eyes fell on them and drank them in, his jaw slack as he gulped before shaking his head as he noticed her grin.
Baby steps, Sansa.
"I-I think we're done here." The demigod coughed in an attempt to regain some of his dignity. "Unless you have anything else you want to add? I want to take a look at our heading."
Sansa shook her head and packed away the maps. Following Percy to the deck, they witnessed the sun trying to shine through the slight fog of the early morning. As expected, the breeze did in fact refresh her, and the red-haired maiden enjoyed the cool air for a few minutes as she looked around the rough waters of Blackwater Bay.
Gazing across the bay, Sansa froze at the strange scene, frowning as she saw the dark clouds brewing in the south. It was far away, yet those clouds… something felt off about them.
"You can feel it too, huh?" Percy's voice came from where he was brushing Blackjack's coat. The horse was forced to sleep on the deck as they couldn't access the small stall in the hold without the use of a crane. Percy made sure he was comfortable and had some cover from the cold, yet she sensed the massive destrier was not amused at his accommodations.
"What is it? That storm… it feels like something is staring at me."
"I'm surprised you can feel it, but it would make sense. Yesterday, you barely had any uhh… magic was it?" She nodded, as that seemed to be the closest equivalent to whatever powers Percy spoke of. "Yeah, that. Now, though, I can feel it has grown."
"Oh? By how much?" She couldn't hide her curiosity, as the idea of her gaining any sort of power appealed greatly to her. If she was ever to gain her vengeance and protect herself and her family, Sansa would need all the power she could get. Having Percy on her side was her most important goal, yet any personal powers would do as well.
"If yesterday was the spark from a flint, then today your powers are like a lit tinder."
"So, not even the size of a candle?" It was a bit disheartening, but it was progress. "What about you? How large of a flame would your powers be in comparison?"
The dark-haired man stopped his brushing of the horse and frowned in thought. It was almost as if he was having a conversation with himself. After a minute, he seemingly shrugged to himself and continued brushing Blackjack. "I never thought about it, and I honestly don't have anything to compare it with. I need to see more of what this world has to offer to judge."
"Fair enough. I suppose with your confidence in the existence of gods, then that storm must be the Storm God's doing."
"The who now?" Percy paused and turned to her confused.
"The Storm God? The enemy of the Drowned God from Ironborn Legends? I didn't mention him?"
"I'm sure I would remember you mentioning–"
Percy stiffened and moved swiftly to the forecastle of the ship, his brush abandoned and Blackjack whinnying in annoyance. Sansa quickly followed him as they stared at the misty horizon, the fog slowly clearing out by the sun's rays.
"What is it?"
"There's a fleet up ahead. At least a dozen ships."
Sansa's blue eyes widened as she strained her newfound senses to look as far as she could. After a minute of staring, she could almost imagine seeing a ship's mast, "How could you tell?"
"I can feel their motions on the sea. Are there any ships you could think of that would be on our way? Would they be friendly?"
Sansa's first thought would be the Royal Fleet under Stannis Baratheon's command, but from what she gathered from the small snippets of conversation in court, he was still besieging Storm's End. That narrowed it down to one other option, and it was so obvious she nearly groaned at her lack of foresight.
"Myrcella Baratheon. The court had sent her to Dorne for a betrothal in return for their support in the war. This must be her escort." Suddenly, a savage grin bloomed on her face. "This is our chance! We can destroy that alliance before it has a chance to develop. Percy, you said you were unstoppable in the sea. Can you destroy that fleet?"
Instantly, Sansa knew that was the wrong thing to say, for the kind man in front of her grimaced heavily. "I know what I said, but there must be hundreds, if not thousands of people on those boats, Sansa. I… I don't think I have it in me to kill so many people, not when they have not done anything wrong to me."
"You didn't seem to mind killing those people in the city, seven hells, you caused that flash flood that killed dozens of not hundreds! Not to mention the Wildfire explosion!" She insisted as she got closer to him, her hands grabbing his shirt as she looked imploringly up at him. Deep down, she knew this was not the right way to convince him. Yet, the chance to put a massive wrench in the Lannisters' plan and cause as much suffering to Cersei as possible clouded Sansa's mind.
"That was different. We were fighting for our lives, and I was not in my right state of mind. How would I have known they had Greek or Wild Fire stored at that gate? Sansa, please. Don't ask me to murder those people in cold blood." For the first time, the demigod she had known to be strong and reliable looked distraught and vulnerable. He would not meet her eyes even as she held him, but she could see in his eyes that they were vacant and haunted by the death and destruction he caused.
That, more than anything, sobered Sansa up. She couldn't help but feel even more endeared to the man she had chosen to pursue. It was easy to forget with his amazing powers that Perseus Jackson was still a kind and gentle man, something that was obvious even when she had only known him for a day. Even Sansa would hesitate to kill so many people personally, for it was easy to wish or order their destruction, but to do it with your bare hands…
The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword.
"I'm sorry, Percy. Forget I asked that. Let's just… sail around them, I suppose." It was beyond frustrating for Sansa to admit it, but she would rather keep Percy on her side than force the issue. Was that what the old First Men wisdom meant? It was easy to order so many deaths with a word, making them… worthless.
Myrcella would go to Dorne and bring them to the Lannisters' side. Robb would be hard-pressed to fight so many kingdoms with just the North and the bickering Riverlands, which made her even more resolute to court Percy to her side.
If only her treacherous aunt had not forced the Vale lords to stay neutral. Sansa would remember. How easy it was for the people in court to forget her existence as tongues flapped and gloating remarks were thrown around about the so-called honor of the Valemen.
The memory caused Sansa to grit her teeth and for her eyes to mist.
"Hey now. I didn't say we could leave them be." Percy's words broke her from her brooding as he held her cheeks, wiping a stray tear with his thumb. She stared at him confused, and a small spark of hope ignited within her.
"You mean to do something still?" Sansa couldn't hide the smile that bloomed on her face when Percy nodded.
"You were there earlier that day when they sailed away. Do you remember the exact composition of that fleet? Which ship was that princess in? What did she look like? Tell me everything you can remember, and I'll see what I can do."
For once, Sansa was glad for her excellent memory as while it caused her to remember every moment of pain in her life, it now allowed her to strike a major blow at her nemesis.
A*H*M
Time unknown,
Far to the North of the Wall,
WE ARE THE SHIELD THAT GUARDS THE REALMS OF MEN!
The backlash sent Bloodraven's mind hurling straight into his body.
"It's no use. I can't connect anymore." An old man rasped out to the underground cave. His head pulsed painfully, even though the sap running through his veins was supposed to take away the pain. "It's like the Wall had been slumbering before, and has now awoken."
"What does this mean, Brynden?" A melodic voice inquired as a multitude of other voices murmured to each other in their song-like tongue. Even after decades of living with them, Brynden Rivers had yet to master the tongue of the Earth Singers.
"… I do not know, Leaf." Staying in the dark grated on him, having grown so reliant on the powers of the weirwood which had turned helpless before the magic of the Builder. "I thought the Wall was strong before… but now it simply blocks everything." Brynden grunted as he tried to halfheartedly connect to the Weirwood roots under the Wall leading south only to recoil painfully. "The song has gone silent. Things just… changed today and I know not why…"
The Earth Singers stopped their murmurs and looked at each other in silence. "What of your successor?"
"Brandon should be safe on Winterfell still, but I can no longer provide guidance, and his future is clouded. I couldn't divine the future of a squirrel if I tried." A sardonic chuckle echoed through the cavern, and Bloodraven gave a tight smile to the Earth Singer as she placed a comforting hand on his bony shoulder. "At least the Reed lad shall no longer be plagued by my visions."
"If the future has changed, then so must our plans, Brynden." Leaf's determined tune held a soothing quality to it that helped ease his worries. "If the other side of the Wall is out of reach, we should focus on our side. The True North."
"Aye, you have it right. Alas, Brandon and his younger brother are the only ones who have shown potential to become greenseers, yet now they are far from our reach. Mayhaps we could change the fate of the other two direwolves and receive their aid in return."
"They could help you adjust the protections on the Wall as well. I confess my knowledge is meager, but surely a brother of the Night's Watch would be capable of doing something about that problem?"
"It is not that simple, but it is as good a path as any. Now, whom to approach first? Benjen Stark is beyond even my sight, and I am not sure if he is even alive or not. Jon Snow, on the other hand…"
"Mayhaps I could search for the elder Stark with our ranger? The Weirwood is not infallible, and our target might need help from the Enemy if he is alive. If not, we would still gain valuable information on the Cold Ones." Leaf's normally calm eyes had a challenging glint. The Earth Singer had been cooped in the cavern for the last few weeks as they attempted to guide young Bran. Sadly, all that effort would be wasted.
"Not yet. Let me see to the younger one first, for the fate of the Watch rests on his shoulders. Then we shall see." The greenseer finally replied after a few minutes of introspection. The Earth Singer nodded and retreated with the rest of her tribe to their alcoves, leaving the ancient ranger to dive into the Weirwood network.
It did not take long for him to find Jon Snow with the rest of his Black Brothers on their way to the Fist of the First Men. An ambitious endeavor from the old bear to search for his missing First Ranger and wipe out the perceived wildling threat before it could have a chance to amalgamate. It was something Brynden would also undertake, but it was a risky endeavor with the dwindling Night's Watch. One that would backlash heavily if the Enemy still commits to their planned ambush.
First, time to pay a visit to the son of Ice and Fire.
Brynden looked through the eyes of a raven perched on the Weirwood the young Snow used for prayer, unwilling to interrupt the sacred rite. The boy was focused, but his direwolf looked at Brynden coldly, and he had to do his best not to provoke it. The Old Gods were as apathetic as they were whimsical, but they had taken a shine on this generation of Starks.
The white wolf got bored and looked away, making Brynden sigh with relief. Now, how to approach him? Should he use the mysterious mentor facade that he tried with his cousin? Brandon Stark did not seem overly impressed, and Brynden would admit that he had gone a bit overboard with it and ended up not teaching his potential successor anything of note.
Bloodraven was also wary of making the same mistake as with that Greyjoy. He was younger and too excited to connect with someone with potential, but the follies of haste had taught him patience, albeit at a bitter cost.
Shaking his head, Brynden Rivers chuckled to himself. He had been thinking too much. Jon Snow was a fellow brother of the Night's Watch. There was no need for that nonsense, especially as he could already feel the spark of magic in the boy growing stronger as he prayed. A direct approach seemed to be the best option.
He just hoped the lad was not a lackwit as his dreamer of a father.
Once the lad was done, Brynden pulled him into the weirwood.
"Hello, Jon Snow."
Sansa brings Percy up to speed on the world he finds himself in and plans for her future. The girl is observant and understands her position, more importantly, she understands the benefits of ensuring the loyalty of a man of Percy's powers.
That she is crushing on him definitely has nothing to do with it /s.
The storm is getting closer, but a golden opportunity awaits them.
More ripples of Percy's appearance are happening as the Wall's protections have gotten stronger from magic going haywire. Unfortunately, that did not work well for Bloodraven, and without his sight, he now has to look closer for help rather than to Bran.
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That she is crushing on him definitely has nothing to do with it /s.
The storm is getting closer, but a golden opportunity awaits them.
More ripples of Percy's appearance are happening as the Wall's protections have gotten stronger from magic going haywire. Unfortunately, that did not work well for Bloodraven, and without his sight, he now has to look closer for help rather than to Bran.
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Totally agree. Just like GRRM set up the Starks to fail, he also set up Tyrion to descend into the ultimate villain. He was not a particularly good person in the first place, he is callous to others' plight, even the innocent smallfolk and that's from the first book. He's sarcastic and bitches about how cursed and misfortunate he is; how his family hates him. Yet, he is shameless in always hiding behind the Lannister name. Especially as he hides behind his father's name.
Oh, and Sansa will turn 15 within a few weeks, yes. Everyone is aged up by AT LEAST 2 years in this story. I hate writing children povs, though they can be fun as you will discover in chapter 6
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Chapter 4 (A Feisty Kitten)
I know Rosamund only vaguely looks similar to Myrcella, but here they are essentially twins except for the hair.
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
Onboard the Seaswift,
Blackwater Bay,
Myrcella Baratheon
"Princess, it's time to awaken."
The only daughter of Cersei Lannister woke groggily as Septa Eglantine shook her friend awake. She was having a good dream. A kind, grandfatherly man with sea-green eyes had her on his lap as he brushed her long mane of golden hair.
Yawning, the princess grudgingly untangled herself from her bedmate's arms, hugging Rosamund to sleep always soothed her. The Septa didn't like Myrcella's penchant for warm hugs, even hugging Tommen was not appropriate for some reason, even though her mother said it was fine. Then again, that was probably the only thing the Queen approved of, as not a day would pass before Cersei Lannister would admonish Myrcella for something. Her love of gardening, her desire for friendship, her interaction with those her mother would deem unworthy, or even the one rare moment she attempted to protest Sansa's mistreatment in court.
Myrcella shivered as she remembered the cold look her mother gave her, as well as Joffrey's face twisting in rage. She tried to forget the daily scenes of her first friend getting tormented for her father's crimes. The Starks had accepted them in their home to be treated like honored guests, while Myrcella could not look at the red-haired girl before feeling shame and embarrassment now. The Seven-Pointed Star was clear – a parent's sin did not pass onto the child.
Rosamund stirred, interrupting her musings. Her companion had straight, golden hair, which was very similar to Myrcella's curly ringlets that were silky and lustrous. They had only known each other for less than a year, ever since Lord Stark was arrested, but Rosa and Cella, as they called each other in private, had instantly bonded on how similar they looked and their shared habits. As the days passed, Myrcella found herself growing closer to her new companion and tried to forget about Sansa's woeful existence. But the more she tried to forget, the more vivid the memory of the red-haired girl getting beaten by the white cloaks appeared in her sleep. Her uncle had decided that Rosa would join her to Dorne as a handmaid, though Cella understood that Rosa was meant to be body double. Myrcella would admit she had welcomed the idea of having a friendly face in an unknown land.
Shaking her head, the princess focused on her yawning bedmate. Fully awake, she noted that the Septa had mistaken Rosamund for her again. It was dark outside as they stood up and started pulling up their gowns. Was it Stannis?
The thought instantly had her fully awake and alert, while Rosamund still looked queasy, the rocking of the ship not agreeing with her stomach. It was such a piteous thing, as her companion had been so delighted at the mere idea of sailing, only for the joy to be snuffed out when Rosamund struggled to hold her meal.
"Septa, I'm not Cella." Rosamund muttered groggily as she rubbed her eyes.
Septa Eglantine clicked her tongue in annoyance, but the Princess knew the old woman was secretly glad she and Rosamund looked so alike. Today, they were supposed to dye her hair brown, much to Myrcella's chagrin. This would ruin her lustrous curls, but needs must. Rosamund could wear her clothes; even if her friend was captured, they had no reason to harm her as a hostage. At most, Rosamund would be married off to some knight, the fate that was expected of her companion anyway.
But Myrcella didn't want to be separated from her new friend and prayed they were never dragged into such a dreadful scenario. Still, the Princess knew her duty; she was to be wed to a young Dornish Prince, sealing an alliance to secure her brother's throne. At least the Water Gardens were said to be beautiful.
"Come now, Princess, Lady Rosamund, it is time for our prayers."
Both girls blinked, confused as morning prayers were to happen only every seventh day, but followed after the Septa, too sleepy to argue with the stern woman. They had to wash each other in a lukewarm basin quickly, no maids had come because Uncle Tyrion had decided additional men-at-arms were more important. She was sure her mother would disapprove of her helping her handmaid instead of the other way around, but Cersei was not here. They quickly combed each other's hair and were finally ready.
The pious were to present themselves clean before the gods and garbed in their finest garments, according to the Septa. Septa Eglantine had them face the statues of the seven she had placed by the cabin's window, where they could see the sun just starting to rise on the horizon.
The most pious and the sinners prayed thrice a day – dawn, noon, and dusk. Usually, it was done in a Sept, but simple statues would do, and even they were not truly necessary – the Seven-Pointed Star claimed the gods could hear your prayer at any corner of the world. Then again, neither Robert Baratheon nor Cersei Lannister were particularly pious, and it was a miracle if they showed their face in a Sept twice a sennight. Yet it seems the Septa had decided to elucidate them with the Light of the Seven daily.
"Who will you pray to, Cella?" Rosa whispered as they approached the altar with the small marble statues. It was up to the devotees to decide whom to dedicate the prayer to, and traditionally, an unmarried princess like her would pray to the Maiden. Yet, Myrcella remembered her dream that morning, a kind old man who had a grandfatherly bearing and a handsome young man with a powerful physique looking on from the side. She couldn't remember their faces or the dream itself, only the soft sea-green eyes and a warm smile.
"The Father. I feel like having a father's guidance today." Cella smiled as she lit a candle for the Father, and then they kneeled with the septa and began their prayers.
.
.
.
Myrcella left her cabin with Rosa and the septa in tow, and turned to the guardsman standing vigil outside with a friendly nod. "Rolder! Any troubles in the night?"
His eyes shone and his tired frame straightened up at the mention of his name and eagerly slammed a fist to his breastplate in greeting. "Nay, Princess, the sea was calm."
It was something she had heard from Lord Stark… not many remembered the names of the guardsmen, but when you did, they would fight harder for you. Traitor or not, Lord Stark sounded like a wise man, and Myrcella had found herself chatting up the guards and learning more about them.
"Is Ser Arys still asleep?"
"He's doing his morning prayers, princess, and bid me tell you he'll take his post as soon as Godwyn has helped him get into his armor."
She had noticed Ser Arys had begun praying far too oft recently, doubtlessly seeking absolution from the Mother and the Maiden. The kingsguard were sworn to obey the king first and foremost, but beating an innocent maiden like Sansa Stark broke their knightly vows given before the Seven.
A glance at the weary guardsman had Myrcella frowning. "Go get some rest, Rolder, the ship is full of leal men, and Ser Arys will be here soon enough."
"I would never! The Lord Hand had insisted we never leave you out of sight."
"Oh my, Rolder. Are you saying that you have been watching a royal princess in her sleep?" Myrcella couldn't help but ask, causing the guard to pale significantly when the septa scowled at him.
"I-I w-would never!"
Before Cella could tease him more, Ser Arys Oakheart arrived, heralded by the sound of his steel greaves and clinking chainmail.
"Princess." The kingsguard bowed, his helmet in one hand and his other resting on the hilt of his sword. Myrcella gazed at him for a moment before turning to the red cloak.
"You may go rest now, Rolder. That is an order from your princess." The man nodded gratefully then excused himself and Myrcella turned to the Kingsguard. "Walk with me, Ser."
The knight followed as Myrcella led the way up the deck and beheld the still-foggy morning. She knew she was not subtle in her distaste of the Kingsguard, their beating of Sansa Stark still fresh on her mind. Which true knight would dare strike a maiden? Yet defying Joffrey was not… easy, she knew that all too well. Yet it didn't decrease her mislike for the white cloaks.
She nodded and smiled pleasantly to the various sailors and oarsmen on duty, even as her Septa not so subtly coughed with disapproval behind her.
"Septa Eglantine, perhaps some more bedrest would be in order? It would be unfortunate if you catch an ailment," Myrcella turned to jab at the old woman, knowing she would never rebuke a royal openly.
"How thoughtful of you, Princess. But my duty is much more important than a mere affliction of the flesh." Judging by the angry flush creeping up the Septa's woolen collar, she knew it too, as she lagged behind with a sour face as if she had sucked on a lemon.
Still, Myrcella would not be pushed around by some crotchety old priestess. Showing her face to the crew would surely shore up their morale, propriety be damned!
Myrcella's gaze wandered around the sea; silhouettes of the escorting ships could be seen through the morning fog. A soft breeze dispersed a part of the mist, allowing her to take a proper look. The Boldwind, a galley similar in design to their ship sailed close; the marines on deck were all armed and ready for a fight, and the Crimson Gale, a bigger galley where her dowry was stored. Naturally, the dowry of a princess would be worth a king's ransom, as her mother had declared. Yet Myrcella had no idea of the contents in question, but they somehow required a whole ship to ferry.
Further in the distance, she could almost see the mighty shapes of the war galleys assigned to protect her; King Robert's Hammer, Lionstar, and Lady Lyanna. There were other smaller galleys and longships in her escort but they were hidden somewhere in the soft, cotton-like veil of mist.
They stopped by the Captain, who greeted them with a clumsy salute. "Yer highness."
"Captain Rogar." Myrcella nodded with a smile, "A good morning to you."
"Uh, you too, princess." Rogar glanced nervously at the intimidating visage of Ser Arys before bowing deeply.
"You mentioned this vessel was quite fast yesterday." Myrcella started talking before the Captain grew too intimidated to speak properly. "Tell me more of the ship."
A smile bloomed on Rogar's face as he took the opportunity to heap praise on his pride and joy. The Seaswift was a small galley but had massive square sails on its only mast. The single lower deck housed the hold and the cabin bar for the captain's quarters which were on the stern. The only other rooms were reserved for her guardsmen. On the main deck, teams of oarsmen rowed at the call of one of the officers, as they sang one of their catchy songs, sea shanties, the captain explained.
The mood of the crew was joyful, with sailors cracking jokes and singing merrily. All of them were glad to leave King's Landing, it seemed.
It was all very fascinating in the beginning, but the princess regretted starting the conversation as Captain Rogar only grew more and more enthusiastic as the flood of words left his mouth. She could hear Rosa shuffling her feet, and could almost feel the Septa's glower at the man as well as her own stomach rumbling. They were supposed to have breakfast, and Myrcella tried to look for a chance to excuse herself without causing offense but the chance was taken from her at the sound of clanging bells from one of the nearby ships.
Immediately, everyone grew silent as the joy of the ship drained, replaced with anxious caution as the captain halted mid-speech and turned to Ser Arys.
"Princess, we must retreat to the cabin," The white knight offered her his hand as chivalry dictated, but she straightened her back and looked at the captain.
"What is happening?"
The ring of the bells echoed ominously all across the fog, as Myrcella strained to look through the persistent veil, only to see blurry shapes moving through the mist while the nearby ships were getting ready for… a fight?
"These are the warning bells. Enemies have been sighted, and we are preparing for battle, princess."
Myrcella nodded imperiously, "Then do what you must, Captain. I shall remain here until we know what the fuss is about. Ser Arys, rouse the rest of my guards and ready them for combat."
The kingsguard grimaced as he lowered his arm, her commands clear. Myrcella would not be hiding in a tiny cabin until they were certain of what they were facing. Was it stubborn of her? Mayhaps so, but anyone who could command her was left in King's Landing, which meant she was in charge here!
"Very well, princess." The white cloak left to gather the rest of her red cloaks while she calmly waited on the deck, showing her lack of fear to the men onboard.
"Princess, I must protest! Your safety is paramount. You should retire to your cabin until the matter is over." Septa Eglantine, however, did not shy away from speaking up.
"Your counsel is duly noted, Septa, yet you cannot command me. If the men see their princess running away at the earliest sign of trouble, what would they think of the royal family?" All the sailors knew who she was, so dyeing her hair would be useless. All it would take was a cowardly oarsman for the stupid ruse to fall apart.
"They will do their duty regardless," Eglantine scoffed.
"I have said my piece, and my word is final. If you would like to retire to the cabin, do so. I shall not begrudge you for it."
The old woman stiffened, her face twisting in worry and hesitation before sighing. "I shall remain by your side, Princess."
"Thank you, Septa." Myrcella smiled kindly at the elderly woman. She might have been an annoying nag over many things, yet she knew Septa Eglantine's worry was genuine. "You too, Rosa. I would not force you to stand here while you could be safe in the cabin."
"I'm staying with you, Princess." A smile bloomed on her face at the decisive reply as Rosa straightened up, trying to imitate her own posture.
Soon, her full contingent of guardsmen, all six red cloaks commanded by Ser Arys as the seventh number, a holy number, were standing protectively around her as the Seaswift had all hands to the oars. The Captain glanced at her hesitantly before shaking his head and busying himself with barking out commands. As the morning fog slowly dissipated, Myrcella found the Seaswift sailing away along with the Boldwind and the Crimson Gale trailing a little behind. The rest of the fleet had turned around, yet she could not understand the bell clanging and the waving flags from the other ships.
It was later after breakfast was served to her and her companions on the deck, that Myrcella finally understood what the commotion was about. A single ship was sighted behind them, and it did not answer any of their commands to change course, forcing the fleet to treat it as hostile. The Princess wondered about the wisdom of sending nearly a dozen ships, three of them warships, after a single vessel while they sailed away, but the Captain had his orders from her uncle.
Her ship, the Boldwind, and the Crimson Gale are to avoid engaging any foes, but any who approach must be defeated swiftly by the rest of the fleet.
It was a whole hour later when the morning sun finally banished the last vestiges of the lingering mist.
"Captain! Behind us, something strange is happening." The call came from one of the cabin boys clinging like a monkey on a branch onto the top of the mast. The princess frowned, surely there was a safer way to place a lookout?
Rogar stiffened and hurriedly produced a Myrish Fareye before moving to the stern of the ship with his first mate. Myrcella followed with her group, and she did not need any glass tube to see the oddness before her.
Their escort, visible a moment ago as they confronted the lone ship, was suddenly swallowed by a wall of mist. It did not look natural, even to Myrcella's inexperienced eyes, for fog was not supposed to stay in the same spot and look like some enormous veil-like box, for the sky was clear above it. The princess could almost hear bells and worried shouts in the wind before the last of the ships was swallowed by the fog, and then… silence.
"Father above! This is not normal." The captain rubbed his eyes several times before looking again, only to find the same sight. Giving the Fareye to his first mate, the man had a similar reaction.
"All hands to the oars! On the double, row faster, damn you!" The Captain looked worried, and so did the oarsmen. Myrcella could be wrong, but she felt as if their ship was going slower. Over by the Boldwind and Crimson Gale, the crews seemed to be doing the same.
"Princess! I must insist you retire to the cabin." Ser Arys's words were full of steel, and Myrcella couldn't find her tongue to voice an objection, so she nodded obediently.
Yet before they could move, a loud crack from wood splintering came from the left.
"What in the seven hells…" The princess would agree with Godwyn's exclamation as everyone onboard the Seaswift stared with wide eyes at the other escort ship.
One moment, the Boldwind was rowing a hundred feet beside them, and then the next, all fifty oars were cut cleanly in half, causing it to tilt heavily towards them.
"By the Warrior, only Valyrian Steel could be so sharp to inflict such clean cuts!"
Ser Arys had barely said the words before another similar sound came from the opposite side of the ship. Myrcella turned, holding Rosamund's hand in worry, as the Crimson Gale's oars received a similar treatment.
"Retract oars!"
The Captain's order barely came in time for the men to retract the line of oars from the right side before a shadow flew from the water, cutting at the space the oars were in but missing by inches. Myrcella could have sworn it was a person, but that was–
"A merman!" Rosamund exclaimed, even as she pointed at the shadow.
Myrcella stared at the murky sea as the shade agilely circled their ship before disappearing into the depths.
"All hands, abandon oars. Weapons out. Call for the escort to join us!"
The captain's roar finally roused the man on the bell, who quickly rang the clapper several times. The oarsmen abandoned their paddles in favor of axes and long knives, though a few of them had crossbows as well.
"Stay behind me, Princess." Ser Arys moved before them, with the rest of the red cloaks drawing their weapons and spreading in a tight half-circle of steel around her.
Before anyone could react, the water behind exploded in a mighty splash, dousing all of them in seawater. Something heavy smacked on the deck with a thud, and a powerful hand clasped her shoulder, causing her to freeze.
Fingers sank into her skin like iron clasps, and her mind was bound by terror as another hand grasped Rosamund's shoulder.
"Alright, chumps! I don't want anyone to move a muscle, or else your princess might take a dip in the sea." The amused voice spoke in heavy baritone from above, but Myrcella did not dare to move even a finger, limbs all feeling as heavy as lead.
The Septa and all the guardsmen in front slowly turned, all looking tense. Ser Arys' face was twisted halfway between anger and worry. "Unhand the princess at once!"
"No can do, hotshot. My Princess has bid me to retrieve her bosom friend from the machinations of her evil family." Her captor spoke in a queer dialect and the way he overly exaggerated the words made her think his only reference to noble speak was from mummers.
Also, princess? Friend? Myrcella nearly laughed at calling her family evil, despite the terror creeping through her veins.
The kingsguard looked… mutinous. "I do not know how you sneaked onboard, but you are heavily outnumbered. Surrender the princess at once, and you shall be given a fair trial."
"I don't know, man," the baritone voice sounded… more amused than frightened despite being outnumbered heavily. There was also a hint of… dismissal? "Surrendering is just not my style. Although you keep saying princess, I have no clue which one of them is the real one. I was told she was blonde, cute, and had green eyes. I gotta say, both of you match that perfectly." Myrcella was… confused, even more so when the hand on her shoulder tapped her for a moment. "How about you guys drop your weapons until my ride gets here, and I'll be off your hair. With these two cuties, of course."
The princess froze as the odd meaning finally sank, despite the whimsical tone. He did not recognize her from Rosamund. She risked a glance at her friend and bit her lip when Rosa looked at her with a sad smile before narrowing her eyes in determination.
"Unhand me, you knave! Do you have any idea who you–"
Before Rosamund could continue, Myrcella jabbed her elbow as hard as she could at the closest part of the man's body, which ended up being his groin.
"Fuck!"
The princess didn't think, the moment her captor grunted in pain and inadvertently let go of her, she grabbed Rosa and hurried to the protection of her guards. Grinning giddily, Myrcella could not believe she had succeeded! That she managed to–
Ser Arys rushed in, his sword raised for a powerful two-handed strike at the bent-over form of the intruder. Myrcella couldn't help but stare morbidly as the white cloak's sword descended on the man's head.
Only, for a hand to spring up like a snake, grabbing the hilt of the blade, halting it with ease.
"Feisty little kitten, aren't you, princess?" The man's pained groan turned into a chuckle that echoed deeply, the sound seeming to reverberate to the sea, causing the waves to rise and the wind to howl. Myrcella stared in shock at the handsome dark-haired man with familiar sea-green eyes who couldn't be much older than her brother.
"Get back, princess!" Rolder and the Septa grabbed her and Rosa as they retreated to the deck. Myrcella couldn't help but notice that the escort ships were also quickly approaching, doubtlessly having spotted the intruder.
"Let go of me, cur!" The scene before her would have been amusing if not for the seriousness of the situation. The man had grabbed the hilt of Ser Arys' sword, gripping both of her sworn sword's hands in the process and pulling him effortlessly as if he were a Fleabottom boy, all with one hand.
The white cloak tried to pull away, but it was futile, for the intruder's hand was as if made from steel. The sound of metal denting echoed in the wind, and Ser Arys' grunts turned painful. A twanging sound came from behind her, and Myrcella blinked. She blinked again, but no, the scene didn't change.
Only, the green-eyed fiend held a crossbow bolt in his free hand, looking even more amused than before.
The red cloaks charged forward, but a long-drawn-out sigh came from the man as he dropped the bolt and threw Ser Arys like a rag doll at the three guards, sending them toppling down right by her feet.
"I wanted to do this the easy way, but you medieval schmucks just don't understand how outclassed you are." The man stepped towards them and unsheathed a great sword from his back, causing Myrcella's eyes to widen.
Longer than most people were tall, with a blade wider than her palm, the dark rippled steel glinted ominously in the sun. Ice.
"Attack, it doesn't matter how strong he is, he's still human. Attack, damn you!"
Ser Arys' cry galvanized the men. Crossbows were aimed, even from the newly arrived escort ships, and a hail of steel rained upon the intruder.
Only, under her disbelieving gaze, he did not turn into a pincushion but swung the enormous greatsword with one arm so quickly and effortlessly as if he were a babe waving around a toy sword. The crossbow bolts were swept away, the man impossibly smug and unharmed.
A brave sailor charged forward, axe in hand, only to be grabbed with a single hand and easily tossed overboard like some errant pup.
More of the crew attacked, yet Ser Arys held back the red cloaks as they surrounded her and Rosamund protectively. Myrcella couldn't help but notice that the attacker seemed to treat this as some sort of game. Valyrian Steel could cleave through flesh and bone with nary an effort, yet the man was dancing around them, using the flat of the blade with an amused smile on his face, as if he was treating the sailors like errant children. Any attempts to strike him were thwarted with effortless finesse, and Myrcella couldn't tear her gaze from the sight.
By the time the man had reached the midpoint of the ship, there were dozens of groaning men on the deck, suffering from bruises or even broken bones, yet there were even more who had been thrown overboard. The green-eyed warrior had eyes only for her when he stopped in the middle of the deck.
"Will you come quietly, princess?" The voice turned as soft as silk. "Or… should I kill every living soul here? I find myself feeling lenient now, but my companion seems to have run out of mercy for your family."
Myrcella couldn't help but believe he could easily fulfill his threat. How could she not, when the man treated grown men as errant children, and it did not look like anyone was truly a threat to him?
"Silence, knave! I will have your head." One of the red cloaks, Dake, cried out as he advanced with a mace supported by a new wave of sailors that boarded from the escort ships. They all rushed the last few feet, only for the warrior to finally use his sword and slash it horizontally. Myrcella stared in silence as five heads were separated from their bodies, their blood gushing from their necks. Dake's head rolled on the ground and stopped in front of the Septa, who cried out in horror, before collapsing bonelessly on the deck.
"I ask you again, Myrcella Baratheon. Surrender, or will you watch as all of these good men die?" His voice had gone chilly, face hardened like a piece of granite, and Myrcella gulped.
The ship rocked heavily as the waves splashed onboard, the wind roiled, and through all of that, the Princess could only stare at the severed head of her guard. The newly arrived sailors were now cautiously watching the man, gazes locked on Ice, black blood dripping freely from the blade. The ship continued rocking heavily as the waves licked at it, spraying salty water onboard. The wind roiled harder, but the Princess could only stare at the severed head of Dake.
Poor Dake, who always smiled kindly at her. Who had a wife in Lannisport and three young boys who were now fatherless.
"We are no cravens, Demon! Men, attack, shoot him to death." Ser Arys's cry tore through the heavy silence, and at his signal, crossbowmen aimed at the warrior, who simply sighed and sheathed his sword.
Just as she heard the twangs of the bows, the man raised his hands, and the sea rose with it!
The world… fell quiet as everyone had just halted at the mystical sight. Even Myrcella's mind felt as if it had fallen into a quagmire. Deafening silence, as the curses, insults, groans of pain, or even the errant prayer halted in terrified wonder.
The sea itself rose high into the sky, blotting out the sun and casting a terrifying darkness as it surrounded all three vessels, dwarfing them like ants. A few thuds echoed, and many a sailor had started dropping their arms on the deck, and Myrcella could see they had all lost their will to fight.
"Seven above."
"Storm. It's the Storm God!"
"No, it's the Drowned God."
"It doesn't matter who it is, he will kill us all!"
The murmurs were getting louder by the moment, and even Ser Arys' hands were shaking. One shout, however, caught her attention.
"The sea! It's splitting, and… a ship is coming through…" They stared at the pointed finger where indeed a ship was sailing through the massive frozen wave like it didn't exist.
"Time is running out, princess. My ride is here, and I might just accidentally drop the sea on your heads. What will it be?"
How could anyone fight against this?!
What good were valor and skill at arms against such a powerful warrior – nay – sorcerer?
Still, Myrcella was surprised at the sudden calm that overtook her mind despite the raging terror in her breast. Glancing at Rosa, she found her friend breathing heavily, her eyes wide with fear. Glad she wasn't the only one feeling afraid, the princess straightened her back before stepping forward, pushing away Ser Arys' halfhearted attempt to hold her back.
"So long as you guarantee the safety of everyone on all three ships, I shall surrender into your custody. Provided you introduce yourself." Myrcella stopped in front of the sorcerer, whose face finally softened into a gentle smile that looked strangely familiar. Up close, she saw a few beads of sweat on his brows, and it occurred to her that the show of force might not be as easy as he made it out to be.
"Good choice, you've certainly got guts, I'll give you that." The warrior lowered his hands, allowing the sea to lower with it, causing several people to lose their footing, but the man held her by the shoulder. "Name's Perseus. Now," He suddenly squeezed her shoulder painfully, causing her to grimace. "Did you really have to hit me in the balls?"
Before she could form a reply, the other ship finally arrived adjacent to them, the sea somehow pushing the Boldwind away from their ship to give it space to moor.
Myrcella stared in confusion as there was no one on board except for an oddly familiar black stallion. Suddenly, a gangway stretched from the ship to theirs, seemingly by itself, and a familiar figure with red hair came from the hold and crossed over to their ship. No one dared to approach her, for Perseus had dragged her towards the end of the gangway as they greeted the unbelievable sight of Sansa Stark landing onboard and gazing coldly at the surrounding men.
"You probably know my companion, Princess Sansa Stark."
Suddenly, Myrcella was not sure about her prospects, especially when her former friend's cold eyes settled on her, and a vicious grin bloomed on her face.
Somewhere south of the Wolfswood,
A few days later,
Asha Greyjoy
She watched impassively as Cromm, one of her more brutish crew members, took a screaming peasant girl from the village they sacked to one of the standing shacks, all the while sporting a broken nose from another wench. The Northmen might have been sparse along the Stony Shore, but it seemed they were as rabid as a cornered dog when confronted with death and humiliation. The surrounding men laughed in approval as they enjoyed their well-earned booty, though Asha scoffed at the term, for they had yet to sack a single keep or walled town.
It's been a moon since they landed on the Stony Shore, and Asha couldn't help but wonder about her brother, Theon, who had taken time to acclimate to their ways. The years of being forced to act like a Greenlander had made him forget his roots, yet he was eager to prove himself worthy of the Old Ways.
That eagerness turned into zealotry a few days ago when he nearly drowned fighting a Northman by the Great Lakes of the Rills. It was before they separated to each reave on their own. They were all fighting for their lives against the sudden attack by a Ryswell force supported by a motley group of Tallhart riders, but they had managed to prevail, albeit barely. The men might rave about it being a great victory, but Asha knew the truth, it was a fucking embarrassment!
A thousand reavers to be ambushed by a measly force of a hundred horsemen and only slaying a mere third before the enemy escaped, leaving scores of Ironmen dead. Granted, they expected an attack by the Ryswells, the closest House to the Stony Shore, and they were even gaining the upper hand on those Barrow Knights. Who would have thought some green Tallhart fool to be so daring as to charge into their rear, and allow the Northmen to escape?
Nuncle Aeron had dragged poor Theon from the lake where he was drowning from the dead weight of a slain rider, and gave him the kiss of life. Theon had been stuck underwater for at least ten minutes, yet against all odds, the only living son of Balon Greyjoy lived. Her last brother had awakened with a manic glint in his eyes, and Aeron had not wasted time proclaiming Theon as The Drowned God's Champion.
Since then, her brother had taken to their ways with a vengeance, almost like a spirit possessed. First in every battle, and fighting for every scrap of booty won, no matter how meager. None could begrudge him paying the Iron Price, although the men were beginning to grow… annoyed with the lack of meaningful loot. Turnips and cabbages, shovels and hoes; none was of any good for a proper Ironman.
An unbidden snicker came to Asha as she remembered her brother's vow to take every Northern cunt they came upon as a salt wife. It did not work out as well as Theon hoped, as many a Northern woman preferred to die fighting or slit their throats than get captured. Something that Asha could not help but respect, even as she heard the sound of curses and meaty smacks from the house Cromm dragged the girl in. Still, the daughter of Balon felt nothing for these wretches. They were weak, and the weak endured, while the strong took whatever they wanted.
Regardless, word had spread, and despite not showing much success aside from a few skirmishes against hunters and villagers, the other raiders had started to band behind her brother – swelling the numbers under Theon's command from eight ships to twenty. Asha did not know how to feel about the matter; she was glad her brother was not lost to the Greenlander ways, but that also meant her chance to be heir slowly but surely sailed away.
She felt restless, and the only daughter of Balon Greyjoy turned to look at the foreboding woods of the Wolfswood. She had planned to take Deepwood Motte by sea, but that plan had failed before it could even begin, as her attempts to recruit the other captains failed once they threw their lot behind her brother's. That, and the fact they were discovered at the Flint cliffs and attacked by the Ryswells made their only advantage, the element of surprise, null. No raider wanted to attack a prepared castle, especially one so deep in the woods.
It was incredibly annoying, as she did not have the men to take any of the holdfasts and castles they came across, only ten ships and their crews followed her command, with the rest following Theon. There were about two dozen more ships who refused to follow anyone aside from their own captains, and Asha was unsure which part of this wasteland they had decided to reave. Even with the majority of the North's fighting force in the South, they still had enough men to defend their castles, and the Ironborn were never good at storming big keeps. Taking it by surprise was one thing, but attacking a prepared holdfast? Only fools would do that.
So far, all they got from this fruitless endeavor was death away from the sea, with the only loot for the men were dead women, nuts, salted pork, and a myriad of farming tools. A few useful fishing nets here and there and a handful of hunting bows and lumber axes were the finest loot one could stumble on.
Asha hoped Uncle Victarion would succeed in taking Moat Cailin, or else this entire invasion would be the biggest joke in Ironborn history. Her uncle had the full force of the Iron Fleet, nearly fifteen thousand Ironborn compared to their paltry two thousand, and he was the only one who could do any sort of damage to this frozen wasteland. If she was in her uncle's place, she would take the Moat and garrison it before moving to Barrowton with its wooden walls and sack it for all it was worth. Unfortunately, her uncle wasn't the sharpest axe around, and Asha could never predict what he would do.
More curses came from the hut, and the sound of something shattering and a man's gurgles broke her from her musings. Motioning for one of the men to check on Cromm, she groaned in frustration when he reported the fool got killed by a chamber pot to the head and the woman he was taking slit her throat with a broken piece of clay.
"How many does that make?"
"Six in as many days. These Northern whores do have a bite to them, eh? I guess they know they won't even survive to be salt wives, considering how deep inland we are." Qarl the Maid snickered, not caring for the loss of their crewmate.
Before Asha could retort, Droopeye Dale called a warning, and she looked at where he was pointing. Riders approached, causing her to stand and her hand to trail to her axes, yet she relaxed when she recognized the Greyjoy kraken of her brother's doublet, riding that silly horse he got from Lordsport. Theon's hair was a wild mess, yet it paled to the bloody mania in his eyes, which looked almost black from how large his irises had become.
She counted at least a thousand men following her brother, a lot more than the last she had seen him. Had Theon managed to recruit the rest of the captains reaving blindly between the Great Lakes?
The rest of the men looked on curiously, forgetting their dead crewmate, as her brother stopped before them, followed by Dagmer Cleftjaw and Uncle Aeron. "Brother. What brings you here?"
"Asha, dearest sister. The Drowned God has given me an opportunity that would only ever come once in a lifetime, and I am here to offer you the chance to put our names in history!"
She looked askance at her brother, "What sort of opportunity?"
"Why, taking the heart of the North, of course!"
The declaration caused a lot of interest, and Asha's eyes widened. Taking Winterfell? That had never been done in history, the closest was when the Boltons burned sections of the castle and the town. The amount of hidden wealth in one of the most ancient citadels of Westeros just waiting to be taken, nearly caused the daughter of Balon to immediately agree, but she managed to control herself. Her frustration with the lack of worthwhile loot was not high enough for her to blindly follow her still green brother into a foolishly dangerous endeavor just for the promise of treasure.
"Tell me more." Theon's smile sent shivers down her spine as he relayed his plan. It was ambitious, it was reckless, nay, it was mad.
Yet, it might just work.
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
Onboard the Seaswift,
Blackwater Bay,
Myrcella Baratheon
"Princess, it's time to awaken."
The only daughter of Cersei Lannister woke groggily as Septa Eglantine shook her friend awake. She was having a good dream. A kind, grandfatherly man with sea-green eyes had her on his lap as he brushed her long mane of golden hair.
Yawning, the princess grudgingly untangled herself from her bedmate's arms, hugging Rosamund to sleep always soothed her. The Septa didn't like Myrcella's penchant for warm hugs, even hugging Tommen was not appropriate for some reason, even though her mother said it was fine. Then again, that was probably the only thing the Queen approved of, as not a day would pass before Cersei Lannister would admonish Myrcella for something. Her love of gardening, her desire for friendship, her interaction with those her mother would deem unworthy, or even the one rare moment she attempted to protest Sansa's mistreatment in court.
Myrcella shivered as she remembered the cold look her mother gave her, as well as Joffrey's face twisting in rage. She tried to forget the daily scenes of her first friend getting tormented for her father's crimes. The Starks had accepted them in their home to be treated like honored guests, while Myrcella could not look at the red-haired girl before feeling shame and embarrassment now. The Seven-Pointed Star was clear – a parent's sin did not pass onto the child.
Rosamund stirred, interrupting her musings. Her companion had straight, golden hair, which was very similar to Myrcella's curly ringlets that were silky and lustrous. They had only known each other for less than a year, ever since Lord Stark was arrested, but Rosa and Cella, as they called each other in private, had instantly bonded on how similar they looked and their shared habits. As the days passed, Myrcella found herself growing closer to her new companion and tried to forget about Sansa's woeful existence. But the more she tried to forget, the more vivid the memory of the red-haired girl getting beaten by the white cloaks appeared in her sleep. Her uncle had decided that Rosa would join her to Dorne as a handmaid, though Cella understood that Rosa was meant to be body double. Myrcella would admit she had welcomed the idea of having a friendly face in an unknown land.
Shaking her head, the princess focused on her yawning bedmate. Fully awake, she noted that the Septa had mistaken Rosamund for her again. It was dark outside as they stood up and started pulling up their gowns. Was it Stannis?
The thought instantly had her fully awake and alert, while Rosamund still looked queasy, the rocking of the ship not agreeing with her stomach. It was such a piteous thing, as her companion had been so delighted at the mere idea of sailing, only for the joy to be snuffed out when Rosamund struggled to hold her meal.
"Septa, I'm not Cella." Rosamund muttered groggily as she rubbed her eyes.
Septa Eglantine clicked her tongue in annoyance, but the Princess knew the old woman was secretly glad she and Rosamund looked so alike. Today, they were supposed to dye her hair brown, much to Myrcella's chagrin. This would ruin her lustrous curls, but needs must. Rosamund could wear her clothes; even if her friend was captured, they had no reason to harm her as a hostage. At most, Rosamund would be married off to some knight, the fate that was expected of her companion anyway.
But Myrcella didn't want to be separated from her new friend and prayed they were never dragged into such a dreadful scenario. Still, the Princess knew her duty; she was to be wed to a young Dornish Prince, sealing an alliance to secure her brother's throne. At least the Water Gardens were said to be beautiful.
"Come now, Princess, Lady Rosamund, it is time for our prayers."
Both girls blinked, confused as morning prayers were to happen only every seventh day, but followed after the Septa, too sleepy to argue with the stern woman. They had to wash each other in a lukewarm basin quickly, no maids had come because Uncle Tyrion had decided additional men-at-arms were more important. She was sure her mother would disapprove of her helping her handmaid instead of the other way around, but Cersei was not here. They quickly combed each other's hair and were finally ready.
The pious were to present themselves clean before the gods and garbed in their finest garments, according to the Septa. Septa Eglantine had them face the statues of the seven she had placed by the cabin's window, where they could see the sun just starting to rise on the horizon.
The most pious and the sinners prayed thrice a day – dawn, noon, and dusk. Usually, it was done in a Sept, but simple statues would do, and even they were not truly necessary – the Seven-Pointed Star claimed the gods could hear your prayer at any corner of the world. Then again, neither Robert Baratheon nor Cersei Lannister were particularly pious, and it was a miracle if they showed their face in a Sept twice a sennight. Yet it seems the Septa had decided to elucidate them with the Light of the Seven daily.
"Who will you pray to, Cella?" Rosa whispered as they approached the altar with the small marble statues. It was up to the devotees to decide whom to dedicate the prayer to, and traditionally, an unmarried princess like her would pray to the Maiden. Yet, Myrcella remembered her dream that morning, a kind old man who had a grandfatherly bearing and a handsome young man with a powerful physique looking on from the side. She couldn't remember their faces or the dream itself, only the soft sea-green eyes and a warm smile.
"The Father. I feel like having a father's guidance today." Cella smiled as she lit a candle for the Father, and then they kneeled with the septa and began their prayers.
.
.
.
Myrcella left her cabin with Rosa and the septa in tow, and turned to the guardsman standing vigil outside with a friendly nod. "Rolder! Any troubles in the night?"
His eyes shone and his tired frame straightened up at the mention of his name and eagerly slammed a fist to his breastplate in greeting. "Nay, Princess, the sea was calm."
It was something she had heard from Lord Stark… not many remembered the names of the guardsmen, but when you did, they would fight harder for you. Traitor or not, Lord Stark sounded like a wise man, and Myrcella had found herself chatting up the guards and learning more about them.
"Is Ser Arys still asleep?"
"He's doing his morning prayers, princess, and bid me tell you he'll take his post as soon as Godwyn has helped him get into his armor."
She had noticed Ser Arys had begun praying far too oft recently, doubtlessly seeking absolution from the Mother and the Maiden. The kingsguard were sworn to obey the king first and foremost, but beating an innocent maiden like Sansa Stark broke their knightly vows given before the Seven.
A glance at the weary guardsman had Myrcella frowning. "Go get some rest, Rolder, the ship is full of leal men, and Ser Arys will be here soon enough."
"I would never! The Lord Hand had insisted we never leave you out of sight."
"Oh my, Rolder. Are you saying that you have been watching a royal princess in her sleep?" Myrcella couldn't help but ask, causing the guard to pale significantly when the septa scowled at him.
"I-I w-would never!"
Before Cella could tease him more, Ser Arys Oakheart arrived, heralded by the sound of his steel greaves and clinking chainmail.
"Princess." The kingsguard bowed, his helmet in one hand and his other resting on the hilt of his sword. Myrcella gazed at him for a moment before turning to the red cloak.
"You may go rest now, Rolder. That is an order from your princess." The man nodded gratefully then excused himself and Myrcella turned to the Kingsguard. "Walk with me, Ser."
The knight followed as Myrcella led the way up the deck and beheld the still-foggy morning. She knew she was not subtle in her distaste of the Kingsguard, their beating of Sansa Stark still fresh on her mind. Which true knight would dare strike a maiden? Yet defying Joffrey was not… easy, she knew that all too well. Yet it didn't decrease her mislike for the white cloaks.
She nodded and smiled pleasantly to the various sailors and oarsmen on duty, even as her Septa not so subtly coughed with disapproval behind her.
"Septa Eglantine, perhaps some more bedrest would be in order? It would be unfortunate if you catch an ailment," Myrcella turned to jab at the old woman, knowing she would never rebuke a royal openly.
"How thoughtful of you, Princess. But my duty is much more important than a mere affliction of the flesh." Judging by the angry flush creeping up the Septa's woolen collar, she knew it too, as she lagged behind with a sour face as if she had sucked on a lemon.
Still, Myrcella would not be pushed around by some crotchety old priestess. Showing her face to the crew would surely shore up their morale, propriety be damned!
Myrcella's gaze wandered around the sea; silhouettes of the escorting ships could be seen through the morning fog. A soft breeze dispersed a part of the mist, allowing her to take a proper look. The Boldwind, a galley similar in design to their ship sailed close; the marines on deck were all armed and ready for a fight, and the Crimson Gale, a bigger galley where her dowry was stored. Naturally, the dowry of a princess would be worth a king's ransom, as her mother had declared. Yet Myrcella had no idea of the contents in question, but they somehow required a whole ship to ferry.
Further in the distance, she could almost see the mighty shapes of the war galleys assigned to protect her; King Robert's Hammer, Lionstar, and Lady Lyanna. There were other smaller galleys and longships in her escort but they were hidden somewhere in the soft, cotton-like veil of mist.
They stopped by the Captain, who greeted them with a clumsy salute. "Yer highness."
"Captain Rogar." Myrcella nodded with a smile, "A good morning to you."
"Uh, you too, princess." Rogar glanced nervously at the intimidating visage of Ser Arys before bowing deeply.
"You mentioned this vessel was quite fast yesterday." Myrcella started talking before the Captain grew too intimidated to speak properly. "Tell me more of the ship."
A smile bloomed on Rogar's face as he took the opportunity to heap praise on his pride and joy. The Seaswift was a small galley but had massive square sails on its only mast. The single lower deck housed the hold and the cabin bar for the captain's quarters which were on the stern. The only other rooms were reserved for her guardsmen. On the main deck, teams of oarsmen rowed at the call of one of the officers, as they sang one of their catchy songs, sea shanties, the captain explained.
The mood of the crew was joyful, with sailors cracking jokes and singing merrily. All of them were glad to leave King's Landing, it seemed.
It was all very fascinating in the beginning, but the princess regretted starting the conversation as Captain Rogar only grew more and more enthusiastic as the flood of words left his mouth. She could hear Rosa shuffling her feet, and could almost feel the Septa's glower at the man as well as her own stomach rumbling. They were supposed to have breakfast, and Myrcella tried to look for a chance to excuse herself without causing offense but the chance was taken from her at the sound of clanging bells from one of the nearby ships.
Immediately, everyone grew silent as the joy of the ship drained, replaced with anxious caution as the captain halted mid-speech and turned to Ser Arys.
"Princess, we must retreat to the cabin," The white knight offered her his hand as chivalry dictated, but she straightened her back and looked at the captain.
"What is happening?"
The ring of the bells echoed ominously all across the fog, as Myrcella strained to look through the persistent veil, only to see blurry shapes moving through the mist while the nearby ships were getting ready for… a fight?
"These are the warning bells. Enemies have been sighted, and we are preparing for battle, princess."
Myrcella nodded imperiously, "Then do what you must, Captain. I shall remain here until we know what the fuss is about. Ser Arys, rouse the rest of my guards and ready them for combat."
The kingsguard grimaced as he lowered his arm, her commands clear. Myrcella would not be hiding in a tiny cabin until they were certain of what they were facing. Was it stubborn of her? Mayhaps so, but anyone who could command her was left in King's Landing, which meant she was in charge here!
"Very well, princess." The white cloak left to gather the rest of her red cloaks while she calmly waited on the deck, showing her lack of fear to the men onboard.
"Princess, I must protest! Your safety is paramount. You should retire to your cabin until the matter is over." Septa Eglantine, however, did not shy away from speaking up.
"Your counsel is duly noted, Septa, yet you cannot command me. If the men see their princess running away at the earliest sign of trouble, what would they think of the royal family?" All the sailors knew who she was, so dyeing her hair would be useless. All it would take was a cowardly oarsman for the stupid ruse to fall apart.
"They will do their duty regardless," Eglantine scoffed.
"I have said my piece, and my word is final. If you would like to retire to the cabin, do so. I shall not begrudge you for it."
The old woman stiffened, her face twisting in worry and hesitation before sighing. "I shall remain by your side, Princess."
"Thank you, Septa." Myrcella smiled kindly at the elderly woman. She might have been an annoying nag over many things, yet she knew Septa Eglantine's worry was genuine. "You too, Rosa. I would not force you to stand here while you could be safe in the cabin."
"I'm staying with you, Princess." A smile bloomed on her face at the decisive reply as Rosa straightened up, trying to imitate her own posture.
Soon, her full contingent of guardsmen, all six red cloaks commanded by Ser Arys as the seventh number, a holy number, were standing protectively around her as the Seaswift had all hands to the oars. The Captain glanced at her hesitantly before shaking his head and busying himself with barking out commands. As the morning fog slowly dissipated, Myrcella found the Seaswift sailing away along with the Boldwind and the Crimson Gale trailing a little behind. The rest of the fleet had turned around, yet she could not understand the bell clanging and the waving flags from the other ships.
It was later after breakfast was served to her and her companions on the deck, that Myrcella finally understood what the commotion was about. A single ship was sighted behind them, and it did not answer any of their commands to change course, forcing the fleet to treat it as hostile. The Princess wondered about the wisdom of sending nearly a dozen ships, three of them warships, after a single vessel while they sailed away, but the Captain had his orders from her uncle.
Her ship, the Boldwind, and the Crimson Gale are to avoid engaging any foes, but any who approach must be defeated swiftly by the rest of the fleet.
It was a whole hour later when the morning sun finally banished the last vestiges of the lingering mist.
"Captain! Behind us, something strange is happening." The call came from one of the cabin boys clinging like a monkey on a branch onto the top of the mast. The princess frowned, surely there was a safer way to place a lookout?
Rogar stiffened and hurriedly produced a Myrish Fareye before moving to the stern of the ship with his first mate. Myrcella followed with her group, and she did not need any glass tube to see the oddness before her.
Their escort, visible a moment ago as they confronted the lone ship, was suddenly swallowed by a wall of mist. It did not look natural, even to Myrcella's inexperienced eyes, for fog was not supposed to stay in the same spot and look like some enormous veil-like box, for the sky was clear above it. The princess could almost hear bells and worried shouts in the wind before the last of the ships was swallowed by the fog, and then… silence.
"Father above! This is not normal." The captain rubbed his eyes several times before looking again, only to find the same sight. Giving the Fareye to his first mate, the man had a similar reaction.
"All hands to the oars! On the double, row faster, damn you!" The Captain looked worried, and so did the oarsmen. Myrcella could be wrong, but she felt as if their ship was going slower. Over by the Boldwind and Crimson Gale, the crews seemed to be doing the same.
"Princess! I must insist you retire to the cabin." Ser Arys's words were full of steel, and Myrcella couldn't find her tongue to voice an objection, so she nodded obediently.
Yet before they could move, a loud crack from wood splintering came from the left.
"What in the seven hells…" The princess would agree with Godwyn's exclamation as everyone onboard the Seaswift stared with wide eyes at the other escort ship.
One moment, the Boldwind was rowing a hundred feet beside them, and then the next, all fifty oars were cut cleanly in half, causing it to tilt heavily towards them.
"By the Warrior, only Valyrian Steel could be so sharp to inflict such clean cuts!"
Ser Arys had barely said the words before another similar sound came from the opposite side of the ship. Myrcella turned, holding Rosamund's hand in worry, as the Crimson Gale's oars received a similar treatment.
"Retract oars!"
The Captain's order barely came in time for the men to retract the line of oars from the right side before a shadow flew from the water, cutting at the space the oars were in but missing by inches. Myrcella could have sworn it was a person, but that was–
"A merman!" Rosamund exclaimed, even as she pointed at the shadow.
Myrcella stared at the murky sea as the shade agilely circled their ship before disappearing into the depths.
"All hands, abandon oars. Weapons out. Call for the escort to join us!"
The captain's roar finally roused the man on the bell, who quickly rang the clapper several times. The oarsmen abandoned their paddles in favor of axes and long knives, though a few of them had crossbows as well.
"Stay behind me, Princess." Ser Arys moved before them, with the rest of the red cloaks drawing their weapons and spreading in a tight half-circle of steel around her.
Before anyone could react, the water behind exploded in a mighty splash, dousing all of them in seawater. Something heavy smacked on the deck with a thud, and a powerful hand clasped her shoulder, causing her to freeze.
Fingers sank into her skin like iron clasps, and her mind was bound by terror as another hand grasped Rosamund's shoulder.
"Alright, chumps! I don't want anyone to move a muscle, or else your princess might take a dip in the sea." The amused voice spoke in heavy baritone from above, but Myrcella did not dare to move even a finger, limbs all feeling as heavy as lead.
The Septa and all the guardsmen in front slowly turned, all looking tense. Ser Arys' face was twisted halfway between anger and worry. "Unhand the princess at once!"
"No can do, hotshot. My Princess has bid me to retrieve her bosom friend from the machinations of her evil family." Her captor spoke in a queer dialect and the way he overly exaggerated the words made her think his only reference to noble speak was from mummers.
Also, princess? Friend? Myrcella nearly laughed at calling her family evil, despite the terror creeping through her veins.
The kingsguard looked… mutinous. "I do not know how you sneaked onboard, but you are heavily outnumbered. Surrender the princess at once, and you shall be given a fair trial."
"I don't know, man," the baritone voice sounded… more amused than frightened despite being outnumbered heavily. There was also a hint of… dismissal? "Surrendering is just not my style. Although you keep saying princess, I have no clue which one of them is the real one. I was told she was blonde, cute, and had green eyes. I gotta say, both of you match that perfectly." Myrcella was… confused, even more so when the hand on her shoulder tapped her for a moment. "How about you guys drop your weapons until my ride gets here, and I'll be off your hair. With these two cuties, of course."
The princess froze as the odd meaning finally sank, despite the whimsical tone. He did not recognize her from Rosamund. She risked a glance at her friend and bit her lip when Rosa looked at her with a sad smile before narrowing her eyes in determination.
"Unhand me, you knave! Do you have any idea who you–"
Before Rosamund could continue, Myrcella jabbed her elbow as hard as she could at the closest part of the man's body, which ended up being his groin.
"Fuck!"
The princess didn't think, the moment her captor grunted in pain and inadvertently let go of her, she grabbed Rosa and hurried to the protection of her guards. Grinning giddily, Myrcella could not believe she had succeeded! That she managed to–
Ser Arys rushed in, his sword raised for a powerful two-handed strike at the bent-over form of the intruder. Myrcella couldn't help but stare morbidly as the white cloak's sword descended on the man's head.
Only, for a hand to spring up like a snake, grabbing the hilt of the blade, halting it with ease.
"Feisty little kitten, aren't you, princess?" The man's pained groan turned into a chuckle that echoed deeply, the sound seeming to reverberate to the sea, causing the waves to rise and the wind to howl. Myrcella stared in shock at the handsome dark-haired man with familiar sea-green eyes who couldn't be much older than her brother.
"Get back, princess!" Rolder and the Septa grabbed her and Rosa as they retreated to the deck. Myrcella couldn't help but notice that the escort ships were also quickly approaching, doubtlessly having spotted the intruder.
"Let go of me, cur!" The scene before her would have been amusing if not for the seriousness of the situation. The man had grabbed the hilt of Ser Arys' sword, gripping both of her sworn sword's hands in the process and pulling him effortlessly as if he were a Fleabottom boy, all with one hand.
The white cloak tried to pull away, but it was futile, for the intruder's hand was as if made from steel. The sound of metal denting echoed in the wind, and Ser Arys' grunts turned painful. A twanging sound came from behind her, and Myrcella blinked. She blinked again, but no, the scene didn't change.
Only, the green-eyed fiend held a crossbow bolt in his free hand, looking even more amused than before.
The red cloaks charged forward, but a long-drawn-out sigh came from the man as he dropped the bolt and threw Ser Arys like a rag doll at the three guards, sending them toppling down right by her feet.
"I wanted to do this the easy way, but you medieval schmucks just don't understand how outclassed you are." The man stepped towards them and unsheathed a great sword from his back, causing Myrcella's eyes to widen.
Longer than most people were tall, with a blade wider than her palm, the dark rippled steel glinted ominously in the sun. Ice.
"Attack, it doesn't matter how strong he is, he's still human. Attack, damn you!"
Ser Arys' cry galvanized the men. Crossbows were aimed, even from the newly arrived escort ships, and a hail of steel rained upon the intruder.
Only, under her disbelieving gaze, he did not turn into a pincushion but swung the enormous greatsword with one arm so quickly and effortlessly as if he were a babe waving around a toy sword. The crossbow bolts were swept away, the man impossibly smug and unharmed.
A brave sailor charged forward, axe in hand, only to be grabbed with a single hand and easily tossed overboard like some errant pup.
More of the crew attacked, yet Ser Arys held back the red cloaks as they surrounded her and Rosamund protectively. Myrcella couldn't help but notice that the attacker seemed to treat this as some sort of game. Valyrian Steel could cleave through flesh and bone with nary an effort, yet the man was dancing around them, using the flat of the blade with an amused smile on his face, as if he was treating the sailors like errant children. Any attempts to strike him were thwarted with effortless finesse, and Myrcella couldn't tear her gaze from the sight.
By the time the man had reached the midpoint of the ship, there were dozens of groaning men on the deck, suffering from bruises or even broken bones, yet there were even more who had been thrown overboard. The green-eyed warrior had eyes only for her when he stopped in the middle of the deck.
"Will you come quietly, princess?" The voice turned as soft as silk. "Or… should I kill every living soul here? I find myself feeling lenient now, but my companion seems to have run out of mercy for your family."
Myrcella couldn't help but believe he could easily fulfill his threat. How could she not, when the man treated grown men as errant children, and it did not look like anyone was truly a threat to him?
"Silence, knave! I will have your head." One of the red cloaks, Dake, cried out as he advanced with a mace supported by a new wave of sailors that boarded from the escort ships. They all rushed the last few feet, only for the warrior to finally use his sword and slash it horizontally. Myrcella stared in silence as five heads were separated from their bodies, their blood gushing from their necks. Dake's head rolled on the ground and stopped in front of the Septa, who cried out in horror, before collapsing bonelessly on the deck.
"I ask you again, Myrcella Baratheon. Surrender, or will you watch as all of these good men die?" His voice had gone chilly, face hardened like a piece of granite, and Myrcella gulped.
The ship rocked heavily as the waves splashed onboard, the wind roiled, and through all of that, the Princess could only stare at the severed head of her guard. The newly arrived sailors were now cautiously watching the man, gazes locked on Ice, black blood dripping freely from the blade. The ship continued rocking heavily as the waves licked at it, spraying salty water onboard. The wind roiled harder, but the Princess could only stare at the severed head of Dake.
Poor Dake, who always smiled kindly at her. Who had a wife in Lannisport and three young boys who were now fatherless.
"We are no cravens, Demon! Men, attack, shoot him to death." Ser Arys's cry tore through the heavy silence, and at his signal, crossbowmen aimed at the warrior, who simply sighed and sheathed his sword.
Just as she heard the twangs of the bows, the man raised his hands, and the sea rose with it!
The world… fell quiet as everyone had just halted at the mystical sight. Even Myrcella's mind felt as if it had fallen into a quagmire. Deafening silence, as the curses, insults, groans of pain, or even the errant prayer halted in terrified wonder.
The sea itself rose high into the sky, blotting out the sun and casting a terrifying darkness as it surrounded all three vessels, dwarfing them like ants. A few thuds echoed, and many a sailor had started dropping their arms on the deck, and Myrcella could see they had all lost their will to fight.
"Seven above."
"Storm. It's the Storm God!"
"No, it's the Drowned God."
"It doesn't matter who it is, he will kill us all!"
The murmurs were getting louder by the moment, and even Ser Arys' hands were shaking. One shout, however, caught her attention.
"The sea! It's splitting, and… a ship is coming through…" They stared at the pointed finger where indeed a ship was sailing through the massive frozen wave like it didn't exist.
"Time is running out, princess. My ride is here, and I might just accidentally drop the sea on your heads. What will it be?"
How could anyone fight against this?!
What good were valor and skill at arms against such a powerful warrior – nay – sorcerer?
Still, Myrcella was surprised at the sudden calm that overtook her mind despite the raging terror in her breast. Glancing at Rosa, she found her friend breathing heavily, her eyes wide with fear. Glad she wasn't the only one feeling afraid, the princess straightened her back before stepping forward, pushing away Ser Arys' halfhearted attempt to hold her back.
"So long as you guarantee the safety of everyone on all three ships, I shall surrender into your custody. Provided you introduce yourself." Myrcella stopped in front of the sorcerer, whose face finally softened into a gentle smile that looked strangely familiar. Up close, she saw a few beads of sweat on his brows, and it occurred to her that the show of force might not be as easy as he made it out to be.
"Good choice, you've certainly got guts, I'll give you that." The warrior lowered his hands, allowing the sea to lower with it, causing several people to lose their footing, but the man held her by the shoulder. "Name's Perseus. Now," He suddenly squeezed her shoulder painfully, causing her to grimace. "Did you really have to hit me in the balls?"
Before she could form a reply, the other ship finally arrived adjacent to them, the sea somehow pushing the Boldwind away from their ship to give it space to moor.
Myrcella stared in confusion as there was no one on board except for an oddly familiar black stallion. Suddenly, a gangway stretched from the ship to theirs, seemingly by itself, and a familiar figure with red hair came from the hold and crossed over to their ship. No one dared to approach her, for Perseus had dragged her towards the end of the gangway as they greeted the unbelievable sight of Sansa Stark landing onboard and gazing coldly at the surrounding men.
"You probably know my companion, Princess Sansa Stark."
Suddenly, Myrcella was not sure about her prospects, especially when her former friend's cold eyes settled on her, and a vicious grin bloomed on her face.
A*H*M
Somewhere south of the Wolfswood,
A few days later,
Asha Greyjoy
She watched impassively as Cromm, one of her more brutish crew members, took a screaming peasant girl from the village they sacked to one of the standing shacks, all the while sporting a broken nose from another wench. The Northmen might have been sparse along the Stony Shore, but it seemed they were as rabid as a cornered dog when confronted with death and humiliation. The surrounding men laughed in approval as they enjoyed their well-earned booty, though Asha scoffed at the term, for they had yet to sack a single keep or walled town.
It's been a moon since they landed on the Stony Shore, and Asha couldn't help but wonder about her brother, Theon, who had taken time to acclimate to their ways. The years of being forced to act like a Greenlander had made him forget his roots, yet he was eager to prove himself worthy of the Old Ways.
That eagerness turned into zealotry a few days ago when he nearly drowned fighting a Northman by the Great Lakes of the Rills. It was before they separated to each reave on their own. They were all fighting for their lives against the sudden attack by a Ryswell force supported by a motley group of Tallhart riders, but they had managed to prevail, albeit barely. The men might rave about it being a great victory, but Asha knew the truth, it was a fucking embarrassment!
A thousand reavers to be ambushed by a measly force of a hundred horsemen and only slaying a mere third before the enemy escaped, leaving scores of Ironmen dead. Granted, they expected an attack by the Ryswells, the closest House to the Stony Shore, and they were even gaining the upper hand on those Barrow Knights. Who would have thought some green Tallhart fool to be so daring as to charge into their rear, and allow the Northmen to escape?
Nuncle Aeron had dragged poor Theon from the lake where he was drowning from the dead weight of a slain rider, and gave him the kiss of life. Theon had been stuck underwater for at least ten minutes, yet against all odds, the only living son of Balon Greyjoy lived. Her last brother had awakened with a manic glint in his eyes, and Aeron had not wasted time proclaiming Theon as The Drowned God's Champion.
Since then, her brother had taken to their ways with a vengeance, almost like a spirit possessed. First in every battle, and fighting for every scrap of booty won, no matter how meager. None could begrudge him paying the Iron Price, although the men were beginning to grow… annoyed with the lack of meaningful loot. Turnips and cabbages, shovels and hoes; none was of any good for a proper Ironman.
An unbidden snicker came to Asha as she remembered her brother's vow to take every Northern cunt they came upon as a salt wife. It did not work out as well as Theon hoped, as many a Northern woman preferred to die fighting or slit their throats than get captured. Something that Asha could not help but respect, even as she heard the sound of curses and meaty smacks from the house Cromm dragged the girl in. Still, the daughter of Balon felt nothing for these wretches. They were weak, and the weak endured, while the strong took whatever they wanted.
Regardless, word had spread, and despite not showing much success aside from a few skirmishes against hunters and villagers, the other raiders had started to band behind her brother – swelling the numbers under Theon's command from eight ships to twenty. Asha did not know how to feel about the matter; she was glad her brother was not lost to the Greenlander ways, but that also meant her chance to be heir slowly but surely sailed away.
She felt restless, and the only daughter of Balon Greyjoy turned to look at the foreboding woods of the Wolfswood. She had planned to take Deepwood Motte by sea, but that plan had failed before it could even begin, as her attempts to recruit the other captains failed once they threw their lot behind her brother's. That, and the fact they were discovered at the Flint cliffs and attacked by the Ryswells made their only advantage, the element of surprise, null. No raider wanted to attack a prepared castle, especially one so deep in the woods.
It was incredibly annoying, as she did not have the men to take any of the holdfasts and castles they came across, only ten ships and their crews followed her command, with the rest following Theon. There were about two dozen more ships who refused to follow anyone aside from their own captains, and Asha was unsure which part of this wasteland they had decided to reave. Even with the majority of the North's fighting force in the South, they still had enough men to defend their castles, and the Ironborn were never good at storming big keeps. Taking it by surprise was one thing, but attacking a prepared holdfast? Only fools would do that.
So far, all they got from this fruitless endeavor was death away from the sea, with the only loot for the men were dead women, nuts, salted pork, and a myriad of farming tools. A few useful fishing nets here and there and a handful of hunting bows and lumber axes were the finest loot one could stumble on.
Asha hoped Uncle Victarion would succeed in taking Moat Cailin, or else this entire invasion would be the biggest joke in Ironborn history. Her uncle had the full force of the Iron Fleet, nearly fifteen thousand Ironborn compared to their paltry two thousand, and he was the only one who could do any sort of damage to this frozen wasteland. If she was in her uncle's place, she would take the Moat and garrison it before moving to Barrowton with its wooden walls and sack it for all it was worth. Unfortunately, her uncle wasn't the sharpest axe around, and Asha could never predict what he would do.
More curses came from the hut, and the sound of something shattering and a man's gurgles broke her from her musings. Motioning for one of the men to check on Cromm, she groaned in frustration when he reported the fool got killed by a chamber pot to the head and the woman he was taking slit her throat with a broken piece of clay.
"How many does that make?"
"Six in as many days. These Northern whores do have a bite to them, eh? I guess they know they won't even survive to be salt wives, considering how deep inland we are." Qarl the Maid snickered, not caring for the loss of their crewmate.
Before Asha could retort, Droopeye Dale called a warning, and she looked at where he was pointing. Riders approached, causing her to stand and her hand to trail to her axes, yet she relaxed when she recognized the Greyjoy kraken of her brother's doublet, riding that silly horse he got from Lordsport. Theon's hair was a wild mess, yet it paled to the bloody mania in his eyes, which looked almost black from how large his irises had become.
She counted at least a thousand men following her brother, a lot more than the last she had seen him. Had Theon managed to recruit the rest of the captains reaving blindly between the Great Lakes?
The rest of the men looked on curiously, forgetting their dead crewmate, as her brother stopped before them, followed by Dagmer Cleftjaw and Uncle Aeron. "Brother. What brings you here?"
"Asha, dearest sister. The Drowned God has given me an opportunity that would only ever come once in a lifetime, and I am here to offer you the chance to put our names in history!"
She looked askance at her brother, "What sort of opportunity?"
"Why, taking the heart of the North, of course!"
The declaration caused a lot of interest, and Asha's eyes widened. Taking Winterfell? That had never been done in history, the closest was when the Boltons burned sections of the castle and the town. The amount of hidden wealth in one of the most ancient citadels of Westeros just waiting to be taken, nearly caused the daughter of Balon to immediately agree, but she managed to control herself. Her frustration with the lack of worthwhile loot was not high enough for her to blindly follow her still green brother into a foolishly dangerous endeavor just for the promise of treasure.
"Tell me more." Theon's smile sent shivers down her spine as he relayed his plan. It was ambitious, it was reckless, nay, it was mad.
Yet, it might just work.
It would have been so easy for Percy to drown the fleet, but what would be the point? Getting Myrcella's escort lost in magic fog was simple for him, raising the damn sea to get his point across was a bit too much for the poor mortals, lol. Still, it might not have been obvious, but it certainly tired him out to make that stunt.
Cella still gave him something to remember not to be too cocky.
The Wild Hares actually save the day this time, instead of getting wiped out thanks to a Ryswell force that was in the area for some reason. It was not enough to change much though, as Theon now has even more troops and they are all concentrated in one spot.
Now, why was Asha with Theon instead of attacking Deepwood Motte? Because logically, practically, and realistically, attacking the Motte makes no fucking sense, and taking it makes even less, let alone holding it. The castle is about 20 miles away from the Bay of Ice and is an actual castle, not some walled town. Wood or stone, walls are walls. Motte and Bailey is its description, and they are difficult to take even if they only have a handful of troops protecting them. Asha supposedly had a thousand Ironborn in the books yet that was inconsistent with the amount of ships that attacked the Stony Shore and the amount under Victarion. Right now, she barely has 300 or 400 raiders, what hope does she have in taking a castle, even a wooden castle, when she has no siege equipment, no terrain advantage, no supply lines, and no element of surprise because there is no fucking way no one saw them coming all the way from Sea Dragon Point, past Bear Island and all along the Wolfswood, let alone the Flint Cliffs! Ravens exist for a reason.
So, Asha shall join Theon instead, and I will be writing their invasion as realistically as possible. This means I will role-play them and decide how they could reach their goals of bloodying the North with their meager forces while still earning a profit. I'm warning you guys now, this isn't a fix it fic, and as a wise-ass ginger once said, people die when they are killed.
Want to read four chapters ahead or just support me? Join me on Patr(eo)n under the same penname.
Cella still gave him something to remember not to be too cocky.
The Wild Hares actually save the day this time, instead of getting wiped out thanks to a Ryswell force that was in the area for some reason. It was not enough to change much though, as Theon now has even more troops and they are all concentrated in one spot.
Now, why was Asha with Theon instead of attacking Deepwood Motte? Because logically, practically, and realistically, attacking the Motte makes no fucking sense, and taking it makes even less, let alone holding it. The castle is about 20 miles away from the Bay of Ice and is an actual castle, not some walled town. Wood or stone, walls are walls. Motte and Bailey is its description, and they are difficult to take even if they only have a handful of troops protecting them. Asha supposedly had a thousand Ironborn in the books yet that was inconsistent with the amount of ships that attacked the Stony Shore and the amount under Victarion. Right now, she barely has 300 or 400 raiders, what hope does she have in taking a castle, even a wooden castle, when she has no siege equipment, no terrain advantage, no supply lines, and no element of surprise because there is no fucking way no one saw them coming all the way from Sea Dragon Point, past Bear Island and all along the Wolfswood, let alone the Flint Cliffs! Ravens exist for a reason.
So, Asha shall join Theon instead, and I will be writing their invasion as realistically as possible. This means I will role-play them and decide how they could reach their goals of bloodying the North with their meager forces while still earning a profit. I'm warning you guys now, this isn't a fix it fic, and as a wise-ass ginger once said, people die when they are killed.
Want to read four chapters ahead or just support me? Join me on Patr(eo)n under the same penname.
Chapter 5 (An Imp's Lament)
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx
3rd day of the 7th moon,
Small council chambers,
The Hand of the King.
The youngest son of Tywin Lannister stared at the pouring rain crashing onto the glass windows. When the king had complained about the unexpected rain, the Grandmaester had explained that due to the sudden heat of the wildfire, the hot winds had brought the cold winds of a nearby rainstorm. The old councilor was dozing off in his seat next to the Spider and across from his sister, and Tyrion scowled at the sight. It still irked him when he reported his findings to his father regarding Pycelle's involvement with Jon Arryn's murder, but Tywin Lannister insisted not to imprison the old lecher, for he provided valuable information from the Citadel that even Varys would not be capable of acquiring.
"…mostly under control, with the storm forcing most rioters off the streets. Many have fled the city after the wildfire explosion." Tyrion gulped his wine as he idly listened to Bywater's report. With the lack of a Master of Laws, most of the duties of the position fell on the newly appointed commander of the city watch. Even then, Ironhand was not allowed to sit alongside the small council, despite being a noble.
"Who cares about those filthy traitors? The less rats in my city, the better!" Joffrey was still pale and lacked his usual petulant assertiveness. The boy king had confined himself inside Maegor's Holdfast, refusing to step outside until all the traitors were gone, but he seemed specifically scared of the storm. Tyrion had thought he would get some peace, but his nephew insisted on attending these meetings, though now the towering form of the Hound and half a dozen other guards always accompanied him in addition to the white cloaks.
It was a shock when the younger Clegane made it back to the keep, battered and missing his left eye but alive, with Tyrek Lannister and Lollys Stokeworth in tow. The scarred man was beyond pissed over the theft of his horse and cursed anyone who asked how he survived. His cousin Tyrek was happy to elucidate as he and the Hound found themselves fighting their way out of the mob, but not before stumbling on the Stokeworth woman held by the rabble behind a tanner's shop. Tyrek had insisted on saving her because it was the chivalrous thing to do and was promptly knighted for his valor, yet the Hound looked ready to vomit blood when offered the same.
The loss of Preston Greenfield could already be felt as the order had dwindled to just three: Mandon Moore, Meryn Trant, and Boros Blount. Technically, the Hound was also one, but he refused to wear the cloak. Attempts to recruit replacements were stifled by the lack of good prospects; many nobles had been missing since the riots, and no one knew if they were dead or had just chosen to flee from the city rather than face Stannis' impending siege.
Speaking of his cousin, Tyrion laughed inwardly when Joffrey had taken Tyrek to join his personal guard. Judging by the boy's unsteady stance by the wall, he was not yet accustomed to the long hours of doing nothing expected of the guards.
"Well, the fewer hands in the city to work, the slower we can plug that gap in the city walls somehow," The Grandmaester coughed a few times as he leaned on his armchair. The old lecher was quite disturbed a couple of days ago at the tale of that massive wave and the ensuing explosion but had seemingly returned to normal.
"Fewer fools to riot and mouths to feed, too," Varys pointed out. "Although this can impact the customs and tariffs that can be levied."
"Copper counting is for fools," Joffrey scoffed.
"Wise words, Your Grace, but coin is still necessary to keep the city running. It's needed to pay the guards, ensure you get the finest food, and commission repairs and projects to show your grandeur." As always, the eunuch's titter made his skin crawl. Did Varys have to always keep up with the damned mummer's farce?
"Any word from my father, Grandmaester?" Tyrion had sent a raven to Harrenhal right after the debacle and had expected a reply by yesterday morning. Hopefully, he caught Tywin and his army before they departed for Riverrun.
"Ehm. The raven arrived in the morn. The birds fare badly in such tumultuous weather. Let's see here," Tyrion stifled a groan as the doddering old fool seemed more intent on playing his act than usual. Pycelle continued to fumble with his rolls of parchment until he finally found what he was looking for. "Ah, here. It's short and concise as would be expected of Lord Tywin–"
"Before we die from old age, Grandmaester." Tyrion ignored the offended look of the old fool as he took a swig from his goblet, idly wishing he was in his manse with Shae between his legs. The last thing he needed was to hear his drowsy prattling.
"Don't keep us waiting, Grandmaester." Cersei's scowl finally had the old man stop with his dawdling.
"Sending reinforcements. Hire troops and rebuild defenses posthaste. If incapable, evacuate the king and his brother to a safe castle of your choosing. The Hand has full authority but must hold the city."
"I will not run away from my castle!" Joffrey smacked the table with his fist, sounding more petulant than anything. Tyrion ignored him as his mother and the other counselors worked on convincing his nephew of the necessity of retreating to fight another day.
"Ser Jacelyn, report on the damages to the city and the city guard." The imp was busy gulping his wine before refilling his goblet. His father had more or less signed his execution. Maiden's teats, how would he defend the city with no fleet, a breach, and few men?
"The port facilities are gone, completely wiped out, along with the ferries, all the shipyards, and the dry docks." The man's bluntness would be popular in the North or the Wall, but judging by the grimaces on everyone's faces, not so much here. "Aside from the gaping hole in the wall, Fishmonger Square has turned into a flooded pit, some shops on the Street of Steel were destroyed from falling debris, and nearly half of the buildings on River Row are gone."
"Who cares about the damn peasants," Joffrey's grating voice broke the somber silence in the chamber. "What about my army?"
"What army, Your Grace? The City watch?" Tyrion scoffed as the last drops of the pitcher spluttered weakly in his cup.
"Yes, yes, them. If I will have my uncle's head, I will need my own, personal army. No more depending on traitors to give me troops." The boy was barking mad, though Tyrion wondered if that wasn't such a bad idea. Having your personal standing army was done before in the east to great success, but the expenses would make even his father balk, especially in times of peace where there was no promise of loot.
"A hundred of my men, along with the score of red cloaks stationed by the gatehouse, are dead." The one-handed knight replied stiffly. It might be a large loss for the City watch, but most of the dead were still poorly equipped and ill-trained townsfolk, and finding replacements would be simple enough. The red cloaks' loss would be felt more, and he regretted sending most of them with Vylarr to Riverrun as Cleos Frey's escort. The few that remained in the city were now all dead.
"And the smallfolk? How many have died in this tragedy?" Everyone looked at Varys with some befuddlement; why was the foolish eunuch still speaking such drivel?
Jacelyn Bywater's face grew even grimmer. "We've found over five thousand corpses so far. It's hard to give any numbers; digging through the wreckage and the flooded streets is impeded by the unceasing rain. If any sailors, fishermen, or shipwrights survived, they have long fled the city by now."
Well, it seemed like his plans were ruined for good. No new ideas on how to deal with Stannis' fleet came to his mind, especially with no ships of his own. What had Wisdom Hallyne said earlier? Two hundred jars of green piss were found under the Great Sept. Probably, a similar cache had resided under the River Gate to obliterate tons of solid stone with such ease. Tyrion couldn't help but wonder if there was more green piss hidden around the city for some reason, and who would be mad enough to do a folly so big?
"Lord Varys, have you finally uncovered the identity of that wretch who spirited away our dear Sansa Stark?"
"Spirited?" Tyrion snorted, "It's a tragic love story of elopement with a hedge knight from a cruel tyrant if you go by what the bards say."
"I will have their tongues. All of them." Cersei stared coldly at Bywater until he reluctantly nodded. "Slandering their king is treason, and Sansa Stark was treated as befitting of her station."
"Dear sister, you had her entire household put to the sword, and the girl was stripped and beaten before the whole royal court by the Kingsguard, making a mockery of the knightly order." Tyrion smiled at the increasingly red faces of his sister and her son. "Many said nothing but still had eyes to see. Unless you could rip off the tongues of all those who are now out of the city, the word will spread to the four winds"
"Not everyone is a traitor to speak ill of their king," Cersei scoffed dismissively. Tyrion just shrugged; nothing mattered as long as they won at the end. "Spider?"
"Yes, yes, tell us eunuch. Who was that brigand daring to abscond with my accursed betrothed?" Joffrey's face alternated between angry and terrified. The last word seemed to send the young king into some sort of frenzy; gone was the toy that could be beaten on a whim, replaced with a fearsome witch. Worse, Tyrion wasn't sure if he could even dispute Joffrey's theory; anyone who knew what had caused the wave was dead from the flood or the wildfire.
Everyone looked expectantly at the eunuch, who wore the same kind, harmless smile he always did. The same question had been asked yesterday, but Varys had begged off more time to investigate, "Even a skilled cook cannot roast fish before catching it, Your Grace. My little birds hear many a song, yet it is difficult to know what truly happened in the chaos."
"So you don't know anything?" Joffrey's brow scrunched up with displeasure, making the Spider bow deeply.
"Oh, I know plenty, Your Grace. Rather, it's all tales, each more fanciful than the last. From a rogue red cloak scorned by Your Grace to the Warrior himself coming to claim the girl. The remains of the King's Justice were found in one of the alleys, along with one of the Kettleblack brothers. The small folk seemed busy cutting them for their pots of brown, I fear." Tyrion's eyebrow twitched; That explained how Ice found its way to Sansa Stark's possession. To think he had wasted so much coin on those foolish brothers – the youngest Kettleblack brother had disappeared in the night with the rest of his brothers' gold. "The loudest of the songs say that Sansa Stark was… kidnapped by a tall, powerful man with hair black as coal and stormy green eyes. Others sing of his prowess with a blade."
"Lone man slicing a hail of arrows before charging through a platoon of spearmen is quite hard to miss." Tyrion acquiesced, "What of it?"
"The likeness to Renly Baratheon is quite strong."
For a moment, the council chambers grew quiet as the words sank in before a fist smacked on the table. "You said my uncle is dead!"
"I believe he is, yet I confess to have not seen the corpse. Dreadful affair. Dear me, kinslaying of all things. Yet even a sorcerer cannot be in many places at the same time, Your Grace."
"What use are you then, Varys?" Cersei stared at the eunuch.
"Your Grace, I am a master of whispers, not the arcane! Words and hearsay are my trade. There is little doubt that Renly Baratheon is dead, yet he is far from the only one with such looks. Our good king Robert spread his seed far and wide."
"You mean a bastard half-brother of mine dared to abscond with my bride?!" Joffrey's pale face was flushed with pulsing veins on his forehead. It was as if he had forgotten about his fear of the witch.
"Indeed." Varys clasped his soft hand with a flourish. "Your uncle Renly had a penchant for gathering Robert's bastards. Sansa Stark is the key to the North, and he doubtlessly knew that. If she could be spirited away and be wed to Willas Tyrell, Renly could attempt to pull the North and the Riverlands by his side-"
At that moment, Tyrion realized the Spider had no idea what was truly going on. The eunuch's demeanor was slightly more tense despite his usual act, and there were too many… inconsistencies. If Varys had known all of that before the riots, then why didn't he inform them or disrupt the kidnapping in the first place? Yet, Tyrion had bigger problems than exposing the only councilor who had been nothing but helpful to him.
This meeting had already dragged on enough as it was, but he would have a talk with the Eunuch.
"Bah, it doesn't matter. I want all of their heads on a spike. Write to my grandfather, Imp!" Joffrey stood up and hastily fled the chambers, followed by his gaggle of guardsmen. By the time Tyrion had put his goblet down, Varys had also left. Cursing his short legs and the councilor's impatience, the Imp hurried out, too.
Entering the crowded throne room, Tyrion was stopped by the queer scene of the rest of the counselors looking at a soaking-wet guard. Varys was nowhere to be seen.
"A fleet has been sighted."
.
.
.
It seemed that misfortune had taken a liking to their cause. Tyrion knew something was wrong when Myrcella's escort had returned so early, led by the downcast Ser Arys Oakheart.
Worse, when the grudging words started coming from the knight, Tyrion could only groan with exasperation. It was as if the gods themselves had decided to abandon their cause. And what a tale it was! An hour passed as the councilors listened to a truly mythical tale that could only belong to the Age of Heroes.
"You allowed your princess to be kidnapped by some sorcerer under the command of Sansa Stark?" Tyrion had always prided himself on his wits and calmness, but this was too much.
"It is, and shall always be, my greatest failure and dishonor, and no words would ever absolve me of it." Ser Arys' head remained bowed in shame, yet he raised his hands, showing his dented gauntlets. The dents looked as if someone with inhuman strength had squeezed them, leaving their finger imprints on the castle-forged steel. "Yet no words could ever describe the sheer power and magic the devil wielded. Three hundred of us couldn't even put a scratch on him, and that was before he threatened to drown us all if the Princess did not surrender herself to him. The merciful Princess Myrcella ordered us to stand down before surrendering to the fiend, just as Sansa Stark came with her own ship."
"I told you!" Joffrey shouted from his tapered seat, his wild eyes looking fearfully at the shadows as he shook in his seat. "I told you the damn witch would come for us!"
"I fear that sorcerer more than any tales of that feeble girl being a witch," Cersei growled between gritted teeth. His sister had nearly collapsed when the white cloak first announced the kidnapping of her daughter, but her shock slowly turned into rage.
"Don't you get it, mother?! That sorcerer was under the thrall of that witch. What more proof do you want?"
His nephew's surprising clarity gave them pause. Tyrion had to admit that it was far more impressive for the Stark girl to take such a powerful man under her thrall than any tale of her moving rivers or seas. More feasible, too, as he would admit that no man could resist the temptations of a woman, especially one with Sansa Stark's beauty. Even now, the Imp's mind drifted to the girl's womanly curves that would probably blossom even further, considering her mother. He truly ached for Shae still waiting for him in that manse.
Shaking his head, he wondered when Sansa ever got the chance to enthrall such a sorcerer? If she truly had such powers, then why didn't she use them before?
"Magic has been gone for hundreds of years, not since the death of the last dragon!" The Grandmaester insisted with surprising steel in his words, his feeble act forgotten.
"Well, how would you explain the sudden flash flood that drowned our harbor?" Tyrion scoffed, wishing he had more wine, but he had already finished the decanter an hour ago, and the servant had yet to return with another.
"This could very well have been a freak act of nature and–"
"The river rose a hundred feet inland all of a sudden, before climbing the walls to drag the men from them, Grandmaester. Just because you were in the privy and did not witness it does not mean we are all delirious." Tyrion growled, and he was surprised when his sister and nephew nodded along, glaring at the old man.
"B-but still–"
"The sea rose with that man's hand. Three hundred men would attest to my claim." Ser Arys asserted, the sailors behind him nodding, their eyes wide and their fear clear.
The Grandmaester opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again before letting out such a sad and tired sigh that the Imp almost felt bad for him. Almost.
"What happened after my niece surrendered?"
"The Stark girl bid her and her handmaid join them on their ship. The sorcerer had everyone on the Swiftwind, and the Crimson Gale moved to the Boldwind before magicking the empty ships to follow him. All three ships then sailed away, and the fog dissipated, freeing the rest of the fleet lost in it."
"That harlot stole my daughter's dowry?" Cersei shook in her seat from the sheer rage before turning to him, "This is your fault for sending Myrcella to Dorne in the first place!"
"Father approved. You were the one who insisted on packing such a costly dowry when the royal coffers were empty." The shortest son of Tywin Lannister shrugged and grabbed a newly arrived decanter, pouring wine into his goblet. "What do you know about this sorcerer?"
"He said his name was Perseus." The strange name gave them pause, with Pycelle stroking his beard in interest.
"Grandmaester?"
"It is a strange name indeed. Could be either Valyrian or Rhoynish, maybe even Ghiscari. What did he look like again?"
"About my height with a powerful physique that spoke of years of training. Sun-kissed skin that wouldn't be out of place on a Marcher with green eyes a bit darker than His Grace, and hair as black as the night sky. He was also young, no older than six and ten."
They stared at each other, the description mostly matching Varys' claim, but something was off. "What about his character?"
"Despite his prowess, he seemed hesitant to kill. Surrender was offered more than once. The sorcerer only killed five men after we peppered him with crossbow bolts. Not that it did any good, he simply snatched the bolts before they struck him or swatted them away with his sword like one would swat a fly." The reverence in the knight's words was heavy. "Perseus spoke in a queer dialect and was clearly not highborn. He did not act like one nor speak like one. He asked the sailors many questions regarding the kingdoms as we moved ships."
"What sort of questions?" Tyrion leaned forward on his high seat.
"The gods and tales of legend, specifically the Storm God of the Ironborn and the Sea God of the Stormlands. He let slip he had never been in Westeros and was particularly interested in questioning the Stormlanders about their home."
The Imp clenched his teeth. He already knew Varys was spewing horseshit, but now the rest of the council had reached a similar realization. If the master of whispers was telling the truth, and he seemed overly confident about it, then why would the sorcerer be asking about the kingdom he was supposedly born in? There went his chance to repay the Eunuch for the favors he owed him.
"Where is the Spider?" His sister barked at the guards, who remained silent.
"Probably out of the city by now. I always told His Grace the Spider served nobody but himself." Pycelle coughed feebly, looking the harmless old man again.
"My Master of Whispers lied to me? All that drivel about a half-brother acting against me was a lie?" Joffrey's face turned a shade of puce.
"Apparently so, Your Grace."
"I want Varys' head on a spike!" Joffrey slammed both fists on the oak table, his face so red he looked like a lobster. "I want all the Starks dead, and that sorcerer as well!"
"You heard the king, Grandmaester." Cersei clenched the arms of her chair tightly, "I want ravens sent immediately to all corners of the land, from Sunspear to the Wall! Sansa Stark is a traitor, practicing the vilest of witchcraft to incite unrest and collude with slavers. Kidnapping a royal princess, human sacrifice, blood magick… Half a hundred thousand dragons for her head and that of her pet sorcerer. Twice as much should they be brought alive and a lordship with the promise of a highborn bride."
"And a hundred thousand Dragons for the return of the princess." Tyrion stared incredulously at his sister's wide eyes as she nodded hesitantly. To think she would forget about her daughter in a fit of rage…
The Grandmaester turned to Joffrey, who nodded imperiously. Excusing himself with a deep bow, the old lecher hastily left the rooms with surprising vigor.
"Ser Arys." His nephew looked at the kneeling white cloak as if he was a maggot. "I shall have no cravens in my kingsguard-"
"Perhaps… give him a chance to prove himself, Your Grace," Tyrion hastily interrupted. "Every sword would matter in the city's defense, and I am sure Ser Arys would want a chance to redeem himself from his failure. Let the whole realm know that Joffrey Baratheon is a just and merciful king, just like his father!"
Joffrey's face was scrunched up as if the mere idea of mercy galled him, yet his mother whispered furiously in his ear until he finally nodded.
"Fine. You shall be placed under the Imp's command as he holds the city."
The Oakheart knight immediately knelt again, head bowed deeply, "You honor me with your mercy, Your Grace. Lord Hand."
Another problem averted, Tyrion finally left to meet with the Wisdom, newly recruited guard in tow. Cersei left for her little games with the ladies in court, or mayhaps to meet with one of her boy toys, while the Hand still had more work to do. Tyrion had entertained the idea of politicking behind his sister's back and sending Tommen to a different castle but dismissed it quickly. Joffrey and Tommen would remain in the city unless an attack by Stannis was imminent. Even then, their evacuation would be done in complete secret, though he wondered if the troops would fight as valiantly without their king. As the thoughts swirled in his mind, his gaze trailed towards the blonde head of his cousin, Tyrek. While not as handsome as his nephew, they were both of the same height and with similar features. Tyrek trained far harder than Joffrey, of course. A plan began to form in his mind.
Shaking his head, Tyrion focused on the present. With Varys gone, Tyrion would need to send spies to see what Stannis was up to, or mayhaps follow his father's advice and have Pycelle communicate more with his fellow maesters for information. The Grandmaester would not be able to refuse him thanks to the leverage he held over him. Shagga and his men would have to do for now, and perhaps those poachers that his nephew wanted to be tortured? Surely, a new lease on life would buy their loyalty. Stannis would need time to take Storm's End before marching to King's Landing, which would hopefully give Tyrion a couple of moons to get things moving.
He still needed to find a nearby port for the damaged fleet to dock, though he could probably use the sailors elsewhere. So much to do, but hopefully, fortune would finally smile on his efforts.
Tyrion scoffed to himself, his kin had dragged the realm into war, and the gods had always been a bunch of mercurial cunts. Otherwise, why would someone like him be cursed at birth?
.
.
.
The day was finally over, and Tyrion whistled a jaunty tone as he made his way to the manse near the Iron Gates, accompanied by his new guard. Bronn was sent to recruit more sellswords and begin his budding spy network, and the white cloak was more than enough to discourage any foolish or hungry beggar. Ser Arys Oakheart kept his attire, but the man had a morose frown on his face. The imp offered him a night at the brothels, but the young kingsguard's stiff rejection had him shrug; the white cloak was welcome to wait outside his rooms as he had Shae screaming with pleasure.
The manse and its guards were all provided by Varys, which made Tyrion wonder what happened to the Eunuch. Surely, he wouldn't truly abandon decades of service for one mistake? Joffrey and Cersei might have called for his head, but the Spider was much more resourceful than people believed. The Hand of the King was certain Varys would reappear when the crown most needed his talents and offer them something of great value in return for a pardon.
Arriving at the manse, Ser Arys placed a hand on the dwarf's shoulder. "Something is not right."
Tyrion quirked his head as he looked closer at the gates. The rain had finally abated, yet the sky was still overcast, and the darkness of the evening made it difficult to see properly. "What is it?"
"You said there were many servants and guards in that manse?"
"Aye, about a dozen guards and half of that in servants."
"Then why is the manse completely dark? It's not yet the hour of the eel, yet I do not see a single candle, lantern, or movement."
Tyrion's heart beat like a drum, and he moved to the gates, but Ser Arys held him back. Glaring at the kingsguard, he froze when the white cloak unsheathed his sword, his eyes hardening under his helmet.
"Stay behind me, Lord Hand."
The Lord Hand regretted not having a larger escort, but this side of the city had not seen any rioting and was the furthest from the River Gate. It was also where the more affluent merchants lived, and despite Fleabottom being near it, the city watch would usually patrol these streets for no reason other than the donations they would get from the merchants.
They reached the manse's gate, finding it unlocked, and Tyrion started feeling a tinge of worry. Walking to the slightly ajar door, Ser Arys motioned for silence as he grabbed a discarded broom and took off his helmet. Then, he hung the helmet at the end of the broom and slowly edged it through the door as if it were his head.
A mace landed heavily on the helmet, crushing it to the floor, and Ser Arys instantly kicked the door and charged in. Tyrion could do nothing but hide behind a column as the sounds of steel clashing and broken furniture echoed out in the manse. Curses and pleas for mercy were ignored as, with a final squelching sound, silence.
Wondering if the white cloak was dead, Tyrion hesitated to check on him or flee. His decision was taken from him when the door slowly opened, and the grim visage of Arys Oakheart greeted him. The Kingsguard was covered in blood, with his armor missing some of its filigrees and the plate scratched and dented. Yet, he stood steadily as he wiped his bloody sword on a rag.
"It is safe now, Lord Hand."
They entered the manse, the white cloak at the front, lit lantern in hand. The foyer of the manse was strewn with corpses, and the smell of shit and blood had him gagging. All of the corpses were the guards gifted by Varys. Dread filled his heart.
"Shae?"
Ser Arys shook his head. "I'm sorry, my lord. I found them in the kitchens, but…"
Tyrion followed his guard in a daze as they entered the kitchens, finding his mistress with the servants he hired, naked and undoubtedly dead with their throats slit. The white bird he gifted her, plucked clean on a counter, and the Imp felt like his world was spinning. His instinctual thought was to blame Cersei, but he quickly realized only one man could have planned his assassination.
Why?!
Unknown time,
Harrenhal,
"Arry"
She ran through the woods chasing her quarry, a strange black and white horse. Its rider had made a mistake when it killed one of her own, and now, the beast chased the group of two legs. Seven had dwindled down to one after the hunter of her pack abandoned his own pack mates to survive. With a lunge, a single swipe of her paws tore through the leg, sending the steed sprawling on the ground, with the pack tearing at the horseflesh. The two legs that smelled of goat shook himself and tried to run. Nymeria pounced, bit through the cold, crunchy rings, and tore out his throat.
Once her prey had stopped twitching, she let go and howled victoriously at the moon. Tearing away the cold metal, she had a proper feast on the innards. Once satisfied, she made her way to the nearby stream. After drinking, Nymeria stared at her reflection, a glint of silver flashed in her yellow eyes. Her two-legged littermate was with her again; she could feel her at the back of her mind now.
.
.
.
Arya awoke, the taste of blood and raw flesh fresh on her tongue. The dreams she shared with Nymeria had become even more vivid lately. The bedtime tales of wargs and skinchangers that Old Nan spoke of turned out to be as true as the sun. Mayhaps due to the cursed castle? Or the God's Eye? Nymeria had oft dragged her in her dreams so they could hunt together; This time, their prey was not a stag or a doe, but a human. Vargo Hoat was running away from men with a red stallion on their banners, and the direwolf had held a grudge against the sellsword for killing a member of her pack.
The girl stood up from her bed of straws and stretched, ignoring the sleeping figures around her. It was still nighttime, but she could hear activity in the castle. Sneakily looking through a hole in the masonry, she found many soldiers forming ranks by the main gate. Her eyes narrowed as she found the regal form of Kevan Lannister on his destrier, talking to that fiend, Amory Lorch. What was the Lannister Knight doing here? He had left nearly a sennight ago with his lordly brother, but now he was back?
A cat was lounging nearby, and Arya stared at it intently, trying to force herself into its skin. She had succeeded with mice and other small animals in the past few days, but a cat would be the largest animal aside from Nymeria she would slip into. Suddenly, the cat turned to her, and Arya was looking at her thin, malnourished form slumping back into her straw bed. She worried as she looked at her form, for despite being thin, Arya had flowered, and her body had started to show she wasn't actually a boy. Cutting her hair could only do so much, as her face turned soft girly, yet at least she didn't have to worry about her teats ballooning like Sansa. Still, she grinned at her success, her feline lips stretching. The cat's body was agile as she stalked through the thousands of troops in the castle's expansive yards before stopping near the horse holding the Lannister Knight.
"… hold the castle at all costs. I am leaving a thousand men under your command, and my brother expects you to continue training the levies that the Riverlords send."
"Of course, my lord." Lorch lowered his head to the lesser lion, who nodded before turning to the no longer fat form of the heir of White Harbor. Arya had seen him multiple times, but it took her some time to recognize him from his last visit to Winterfell.
"Ser Wylis, we have treated you well as my brother's prisoner."
"Aye, you have, my lord." Wylis Manderly nodded, though she could see the barest hint of anger in his eyes.
"Lord Tywin's offer still stands. Think it through, or he will look elsewhere for more agreeable lords. My brother is not known for his mercy, Ser." The thin form of Wylis Manderly clenched his teeth before bowing his head in resignation.
The Lannister Knight rode on to inspect his troops, and Arya sneaked around as she listened to the gossiping men. The army definitely was marching to Riverrun earlier, but apparently, something happened in the capital that forced Tywin Lannister to send his brother back to Harrenhal. Arya had entertained the idea of escaping the lightly defended castle, but with a thousand more men defending the castle, that would be difficult.
Arya continued to listen to the troops before finally she got a tapestry formed in her mind of what happened, and she couldn't help but feel ecstatic. Sansa had somehow escaped from the Lannisters and some sort of disaster struck the city, felling its walls. That knowledge galvanized her and made her blood boil in excitement. If her Lady-like sister could escape from the Lannisters, why couldn't she?
New plans will have to be made, and her eyes fell on the form of Ser Wylis Manderly being led back to his comfortable cell. There were many Northmen held captive, not enough to form any kind of threat, but if she were to escape, Arya would need as big a distraction as possible and hopefully release her brother's bannermen in the process.
The She-Wolf cut the connection to the cat and woke up with a wolfish grin; new plans could be made, and she still had the two names that Jaqen had promised. She scowled at the thought, she should have used it on Tywin Lannister instead of some no-name fool. Where was that killer when she needed him? It didn't matter; Tywin Lannister was beyond her now, but Arya had a long list of names.
3rd day of the 7th moon,
Small council chambers,
The Hand of the King.
The youngest son of Tywin Lannister stared at the pouring rain crashing onto the glass windows. When the king had complained about the unexpected rain, the Grandmaester had explained that due to the sudden heat of the wildfire, the hot winds had brought the cold winds of a nearby rainstorm. The old councilor was dozing off in his seat next to the Spider and across from his sister, and Tyrion scowled at the sight. It still irked him when he reported his findings to his father regarding Pycelle's involvement with Jon Arryn's murder, but Tywin Lannister insisted not to imprison the old lecher, for he provided valuable information from the Citadel that even Varys would not be capable of acquiring.
"…mostly under control, with the storm forcing most rioters off the streets. Many have fled the city after the wildfire explosion." Tyrion gulped his wine as he idly listened to Bywater's report. With the lack of a Master of Laws, most of the duties of the position fell on the newly appointed commander of the city watch. Even then, Ironhand was not allowed to sit alongside the small council, despite being a noble.
"Who cares about those filthy traitors? The less rats in my city, the better!" Joffrey was still pale and lacked his usual petulant assertiveness. The boy king had confined himself inside Maegor's Holdfast, refusing to step outside until all the traitors were gone, but he seemed specifically scared of the storm. Tyrion had thought he would get some peace, but his nephew insisted on attending these meetings, though now the towering form of the Hound and half a dozen other guards always accompanied him in addition to the white cloaks.
It was a shock when the younger Clegane made it back to the keep, battered and missing his left eye but alive, with Tyrek Lannister and Lollys Stokeworth in tow. The scarred man was beyond pissed over the theft of his horse and cursed anyone who asked how he survived. His cousin Tyrek was happy to elucidate as he and the Hound found themselves fighting their way out of the mob, but not before stumbling on the Stokeworth woman held by the rabble behind a tanner's shop. Tyrek had insisted on saving her because it was the chivalrous thing to do and was promptly knighted for his valor, yet the Hound looked ready to vomit blood when offered the same.
The loss of Preston Greenfield could already be felt as the order had dwindled to just three: Mandon Moore, Meryn Trant, and Boros Blount. Technically, the Hound was also one, but he refused to wear the cloak. Attempts to recruit replacements were stifled by the lack of good prospects; many nobles had been missing since the riots, and no one knew if they were dead or had just chosen to flee from the city rather than face Stannis' impending siege.
Speaking of his cousin, Tyrion laughed inwardly when Joffrey had taken Tyrek to join his personal guard. Judging by the boy's unsteady stance by the wall, he was not yet accustomed to the long hours of doing nothing expected of the guards.
"Well, the fewer hands in the city to work, the slower we can plug that gap in the city walls somehow," The Grandmaester coughed a few times as he leaned on his armchair. The old lecher was quite disturbed a couple of days ago at the tale of that massive wave and the ensuing explosion but had seemingly returned to normal.
"Fewer fools to riot and mouths to feed, too," Varys pointed out. "Although this can impact the customs and tariffs that can be levied."
"Copper counting is for fools," Joffrey scoffed.
"Wise words, Your Grace, but coin is still necessary to keep the city running. It's needed to pay the guards, ensure you get the finest food, and commission repairs and projects to show your grandeur." As always, the eunuch's titter made his skin crawl. Did Varys have to always keep up with the damned mummer's farce?
"Any word from my father, Grandmaester?" Tyrion had sent a raven to Harrenhal right after the debacle and had expected a reply by yesterday morning. Hopefully, he caught Tywin and his army before they departed for Riverrun.
"Ehm. The raven arrived in the morn. The birds fare badly in such tumultuous weather. Let's see here," Tyrion stifled a groan as the doddering old fool seemed more intent on playing his act than usual. Pycelle continued to fumble with his rolls of parchment until he finally found what he was looking for. "Ah, here. It's short and concise as would be expected of Lord Tywin–"
"Before we die from old age, Grandmaester." Tyrion ignored the offended look of the old fool as he took a swig from his goblet, idly wishing he was in his manse with Shae between his legs. The last thing he needed was to hear his drowsy prattling.
"Don't keep us waiting, Grandmaester." Cersei's scowl finally had the old man stop with his dawdling.
"Sending reinforcements. Hire troops and rebuild defenses posthaste. If incapable, evacuate the king and his brother to a safe castle of your choosing. The Hand has full authority but must hold the city."
"I will not run away from my castle!" Joffrey smacked the table with his fist, sounding more petulant than anything. Tyrion ignored him as his mother and the other counselors worked on convincing his nephew of the necessity of retreating to fight another day.
"Ser Jacelyn, report on the damages to the city and the city guard." The imp was busy gulping his wine before refilling his goblet. His father had more or less signed his execution. Maiden's teats, how would he defend the city with no fleet, a breach, and few men?
"The port facilities are gone, completely wiped out, along with the ferries, all the shipyards, and the dry docks." The man's bluntness would be popular in the North or the Wall, but judging by the grimaces on everyone's faces, not so much here. "Aside from the gaping hole in the wall, Fishmonger Square has turned into a flooded pit, some shops on the Street of Steel were destroyed from falling debris, and nearly half of the buildings on River Row are gone."
"Who cares about the damn peasants," Joffrey's grating voice broke the somber silence in the chamber. "What about my army?"
"What army, Your Grace? The City watch?" Tyrion scoffed as the last drops of the pitcher spluttered weakly in his cup.
"Yes, yes, them. If I will have my uncle's head, I will need my own, personal army. No more depending on traitors to give me troops." The boy was barking mad, though Tyrion wondered if that wasn't such a bad idea. Having your personal standing army was done before in the east to great success, but the expenses would make even his father balk, especially in times of peace where there was no promise of loot.
"A hundred of my men, along with the score of red cloaks stationed by the gatehouse, are dead." The one-handed knight replied stiffly. It might be a large loss for the City watch, but most of the dead were still poorly equipped and ill-trained townsfolk, and finding replacements would be simple enough. The red cloaks' loss would be felt more, and he regretted sending most of them with Vylarr to Riverrun as Cleos Frey's escort. The few that remained in the city were now all dead.
"And the smallfolk? How many have died in this tragedy?" Everyone looked at Varys with some befuddlement; why was the foolish eunuch still speaking such drivel?
Jacelyn Bywater's face grew even grimmer. "We've found over five thousand corpses so far. It's hard to give any numbers; digging through the wreckage and the flooded streets is impeded by the unceasing rain. If any sailors, fishermen, or shipwrights survived, they have long fled the city by now."
Well, it seemed like his plans were ruined for good. No new ideas on how to deal with Stannis' fleet came to his mind, especially with no ships of his own. What had Wisdom Hallyne said earlier? Two hundred jars of green piss were found under the Great Sept. Probably, a similar cache had resided under the River Gate to obliterate tons of solid stone with such ease. Tyrion couldn't help but wonder if there was more green piss hidden around the city for some reason, and who would be mad enough to do a folly so big?
"Lord Varys, have you finally uncovered the identity of that wretch who spirited away our dear Sansa Stark?"
"Spirited?" Tyrion snorted, "It's a tragic love story of elopement with a hedge knight from a cruel tyrant if you go by what the bards say."
"I will have their tongues. All of them." Cersei stared coldly at Bywater until he reluctantly nodded. "Slandering their king is treason, and Sansa Stark was treated as befitting of her station."
"Dear sister, you had her entire household put to the sword, and the girl was stripped and beaten before the whole royal court by the Kingsguard, making a mockery of the knightly order." Tyrion smiled at the increasingly red faces of his sister and her son. "Many said nothing but still had eyes to see. Unless you could rip off the tongues of all those who are now out of the city, the word will spread to the four winds"
"Not everyone is a traitor to speak ill of their king," Cersei scoffed dismissively. Tyrion just shrugged; nothing mattered as long as they won at the end. "Spider?"
"Yes, yes, tell us eunuch. Who was that brigand daring to abscond with my accursed betrothed?" Joffrey's face alternated between angry and terrified. The last word seemed to send the young king into some sort of frenzy; gone was the toy that could be beaten on a whim, replaced with a fearsome witch. Worse, Tyrion wasn't sure if he could even dispute Joffrey's theory; anyone who knew what had caused the wave was dead from the flood or the wildfire.
Everyone looked expectantly at the eunuch, who wore the same kind, harmless smile he always did. The same question had been asked yesterday, but Varys had begged off more time to investigate, "Even a skilled cook cannot roast fish before catching it, Your Grace. My little birds hear many a song, yet it is difficult to know what truly happened in the chaos."
"So you don't know anything?" Joffrey's brow scrunched up with displeasure, making the Spider bow deeply.
"Oh, I know plenty, Your Grace. Rather, it's all tales, each more fanciful than the last. From a rogue red cloak scorned by Your Grace to the Warrior himself coming to claim the girl. The remains of the King's Justice were found in one of the alleys, along with one of the Kettleblack brothers. The small folk seemed busy cutting them for their pots of brown, I fear." Tyrion's eyebrow twitched; That explained how Ice found its way to Sansa Stark's possession. To think he had wasted so much coin on those foolish brothers – the youngest Kettleblack brother had disappeared in the night with the rest of his brothers' gold. "The loudest of the songs say that Sansa Stark was… kidnapped by a tall, powerful man with hair black as coal and stormy green eyes. Others sing of his prowess with a blade."
"Lone man slicing a hail of arrows before charging through a platoon of spearmen is quite hard to miss." Tyrion acquiesced, "What of it?"
"The likeness to Renly Baratheon is quite strong."
For a moment, the council chambers grew quiet as the words sank in before a fist smacked on the table. "You said my uncle is dead!"
"I believe he is, yet I confess to have not seen the corpse. Dreadful affair. Dear me, kinslaying of all things. Yet even a sorcerer cannot be in many places at the same time, Your Grace."
"What use are you then, Varys?" Cersei stared at the eunuch.
"Your Grace, I am a master of whispers, not the arcane! Words and hearsay are my trade. There is little doubt that Renly Baratheon is dead, yet he is far from the only one with such looks. Our good king Robert spread his seed far and wide."
"You mean a bastard half-brother of mine dared to abscond with my bride?!" Joffrey's pale face was flushed with pulsing veins on his forehead. It was as if he had forgotten about his fear of the witch.
"Indeed." Varys clasped his soft hand with a flourish. "Your uncle Renly had a penchant for gathering Robert's bastards. Sansa Stark is the key to the North, and he doubtlessly knew that. If she could be spirited away and be wed to Willas Tyrell, Renly could attempt to pull the North and the Riverlands by his side-"
At that moment, Tyrion realized the Spider had no idea what was truly going on. The eunuch's demeanor was slightly more tense despite his usual act, and there were too many… inconsistencies. If Varys had known all of that before the riots, then why didn't he inform them or disrupt the kidnapping in the first place? Yet, Tyrion had bigger problems than exposing the only councilor who had been nothing but helpful to him.
This meeting had already dragged on enough as it was, but he would have a talk with the Eunuch.
"Bah, it doesn't matter. I want all of their heads on a spike. Write to my grandfather, Imp!" Joffrey stood up and hastily fled the chambers, followed by his gaggle of guardsmen. By the time Tyrion had put his goblet down, Varys had also left. Cursing his short legs and the councilor's impatience, the Imp hurried out, too.
Entering the crowded throne room, Tyrion was stopped by the queer scene of the rest of the counselors looking at a soaking-wet guard. Varys was nowhere to be seen.
"A fleet has been sighted."
.
.
.
It seemed that misfortune had taken a liking to their cause. Tyrion knew something was wrong when Myrcella's escort had returned so early, led by the downcast Ser Arys Oakheart.
Worse, when the grudging words started coming from the knight, Tyrion could only groan with exasperation. It was as if the gods themselves had decided to abandon their cause. And what a tale it was! An hour passed as the councilors listened to a truly mythical tale that could only belong to the Age of Heroes.
"You allowed your princess to be kidnapped by some sorcerer under the command of Sansa Stark?" Tyrion had always prided himself on his wits and calmness, but this was too much.
"It is, and shall always be, my greatest failure and dishonor, and no words would ever absolve me of it." Ser Arys' head remained bowed in shame, yet he raised his hands, showing his dented gauntlets. The dents looked as if someone with inhuman strength had squeezed them, leaving their finger imprints on the castle-forged steel. "Yet no words could ever describe the sheer power and magic the devil wielded. Three hundred of us couldn't even put a scratch on him, and that was before he threatened to drown us all if the Princess did not surrender herself to him. The merciful Princess Myrcella ordered us to stand down before surrendering to the fiend, just as Sansa Stark came with her own ship."
"I told you!" Joffrey shouted from his tapered seat, his wild eyes looking fearfully at the shadows as he shook in his seat. "I told you the damn witch would come for us!"
"I fear that sorcerer more than any tales of that feeble girl being a witch," Cersei growled between gritted teeth. His sister had nearly collapsed when the white cloak first announced the kidnapping of her daughter, but her shock slowly turned into rage.
"Don't you get it, mother?! That sorcerer was under the thrall of that witch. What more proof do you want?"
His nephew's surprising clarity gave them pause. Tyrion had to admit that it was far more impressive for the Stark girl to take such a powerful man under her thrall than any tale of her moving rivers or seas. More feasible, too, as he would admit that no man could resist the temptations of a woman, especially one with Sansa Stark's beauty. Even now, the Imp's mind drifted to the girl's womanly curves that would probably blossom even further, considering her mother. He truly ached for Shae still waiting for him in that manse.
Shaking his head, he wondered when Sansa ever got the chance to enthrall such a sorcerer? If she truly had such powers, then why didn't she use them before?
"Magic has been gone for hundreds of years, not since the death of the last dragon!" The Grandmaester insisted with surprising steel in his words, his feeble act forgotten.
"Well, how would you explain the sudden flash flood that drowned our harbor?" Tyrion scoffed, wishing he had more wine, but he had already finished the decanter an hour ago, and the servant had yet to return with another.
"This could very well have been a freak act of nature and–"
"The river rose a hundred feet inland all of a sudden, before climbing the walls to drag the men from them, Grandmaester. Just because you were in the privy and did not witness it does not mean we are all delirious." Tyrion growled, and he was surprised when his sister and nephew nodded along, glaring at the old man.
"B-but still–"
"The sea rose with that man's hand. Three hundred men would attest to my claim." Ser Arys asserted, the sailors behind him nodding, their eyes wide and their fear clear.
The Grandmaester opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again before letting out such a sad and tired sigh that the Imp almost felt bad for him. Almost.
"What happened after my niece surrendered?"
"The Stark girl bid her and her handmaid join them on their ship. The sorcerer had everyone on the Swiftwind, and the Crimson Gale moved to the Boldwind before magicking the empty ships to follow him. All three ships then sailed away, and the fog dissipated, freeing the rest of the fleet lost in it."
"That harlot stole my daughter's dowry?" Cersei shook in her seat from the sheer rage before turning to him, "This is your fault for sending Myrcella to Dorne in the first place!"
"Father approved. You were the one who insisted on packing such a costly dowry when the royal coffers were empty." The shortest son of Tywin Lannister shrugged and grabbed a newly arrived decanter, pouring wine into his goblet. "What do you know about this sorcerer?"
"He said his name was Perseus." The strange name gave them pause, with Pycelle stroking his beard in interest.
"Grandmaester?"
"It is a strange name indeed. Could be either Valyrian or Rhoynish, maybe even Ghiscari. What did he look like again?"
"About my height with a powerful physique that spoke of years of training. Sun-kissed skin that wouldn't be out of place on a Marcher with green eyes a bit darker than His Grace, and hair as black as the night sky. He was also young, no older than six and ten."
They stared at each other, the description mostly matching Varys' claim, but something was off. "What about his character?"
"Despite his prowess, he seemed hesitant to kill. Surrender was offered more than once. The sorcerer only killed five men after we peppered him with crossbow bolts. Not that it did any good, he simply snatched the bolts before they struck him or swatted them away with his sword like one would swat a fly." The reverence in the knight's words was heavy. "Perseus spoke in a queer dialect and was clearly not highborn. He did not act like one nor speak like one. He asked the sailors many questions regarding the kingdoms as we moved ships."
"What sort of questions?" Tyrion leaned forward on his high seat.
"The gods and tales of legend, specifically the Storm God of the Ironborn and the Sea God of the Stormlands. He let slip he had never been in Westeros and was particularly interested in questioning the Stormlanders about their home."
The Imp clenched his teeth. He already knew Varys was spewing horseshit, but now the rest of the council had reached a similar realization. If the master of whispers was telling the truth, and he seemed overly confident about it, then why would the sorcerer be asking about the kingdom he was supposedly born in? There went his chance to repay the Eunuch for the favors he owed him.
"Where is the Spider?" His sister barked at the guards, who remained silent.
"Probably out of the city by now. I always told His Grace the Spider served nobody but himself." Pycelle coughed feebly, looking the harmless old man again.
"My Master of Whispers lied to me? All that drivel about a half-brother acting against me was a lie?" Joffrey's face turned a shade of puce.
"Apparently so, Your Grace."
"I want Varys' head on a spike!" Joffrey slammed both fists on the oak table, his face so red he looked like a lobster. "I want all the Starks dead, and that sorcerer as well!"
"You heard the king, Grandmaester." Cersei clenched the arms of her chair tightly, "I want ravens sent immediately to all corners of the land, from Sunspear to the Wall! Sansa Stark is a traitor, practicing the vilest of witchcraft to incite unrest and collude with slavers. Kidnapping a royal princess, human sacrifice, blood magick… Half a hundred thousand dragons for her head and that of her pet sorcerer. Twice as much should they be brought alive and a lordship with the promise of a highborn bride."
"And a hundred thousand Dragons for the return of the princess." Tyrion stared incredulously at his sister's wide eyes as she nodded hesitantly. To think she would forget about her daughter in a fit of rage…
The Grandmaester turned to Joffrey, who nodded imperiously. Excusing himself with a deep bow, the old lecher hastily left the rooms with surprising vigor.
"Ser Arys." His nephew looked at the kneeling white cloak as if he was a maggot. "I shall have no cravens in my kingsguard-"
"Perhaps… give him a chance to prove himself, Your Grace," Tyrion hastily interrupted. "Every sword would matter in the city's defense, and I am sure Ser Arys would want a chance to redeem himself from his failure. Let the whole realm know that Joffrey Baratheon is a just and merciful king, just like his father!"
Joffrey's face was scrunched up as if the mere idea of mercy galled him, yet his mother whispered furiously in his ear until he finally nodded.
"Fine. You shall be placed under the Imp's command as he holds the city."
The Oakheart knight immediately knelt again, head bowed deeply, "You honor me with your mercy, Your Grace. Lord Hand."
Another problem averted, Tyrion finally left to meet with the Wisdom, newly recruited guard in tow. Cersei left for her little games with the ladies in court, or mayhaps to meet with one of her boy toys, while the Hand still had more work to do. Tyrion had entertained the idea of politicking behind his sister's back and sending Tommen to a different castle but dismissed it quickly. Joffrey and Tommen would remain in the city unless an attack by Stannis was imminent. Even then, their evacuation would be done in complete secret, though he wondered if the troops would fight as valiantly without their king. As the thoughts swirled in his mind, his gaze trailed towards the blonde head of his cousin, Tyrek. While not as handsome as his nephew, they were both of the same height and with similar features. Tyrek trained far harder than Joffrey, of course. A plan began to form in his mind.
Shaking his head, Tyrion focused on the present. With Varys gone, Tyrion would need to send spies to see what Stannis was up to, or mayhaps follow his father's advice and have Pycelle communicate more with his fellow maesters for information. The Grandmaester would not be able to refuse him thanks to the leverage he held over him. Shagga and his men would have to do for now, and perhaps those poachers that his nephew wanted to be tortured? Surely, a new lease on life would buy their loyalty. Stannis would need time to take Storm's End before marching to King's Landing, which would hopefully give Tyrion a couple of moons to get things moving.
He still needed to find a nearby port for the damaged fleet to dock, though he could probably use the sailors elsewhere. So much to do, but hopefully, fortune would finally smile on his efforts.
Tyrion scoffed to himself, his kin had dragged the realm into war, and the gods had always been a bunch of mercurial cunts. Otherwise, why would someone like him be cursed at birth?
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.
.
The day was finally over, and Tyrion whistled a jaunty tone as he made his way to the manse near the Iron Gates, accompanied by his new guard. Bronn was sent to recruit more sellswords and begin his budding spy network, and the white cloak was more than enough to discourage any foolish or hungry beggar. Ser Arys Oakheart kept his attire, but the man had a morose frown on his face. The imp offered him a night at the brothels, but the young kingsguard's stiff rejection had him shrug; the white cloak was welcome to wait outside his rooms as he had Shae screaming with pleasure.
The manse and its guards were all provided by Varys, which made Tyrion wonder what happened to the Eunuch. Surely, he wouldn't truly abandon decades of service for one mistake? Joffrey and Cersei might have called for his head, but the Spider was much more resourceful than people believed. The Hand of the King was certain Varys would reappear when the crown most needed his talents and offer them something of great value in return for a pardon.
Arriving at the manse, Ser Arys placed a hand on the dwarf's shoulder. "Something is not right."
Tyrion quirked his head as he looked closer at the gates. The rain had finally abated, yet the sky was still overcast, and the darkness of the evening made it difficult to see properly. "What is it?"
"You said there were many servants and guards in that manse?"
"Aye, about a dozen guards and half of that in servants."
"Then why is the manse completely dark? It's not yet the hour of the eel, yet I do not see a single candle, lantern, or movement."
Tyrion's heart beat like a drum, and he moved to the gates, but Ser Arys held him back. Glaring at the kingsguard, he froze when the white cloak unsheathed his sword, his eyes hardening under his helmet.
"Stay behind me, Lord Hand."
The Lord Hand regretted not having a larger escort, but this side of the city had not seen any rioting and was the furthest from the River Gate. It was also where the more affluent merchants lived, and despite Fleabottom being near it, the city watch would usually patrol these streets for no reason other than the donations they would get from the merchants.
They reached the manse's gate, finding it unlocked, and Tyrion started feeling a tinge of worry. Walking to the slightly ajar door, Ser Arys motioned for silence as he grabbed a discarded broom and took off his helmet. Then, he hung the helmet at the end of the broom and slowly edged it through the door as if it were his head.
A mace landed heavily on the helmet, crushing it to the floor, and Ser Arys instantly kicked the door and charged in. Tyrion could do nothing but hide behind a column as the sounds of steel clashing and broken furniture echoed out in the manse. Curses and pleas for mercy were ignored as, with a final squelching sound, silence.
Wondering if the white cloak was dead, Tyrion hesitated to check on him or flee. His decision was taken from him when the door slowly opened, and the grim visage of Arys Oakheart greeted him. The Kingsguard was covered in blood, with his armor missing some of its filigrees and the plate scratched and dented. Yet, he stood steadily as he wiped his bloody sword on a rag.
"It is safe now, Lord Hand."
They entered the manse, the white cloak at the front, lit lantern in hand. The foyer of the manse was strewn with corpses, and the smell of shit and blood had him gagging. All of the corpses were the guards gifted by Varys. Dread filled his heart.
"Shae?"
Ser Arys shook his head. "I'm sorry, my lord. I found them in the kitchens, but…"
Tyrion followed his guard in a daze as they entered the kitchens, finding his mistress with the servants he hired, naked and undoubtedly dead with their throats slit. The white bird he gifted her, plucked clean on a counter, and the Imp felt like his world was spinning. His instinctual thought was to blame Cersei, but he quickly realized only one man could have planned his assassination.
Why?!
A*H*M
Unknown time,
Harrenhal,
"Arry"
She ran through the woods chasing her quarry, a strange black and white horse. Its rider had made a mistake when it killed one of her own, and now, the beast chased the group of two legs. Seven had dwindled down to one after the hunter of her pack abandoned his own pack mates to survive. With a lunge, a single swipe of her paws tore through the leg, sending the steed sprawling on the ground, with the pack tearing at the horseflesh. The two legs that smelled of goat shook himself and tried to run. Nymeria pounced, bit through the cold, crunchy rings, and tore out his throat.
Once her prey had stopped twitching, she let go and howled victoriously at the moon. Tearing away the cold metal, she had a proper feast on the innards. Once satisfied, she made her way to the nearby stream. After drinking, Nymeria stared at her reflection, a glint of silver flashed in her yellow eyes. Her two-legged littermate was with her again; she could feel her at the back of her mind now.
.
.
.
Arya awoke, the taste of blood and raw flesh fresh on her tongue. The dreams she shared with Nymeria had become even more vivid lately. The bedtime tales of wargs and skinchangers that Old Nan spoke of turned out to be as true as the sun. Mayhaps due to the cursed castle? Or the God's Eye? Nymeria had oft dragged her in her dreams so they could hunt together; This time, their prey was not a stag or a doe, but a human. Vargo Hoat was running away from men with a red stallion on their banners, and the direwolf had held a grudge against the sellsword for killing a member of her pack.
The girl stood up from her bed of straws and stretched, ignoring the sleeping figures around her. It was still nighttime, but she could hear activity in the castle. Sneakily looking through a hole in the masonry, she found many soldiers forming ranks by the main gate. Her eyes narrowed as she found the regal form of Kevan Lannister on his destrier, talking to that fiend, Amory Lorch. What was the Lannister Knight doing here? He had left nearly a sennight ago with his lordly brother, but now he was back?
A cat was lounging nearby, and Arya stared at it intently, trying to force herself into its skin. She had succeeded with mice and other small animals in the past few days, but a cat would be the largest animal aside from Nymeria she would slip into. Suddenly, the cat turned to her, and Arya was looking at her thin, malnourished form slumping back into her straw bed. She worried as she looked at her form, for despite being thin, Arya had flowered, and her body had started to show she wasn't actually a boy. Cutting her hair could only do so much, as her face turned soft girly, yet at least she didn't have to worry about her teats ballooning like Sansa. Still, she grinned at her success, her feline lips stretching. The cat's body was agile as she stalked through the thousands of troops in the castle's expansive yards before stopping near the horse holding the Lannister Knight.
"… hold the castle at all costs. I am leaving a thousand men under your command, and my brother expects you to continue training the levies that the Riverlords send."
"Of course, my lord." Lorch lowered his head to the lesser lion, who nodded before turning to the no longer fat form of the heir of White Harbor. Arya had seen him multiple times, but it took her some time to recognize him from his last visit to Winterfell.
"Ser Wylis, we have treated you well as my brother's prisoner."
"Aye, you have, my lord." Wylis Manderly nodded, though she could see the barest hint of anger in his eyes.
"Lord Tywin's offer still stands. Think it through, or he will look elsewhere for more agreeable lords. My brother is not known for his mercy, Ser." The thin form of Wylis Manderly clenched his teeth before bowing his head in resignation.
The Lannister Knight rode on to inspect his troops, and Arya sneaked around as she listened to the gossiping men. The army definitely was marching to Riverrun earlier, but apparently, something happened in the capital that forced Tywin Lannister to send his brother back to Harrenhal. Arya had entertained the idea of escaping the lightly defended castle, but with a thousand more men defending the castle, that would be difficult.
Arya continued to listen to the troops before finally she got a tapestry formed in her mind of what happened, and she couldn't help but feel ecstatic. Sansa had somehow escaped from the Lannisters and some sort of disaster struck the city, felling its walls. That knowledge galvanized her and made her blood boil in excitement. If her Lady-like sister could escape from the Lannisters, why couldn't she?
New plans will have to be made, and her eyes fell on the form of Ser Wylis Manderly being led back to his comfortable cell. There were many Northmen held captive, not enough to form any kind of threat, but if she were to escape, Arya would need as big a distraction as possible and hopefully release her brother's bannermen in the process.
The She-Wolf cut the connection to the cat and woke up with a wolfish grin; new plans could be made, and she still had the two names that Jaqen had promised. She scowled at the thought, she should have used it on Tywin Lannister instead of some no-name fool. Where was that killer when she needed him? It didn't matter; Tywin Lannister was beyond her now, but Arya had a long list of names.
One of the few 'pre-Percy's arrival' changes that I made to the story to make sense and flow better. Pycelle was not imprisoned since he is too high profile for Tyrion to act alone. Yes, as Hand of the King he has the authority to do it, but it is known that Tywin is the true Hand, and in this case, Tyrion opted to be on the side of caution and asked from permission from Daddy Dearest first.
News takes a long time to travel, even with ravens, as you can only put so many words in a tiny raven scroll. With the walls breached and no port facilities, King's Landing is ripe for the taking… if Joffrey's enemies knew the full details.
Varys is a victim of his own success. A disliked foreigner who never bothered to create actual allies but only opportune ones… I have no idea how such a creature managed to survive Aerys' downfall. When put on the spot as to why he could not predict Percy's presence, he does what anyone in his place would do. Bullshit your way out of the situation, fake it till you make it, and hopefully they will forget about it. Tyrion might have caught him, but he owes Varys a lot, and the Imp had made too many enemies as well. Varys would have gotten away with it if not for Arys Oakheart ruining his day twice.
As for why Varys would kill Shae and try to kill Tyrion; for the former, think of it as tying up loose ends and him growing careless and panicky, while for the latter that's a bit spoilery. He did not expect a kingsguard to be protecting Tyrion, especially after all the times he inflamed the conflict between the Lannister siblings.
We get an Arya segment. 12-year-old Arya would naturally be more mature and observant than her 10-year-old counterpart. Tywin should never have left Harrenhal undefended, especially not have some sellswords garrison it! Mercenaries are the worst kind of defenders you could think of. Here, he is committed to protecting the only castle he has taken in the Riverlands. Yes, he did not attack a single castle, for that is the only way to explain his blitzkrieg campaign. As a result, some Riverlords pledged to him instead of Edmure, and we shall see how divided the Riverlands truly are.
More will be explained next chapter.
If you would like to read four chapters ahead, or just support me, then feel free to join me on Patr(eo)n under the same pen name.
News takes a long time to travel, even with ravens, as you can only put so many words in a tiny raven scroll. With the walls breached and no port facilities, King's Landing is ripe for the taking… if Joffrey's enemies knew the full details.
Varys is a victim of his own success. A disliked foreigner who never bothered to create actual allies but only opportune ones… I have no idea how such a creature managed to survive Aerys' downfall. When put on the spot as to why he could not predict Percy's presence, he does what anyone in his place would do. Bullshit your way out of the situation, fake it till you make it, and hopefully they will forget about it. Tyrion might have caught him, but he owes Varys a lot, and the Imp had made too many enemies as well. Varys would have gotten away with it if not for Arys Oakheart ruining his day twice.
As for why Varys would kill Shae and try to kill Tyrion; for the former, think of it as tying up loose ends and him growing careless and panicky, while for the latter that's a bit spoilery. He did not expect a kingsguard to be protecting Tyrion, especially after all the times he inflamed the conflict between the Lannister siblings.
We get an Arya segment. 12-year-old Arya would naturally be more mature and observant than her 10-year-old counterpart. Tywin should never have left Harrenhal undefended, especially not have some sellswords garrison it! Mercenaries are the worst kind of defenders you could think of. Here, he is committed to protecting the only castle he has taken in the Riverlands. Yes, he did not attack a single castle, for that is the only way to explain his blitzkrieg campaign. As a result, some Riverlords pledged to him instead of Edmure, and we shall see how divided the Riverlands truly are.
More will be explained next chapter.
If you would like to read four chapters ahead, or just support me, then feel free to join me on Patr(eo)n under the same pen name.
Chapter 6 (Family Matters)
Starting from this chapter, POVs will not be chronically accurate. I might start the chapter with a character POV and end it with another that is a few days earlier.
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
17th day of the 7th moon.
Riverrun.
Edmure
"Tywin Lannister is marching south? Not here?"
"Aye, he isn't even bothering to loot or burn and is force-marching his army like the hounds of hell are behind him." Martyn Rivers, commander of his outriders, reported as Edmure stood by a window of his solar overlooking the war camp outside his castle. It was the same camp the Lannisters had built for their siege, but now the Riverlanders had turned it into a walled town dedicated to training the levies. A few of his friends and lords were with him when Martyn arrived with some of his riders from the east.
"Strange." Edmure idly tapped the window sill, "A sennight ago, his outriders were chased away by Bracken near Stone Hedge. What could possibly have him change course and head south of all places? Renly Baratheon is dead, and I doubt the Tyrells would be raring for a fight with no king to rally behind."
"Mayhaps that's the point?"
Edmure turned to Tytos Blackwood, seated on a couch with his magnificent raven-feather cloak spread on the armrest. He was one of the few lords staying in Riverrun with the bulk of his troops, as his castle and lands had remained unharmed from the war due to their location between the Blue and Red Forks. "As you all know, Tywin Lannister's lightning-quick campaign in our lands had been devastating to the smallfolk, yet he dared not attack any of the castles, fearing getting bogged down in a siege. Especially after the disaster that was the Kingslayer's siege of Riverrun."
Many nods and chuckles sounded out as they remembered Jaime Lannister's fate as he lounged in a comfortable cell in one of the castle's towers, treated well for one of his station, yet not allowed to exercise in the yard. Edmure, however, frowned inwardly, for it was a reminder of his foolishness and recklessness to crave glory instead of victory. "Aye, but that also showed some of my lords' colors."
His friends Karyl Vance and Marq Piper scowled at the reminder. Maidenpool surrendered without a fight once Tywin Lannister accepted Harrenhal's surrender, followed shortly by Goodbrook. The cunning lion had perfectly used the carrot and the stick by burning and trampling their fields, thus forcing the smallfolk to retreat to their lords' castles with tales of horror and butchery by the Mountain and his men. Many of those castles were well stocked from the years of summer and could easily hold back a siege for years, but with thousands of smallfolk sheltering in or around them, that number would be cut back drastically. Edmure himself was guilty of that, but if that was the price he had to pay to take care of his people, then so be it.
Lord Tywin was also careful with the treatment of the noble captives, as Robb had received letters from the Northern prisoners in Harrenhal speaking of their good treatment. Whether they were true or not, it had worked as word spread that Tywin Lannister would accept anyone who would bend the knee, with young Lyman Darry following through once the Mountain's troops were sighted a day's ride from his castle. Even though that same monster had killed the young lordling's father, fear was a strong motivator, as the former Targaryen loyalist House pledged their meager forces to the bastard king on the Iron Throne.
All Riverlands Houses east of Stone Hedge and south of the Crossroads had surrendered to the King's Peace and joined their forces with Tywin Lannister's army, swelling his numbers to twenty-five thousand. Yet, those numbers meant little as they were poorly trained compared to the Westerlanders. The Lannister Lord cared more about the supplies surrendered from those keeps that would allow him to campaign for longer and further away from his main base of Harrenhal without wasting time to forage.
"Despite the few losses we suffered, many of the Riverlords could easily muster a large number of troops if we were allowed the time to rally the smallfolk into levies and train them. All we need are a few moons to train enough levies into spearmen that would hold the line against the Lannister horse, yet with Tywin's foragers running rampant, that has proven difficult." Tytos continued, causing Edmure and his friends to nod along.
"It's also why I sent Jonos to his lands to recruit his fabled horsemen from the many holdfasts they are garrisoned in. They have done well so far in beating back those sellswords. Tywin unleashing the Bloody Mummers as his outriders but not deigning to let them know of his change in plans worked well for us." At the mention of his rival, the lord of Raventree Hall narrowed his eyes but shrugged. The infamous enmity of the two houses was legendary, but it spoke of the common disdain the Rivermen had for the Lannisters that the two lords seemed to tolerate each other more in favor of bloodying the lion instead.
"Aye, that blustering fool does know how to ride, I suppose." Or maybe Edmure was being too optimistic. "And no one would trust a sellsword company not to switch sides. Those glorified bandits are scum that need to be put down. Regardless, with Tywin abandoning his march here, it is clear that something grave had happened in the Crownlands. Something that would make him desperate enough to seek more allies despite being in a current position of strength."
"We did send an envoy to Lysa in the Vale, and I heard tell some Vale lords were already mustering." Edmure scratched his growing beard as he remembered the last reports they received from some distant relatives of the lords in the region, though he was upset with his sister's silence. Who would have thought the ladies of the realms gossiped so much using their castle's ravens and that Tytos' Redfort wife kept in communication with her maiden house? Edmure had hurriedly asked his bannermen to request their wives to gather information from any family from the rest of the realm. "Last I've heard from Cat, she was returning through the Gold Road after Renly's death, but Stannis should still be sieging Storm's End. Even if he took it today, he would need at least a moon to march to King's Landing."
Suddenly, Edmure's eyes widened as a worrying thought came to him. He turned to Lord Blackwood, who nodded knowingly. "With Renly dead, the Tyrells suddenly find themselves with the most valuable bride in the realm as well as a hundred thousand swords doing nothing but eating their stores. There is no doubt in my mind that Tywin Lannister is rushing with his troops to meet with the Reach force in Bitterbridge."
"I recall the Northmen under Bolton reporting plenty of ravens flying south from Harrenhal over the past sennight." Martyn Rivers accepted the wine goblet Edmure poured for him gratefully, taking a generous gulp. The Frey bastard had done well in commanding his outriders instead of his uncle, the Blackfish, who had joined Robb in the west.
"So the Lannisters aim to ally with the Tyrells? While worrying, it is still not like the old lion to rush himself for an alliance instead of sending an envoy." Jason Mallister, who had remained silent so far, added. "It would make him look weak. I wonder what had spooked the Lion Lord so much? Regardless, I'm more worried about the Ironborn. Has there been any news from the Greyjoy boy?"
Edmure shook his head. The silence from the Iron Islands was worrisome, with no news coming from the North either. Riverrun only had ravens to Winterfell and White Harbor, and neither reported anything strange. Still, with Harrenhal lightly defended, relatively speaking, this would be their chance to retake it and secure the gateway to the east.
"Utherydes." His steward, sitting on a nearby desk sorting parchments and raven scrolls dropped by Maester Vyman, looked at him questioningly. "Write orders for Helman Tallhart to join Roose Bolton and besiege Harrenhal. The same orders for the Leech Lord, but they are not to storm the castle until we receive Robb's orders. I don't know what my nephew has planned, but he must be told of Tywin's movements. Where was he seen last?"
"The maester received a raven just now." Utherydes handed him a scroll with a direwolf's seal, and Edmure broke the wax to read its contents, a smile blooming on his face.
"What is it, Edmure?"
"Robb has taken Ashemark." The Heir of Riverrun told Karyl, and the rest of the room rejoiced at the news. "He also commands me to hold Riverrun, though I'm unsure what he means."
"It doesn't matter, I suggest writing a letter to His Grace posthaste."
"Indeed, do as Lord Blackwood suggests, Utherydes."
"Yes, my lord." The steward quickly scribbled the orders, showing them to Edmure to review, then left to have the maester send them.
"Martyn, you still have men shadowing Tywin's army, right?"
"Aye, they should be sending a report from Acorn Hall soon."
"Good. We shall wait for their report, but how about you get a night of rest? I believe we are missing the key mystery that would explain Tywin Lannister's sudden change in plans. A trip to the inns should answer that." Edmure grinned as he looked forward to a night or two of wenching for a change, and Martyn Rivers looked interested as well as honored to be offered such. Not many lords would deign to befriend bastards, but Edmure firmly believed in honoring those who showed merit.
"And naturally, I shall join you, good Ser." Marq, his closest friend, dragged Karyl along, but the now-married lord did not look as enthused.
"I shall see to the training of the levies." Tytos Blackwood sighed in disappointment, and Edmure felt a tinge of regret about it, but he really was seeking information and not just wenching. Not many people realize the amount of tongues that flapped in inns and taverns, and he might travel a bit further than usual to get the juiciest gossip from the Crownlands. Mayhaps the Inn of the Kneeling Man? With Tywin retreating south, Jonos bloodying the Mummers, and the Northmen controlling the Crossroads, more traders would sail up the Trident to the various towns along the rivers. Merchants always had tales to tell, and he had learned of a few brave merchants from the Vale who would be sailing in to rake a profit from his wartorn lands.
On his way to the stables, he nodded to Cleos Frey and the Lannister escort sent by the Imp discussing something in a corner. Their offer of a hostage exchange would be worthless once they liberated Harrenhal, but there was no need to let them know of the happenings of the realm. Edmure saw Lord Blackwood and his retinue departing for the war camp, where the levies recruited from all over the Riverlands were being trained. The workshops and smithies were working tirelessly to make weapons and arms for them; spears and war picks would be the best weapons for levies, along with crossbows.
"Ready to ride, men?" Edmure turned to his band of friends and about a dozen guards he picked along the way. The road along the Red Fork was safe, but he didn't plan to take it anyway. He used a river port near his castle frequently; it shouldn't take more than half a day to take a barge to the Inn.
"Aye!" Came the enthusiastic replies, and they rode out under the open portcullis and down the drawbridge, the guards on the walls too lazy with the past few moons of peace to notice their liege lord leaving the castle.
***
A day later,
Inn of the Kneeling Man
"Billy, bring us more ale. We have reason to celebrate!" Marq shouted over the clamor of the taproom. The inn was not as crowded as the last time he'd been here, but it would be expected considering the war. The Innkeep shouted something back with a nod, but they saw him preparing mugs on a tray.
"I think we've had enough drinks, we should make our way back to Riverrun." Edmure had fun over the past day but could not afford to stay away from his castle for too long with a war raging in the realm. A raven from Robb ought to have arrived as well.
"Just give it another hour or two, milord. We have a trader coming from Wickenden with a batch of beeswax, and he should be here soon." One of the drinking buddies he found, a merchant named Otho from the Saltpans, implored. "I hear he managed to secure passage through Maidenpool, and his brother was here last sennight saying the man had a friend in King's Landing during the riots and might have managed to return home. Imagine the tales he could share with us!"
Edmure was already ecstatic over his niece's escape from the city, even though there were too many conflicting stories on how she did it. From Renly Baratheon returning from death to fulfill a promise he gave to Catelyn to save her daughter, to fantastical tales of Sansa being a witch and controlling the rivers. Still, he did not need much convincing, especially when Karyl, the more prudent of his friends, remained seated as he talked merrily with Martyn. The rest of his guards were sitting around them at several tables, with no crest to denote their loyalty, but listening to the locals for anything he would miss.
"Alright then, bring some of those fried fish sticks with your ale." The Heir to Riverrun called to the innkeeper, who was already on his way with their tray, only to double back to grab the small foods.
It was another hour when a new arrival entered the inn, and Otho quickly stood up and waved. "Uthor! Over here. I got you some drink and food."
Uthor, a man of middling height and age who could be accused of being too fond of his food, made his way towards their table. Karyl made space for the wax trader to grab a chair and join them, and Edmure noticed the quality of his attire that subtly hinted at his hidden wealth.
"'Lo there. Otho you old dog, you're still alive?"
"Aye, I won't kick it until I see the damn Mountain ripped to shreds for killing my son." Their drinking buddy's jovial face twisted into an ugly scowl as he took a deep swig from his mug; it was why he liked them as they were fighting the good fight against Tywin Lannister's mad dog. "Now, tell us, what news do you bring from the east? These fine gents are paying for your food and drink and are very curious about the happenings of the Crownlands."
"Oh? And who might my patrons be?" The merchant nodded his thanks as he started eating while eying their attire. Edmure had chosen to dress as a well-off free-rider employed under the Brackens as not many merchants were willing to speak to nobles; at least, the last time he tried to, they groveled and cried for the Crone so much it just made him sad.
"'Lo there. Name's Elmo, and eat first, my good man. More ale, Billy!"
Once they buttered up the merchant with enough food and ale to get his tongue loose, the man eagerly told them all the latest rumors and even decrees coming from the Red Keep. And what rumors they were! The Iron Throne placing an insanely high bounty on Sansa for being a witch? A mysterious savior who destroyed half the city and its walls with demonic powers?
"You're jesting?!" Marq's eyes were wide with shock, and he wasn't the only one. Edmure noticed the entire inn had gone silent as they listened to the man's shocking tale.
"I do not! They had heralds and town criers at every port, town, and city proclaiming as such. There is even a rumor the royals will employ some of that fancy new creation from Braavos that creates copies of the same paper."
"I assure you, lads, of Uthor's integrity. I've known him for decades, and he is not one to blow hot air. The only reason such news hasn't arrived here would be the war."
There were many uneasy mutters and prayers to the Seven, as the smallfolk seemed wary of witchcraft at every corner. Some were claiming they had seen short figures running around the woods lately, while another swore he had seen a massive wolf leading a pack of smaller wolves prowling the lands. Edmure was glad he did not announce himself as the lord of the lands as he heard some of the ignorant masses unknowingly insult his niece, but it would be foolish to feel offense. They did not know any better.
"Still, such a massive bounty is unheard of, there has to be something else that happened." Karyl soberly asked, his winestain birthmark darkening with his flush from the drinks he consumed.
"Aye, you have it right. This is not confirmed as it happened too soon after the act, but did you all know the Hand had sent the princess to Dorne for an alliance?"
The smallfolk didn't truly care or seem to understand the importance of such an announcement. Many of them had never left the vicinity of their villages and did not even know where Dorne was.
Edmure, however, paled significantly. "Do tell."
"See, I travel overland to the city and deliver Beeswax to the Red Keep, and I speak a lot with many of the servants there. Rumor has it, Myrcella Baratheon was to wed one of the Dornish princes in return for an alliance." Edmure clenched his teeth, this was not good at all. They were already heavily outnumbered as it was. "The queen and the hand prepared a mighty escort for the princess, at least a dozen ships, to take her somewhere. It was supposed to be completely secret, and no one knew where, but that didn't matter."
Uthor took a break as he drank deeply from his mug, and Marq scowled as the merchant kept them in suspense. "Well, go on, man. Why did it not matter?"
"Oh, alright." The merchant grinned, showing a golden tooth. "That same escort? It returned two days later, battered, beaten, and missing a few of its ships. On that same day, the criers were calling for all to hear about the bounty on the Stark girl's head and her sorcerer."
Edmure chuckled before releasing a full belly laugh as he finally understood what happened. The Lannisters lost their bastard princess, and his niece had saved their arses from a disaster they didn't even know was coming to them.
.
.
.
"Black smoke from the Narrow Sea?" Edmure idly waved at a passing river barge going the opposite way, some bloke in red saluting back. They ended up staying the night in the inn and had just left once dawn broke out.
"Aye, some merchants from Claw Isle claim the Dragonmont erupted, and the eastern winds blew the smoke all across the Bay of Crabs." Tom, one of his trusted guards with keen hearing and an iron liver, told him of news he had missed.
"Strange things have been happening lately, but the Dragonmont spewing smoke isn't the queerest thing I've heard. I doubt it truly erupted, or else the ashes would have made it here, along with many refugees, war be damned. Nevertheless, good job, Tom."
The guard nodded, and Edmure stretched as they approached the riverport near his castle. His friends joined him, rubbing their heads from the two nights of drinking and wenching, yet they were eager to disembark. Once ashore, they quickly mounted their horses and hurried to Riverrun.
The morning sun shined brightly overhead as they trotted down the road, and Edmure couldn't help but smile at the good tidings to their cause. As they approached the mighty castle of his ancestors, his smile turned to a frown as he noticed a lot of activity on the walls and even across the river at the war camp. They stopped by the closed gates and recognized one of the guards on the walls looking inwardly, which was always a bad sign.
"Lew! Open the damn gates."
Long Lew took one look at him and quickly recognized him. The Heir to Riverrun had switched back to his lordly attire, and the guard scrambled quickly, though Edmure could see that the man was distressed. Once the gate was open, Edmure and his band entered the castle to find himself staring at a strange sight. A dozen Lannister men were dead, while many more were disarmed and in chains. Tytos Blackwood's face was blank while Robin Ryger, his captain of the guards, held a bloody rag to his head.
"Lord Blackwood. What has happened here?"
The Lord of Raventree Hall's face quickly twisted into a scowl as he glared at Ryger, who couldn't meet his eyes from shame. "The Kingslayer escaped."
Edmure knew he shouldn't have counted his blessings.
18th Day of the Seventh Moon
Winterfell.
Luwin
"How is he, Maester?"
"He's getting better by the day. His fever broke, and his breathing is easier. All he needs now is rest." He assured the young lass from the Neck as he finished inspecting her brother's sleeping form.
"Thank the Old Gods! I don't know what I would have told our parents if something happened to Jojen. The way he collapsed so suddenly…" The young daughter of Lord Reed grabbed a bucket and wet towel as she prepared to wash her brother.
"I suggest you stay with the young lord until he awakens. It should be a few more hours." Meera Reed nodded enthusiastically as she wiped the sweat from her brother's brow. It gladdened Luwin's old heart to see the youth so bright and happy, especially in these dark times. He excused himself from their room as he made his way to the Great Hall to join the young prince for breakfast.
Life in Winterfell has continued as normal as it could possibly go with its lord, now king, fighting a war in the south. The Northmen celebrated their independence from the Iron Throne and the machinations of the South, yet not all was well. The newly established kingdom of the North was not in dire straits, yet none could deny that recent events had caused a heavy mood to fall over the residents of the mighty fortress of Winterfell.
Many had come to voice their grievances to their lord about bandits to the east or the reaving Ironborn in the west, yet most left disappointed at the lack of action. It did not help that Prince Brandon had not inspired confidence in his subjects with his demeanor. His injury, while tragic, could have been compensated with good leadership, yet perhaps it was too much to ask from a child who had barely seen his tenth nameday.
The young prince's long sojourns in the Godswood with the Reed children did not halt, even after the long sickness of young Jojen, and only his younger brother could force Prince Bran to act as the Stark of Winterfell. It was times like these when Winterfell needed a strong and capable Stark to hold the North, yet there were none. Mayhaps Jon could have taken the reins, for even as a bastard, the records showed the Starks would give plenty of temporary power to their Snows, and if they proved worthy, could be greatly rewarded. Yet, he was a brother of the Night's Watch now, and they will need to make do with Bran and Rickon.
Speaking of young Rickon, Luwin had at first been skeptical of the unruly boy's recent dreams. Yet, the Stark children's close connection with their wolves was undeniable, and after confirming with the wildling women that there was no doubt they were wargs, he had to reevaluate his view. Naturally, Luwin had been ecstatic to hear this, as he did not share the Northman's fear of skinchangers and wargs. To a Riverlander like him, those tales were fantastical and far away, yet his childhood dreams of practicing magic never left his mind. Magic was making a resurgence, but they still needed to ascertain the accuracy of the young prince's visions. Regardless, Luwin was sworn to serve the Lord of Winterfell, and he had practically raised the sons and daughters of Eddard Stark. Even if Prince Bran were not interested in ruling, he would do his best to support him in any way possible.
As Luwin walked down the steps of the Great Keep to the entrance hall, a voice called out to him. "Maester!"
He turned to find one of his acolytes, Donnis, swiftly approaching with his hands in his sleeves. Normally, the Citadel would send acolytes with a Maester to support him if the castle was too large to administer on his lonesome, yet Eddard Stark had insisted Luwin would recruit locally instead. The late lord Stark was known to be quite frugal and was not willing to pay the equivalent of hiring another maester for three acolytes that could not be trusted.
"What is it, Donnis?" The lad was a nephew of the lamented Vayon Poole; the steward had been a friend of Luwin as they both interacted a lot due to the nature of their work.
"Ravens, maester. Several of them, but two in particular, should be of interest." The young man handed him the bundle of sealed letters from his sleeves before nodding and returning to his duties. Luwin smiled at the diligent attitude he instilled in his disciple from a young age, before frowning at the crests on the letters. It appears he will need to interrupt the young prince's breakfast.
***
Rickon
"Prince Brandon, a raven has arrived from Torrhen's Square."
Rickon looked up from his plate of sausages at Maester Luwin's whisper to his brother, but Shaggydog used that moment of distraction to steal the whole plate. The youngest son of Eddard Stark did not care as he looked expectantly at his brother, only to frown at Bran's dazed look, probably lost in thoughts over the silence, as he called it. Elbowing his sides, the Stark of Winterfell jerked and nodded to Luwin.
"What does it say, Maester?" Bran's voice was low, but the Great Hall listened silently as Luwin approached.
The old maester glanced at him strangely, and Rickon glared back defiantly, causing Luwin to smile in resignation. "They thank you for the prompt warning about the Ironborn, for they had managed to strike at them near the lakes. They were forced to retreat due to their large numbers. However, Benfred Tallhart did confirm that Theon Greyjoy was leading the Ironmen."
"See? I told you it wasn't just a dream." Rickon nearly bounced on his seat as he grinned smugly at his brother, ignoring the curses thrown at Theon's betrayal from the listeners. He hardly knew the man, and what little he remembered of him showed a mean smirk and a cocky attitude. "What about the other house? The one with horses, uh… Lyswill?"
"Ryswell, and yes, they have also sent a raven confirming a skirmish with the Ironborn. Reports from their vassals and neighbors tell tales of longboats sighted all along the western coast, with even a couple of ships beaten off Bear Island."
Whispers and murmurs sounded out in the Great Hall as Rickon had not bothered to keep his voice low. Some declared the Starks were blessed by the gods, others stared at him strangely, but a few whispered mean words towards his brother, thinking they were unheard. Rickon did not like how Bran was so mopey, but he hated when others doubted his brother. He glared at those who dared question their prince, Shaggydog's growl helping to silence the hall. He knew it had more to do with Bran not being able to walk again than anything else.
Rickon had warned Bran about his dream of squid people attacking where the sun sets, but his brother ignored him in favor of staying in the Godswood to learn how to fly. It was silly because wolves didn't fly, and Bran became even more mopey when his new friend Jojo got sick and his sister, Meera, stayed with him. Rickon liked Meera, she was fun. Almost as fun as Arya.
Seeing that no one believed him, Rickon made a huge tantrum until he got his way. He had to thank Palla for releasing all the hounds into the castle to get the attention he wanted. Thankfully, Bran listened to him and sent those warnings, and now, Rickon could not hide his smug grin as he looked at his brother's tired face.
"No word came from Flint's Finger, however, except the unusual fog they reported a sennight ago persists in Blazewater Bay." The words made the hall turn somber from their previous festive mood.
"Perhaps we should continue this in the solar, Prince Bran?" Ser Rodrik glanced at their southern guests, who sat with them on the high table and then at the crowded Great Hall, where many of the castle's residents were having dinner.
Bran nodded before looking over his shoulder, "Hod– Walder." His brother corrected himself at the last moment as the gentle giant approached and carried Bran easily.
"To the solar, young prince?" The massive man rumbled.
"Yes, Walder."
Finding the giant stable boy acting so… normal still shocked him. Gone was Hodor, and Walder suddenly woke up the same day Rickon's dreams got so vivid, as if he had always been normal but just didn't know how to speak. Some claimed it was a gift from the Old Gods, and Ser Rodrik was very enthused when Walder asked if it was too late for him to train as a guard, and he had the gentle giant armed with a massive hammer. Now, the former stableboy was Bran's personal guard as well as his steed, which made Rickon jealous as he scrambled to join them as they left the hall, glaring at the two other Walders that his mother sent here when they tried to follow. A growl from Shaggydog had them remember their place.
Summer and Osha joined them as they followed Bran's group through the covered walkway. Rickon's short legs had him lagging until Osha picked him up and carried him on her shoulders, much to his joy. He liked Osha, she was reliable, almost as reliable as Palla. As they entered the Great Keep, Rickon looked outside the windows to find many people going about their day in the castle. Guards were training, smiths were banging on their anvils with black smoke pouring out of the chimneys, farmers, and shepherds came and went with their produce and animals. He never realized there were so many people living in his home.
Soon, they were outside the Lord's Solar, and Ser Rodrik looked hesitant to have him join them. Rickon would have snarled if not for Bran waving him in, causing him to grin. Once they were settled in their seats, the old knight spoke again.
"We need to know if these are just raids or a prelude to an invasion." Ser Rodrik twirled his whiskers. "If the Ironborn are raiding the Stony Shore, then where is the Iron Fleet?"
"What do you think, Maester?"
Rickon scowled as his brother turned to Luwin instead of knowing the answer. He wasn't sure why, but he felt Bran shouldn't ask the maester about these things. Even the old man looked a little lost, as though he didn't know what to say, while the old knight's eyebrows twitched.
"I believe Ser Rodrik would be more knowledgeable in matters of war, Prince Bran." Luwin glanced at the master-at-arms, who looked ready to answer the question once Bran turned to him.
"Oh." Only Bran just stared ahead blankly for a few heartbeats before getting distracted by a bird on the open window. His brother had perked up when he saw it was a raven, only for his face to fall for some reason.
"Bran!" Rickon yelled in annoyance as Bran's silence stretched to minutes.
The older boy frowned at him until his eyes settled on the impatient knight. "What do you think, Ser Rodrik?"
"It is uncommon for Blazewater Bay to fog over at this time of year, but not unheard of. For it to remain foggy for so long, however, is a cause for concern. Perhaps we should send word to Barrowton to have their men survey the coast from their end?"
Rickon did not truly understand the terms and places they were discussing, but he could tell that the grumpy knight was waiting for Bran to decide.
"See that it is done." Bran nodded to Luwin after a moment before glancing at him. "Have you… seen anything else lately, Rickon?"
"No, just running around the castle. Summer loves to play with Shaggy at night and misses his brothers and sisters." Rickon shrugged from where he sat next to his brother on the long trestle table and perked up when Osha placed a plate of cake in front of him. He bit into the sweet with a smile before noticing the others staring at him silently. "What?"
"Nothing," Ser Rodrik glanced uncomfortably at him and then Bran before looking at Osha, who was the first to declare they were wargs, whatever that meant. The maester, whom Rickon knew was very interested in his dreams and always asked to share them, had explained what it meant, but Rickon didn't know why they would be scared of him running with Shaggy at night.
"Prince Bran, we still need to capture those fiends that attacked the Hornwoods. Roose's bastard cannot be allowed to run amok in the lands of your brother's vassals." The knight's brows were furrowed as his veins bulged at the mention of that bastard. From what Rickon heard, he was a bad bastard, not like Jon, who was a nice bastard.
"Didn't you go to beat them, Ser Rodrik?" Bran asked distractedly as he tapped the table.
"I was going to, but the young prince had warned us of the Ironborn, and you commanded me to stay, if you recall, my prince."
Bran's eyes glazed over, as he always did whenever he was lost in thought, and Rickon growled. His brother had been acting very queer lately, first claiming that some crow with three eyes was going to teach him before abruptly changing his mind and that he will teach himself. Or when he insisted he needed to travel beyond the wall but then changed his mind. Rickon missed Jon, but even he knew they couldn't just go there. Osha said it was a bad place, and she was a smart woman.
It was all very confusing, and while Rickon loved it when he and his brother found out they could slip into the skin of their wolves, Bran still had to work as Lord, like Father.
But Father was never coming back, and Mother was gone and didn't want to return, preferring to stay with Robb. Rickon could hardly remember his face or that of his sisters, but he missed them a lot. Arya, who would play with him, and Sansa, who would sing him to sleep with mother. Jon, who looked and acted so much like Father…
Shaking his head, he nudged his brother again when he took too long to reply.
"Did Lord Manderly complain again?"
"Aye, he warns that if the Bolton Bastard is not brought to heel, he would take matters into his own hands as Warden of the White Knife and call the banners. He is still rightfully incensed over the murder of his cousin Donella–"
Rickon tuned out the rest of the boring chatter as he yawned. It was nearly noon, and he suddenly felt sleepy, and his eyes grew heavy. Before he knew it, someone held him as he lay sideways and fell into the sweet embrace of sleep.
.
.
.
Rickon woke up with a start, finding himself in a strange wooden house surrounded by the largest lake he had ever seen. Turning around, he froze, and his lips grew wide at the sight of a woman who could only be his mother… until she turned to speak to a tall man with dark hair and green eyes. Rickon then knew this wasn't his mother but his sister Sansa, and his smile got even wider as he listened to them talk.
"… Don't expect those girls to adapt overnight. I'm a demigod, not a miracle worker." The man shook his head as Sansa giggled, and Rickon wanted to call out to her, to hug her and have her tussle his hair like she used to, but like his last dream, he could only watch.
"I don't know, Percy, raising the sea and controlling ships with your mind as you slip around Stannis' fleet sounds very miraculous to me." Sansa glanced around her, and Rickon noticed two more houses - no, ships, following along.
"You would be surprised by what people like me could do, especially if they were gods." The man, Percy, shrugged as they walked around the ship, though Rickon noticed he had Sansa's arm looped around his own.
"Like causing the Dragonmont to go up in fire and smoke?" His sister asked in that same innocent tone she taught him when he wanted an extra lemon cake.
"Hey, I had nothing to do with that, okay? That island literally decided to go bonkers the moment we sailed past it."
"Oh, my. So your mere presence caused Dragonstone to have its worst eruption in centuries?"
"… You call that eruption? Tut-tut, oh my sweet summer child, you have never seen a volcano unleashing its rage before, have you?"
"Hey, don't use the words I taught you against me." Sansa slapped the man's shoulders, but Rickon could see her smiling. "No matter. How are our dear guests handling their new positions?"
"The Princess screamed her head off when the dough she was kneading got into her hair, while her friend puked when she gutted her first fish, and the blood splashed in her face. Or was it the opposite? I still mistake them for each other." Percy sighed in resignation, "I never thought you noble types would be so…"
"Useless?"
"I was going to say inexperienced in life, but since you're offering." Sansa and her new friend chuckled again as they stopped in front of a stall, where a massive black horse snorted a greeting at them as it munched on a carrot. Percy patted the horse and refilled his water, causing Rickon's eyes to widen as the water flowed by itself into the trough. "I'm glad you are treating the girls well, Sansa."
"Better than they deserve. I have every right to take my pound of flesh from Cersei's daughter." Rickon shivered when he heard the frost in her words; he had never heard her like that before. "Yet, you were right. A child is innocent of their parent's sins."
"And you have proven to be the better person; otherwise, you would have been no different from that Cersei woman."
"Still, it doesn't mean I will treat them like nobles. As my new handmaidens, they better get used to serving me because that will be their future for a long time if I have anything to say about it." Sansa folded her arms as she raised her voice towards an open door, and Rickon thought he heard hurried footsteps rushing away.
"I suppose having the spoiled girls do some hard labor would be good for them. Build character and all that." Percy ran his fingers through his hair as he frowned and glanced around him, only to stare at a spot above Rickon, causing the boy to freeze. They looked at each other for a moment before Percy shrugged. "Gonna have them join you in your home then? Winterfell, I think you called it."
"Yes, but we must stop by White Harbor first. How long until we get there again?" They continued to walk around the ship as they slowly approached where he was standing, unable to move with them.
"Longer than I anticipated. The sea is foreign, and I have yet to adjust to the wind and the currents. I can sense some things in the depths that I would rather not tangle with when I would need to protect you at the same time." Sansa grimaced. "Not to mention the two ships you're having me drag along, it's not easy focusing on so many things, you know. Do you really need those ships?"
"Of course I do. They are our spoils, and we can make do with that extra ship somehow." Sansa stood there defiantly until Percy shrugged lazily. "Now, how long do you reckon until we arrive?"
"I'd say… ten days or so, if we meet no trouble and the maps were accurate enough."
Suddenly, the man's hand sprung over his head, barely missing him by inches. Rickon could not breathe and watched in terror as the man flexed his fist in the empty air. Percy frowned, and Sansa stared at him in confusion.
"Percy?"
"I thought someone was listening in on us, but I might have been mistaken. It didn't feel malicious–."
Before Rickon could think of anything, he started feeling drowsy, and the world turned to mist as he woke up in the solar with everyone looking at him strangely.
"Rickon! You made us worry when you collapsed like that." Bran was more awake than any time Rickon had seen him, and then he noticed the rest of the room's occupants. Meera and her brother had joined them at some point, Jojo looking much better than earlier. "Was it… a vision?"
His brother's question made Rickon perk up. Truth be told, Rickon barely understood half of what his sister and this Percy man were speaking, but he knew one thing for sure.
"Yes, Sansa is coming back!"
***
Luwin
"My prince, I must advise against this. Sending a hundred men-at-arms to White Harbor to greet your sister is too much. We don't even know whether she will truly be there or not."
"I have made my decision, Ser Rodrik. Whether my sister arrives or not, this would be a good chance to show Lord Manderly that we care about his grievances. Those bandits under the Bolton Bastard need to be dealt with."
"But who would lead the troops? They are far too green to lead themselves, and I can't leave my duties to hunt for that bastard when the Ironborn could start reaving too close that we would need to sally out to dispatch them."
Luwin stood aside as he watched patiently as the rejuvenated Lord Brandon finally decided on a course of action. Ser Rodrik's concerns were valid, for Winterfell could not afford to lose so many troops when many of the veterans of the castle perished with Lord Eddard in the south. Then, King Robb took the elite of the Stark horsemen and guards, leaving the greenest of men-at-arms. There was never a shortage of men who would be honored to join the Stark guard, and Robb had ordered the coffers opened to recruit as many as possible.
The castellan had been busy over the past moons training the recruits, yet Winterfell had a severe shortage of captains and men of leadership. It's easy to find someone willing to swing a blade or loose an arrow in the name of Stark, but to find men with the disposition to lead the troops into battle was far more difficult. Those positions were usually reserved for noble sons or petty houses with a history of command, like the Cassels. It was unfortunate that the North was cursed to have a lack of such men as many had died in recent times; Rodrik's heir, Jory, was the perfect example, for he would have been the best option for such an undertaking.
He glanced at the awakened young Rickon, and his thoughts drifted to the wild tales he had mentioned. Lady Sansa somehow escaping the clutches of the Lannisters? Sailing north with three ships and with prisoners? Cersei's daughter could only be Princess Myrcella, and having her as a hostage would be a great boon for their cause. Still, who was that man with Sansa, and how could he detect Rickon in a dream? Was he also a sorcerer?
"… Still need someone to lead them, Prince Bran. How will they even make it to White Harbor in ten days with the roads unsafe?" Luwin was brought out of his thoughts to find Rodrik had seemingly resigned himself to the young lord's stubbornness.
"If I may, I have a proposal that should satisfy everyone." The whole room turned to Jojen Reed. The heir to the Neck had woken up earlier and came here like a man on a mission. He looked far healthier than before, yet his green eyes still retained the signs of exhaustion that usually haunted them.
"What is it, Jojen?"
"I have also received a vision." The declaration wasn't shocking, for the young Reed had shown from the day he arrived that he was different. "Not like Rickon's, but more of a message for me to return to the Neck."
"B-But what about what we discussed?" Bran looked distraught, and Luwin frowned. "The training and the journey to the three–"
"Those would have to be postponed, Bran. Something had changed. The world has changed. I cannot see my death anymore. Magic has returned, and we are not the only ones capable of using it." The young man's ominous warning echoed like a bell in the room. "I might be short of stature, but my father still taught me how to rule and lead troops, even if I was ill for most of it. Meera and I could lead your troops down a barge on the White Knife to White Harbor. There won't be a need for horses once we get there, for I'm sure Lord Manderly would greatly appreciate the reinforcements and provide his own as needed, but we must not have this discussion leave this room."
"Indeed, we shouldn't even send Lord Manderly a raven about this," Luwin added as his thoughts drifted towards a certain Lannister Maester assigned to White Harbor. While maesters were supposed to be sworn to their keeps, old loyalties oft ran too strong.
They all quickly agreed to keep Rickon's vision a secret. If it were true, it could change… everything.
"From the White City, Meera shall stay in the city to await Princess Sansa while I continue to the Neck," Jojen finished with a yawn.
It was a sound proposal, and after a bit of deliberation and a confident grin from Lady Meera, everyone was in agreement. Except, something was bothering Luwin. "Why do you need to return to your father so suddenly, Lord Jojen?"
The young man smiled sadly, "I fear that ill news will arrive soon, and my father needs to be warned about matters of the realm. Ravens are incapable of reaching Greywater Watch, so only a Crannogman could make the journey."
A few days later, after the Reed siblings had departed, dire news did indeed arrive as the young Crannogman foretold - Moat Cailin had fallen to Victarion Greyjoy and the Iron Fleet.
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
17th day of the 7th moon.
Riverrun.
Edmure
"Tywin Lannister is marching south? Not here?"
"Aye, he isn't even bothering to loot or burn and is force-marching his army like the hounds of hell are behind him." Martyn Rivers, commander of his outriders, reported as Edmure stood by a window of his solar overlooking the war camp outside his castle. It was the same camp the Lannisters had built for their siege, but now the Riverlanders had turned it into a walled town dedicated to training the levies. A few of his friends and lords were with him when Martyn arrived with some of his riders from the east.
"Strange." Edmure idly tapped the window sill, "A sennight ago, his outriders were chased away by Bracken near Stone Hedge. What could possibly have him change course and head south of all places? Renly Baratheon is dead, and I doubt the Tyrells would be raring for a fight with no king to rally behind."
"Mayhaps that's the point?"
Edmure turned to Tytos Blackwood, seated on a couch with his magnificent raven-feather cloak spread on the armrest. He was one of the few lords staying in Riverrun with the bulk of his troops, as his castle and lands had remained unharmed from the war due to their location between the Blue and Red Forks. "As you all know, Tywin Lannister's lightning-quick campaign in our lands had been devastating to the smallfolk, yet he dared not attack any of the castles, fearing getting bogged down in a siege. Especially after the disaster that was the Kingslayer's siege of Riverrun."
Many nods and chuckles sounded out as they remembered Jaime Lannister's fate as he lounged in a comfortable cell in one of the castle's towers, treated well for one of his station, yet not allowed to exercise in the yard. Edmure, however, frowned inwardly, for it was a reminder of his foolishness and recklessness to crave glory instead of victory. "Aye, but that also showed some of my lords' colors."
His friends Karyl Vance and Marq Piper scowled at the reminder. Maidenpool surrendered without a fight once Tywin Lannister accepted Harrenhal's surrender, followed shortly by Goodbrook. The cunning lion had perfectly used the carrot and the stick by burning and trampling their fields, thus forcing the smallfolk to retreat to their lords' castles with tales of horror and butchery by the Mountain and his men. Many of those castles were well stocked from the years of summer and could easily hold back a siege for years, but with thousands of smallfolk sheltering in or around them, that number would be cut back drastically. Edmure himself was guilty of that, but if that was the price he had to pay to take care of his people, then so be it.
Lord Tywin was also careful with the treatment of the noble captives, as Robb had received letters from the Northern prisoners in Harrenhal speaking of their good treatment. Whether they were true or not, it had worked as word spread that Tywin Lannister would accept anyone who would bend the knee, with young Lyman Darry following through once the Mountain's troops were sighted a day's ride from his castle. Even though that same monster had killed the young lordling's father, fear was a strong motivator, as the former Targaryen loyalist House pledged their meager forces to the bastard king on the Iron Throne.
All Riverlands Houses east of Stone Hedge and south of the Crossroads had surrendered to the King's Peace and joined their forces with Tywin Lannister's army, swelling his numbers to twenty-five thousand. Yet, those numbers meant little as they were poorly trained compared to the Westerlanders. The Lannister Lord cared more about the supplies surrendered from those keeps that would allow him to campaign for longer and further away from his main base of Harrenhal without wasting time to forage.
"Despite the few losses we suffered, many of the Riverlords could easily muster a large number of troops if we were allowed the time to rally the smallfolk into levies and train them. All we need are a few moons to train enough levies into spearmen that would hold the line against the Lannister horse, yet with Tywin's foragers running rampant, that has proven difficult." Tytos continued, causing Edmure and his friends to nod along.
"It's also why I sent Jonos to his lands to recruit his fabled horsemen from the many holdfasts they are garrisoned in. They have done well so far in beating back those sellswords. Tywin unleashing the Bloody Mummers as his outriders but not deigning to let them know of his change in plans worked well for us." At the mention of his rival, the lord of Raventree Hall narrowed his eyes but shrugged. The infamous enmity of the two houses was legendary, but it spoke of the common disdain the Rivermen had for the Lannisters that the two lords seemed to tolerate each other more in favor of bloodying the lion instead.
"Aye, that blustering fool does know how to ride, I suppose." Or maybe Edmure was being too optimistic. "And no one would trust a sellsword company not to switch sides. Those glorified bandits are scum that need to be put down. Regardless, with Tywin abandoning his march here, it is clear that something grave had happened in the Crownlands. Something that would make him desperate enough to seek more allies despite being in a current position of strength."
"We did send an envoy to Lysa in the Vale, and I heard tell some Vale lords were already mustering." Edmure scratched his growing beard as he remembered the last reports they received from some distant relatives of the lords in the region, though he was upset with his sister's silence. Who would have thought the ladies of the realms gossiped so much using their castle's ravens and that Tytos' Redfort wife kept in communication with her maiden house? Edmure had hurriedly asked his bannermen to request their wives to gather information from any family from the rest of the realm. "Last I've heard from Cat, she was returning through the Gold Road after Renly's death, but Stannis should still be sieging Storm's End. Even if he took it today, he would need at least a moon to march to King's Landing."
Suddenly, Edmure's eyes widened as a worrying thought came to him. He turned to Lord Blackwood, who nodded knowingly. "With Renly dead, the Tyrells suddenly find themselves with the most valuable bride in the realm as well as a hundred thousand swords doing nothing but eating their stores. There is no doubt in my mind that Tywin Lannister is rushing with his troops to meet with the Reach force in Bitterbridge."
"I recall the Northmen under Bolton reporting plenty of ravens flying south from Harrenhal over the past sennight." Martyn Rivers accepted the wine goblet Edmure poured for him gratefully, taking a generous gulp. The Frey bastard had done well in commanding his outriders instead of his uncle, the Blackfish, who had joined Robb in the west.
"So the Lannisters aim to ally with the Tyrells? While worrying, it is still not like the old lion to rush himself for an alliance instead of sending an envoy." Jason Mallister, who had remained silent so far, added. "It would make him look weak. I wonder what had spooked the Lion Lord so much? Regardless, I'm more worried about the Ironborn. Has there been any news from the Greyjoy boy?"
Edmure shook his head. The silence from the Iron Islands was worrisome, with no news coming from the North either. Riverrun only had ravens to Winterfell and White Harbor, and neither reported anything strange. Still, with Harrenhal lightly defended, relatively speaking, this would be their chance to retake it and secure the gateway to the east.
"Utherydes." His steward, sitting on a nearby desk sorting parchments and raven scrolls dropped by Maester Vyman, looked at him questioningly. "Write orders for Helman Tallhart to join Roose Bolton and besiege Harrenhal. The same orders for the Leech Lord, but they are not to storm the castle until we receive Robb's orders. I don't know what my nephew has planned, but he must be told of Tywin's movements. Where was he seen last?"
"The maester received a raven just now." Utherydes handed him a scroll with a direwolf's seal, and Edmure broke the wax to read its contents, a smile blooming on his face.
"What is it, Edmure?"
"Robb has taken Ashemark." The Heir of Riverrun told Karyl, and the rest of the room rejoiced at the news. "He also commands me to hold Riverrun, though I'm unsure what he means."
"It doesn't matter, I suggest writing a letter to His Grace posthaste."
"Indeed, do as Lord Blackwood suggests, Utherydes."
"Yes, my lord." The steward quickly scribbled the orders, showing them to Edmure to review, then left to have the maester send them.
"Martyn, you still have men shadowing Tywin's army, right?"
"Aye, they should be sending a report from Acorn Hall soon."
"Good. We shall wait for their report, but how about you get a night of rest? I believe we are missing the key mystery that would explain Tywin Lannister's sudden change in plans. A trip to the inns should answer that." Edmure grinned as he looked forward to a night or two of wenching for a change, and Martyn Rivers looked interested as well as honored to be offered such. Not many lords would deign to befriend bastards, but Edmure firmly believed in honoring those who showed merit.
"And naturally, I shall join you, good Ser." Marq, his closest friend, dragged Karyl along, but the now-married lord did not look as enthused.
"I shall see to the training of the levies." Tytos Blackwood sighed in disappointment, and Edmure felt a tinge of regret about it, but he really was seeking information and not just wenching. Not many people realize the amount of tongues that flapped in inns and taverns, and he might travel a bit further than usual to get the juiciest gossip from the Crownlands. Mayhaps the Inn of the Kneeling Man? With Tywin retreating south, Jonos bloodying the Mummers, and the Northmen controlling the Crossroads, more traders would sail up the Trident to the various towns along the rivers. Merchants always had tales to tell, and he had learned of a few brave merchants from the Vale who would be sailing in to rake a profit from his wartorn lands.
On his way to the stables, he nodded to Cleos Frey and the Lannister escort sent by the Imp discussing something in a corner. Their offer of a hostage exchange would be worthless once they liberated Harrenhal, but there was no need to let them know of the happenings of the realm. Edmure saw Lord Blackwood and his retinue departing for the war camp, where the levies recruited from all over the Riverlands were being trained. The workshops and smithies were working tirelessly to make weapons and arms for them; spears and war picks would be the best weapons for levies, along with crossbows.
"Ready to ride, men?" Edmure turned to his band of friends and about a dozen guards he picked along the way. The road along the Red Fork was safe, but he didn't plan to take it anyway. He used a river port near his castle frequently; it shouldn't take more than half a day to take a barge to the Inn.
"Aye!" Came the enthusiastic replies, and they rode out under the open portcullis and down the drawbridge, the guards on the walls too lazy with the past few moons of peace to notice their liege lord leaving the castle.
***
A day later,
Inn of the Kneeling Man
"Billy, bring us more ale. We have reason to celebrate!" Marq shouted over the clamor of the taproom. The inn was not as crowded as the last time he'd been here, but it would be expected considering the war. The Innkeep shouted something back with a nod, but they saw him preparing mugs on a tray.
"I think we've had enough drinks, we should make our way back to Riverrun." Edmure had fun over the past day but could not afford to stay away from his castle for too long with a war raging in the realm. A raven from Robb ought to have arrived as well.
"Just give it another hour or two, milord. We have a trader coming from Wickenden with a batch of beeswax, and he should be here soon." One of the drinking buddies he found, a merchant named Otho from the Saltpans, implored. "I hear he managed to secure passage through Maidenpool, and his brother was here last sennight saying the man had a friend in King's Landing during the riots and might have managed to return home. Imagine the tales he could share with us!"
Edmure was already ecstatic over his niece's escape from the city, even though there were too many conflicting stories on how she did it. From Renly Baratheon returning from death to fulfill a promise he gave to Catelyn to save her daughter, to fantastical tales of Sansa being a witch and controlling the rivers. Still, he did not need much convincing, especially when Karyl, the more prudent of his friends, remained seated as he talked merrily with Martyn. The rest of his guards were sitting around them at several tables, with no crest to denote their loyalty, but listening to the locals for anything he would miss.
"Alright then, bring some of those fried fish sticks with your ale." The Heir to Riverrun called to the innkeeper, who was already on his way with their tray, only to double back to grab the small foods.
It was another hour when a new arrival entered the inn, and Otho quickly stood up and waved. "Uthor! Over here. I got you some drink and food."
Uthor, a man of middling height and age who could be accused of being too fond of his food, made his way towards their table. Karyl made space for the wax trader to grab a chair and join them, and Edmure noticed the quality of his attire that subtly hinted at his hidden wealth.
"'Lo there. Otho you old dog, you're still alive?"
"Aye, I won't kick it until I see the damn Mountain ripped to shreds for killing my son." Their drinking buddy's jovial face twisted into an ugly scowl as he took a deep swig from his mug; it was why he liked them as they were fighting the good fight against Tywin Lannister's mad dog. "Now, tell us, what news do you bring from the east? These fine gents are paying for your food and drink and are very curious about the happenings of the Crownlands."
"Oh? And who might my patrons be?" The merchant nodded his thanks as he started eating while eying their attire. Edmure had chosen to dress as a well-off free-rider employed under the Brackens as not many merchants were willing to speak to nobles; at least, the last time he tried to, they groveled and cried for the Crone so much it just made him sad.
"'Lo there. Name's Elmo, and eat first, my good man. More ale, Billy!"
Once they buttered up the merchant with enough food and ale to get his tongue loose, the man eagerly told them all the latest rumors and even decrees coming from the Red Keep. And what rumors they were! The Iron Throne placing an insanely high bounty on Sansa for being a witch? A mysterious savior who destroyed half the city and its walls with demonic powers?
"You're jesting?!" Marq's eyes were wide with shock, and he wasn't the only one. Edmure noticed the entire inn had gone silent as they listened to the man's shocking tale.
"I do not! They had heralds and town criers at every port, town, and city proclaiming as such. There is even a rumor the royals will employ some of that fancy new creation from Braavos that creates copies of the same paper."
"I assure you, lads, of Uthor's integrity. I've known him for decades, and he is not one to blow hot air. The only reason such news hasn't arrived here would be the war."
There were many uneasy mutters and prayers to the Seven, as the smallfolk seemed wary of witchcraft at every corner. Some were claiming they had seen short figures running around the woods lately, while another swore he had seen a massive wolf leading a pack of smaller wolves prowling the lands. Edmure was glad he did not announce himself as the lord of the lands as he heard some of the ignorant masses unknowingly insult his niece, but it would be foolish to feel offense. They did not know any better.
"Still, such a massive bounty is unheard of, there has to be something else that happened." Karyl soberly asked, his winestain birthmark darkening with his flush from the drinks he consumed.
"Aye, you have it right. This is not confirmed as it happened too soon after the act, but did you all know the Hand had sent the princess to Dorne for an alliance?"
The smallfolk didn't truly care or seem to understand the importance of such an announcement. Many of them had never left the vicinity of their villages and did not even know where Dorne was.
Edmure, however, paled significantly. "Do tell."
"See, I travel overland to the city and deliver Beeswax to the Red Keep, and I speak a lot with many of the servants there. Rumor has it, Myrcella Baratheon was to wed one of the Dornish princes in return for an alliance." Edmure clenched his teeth, this was not good at all. They were already heavily outnumbered as it was. "The queen and the hand prepared a mighty escort for the princess, at least a dozen ships, to take her somewhere. It was supposed to be completely secret, and no one knew where, but that didn't matter."
Uthor took a break as he drank deeply from his mug, and Marq scowled as the merchant kept them in suspense. "Well, go on, man. Why did it not matter?"
"Oh, alright." The merchant grinned, showing a golden tooth. "That same escort? It returned two days later, battered, beaten, and missing a few of its ships. On that same day, the criers were calling for all to hear about the bounty on the Stark girl's head and her sorcerer."
Edmure chuckled before releasing a full belly laugh as he finally understood what happened. The Lannisters lost their bastard princess, and his niece had saved their arses from a disaster they didn't even know was coming to them.
.
.
.
"Black smoke from the Narrow Sea?" Edmure idly waved at a passing river barge going the opposite way, some bloke in red saluting back. They ended up staying the night in the inn and had just left once dawn broke out.
"Aye, some merchants from Claw Isle claim the Dragonmont erupted, and the eastern winds blew the smoke all across the Bay of Crabs." Tom, one of his trusted guards with keen hearing and an iron liver, told him of news he had missed.
"Strange things have been happening lately, but the Dragonmont spewing smoke isn't the queerest thing I've heard. I doubt it truly erupted, or else the ashes would have made it here, along with many refugees, war be damned. Nevertheless, good job, Tom."
The guard nodded, and Edmure stretched as they approached the riverport near his castle. His friends joined him, rubbing their heads from the two nights of drinking and wenching, yet they were eager to disembark. Once ashore, they quickly mounted their horses and hurried to Riverrun.
The morning sun shined brightly overhead as they trotted down the road, and Edmure couldn't help but smile at the good tidings to their cause. As they approached the mighty castle of his ancestors, his smile turned to a frown as he noticed a lot of activity on the walls and even across the river at the war camp. They stopped by the closed gates and recognized one of the guards on the walls looking inwardly, which was always a bad sign.
"Lew! Open the damn gates."
Long Lew took one look at him and quickly recognized him. The Heir to Riverrun had switched back to his lordly attire, and the guard scrambled quickly, though Edmure could see that the man was distressed. Once the gate was open, Edmure and his band entered the castle to find himself staring at a strange sight. A dozen Lannister men were dead, while many more were disarmed and in chains. Tytos Blackwood's face was blank while Robin Ryger, his captain of the guards, held a bloody rag to his head.
"Lord Blackwood. What has happened here?"
The Lord of Raventree Hall's face quickly twisted into a scowl as he glared at Ryger, who couldn't meet his eyes from shame. "The Kingslayer escaped."
Edmure knew he shouldn't have counted his blessings.
A*H*M
18th Day of the Seventh Moon
Winterfell.
Luwin
"How is he, Maester?"
"He's getting better by the day. His fever broke, and his breathing is easier. All he needs now is rest." He assured the young lass from the Neck as he finished inspecting her brother's sleeping form.
"Thank the Old Gods! I don't know what I would have told our parents if something happened to Jojen. The way he collapsed so suddenly…" The young daughter of Lord Reed grabbed a bucket and wet towel as she prepared to wash her brother.
"I suggest you stay with the young lord until he awakens. It should be a few more hours." Meera Reed nodded enthusiastically as she wiped the sweat from her brother's brow. It gladdened Luwin's old heart to see the youth so bright and happy, especially in these dark times. He excused himself from their room as he made his way to the Great Hall to join the young prince for breakfast.
Life in Winterfell has continued as normal as it could possibly go with its lord, now king, fighting a war in the south. The Northmen celebrated their independence from the Iron Throne and the machinations of the South, yet not all was well. The newly established kingdom of the North was not in dire straits, yet none could deny that recent events had caused a heavy mood to fall over the residents of the mighty fortress of Winterfell.
Many had come to voice their grievances to their lord about bandits to the east or the reaving Ironborn in the west, yet most left disappointed at the lack of action. It did not help that Prince Brandon had not inspired confidence in his subjects with his demeanor. His injury, while tragic, could have been compensated with good leadership, yet perhaps it was too much to ask from a child who had barely seen his tenth nameday.
The young prince's long sojourns in the Godswood with the Reed children did not halt, even after the long sickness of young Jojen, and only his younger brother could force Prince Bran to act as the Stark of Winterfell. It was times like these when Winterfell needed a strong and capable Stark to hold the North, yet there were none. Mayhaps Jon could have taken the reins, for even as a bastard, the records showed the Starks would give plenty of temporary power to their Snows, and if they proved worthy, could be greatly rewarded. Yet, he was a brother of the Night's Watch now, and they will need to make do with Bran and Rickon.
Speaking of young Rickon, Luwin had at first been skeptical of the unruly boy's recent dreams. Yet, the Stark children's close connection with their wolves was undeniable, and after confirming with the wildling women that there was no doubt they were wargs, he had to reevaluate his view. Naturally, Luwin had been ecstatic to hear this, as he did not share the Northman's fear of skinchangers and wargs. To a Riverlander like him, those tales were fantastical and far away, yet his childhood dreams of practicing magic never left his mind. Magic was making a resurgence, but they still needed to ascertain the accuracy of the young prince's visions. Regardless, Luwin was sworn to serve the Lord of Winterfell, and he had practically raised the sons and daughters of Eddard Stark. Even if Prince Bran were not interested in ruling, he would do his best to support him in any way possible.
As Luwin walked down the steps of the Great Keep to the entrance hall, a voice called out to him. "Maester!"
He turned to find one of his acolytes, Donnis, swiftly approaching with his hands in his sleeves. Normally, the Citadel would send acolytes with a Maester to support him if the castle was too large to administer on his lonesome, yet Eddard Stark had insisted Luwin would recruit locally instead. The late lord Stark was known to be quite frugal and was not willing to pay the equivalent of hiring another maester for three acolytes that could not be trusted.
"What is it, Donnis?" The lad was a nephew of the lamented Vayon Poole; the steward had been a friend of Luwin as they both interacted a lot due to the nature of their work.
"Ravens, maester. Several of them, but two in particular, should be of interest." The young man handed him the bundle of sealed letters from his sleeves before nodding and returning to his duties. Luwin smiled at the diligent attitude he instilled in his disciple from a young age, before frowning at the crests on the letters. It appears he will need to interrupt the young prince's breakfast.
***
Rickon
"Prince Brandon, a raven has arrived from Torrhen's Square."
Rickon looked up from his plate of sausages at Maester Luwin's whisper to his brother, but Shaggydog used that moment of distraction to steal the whole plate. The youngest son of Eddard Stark did not care as he looked expectantly at his brother, only to frown at Bran's dazed look, probably lost in thoughts over the silence, as he called it. Elbowing his sides, the Stark of Winterfell jerked and nodded to Luwin.
"What does it say, Maester?" Bran's voice was low, but the Great Hall listened silently as Luwin approached.
The old maester glanced at him strangely, and Rickon glared back defiantly, causing Luwin to smile in resignation. "They thank you for the prompt warning about the Ironborn, for they had managed to strike at them near the lakes. They were forced to retreat due to their large numbers. However, Benfred Tallhart did confirm that Theon Greyjoy was leading the Ironmen."
"See? I told you it wasn't just a dream." Rickon nearly bounced on his seat as he grinned smugly at his brother, ignoring the curses thrown at Theon's betrayal from the listeners. He hardly knew the man, and what little he remembered of him showed a mean smirk and a cocky attitude. "What about the other house? The one with horses, uh… Lyswill?"
"Ryswell, and yes, they have also sent a raven confirming a skirmish with the Ironborn. Reports from their vassals and neighbors tell tales of longboats sighted all along the western coast, with even a couple of ships beaten off Bear Island."
Whispers and murmurs sounded out in the Great Hall as Rickon had not bothered to keep his voice low. Some declared the Starks were blessed by the gods, others stared at him strangely, but a few whispered mean words towards his brother, thinking they were unheard. Rickon did not like how Bran was so mopey, but he hated when others doubted his brother. He glared at those who dared question their prince, Shaggydog's growl helping to silence the hall. He knew it had more to do with Bran not being able to walk again than anything else.
Rickon had warned Bran about his dream of squid people attacking where the sun sets, but his brother ignored him in favor of staying in the Godswood to learn how to fly. It was silly because wolves didn't fly, and Bran became even more mopey when his new friend Jojo got sick and his sister, Meera, stayed with him. Rickon liked Meera, she was fun. Almost as fun as Arya.
Seeing that no one believed him, Rickon made a huge tantrum until he got his way. He had to thank Palla for releasing all the hounds into the castle to get the attention he wanted. Thankfully, Bran listened to him and sent those warnings, and now, Rickon could not hide his smug grin as he looked at his brother's tired face.
"No word came from Flint's Finger, however, except the unusual fog they reported a sennight ago persists in Blazewater Bay." The words made the hall turn somber from their previous festive mood.
"Perhaps we should continue this in the solar, Prince Bran?" Ser Rodrik glanced at their southern guests, who sat with them on the high table and then at the crowded Great Hall, where many of the castle's residents were having dinner.
Bran nodded before looking over his shoulder, "Hod– Walder." His brother corrected himself at the last moment as the gentle giant approached and carried Bran easily.
"To the solar, young prince?" The massive man rumbled.
"Yes, Walder."
Finding the giant stable boy acting so… normal still shocked him. Gone was Hodor, and Walder suddenly woke up the same day Rickon's dreams got so vivid, as if he had always been normal but just didn't know how to speak. Some claimed it was a gift from the Old Gods, and Ser Rodrik was very enthused when Walder asked if it was too late for him to train as a guard, and he had the gentle giant armed with a massive hammer. Now, the former stableboy was Bran's personal guard as well as his steed, which made Rickon jealous as he scrambled to join them as they left the hall, glaring at the two other Walders that his mother sent here when they tried to follow. A growl from Shaggydog had them remember their place.
Summer and Osha joined them as they followed Bran's group through the covered walkway. Rickon's short legs had him lagging until Osha picked him up and carried him on her shoulders, much to his joy. He liked Osha, she was reliable, almost as reliable as Palla. As they entered the Great Keep, Rickon looked outside the windows to find many people going about their day in the castle. Guards were training, smiths were banging on their anvils with black smoke pouring out of the chimneys, farmers, and shepherds came and went with their produce and animals. He never realized there were so many people living in his home.
Soon, they were outside the Lord's Solar, and Ser Rodrik looked hesitant to have him join them. Rickon would have snarled if not for Bran waving him in, causing him to grin. Once they were settled in their seats, the old knight spoke again.
"We need to know if these are just raids or a prelude to an invasion." Ser Rodrik twirled his whiskers. "If the Ironborn are raiding the Stony Shore, then where is the Iron Fleet?"
"What do you think, Maester?"
Rickon scowled as his brother turned to Luwin instead of knowing the answer. He wasn't sure why, but he felt Bran shouldn't ask the maester about these things. Even the old man looked a little lost, as though he didn't know what to say, while the old knight's eyebrows twitched.
"I believe Ser Rodrik would be more knowledgeable in matters of war, Prince Bran." Luwin glanced at the master-at-arms, who looked ready to answer the question once Bran turned to him.
"Oh." Only Bran just stared ahead blankly for a few heartbeats before getting distracted by a bird on the open window. His brother had perked up when he saw it was a raven, only for his face to fall for some reason.
"Bran!" Rickon yelled in annoyance as Bran's silence stretched to minutes.
The older boy frowned at him until his eyes settled on the impatient knight. "What do you think, Ser Rodrik?"
"It is uncommon for Blazewater Bay to fog over at this time of year, but not unheard of. For it to remain foggy for so long, however, is a cause for concern. Perhaps we should send word to Barrowton to have their men survey the coast from their end?"
Rickon did not truly understand the terms and places they were discussing, but he could tell that the grumpy knight was waiting for Bran to decide.
"See that it is done." Bran nodded to Luwin after a moment before glancing at him. "Have you… seen anything else lately, Rickon?"
"No, just running around the castle. Summer loves to play with Shaggy at night and misses his brothers and sisters." Rickon shrugged from where he sat next to his brother on the long trestle table and perked up when Osha placed a plate of cake in front of him. He bit into the sweet with a smile before noticing the others staring at him silently. "What?"
"Nothing," Ser Rodrik glanced uncomfortably at him and then Bran before looking at Osha, who was the first to declare they were wargs, whatever that meant. The maester, whom Rickon knew was very interested in his dreams and always asked to share them, had explained what it meant, but Rickon didn't know why they would be scared of him running with Shaggy at night.
"Prince Bran, we still need to capture those fiends that attacked the Hornwoods. Roose's bastard cannot be allowed to run amok in the lands of your brother's vassals." The knight's brows were furrowed as his veins bulged at the mention of that bastard. From what Rickon heard, he was a bad bastard, not like Jon, who was a nice bastard.
"Didn't you go to beat them, Ser Rodrik?" Bran asked distractedly as he tapped the table.
"I was going to, but the young prince had warned us of the Ironborn, and you commanded me to stay, if you recall, my prince."
Bran's eyes glazed over, as he always did whenever he was lost in thought, and Rickon growled. His brother had been acting very queer lately, first claiming that some crow with three eyes was going to teach him before abruptly changing his mind and that he will teach himself. Or when he insisted he needed to travel beyond the wall but then changed his mind. Rickon missed Jon, but even he knew they couldn't just go there. Osha said it was a bad place, and she was a smart woman.
It was all very confusing, and while Rickon loved it when he and his brother found out they could slip into the skin of their wolves, Bran still had to work as Lord, like Father.
But Father was never coming back, and Mother was gone and didn't want to return, preferring to stay with Robb. Rickon could hardly remember his face or that of his sisters, but he missed them a lot. Arya, who would play with him, and Sansa, who would sing him to sleep with mother. Jon, who looked and acted so much like Father…
Shaking his head, he nudged his brother again when he took too long to reply.
"Did Lord Manderly complain again?"
"Aye, he warns that if the Bolton Bastard is not brought to heel, he would take matters into his own hands as Warden of the White Knife and call the banners. He is still rightfully incensed over the murder of his cousin Donella–"
Rickon tuned out the rest of the boring chatter as he yawned. It was nearly noon, and he suddenly felt sleepy, and his eyes grew heavy. Before he knew it, someone held him as he lay sideways and fell into the sweet embrace of sleep.
.
.
.
Rickon woke up with a start, finding himself in a strange wooden house surrounded by the largest lake he had ever seen. Turning around, he froze, and his lips grew wide at the sight of a woman who could only be his mother… until she turned to speak to a tall man with dark hair and green eyes. Rickon then knew this wasn't his mother but his sister Sansa, and his smile got even wider as he listened to them talk.
"… Don't expect those girls to adapt overnight. I'm a demigod, not a miracle worker." The man shook his head as Sansa giggled, and Rickon wanted to call out to her, to hug her and have her tussle his hair like she used to, but like his last dream, he could only watch.
"I don't know, Percy, raising the sea and controlling ships with your mind as you slip around Stannis' fleet sounds very miraculous to me." Sansa glanced around her, and Rickon noticed two more houses - no, ships, following along.
"You would be surprised by what people like me could do, especially if they were gods." The man, Percy, shrugged as they walked around the ship, though Rickon noticed he had Sansa's arm looped around his own.
"Like causing the Dragonmont to go up in fire and smoke?" His sister asked in that same innocent tone she taught him when he wanted an extra lemon cake.
"Hey, I had nothing to do with that, okay? That island literally decided to go bonkers the moment we sailed past it."
"Oh, my. So your mere presence caused Dragonstone to have its worst eruption in centuries?"
"… You call that eruption? Tut-tut, oh my sweet summer child, you have never seen a volcano unleashing its rage before, have you?"
"Hey, don't use the words I taught you against me." Sansa slapped the man's shoulders, but Rickon could see her smiling. "No matter. How are our dear guests handling their new positions?"
"The Princess screamed her head off when the dough she was kneading got into her hair, while her friend puked when she gutted her first fish, and the blood splashed in her face. Or was it the opposite? I still mistake them for each other." Percy sighed in resignation, "I never thought you noble types would be so…"
"Useless?"
"I was going to say inexperienced in life, but since you're offering." Sansa and her new friend chuckled again as they stopped in front of a stall, where a massive black horse snorted a greeting at them as it munched on a carrot. Percy patted the horse and refilled his water, causing Rickon's eyes to widen as the water flowed by itself into the trough. "I'm glad you are treating the girls well, Sansa."
"Better than they deserve. I have every right to take my pound of flesh from Cersei's daughter." Rickon shivered when he heard the frost in her words; he had never heard her like that before. "Yet, you were right. A child is innocent of their parent's sins."
"And you have proven to be the better person; otherwise, you would have been no different from that Cersei woman."
"Still, it doesn't mean I will treat them like nobles. As my new handmaidens, they better get used to serving me because that will be their future for a long time if I have anything to say about it." Sansa folded her arms as she raised her voice towards an open door, and Rickon thought he heard hurried footsteps rushing away.
"I suppose having the spoiled girls do some hard labor would be good for them. Build character and all that." Percy ran his fingers through his hair as he frowned and glanced around him, only to stare at a spot above Rickon, causing the boy to freeze. They looked at each other for a moment before Percy shrugged. "Gonna have them join you in your home then? Winterfell, I think you called it."
"Yes, but we must stop by White Harbor first. How long until we get there again?" They continued to walk around the ship as they slowly approached where he was standing, unable to move with them.
"Longer than I anticipated. The sea is foreign, and I have yet to adjust to the wind and the currents. I can sense some things in the depths that I would rather not tangle with when I would need to protect you at the same time." Sansa grimaced. "Not to mention the two ships you're having me drag along, it's not easy focusing on so many things, you know. Do you really need those ships?"
"Of course I do. They are our spoils, and we can make do with that extra ship somehow." Sansa stood there defiantly until Percy shrugged lazily. "Now, how long do you reckon until we arrive?"
"I'd say… ten days or so, if we meet no trouble and the maps were accurate enough."
Suddenly, the man's hand sprung over his head, barely missing him by inches. Rickon could not breathe and watched in terror as the man flexed his fist in the empty air. Percy frowned, and Sansa stared at him in confusion.
"Percy?"
"I thought someone was listening in on us, but I might have been mistaken. It didn't feel malicious–."
Before Rickon could think of anything, he started feeling drowsy, and the world turned to mist as he woke up in the solar with everyone looking at him strangely.
"Rickon! You made us worry when you collapsed like that." Bran was more awake than any time Rickon had seen him, and then he noticed the rest of the room's occupants. Meera and her brother had joined them at some point, Jojo looking much better than earlier. "Was it… a vision?"
His brother's question made Rickon perk up. Truth be told, Rickon barely understood half of what his sister and this Percy man were speaking, but he knew one thing for sure.
"Yes, Sansa is coming back!"
***
Luwin
"My prince, I must advise against this. Sending a hundred men-at-arms to White Harbor to greet your sister is too much. We don't even know whether she will truly be there or not."
"I have made my decision, Ser Rodrik. Whether my sister arrives or not, this would be a good chance to show Lord Manderly that we care about his grievances. Those bandits under the Bolton Bastard need to be dealt with."
"But who would lead the troops? They are far too green to lead themselves, and I can't leave my duties to hunt for that bastard when the Ironborn could start reaving too close that we would need to sally out to dispatch them."
Luwin stood aside as he watched patiently as the rejuvenated Lord Brandon finally decided on a course of action. Ser Rodrik's concerns were valid, for Winterfell could not afford to lose so many troops when many of the veterans of the castle perished with Lord Eddard in the south. Then, King Robb took the elite of the Stark horsemen and guards, leaving the greenest of men-at-arms. There was never a shortage of men who would be honored to join the Stark guard, and Robb had ordered the coffers opened to recruit as many as possible.
The castellan had been busy over the past moons training the recruits, yet Winterfell had a severe shortage of captains and men of leadership. It's easy to find someone willing to swing a blade or loose an arrow in the name of Stark, but to find men with the disposition to lead the troops into battle was far more difficult. Those positions were usually reserved for noble sons or petty houses with a history of command, like the Cassels. It was unfortunate that the North was cursed to have a lack of such men as many had died in recent times; Rodrik's heir, Jory, was the perfect example, for he would have been the best option for such an undertaking.
He glanced at the awakened young Rickon, and his thoughts drifted to the wild tales he had mentioned. Lady Sansa somehow escaping the clutches of the Lannisters? Sailing north with three ships and with prisoners? Cersei's daughter could only be Princess Myrcella, and having her as a hostage would be a great boon for their cause. Still, who was that man with Sansa, and how could he detect Rickon in a dream? Was he also a sorcerer?
"… Still need someone to lead them, Prince Bran. How will they even make it to White Harbor in ten days with the roads unsafe?" Luwin was brought out of his thoughts to find Rodrik had seemingly resigned himself to the young lord's stubbornness.
"If I may, I have a proposal that should satisfy everyone." The whole room turned to Jojen Reed. The heir to the Neck had woken up earlier and came here like a man on a mission. He looked far healthier than before, yet his green eyes still retained the signs of exhaustion that usually haunted them.
"What is it, Jojen?"
"I have also received a vision." The declaration wasn't shocking, for the young Reed had shown from the day he arrived that he was different. "Not like Rickon's, but more of a message for me to return to the Neck."
"B-But what about what we discussed?" Bran looked distraught, and Luwin frowned. "The training and the journey to the three–"
"Those would have to be postponed, Bran. Something had changed. The world has changed. I cannot see my death anymore. Magic has returned, and we are not the only ones capable of using it." The young man's ominous warning echoed like a bell in the room. "I might be short of stature, but my father still taught me how to rule and lead troops, even if I was ill for most of it. Meera and I could lead your troops down a barge on the White Knife to White Harbor. There won't be a need for horses once we get there, for I'm sure Lord Manderly would greatly appreciate the reinforcements and provide his own as needed, but we must not have this discussion leave this room."
"Indeed, we shouldn't even send Lord Manderly a raven about this," Luwin added as his thoughts drifted towards a certain Lannister Maester assigned to White Harbor. While maesters were supposed to be sworn to their keeps, old loyalties oft ran too strong.
They all quickly agreed to keep Rickon's vision a secret. If it were true, it could change… everything.
"From the White City, Meera shall stay in the city to await Princess Sansa while I continue to the Neck," Jojen finished with a yawn.
It was a sound proposal, and after a bit of deliberation and a confident grin from Lady Meera, everyone was in agreement. Except, something was bothering Luwin. "Why do you need to return to your father so suddenly, Lord Jojen?"
The young man smiled sadly, "I fear that ill news will arrive soon, and my father needs to be warned about matters of the realm. Ravens are incapable of reaching Greywater Watch, so only a Crannogman could make the journey."
A few days later, after the Reed siblings had departed, dire news did indeed arrive as the young Crannogman foretold - Moat Cailin had fallen to Victarion Greyjoy and the Iron Fleet.
We get fresh POVs for a change, and the first ripple of fate has happened. Edmure stays one extra day as he gathers information instead of actually just larping around, and Jaime's escape is much more successful.
Jojen is not plagued by the visions that Bloodraven has been sending him, so he quickly recovers but gets another vision from someone in the Neck. Magic has returned, so naturally, all sorts of people will awaken new powers.
Thanks to Rickon, we learn how the Northmen were forewarned about the Ironborn attacks on the Stony Shore, but how the Iron Fleet managed to slip through Blazewater Bay and up the Fevre River Undetected by anyone is completely farcical. The same thing could be said about Asha's attack on Deepwood Motte. This was my answer to Victarion's success - he hid in the fog.
Looks like Sansa will get a welcoming committee when she arrives in White Harbor, but was weakening the already small garrison of Winterfell such a wise decision? We shall see, but that's the problem with giving a ten-year-old cripple absolute power, for even if he has good intentions, he still needs to listen to his advisors.
If you would like to read three chapters ahead, or simply support me, head over to Patr(eo)n under the same penname.
Jojen is not plagued by the visions that Bloodraven has been sending him, so he quickly recovers but gets another vision from someone in the Neck. Magic has returned, so naturally, all sorts of people will awaken new powers.
Thanks to Rickon, we learn how the Northmen were forewarned about the Ironborn attacks on the Stony Shore, but how the Iron Fleet managed to slip through Blazewater Bay and up the Fevre River Undetected by anyone is completely farcical. The same thing could be said about Asha's attack on Deepwood Motte. This was my answer to Victarion's success - he hid in the fog.
Looks like Sansa will get a welcoming committee when she arrives in White Harbor, but was weakening the already small garrison of Winterfell such a wise decision? We shall see, but that's the problem with giving a ten-year-old cripple absolute power, for even if he has good intentions, he still needs to listen to his advisors.
If you would like to read three chapters ahead, or simply support me, head over to Patr(eo)n under the same penname.
Chapter 7 (The Storm)
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
25th day of the 7th Moon.
Somewhere off the coast of Vale.
Onboard the Silver Lady,
Sansa
"You missed a spot."
Myrcella, who in another life might have been a close friend and goodsister to her, sighed as she redid her stitching on the banner they were making. Rosamund, the handmaid, worked silently yet kept throwing glances at the two of them.
Both girls were decent with a needle but not half as good as Sansa was, of course. Even now, they looked like a pair of golden-haired kittens instead of fierce lions. They lacked servants, and the two girls chaffed under the menial tasks they had never had to do before. Yet, despite the complaints, tears, and whinging, the two of them did it all.
Myrcella Baratheon was everything a nobleman would want in a daughter - diligent, kind, beautiful. Courteous and proud, any maiden would love to be a companion with such a girl. Yet none of that mattered much to Sansa, for she was Cersei's daughter.
"Quite the slave driver, aren't you?" Her savior was looking at them with amusement, his books and rolls of parchment forgotten. Half a moon ago, she would have been gravely insulted by such a vile insinuation. Yet, now she knew it was just some of his odd speech again and merely raised her nose.
"There is a difference between slaves and hostages," Sansa sniffed imperiously. "And they are of better use aiding us, especially since we lack servants. Furthermore, Percy…. Were you not supposed to be doing something yourself?"
"Ugh, yes, mom," Percy returned to his quill and parchment with an expression that reminded her of Arya when Septa Mordane forced her to work. Alas, the Septa was no more; the savage brutes calling themselves pious knights had chopped her head off, and her sister was gone, lost only the gods know where.
The sound of giggling came from where the girls were busy stitching the Stark banner, and Sansa decided to let them enjoy their laughs. Her new handmaidens had proven themselves useful and loyal… and Sansa had gotten tired of being angry. Fury still boiled within her veins, but it was reduced to a simmer now.
The first few days of their journey were a test of her temperament as she treated Myrcella and Rosamund as servants, having them learn how to cook, gut and clean fish, scrub the deck, clean Blackjack's stall, attend her during bath time… Sansa wanted to humble them, or so she convinced herself.
She was venting her rage on two girls who had done no wrong, she realized to her dread. The daughter of Eddard Stark dearly wanted them to rebel, to lash out, and give her a reason to make their life truly miserable.
Yet, they did not. They did all she demanded without questions, if with some whinging and wincing, no matter how ridiculous her commands had become. At first, Sansa thought they were meek and craven, but Rosamund was quick with a giggle and had a witty humor to her.
Myrcella had steel in her spine as she always looked her in the eye whenever she talked to her. There was something else in her gaze that Sansa had always noticed, not pity but sympathy and regret. The princess had been there when Joffrey had ordered the white cloaks to beat Sansa, but it didn't matter.
Arya, Father, Vayon, Jory, Septa Mordane, Porther, Heward, Desmond, Cayn, Wyl, Wayn, Varly, and all the other guardsmen… all slain. And for what? Even Jeyne Poole had been taken from her, and she shuddered to think what had happened to her friend.
"Are you alright, Sansa?"
"I'm fine, just a bit sleepy," she deflected, looking at the sun crawling down the western horizon.
Her gaze turned to the man she had been courting over the past few weeks. It was strange for a maiden to do the courting instead of the other way around, but her hand had been forced when she realized Percy had no idea about the proper customs or how to approach her. There was desire in his eyes, even though it had been held under a tight leash. He had been receptive to her approach, if somewhat hesitant and awkward. Sansa reminded herself to be patient, for whoever had taught Percy had clearly put all the effort into swordwork instead of proper customs. At least he never rebuffed her attempts at closeness, from chatting and spending time together to escorting her around the ship or the odd island they stopped in to exercise Blackjack.
Yet even Sansa's daring had a limit; courting was something she had never done before, and she felt as if she was wandering in the dark. Yet needs must; her family had been brought low by her own actions, and now they had too many and too strong foes. Sansa needed Percy on the side of House Stark, and the only way to make a proper alliance was through marriage. It did help that her savior was genuinely dashing, brave, gentle, and strong.
"Well, I say we should call it a night," Percy's voice broke her from her musings. He gave her a sly grin as he fled the reading lesson, making Sansa groan. At the door of the cabin, he halted, turned around, and bowed theatrically to the two hostages. "Sleep tight, ladies."
"Good night, Ser."
As always, the blondes were wary in their words, but Percy didn't seem to be bothered as he left the captain's quarters to sleep outside. He always claimed to enjoy sleeping outdoors and surrounded by the sea, yet Sansa knew his presence terrified the girls, causing her to sigh. Perseus Jackson was far too gentle of a man, yet she could not imagine a better person to wield such terrible powers. Turning to the two girls who looked like they were having a silent conversation, Sansa coughed loudly, and they scrambled back to return to the embroidery. Was this how Septa Mordane and Mother had felt when they tried to wrangle Arya to do her stitches?
With a sigh, Sansa grabbed her own needle and a ball of gray thread and joined them.
"We must finish the banner before we reach the Bite, lest we risk Lord Manderly taking us for pirates."
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Sansa woke up with a start, feeling the warm breeze on her cheek as the air rang with the cheery song of chirping birds. It was not a bird she had heard before. A glance at her surroundings had her awake and alert. She was on a beach, the sand as soft as silk and glittering like gold under the sun, lush palm trees behind her, with a myriad of exotic birds with bright and colorful plumage.
Even the sea was as calm as a pool of water, the waters as clear as a crystal. She could see the fish, sand, rocks, and reefs with ease.
To her chagrin, someone had changed her clothing; for Sansa was now garbed in a strange gray dress. It was so scandalously scant and tight that it would make even whores blush. Gods, the last thing she remembered was finishing the banner with the girls and going to sleep. Was this a–
"You have awakened. Good."
Turning abruptly at the melodic voice behind her, Sansa's eyes widened, and her jaw dropped at the sheer vision of beauty that met her. It was a young maiden, barely a year older than her, with silky, sun-kissed hair that flowed down to her waist like a waterfall. She had a crown of lilies on her head, with large round honey-colored eyes on her beautiful face. Sansa couldn't decide if she was six and ten or five and twenty. Her full lips were upturned into a gentle smile, and Sansa finally managed to drag her eyes downwards to inspect the rest of the maiden's body.
Her skin was a healthy tan that reminded her of Percy's skin tone; her lithe body was dressed in a white dress that made the red-haired maiden flush. Even her smooth bare feet seemed to glide over the golden sand below as the woman came to face her.
"You have been staring at me for a while. Am I to your liking?"
The question caused the red-haired girl to flinch and shake her head. She had no idea who this beautiful maiden was, but she would not accept cheek from anyone, especially not someone her age. Sansa crossed her arms under her chest, subtly pushing up her pride and joy while fully utilizing her new dress, and raised her nose in the air as she looked down at the shorter girl.
"You are acceptable, I suppose. I have seen much better every day, however, when I look in the mirror."
The beautiful maiden's eyes widened at her audacity. In hindsight, Sansa wondered if it was smart to antagonize a potentially dangerous being who had somehow abducted her from her ship and companions. Her worry was unfounded, however, when the girl snorted as she burst out in boisterous laughter. It was certainly not a sound a noble maiden was supposed to make, but Sansa found herself smiling along before giggling at the silliness of the situation.
"Ah, you would have made for a fine court fool, if you were born a boy!" The maiden finally calmed down as she looked up at her. "Vanity and pride can be your undoing, Sansa Stark."
"You know who I am, yet I do not know you." Sansa schooled her face into a mask. "It is very rude to kidnap someone and not even introduce yourself."
"I am certain you know very well about the courtesies of kidnapping maidens." The sharp words made her take a step back with a grimace. "Regardless, it would not do for me to not fulfill the courtesies that millions espouse in my honor. I am known by many names; some call me the lady of the waves, and others confuse me for a mortal fox woman in the past who birthed many great men. It has been too long since I gained a conscience and freed myself from the weirwoods." Sansa's blood ran cold in a way that even Joffrey failed to incite with his cruelty as the maiden approached her and, despite her shorter stature, seemed to stare down at her. "Now, however? I am simply the Maiden."
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"How do you like your tea?"
"It's wonderful. The finest beverage I've ever tried." Sansa sipped again from the porcelain teacup, enjoying the soothing taste of the hot drink. It had nothing in common with moon tea or what the cooks and maesters would make with herbs as cure for the chill. "I suppose it would be simple for a goddess to create food and drink."
"Only because this is your mind, my dear."
The Maiden giggled, and Sansa smiled sheepishly. After she had gotten over the shock of being in the presence of The Maiden, the goddess summoned a table and chairs with a teapot. The red-haired princess did not know how to feel about this situation. She had lost count of the amount of prayers she gave to the Seven, yet none of them were ever answered. Only when she was safe and in the company of a demigod did one of them deign to appear in her dreams.
"You have something on your mind."
It was a statement said with iron surety. Sansa emptied her cup in a single swig and gathered herself. So many questions swirled in her mind, but one in particular bothered her the most.
"You mentioned being freed from the weirwoods…"
"It is a complicated matter that I am afraid would take far too long to explain and you might simply not fathom the intricacies of it." The Maiden shook her head, and even this action was done with seamless, impossible grace. "I am certain you are interested in something far more personal."
"True. I have prayed so much to the Seven yet never did I receive even a sign, let alone an answer." Sansa tried to keep her voice neutral but clearly failed, judging by the other woman's look of sympathy.
"Oh, but I did hear it, my dear Sansa. I do not know about the others, for we are far more separate and different than you could imagine, but I did hear your prayers and even answered them to the best of my abilities." Sansa wanted to retort, yet she paused in thought, allowing the maiden to continue. "The world was a stifling place. My words could not be easily heard, and those who were worthy tend to be struck by misfortune."
"So, what changed?"
"Your hero's arrival, of course. With his powerful divine soul, he somehow shattered the thickening veil separating mortal from the divine like a hammer through glass. For better and for worse, all of us can now reach into the world once more, and some who were asleep have awakened."
The words made Sansa's spine crawl. "Why this island? Why me?"
"This island… I took a glimpse of Perseus' soul. Once, he had a maiden, and she lived on an island just like this." The Maiden's soft gaze was so piercing that it made Sansa feel naked. "As for why, you are worthy, but you certainly are not the most worthy." The words stabbed into her heart for some reason. "There are far more worthy and pious maidens who pray religiously and live diligently. Mayhaps I could visit the more powerful of them in their dreams as well, but the few I have done so had sadly become affected, and their blessings were seen as curses by those around them."
"That still does not answer why."
The goddess brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Indeed. Unlike the rest of them you have the power and potential to make the biggest difference and to accept my presence without losing your sanity. Your spark has continuously grown, and you are close to the man who has caused chaos among the divine."
"So because I could talk to you, I am worthy?" It stung her pride that it was only due to her lineage and fortune in meeting Percy that… she pushed the melancholy down. Now was not the time. "Why now? I've been with Percy for nearly a moon now."
"You treated your captives well tonight." The Maiden smiled, but it was a cold thing. Yet all the shame Sansa harbored of her own pettiness struck her like a tidal wave.
"They were innocent from the sins of their family." Even her own words sounded like a weak excuse in her ears.
"True," the Maiden nodded, face still cold, "and now that you acknowledged that and controlled your rage, I have deemed you worthy."
"Worthy of what?"
"That remains to be seen. For now, would you acquiesce if we meet again in similar circumstances? I confess that I have not spoken to anyone so freely in so long."
It was so… surprisingly mundane, so human. Could even gods want for companionship? The gods were dangerous, and Sansa had learned things were not as they seemed the hard way. "Only this?"
"For now."
"I am amenable to meeting with you again," Sansa decided, pushing down her hesitation. Spurning a king could be deadly, and she didn't even want to imagine how a deity would react to being scorned. "You have yet to tell me your name. Or should I keep calling you The Maiden?"
The Maiden's warm hand clasped Sansa's own, but an amused smirk spread across her soft lips. "Audacious. It seems like your man has helped you find your courage. You have a lot to learn… but for now, you can call me Calypso."
"Calypso," Sansa rolled the name on her tongue. "It sounds… foreign."
"It is not my name, but I find it fitting," Calypso laughed, confusing the red-haired girl. Or was it not-Calypso? "Now, I believe it is time for you to awaken. Should you survive your ordeal, you ought to find a welcoming gift."
"Wait-" before Sansa could ask anything else, the world began to fade, and not-Calypso was gone like a mirage in the wind.
The island shook, and then Sansa opened her eyes, only to realize she was staring at the cabin's ceiling, Myrcella and Rosamund clutching her tightly on each side. The nights had only grown colder as they sailed north, and her hostages had turned into her bedmaids. A small sign of trust the girls recognized, and it helped ward off the chill of night.
The ship shook again, but it was far more abrupt than the swaying of the waves, waking Sansa fully as she felt all her hackles rise and every one of her senses screamed danger.
Same day.
Outside Storm's End,
Davos
Black Betha had sailed through the stormy sea, filled with trepidation, only for Davos to land at Storm's End and find Stannis' host swelled with Reachmen. A freak storm had crossed from the Narrow Sea overland and into Blackwater Bay, yet it had not delayed him by much, though he did appear to have missed some excitement.
The moment he had stepped on land, the former smuggler had requested an audience with Stannis, but he had been told the king was occupied. It seemed the king was often occupied, for there was no time to meet a former smuggler.
With Renly dead, many of the Storm and Reach lords had sworn fealty to the older brother, making the army camp a riot of colors. The mercurial weather had taken a turn for the worse, and the king had decided to send most of the fleet away to dock at Haystack Hall and other smaller, well-protected ports to the north. Only a handful of galleys had remained here, just enough to keep any boat from sailing into Storm's End.
The ancient yet mighty keep stood firm, mighty walls looming above, unbothered by the army gathered on its outskirts. Before Davos had arrived, the king had parlayed with Cortnay Penrose, Devan, his son and one of the king's squires, had told him.
Stannis had demanded a complete surrender and offered mercy. However, the castellan did not budge and challenged the king to single combat.
Penrose's tongue had been barbed, for all the shiny and mighty lords seemed to loathe him. Insults, jeers, mockery - one of the younger red apple knights had fainted from fury at the abuse. If there had been no maester in the camp, the foolish man would have been the first knight to die to a taunt.
And so, days had passed since Davos had come, and nothing had changed. A few younger lords were rearing to storm the fortress, but it seemed the king had decided upon a siege.
"Since Renly died, he has been troubled by terrible nightmares," Devan confided to him. "The maester's potions do nothing… even Lady Melisandre fails to soothe him to sleep."
She had shared his pavilion at night, but no longer. It seemed even her prayers and fires had not proven enough. Or even… other ways of soothing Stannis to sleep. Regardless, Melisandre of Asshai remained in the camp, staring at the fires as if dazed. The air of mystique and allure clung to her like her red gown, but she seemed to pay the world around her no heed.
Yet, Stannis had found another way to lull himself, it seemed, something… uncharacteristic. It was the first time Davos had seen his liege spar openly. Many a knight from the Reach and the Stormlands had even decided to test their mettle against him. Very few won, and very rarely - most when the king was exhausted.
With all that fighting seemed to come a hearty appetite, for Stannis feasted as if every meal would be his last. Fish, steak, poultry - he devoured all with relish. Seven days prior, he looked like he had aged ten years, but now, there was a newfound liveliness to him.
Yet today, the drudgery of the siege had finally been broken. Stannis had called for a war council in the command tent, demanding the presence of even his lowly Onion Knight. Davos felt out of place amidst the sea of plumes, colorful cloaks, and surcoats of silk and velvet and silvery and gold-inlaid armor polished so well it could serve as a mirror. Now, they were gathered around a large oaken table, covered with a sprawling map of the Seven Kingdoms.
After they began, Lord Donnel Swann was the first to speak, "Your Grace, my brother has managed to escape the lion's clutches from the capital, arriving in our camp just this dawn."
The words were met with a weak cheer and a sea of murmurs - quite a few had kin or kith held hostage in King's Landing by the lion queen.
"He must have a valuable word of the happenings in the city," Lord Monterys Velaryon said thoughtfully. "Far better than hearsay from those simple-minded beggars." All sorts of odd hearsay had swarmed as of late, and none believed any of it, for each rumor was more fantastical than the last.
"Indeed. Summon him here," the king's voice was flat. The Swann Lord scrambled over to call a servant to fetch for his knightly brother. "Any word from Ser Erren Florent and Ser Parmen Crane?"
"None, Your Grace," Lord Bryce Fossoway replied, a man clad in his velvet surcoat proudly displaying a green apple. "The rest of the Reachmen have yet to send ravens or come here to pay homage."
"So the Seven be-damned roses have chosen treason again." There was no surprise in Stannis, but for the first time, Davos saw a hint of anger, of fury in him, the stoic facade of iron broken. His liege's eyes seemed as bright blue as the summer sky above. And… it had been the first time in moons since Stannis had mentioned the Seven, let alone… cursed so openly. Judging by the surprised looks of the other lords, they had noticed, too. Melisandre's gaze held a hint of displeasure, but she remained silent, watching. "Lord Florent, I pray for the safety of your son."
"Thank you, Your Grace." The Lord of Brightwater Keep was an aging man, and Davos could see the red-gold snout of the fox peek through a wreath of blue flowers on his polished breastplate. "Erren knew his duty, and the Lord of Light shall watch over him."
"The Lord of Light…" Stannis shook his head, not finishing his thought. The former smuggler noticed the stag pin on his chest was no longer aflame. "It appears your wisdom in sending those ravens to your contacts after Loras Tyrell and Randall Tarly left bore fruit."
"Indeed, Your Grace. Regretfully, my son Alekyne could only convince the Stormlands army to march for their rightful king. The rest of the Reachmen were content to fiddle their thumbs at Bitterbridge." Alester Florent scowled before nodding to the Red Witch gratefully. "It was as Lady Melisandre had foreseen; my treacherous good son abandoned our bonds of kin in favor of the upstart stewards. Thanks to your warning, my lady, we managed to rally all those loyal to the king, and form lines before Tarly could take them by surprise. Mace Tyrell would not be foolish enough to force a battle that could prove disastrous when they lacked cavalry or knights, even if they had the numbers. Without a claimant like Renly, he had no right to command another kingdom's lords, and a temporary truce was reached. The Stormlands army, along with my forces, were allowed to leave."
The Red Witch tilted her head in silent acknowledgment and returned her gaze to the flickering brazier. So far, among the Reachmen, only Lord Florent appeared to truly believe in the foreign faith, yet the rest of the lords were skeptical at best and hostile at worst. Even the Queen's Men had seemed less enthusiastic about the Red God, especially now that the king had expressed some hesitation. Ser Richard Horpe and Ser Godry Farring had always made their voices heard, yet Davos had not seen them goad any of the pious Reachmen since his arrival.
"When should we expect the rest of the army to arrive?"
"After treating with the Fat Flower," the Reachlord's words thickened with contempt, "the Stormlords, commanded by your cousin Aemon Estermont, had taken the Roseroad to the Kingswood before diverting to one of the lesser roads for Felwood. They have the bulk of the supplies Renly had gathered. Even after force marching in case the Tyrells renege on the truce and attack their rear, I expect they will arrive there in a fortnight, but the weather does not make me hopeful. So much rain in the middle of summer is unnatural, and the rivers might soon flood."
More mutterings around the tent about troop counts, supplies, and other important matters. Even after being knighted for fifteen years, Davos still felt like an old, foolish smuggler with such talk. Put him on a boat and ask him to chart a course around the Stepstones, and he would be your man. Or sail a ship anywhere in the known world.
Yet from what the smuggler understood, the king's army had swelled greatly; fifteen thousand Reachmen joined their five thousand from the Narrow Sea, bringing it up to twenty thousand. The issue was that the Reachmen were all cavalry, proud knights and their squires, yet they lacked supplies and their foot. For whatever reason, Renly Baratheon had not taken any Stormlander with him aside from his direct vassals and their retinues. Many of these lords, like the elderly Eldon Estermont, left their heirs with the bulk of the Stormlands army near Bitterbridge. Then, there were the Florent men, but those he learned were not many. The bulk of their forces were in Brightwater Keep, deterring any Tyrell retaliation.
This was why Stannis was in no real rush to take Storm's End, for they needed to wait for the rest of their army to reform. There were also envoys sent to the Stormlander houses that had not mustered for Renly, calling on them to join their one true king with what troops or supplies they could spare. From what he gleaned, Davos understood that supplies were of paramount importance, for the Royal Fleet could not supply them efficiently with only Haystack Hall and Tarth as the closest ports.
Then, there were also the Marcher houses that could not afford to muster too many troops or risk Dornish incursions. Doran Martell had called his banners, and he heard tell they were mustering along the Boneway and the Prince's Pass.
"Your Grace, we need to plan for what to do after we take Storm's End." Lord Bryce Caron's declaration brought the chatter to a silence. "With the Tyrells recalcitrant and unmoving, I say we bring the fight to them. You are the only righteous claimant, and if we leave them to their devices, we risk them allying with one of the other usurpers! The tyranny of the Roses as they deny the Reachmen from joining their rightful king must be answered!"
The command tent was filled with clamor as every lord in attendance wanted their voice to be heard. The Reachmen were understandably wary of bringing the war to their lands, yet many of them were indignant at the Tyrell's pressing their levies into their services, and not allowing the foot to join them. Davos knew that Stannis planned to take King's Landing after Storm's End, and the King was not one to change his mind.
Surprisingly, however, Stannis paused, as if he truly considered changing his course. "What is the word from the Riverlands?"
"The last we heard was Robb Stark plundering the Westerlands and Tywin Lannister marching for Riverrun. This was moons ago, however." The Hand of the King coughed as he rubbed his brow. "We have little to no contacts in the Riverlands, and all our knowledge came from the Tyrells. My son noted that since Renly's death, Mace Tyrell had been sending and receiving many ravens from the north."
"So he is either courting Stark or Lannister–"
Before more could be said, a guard entered the pavilion. "Your Grace, Ser Balon Swann requesting entrance."
"Let him through."
The Swann knight entered the tent wearing a brown, tattered cloak over a suit of battered armor, all drenched by the pittering rain outside. The Stormlander seemed to have had his fair share of fighting, for there was steel in his gaze. Even looking like a haggard hedge knight with his unkempt beard compared to the shiny lords, his blue eyes seemed to be full of steel despite the heavy bags under them.
"I serve at your pleasure, Your Grace," the knight kneeled, head bowed down.
A rare small smile crept on the king's face. "Rise, Ser Balon. What can you tell us of the happenstance in King's Landing?"
"Madness and sorcery," Balon Swann's eyes turned distant. "I would have scarcely believed half of it if I didn't see it with my own two eyes. I swear on my honor, I swear it by the Mother-"
"Nobody questions your honor here, Ser," Stannis raised his hand and waved over a page with a wine flask for the knight. "Drink. Soothe your parched throat and tell your tale."
The knight bowed deeper still, grabbed the flask, and took a generous swallow of wine. "It all began when the princess Myrcella-"
"The girl is no princess, but a bastard born of incest," Stannis interrupted, and the former smuggler could hear the grinding of his teeth. "Continue."
"As… Cersei's daughter was sent off-"
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.
.
Madness and sorcery indeed, many of the lords looked skeptical at the Swann knight and his tale. Buckler, Morrigen, Selmy, Caron, Horpe, and a handful of others seemed to trust the man. Davos himself did not know what to think; the king's face was unreadable, and Melisandre was hovering at the edges of the dark tent as usual, silent.
"So, the Lannisters lost their princess," Stannis Baratheon's fingers drummed on the table, awakening many from their stupor.
"I had already left the city at the time, but I did witness their fleet returning from across the bay. Yet at every inn and village, the local bailiffs were shouting about a bounty on the heads of Sansa Stark and her pet sorcerer. There was a reward for the safe return of Myrcella…" Balon Swann tiredly rubbed his head, "Waters. A lordship and a hundred thousand golden dragons, they said."
Mutterings filled out the tent, but Stannis' amused snort cut through it like a knife through butter.
"Promising castles and lands they do not own, and coin they do not have. A hefty reward for a crown knee-deep in debt and an empty treasury. Unless the old lion can shit gold or fly it all by raven."
Laughter and jeers erupted in the tent; it seemed none here thought much of the old Lion of Lannister. Davos had heard the whispers - Tywin Lannister was an inept fool who couldn't even beat a young boy, only good for sacking defenseless cities.
Stannis raised his hand, and the laughter quickly died out. "Regardless, I have made my decision. Lord Hand," Alester Florent straightened his back in attention, quill and parchment ready to write down the king's orders. "Send word to Felwood. Ser Aemon is to secure the Wendwater Bridge and accept the Wendwaters' fealty. They may be part of the Crownlands, yet they were historically Stormlanders. If they refuse, he has leave to take their castle and lands. Once that is done, I want him to keep outriders in the Kingswood and near the capital. We must secure a route to King's Landing, and I do not want a single rat entering my woods without my knowledge."
"It shall be done, Your Grace. Is there… anything else?" The graying Lord Florent stood there hesitantly, like an errant child before his father, and Davos had to suppress a snort.
"That will be all. You have done well, Ser Balon. Go now, get some rest, for you look in dire need of it. Meeting adjourned. Ser Davos, stay." The lords quickly made themselves scarce, and the tent was empty… aside from Melisandre, who still lingered by the shadows near the brazier. "My lady, I wish to speak with my Onion Knight in private."
Face unreadable, the red woman bowed stiffly and left, her crimson cloak billowing behind her.
"Your Grace," Davos bowed and joined Stannis by the brazier vacated by the priestess. Even the servants were dismissed, and the guardsmen were ordered not to let anyone near the tent. This had been the first time the Onion Knight had seen his liege so secretive.
"Melisandre had been irritable as of late." The words were said without a hint of feeling. Even now, Davos couldn't make what Stannis truly thought about the red priestess.
"Has she? Did her Lord of Light not reply to her prayers?"
"Possibly, for she claimed Storm's End's protections had gotten far more powerful over the past few weeks, and her visions had blurred." Stannis opened an ice chest and gave him a goblet of chilled water before serving himself. "Now, I have Ser Balon Swann say the same day it happened, Stark's daughter had escaped Cersei's grasp."
"Surely… it's a coincidence?" Davos grimaced and took a gulp of water to wet his lips. He was not a very pious man, but he held to the Seven as well as any other… and all this talk of magic and sorcery made him uncomfortable.
"I have been having dreams, Davos."
The change of topic caught the former smuggler flat-footed. "Dreams, Your Grace? I do not understand."
"An odd thing, for I struggle to make any sense of it either," Stannis admitted quietly. "Yet it was not a normal dream. It was so vivid, I can still see it when I close my eyes. I stood atop Storm's End, and a titanic warrior clad in clouds and wind, wielding a blade of lightning, stared down at me."
"That's… quite a specific dream, Your Grace," the old knight's throat went dry.
"Indeed. His voice was like a rumble of thunder, and his eyes - a raging sea storm. Yet every time I close my eyes, I dream of him. And every time he speaks to me; A jumbled, rustic speech, but he spoke of legacy, of wrath, of grief."
Davos rubbed his balding head, feeling more confused than ever. "A sign from the gods?"
"You could call it such." The king's voice grew hoarse. "I knew him, Davos. I had never seen such a being before, yet somehow… I just knew who he was. Elenei's sire himself. Yet his face looked just like the statue of the Warrior in the Sept of Baelor."
Was it the sign from the Seven themselves, Davos wondered. Yet he dared not speak it out loud. Elenei? The old smuggler knew of no Eleneis but a washerwoman near Duskendale. Yet her father had been just an old crofter, not worth a mention by a king. Then… the Onion Knight's eyes widened as realization sunk in. He picked up his cup and poured all of the water into his now-dry throat, yet it barely soothed him. Gods… even a man from Flea Bottom like him knew the story of the sea god and his daughter Elenei, who wedded the Godsgrief.
But it had been nothing more than an old wives' tale, and Davos was confused. "What would… a god want from mortals such as us?"
"Many things, it seems," the king's face turned stormy. "It seems like all the gods are demanding, wanting more and more. It was like speaking with my elder brother, you know? Arrogant and disdainful, and nothing truly pleased him. Disgruntled, but not unhappy with Renly's demise…"
"How did Renly die, Your Grace?" Davos dreaded the answer but asked anyway.
"His ambition killed him." Seven above, what had his liege gotten into? "I miss him, you know? The boy he was, not the man he became. Yet… even this god was hard to please. They all want more and more."
Father, give me strength, Davos prayed silently. He was just… an old smuggler from Fleabottom. But he had given his word. His word to be always honest and leal to Stannis. "And… what did this one demand?"
"Belief," Stannis exhaled slowly. "I am to forsake the Lord of Light and pay homage to him and his name instead."
The Onion Knight wiped the beads of sweat from his face, this talk had been harder than rowing a small boat for hours at sea at night. "Him… the Warrior or the Seven?"
"I ask much the same," the king's voice thickened with amusement. "Why would I forsake something I did not believe in anyway? He raged and thundered and even more so when I asked for a sign. The gods are greedy, cruel beings, and always take more than you offer and give little in return."
"Even R'hllor?"
"Especially R'hllor," Stannis's face darkened. Davos dared not ask what the price had been. "There is power there, indeed. Yet even Melisandre dared not claim my daughter could be cured of her affliction."
The little princess… his liege had called sorcerers, healers, hedge wizards, maesters, and even warlocks from the four corners of the world, just to save his only daughter. In the end, they had succeeded, if barely. Shireen was still scarred by the greyscale, but alive and sane, unlike all the stone men exiled to the Sorrows.
"And… does this god promise to heal Lady Shireen?"
The king stared at the dying brazier, face taut. "Nay. He promised me a sign. Soon he said, he would grant me a boon, should I prove myself."
"Prove yourself?" Davos echoed, confused. How could one truly prove himself before the gods? The Septons claimed you ought to be pious and pray before the stone statues; Melisandre had her fires and burning…
"With sword in hand, of course," Stannis scoffed. Was that why he had been training? "By winning the challenge I scorned before. My grandfather, Lord Estermont, would advise me to siege my own castle. The other, older lords have much of the same opinions - spend a year or two here and starve the defenders out. The younger ones are more impatient and are rearing to storm the gates or even champion me in a trial by combat. Melisandre promises a way for Penrose to fall without battle, too. I have heard all of their opinions… loudly and many a time, since they insist on braying and braying loudly, and now, I shall hear yours."
Was that how Renly had fallen? Struck down by R'hllor and his dark magicks? Yet the smuggler had promised to be truthful.
"A duel is a dangerous, risky thing." And better than the red priestess and her dark sorcery. Davos wiped the beads of sweat from his brow. "But… a lengthy siege will give your foes time to rest and regroup. I think you should fight, Your Grace."
"And why is that, Ser?"
The onion knight would not lie, not to Stannis, not now, not ever. "Because… it will show your men you are willing to fight and die for your own cause."
"The lords have already bent the knee and owe me obedience." Stannis ground his teeth. "They all turn their cloaks when it suits them; why would I fight for them?"
"Nay, not the lords, Your Grace. For the knights, the men-at-arms, pikemen, bowmen, the small, common men who would be doing the fighting and dying in your name. All of them would fight a little harder, knowing Your Grace would be willing to put his life on the line."
Before Davos could say further, an urgent knocking on the pavilion's pole caught their attention. The king's blue eyes hardened like two chips of sapphire as he looked at the entrance, where a guard's head was poking through. "What is it?"
"A parley flag was seen on the castle's gatehouse."
"Have my steed prepared."
.
.
.
It was noon, and Davos sat atop his horse with the rest of the lords behind their king below the walls, a seven-colored parley flag fluttered above them, ten feet out of arrow range from the looming walls of Storm's End. The smuggler looked out of place here, garbed in wool, boiled leather, and a heavy chainmail. Everyone else was clad in silk and gilded steel.
Everyone but Stannis, whose armor was plain, lacking in any ornaments, aside from the circlet of red gold atop his head. Melisandre was not far, mounted atop her mare, clad in red velvet and watching.
The wind and rain had finally abated, but storm clouds still hung above them, as if waiting for something.
Many had clamored to champion the duel for the king, but Stannis had been adamant to be the one to do it. Yet… it only earned the respect of the lords. Davos was reminded that despite their pomp, being a lord was a martial thing first and foremost.
The heavy gates groaned open, and Ser Cortnay Penrose marched out atop his sorrel stallion, this time clad in a plain suit of heavy armor, a young squire trailing beside him, carrying his personal banner.
The bald knight inspected the gathering of lords, his gaze briefly halting on his elderly father before moving on.
Twenty feet from Stannis, he finally halted, head raised high. "Finally found your backbone, your grace?"
Several lords bristled, only for Stannis to raise his hand, silencing the clearing. "I merely hoped you would see sense, yet you persist in your folly. Terms?"
"Should you prove victorious, the garrison shall surrender," Cortnay's voice turned heavy. "Should I win… well, your cause ends with you, does it not?"
"Insolent, but not untrue. Your terms are accepted." The king dismounted, and one of his squires led the horse away. "Let us duel, then."
Penrose also dismounted, forgoing a helmet, and the other knights and Penrose's standard-bearer moved back, giving them more space. Stannis, too, forwent a helmet, but when he drew his blade, Davos couldn't help but notice - it didn't glow. It wasn't Lightbringer that the king wielded, but a plain longsword of castle-forged steel, looking no different than the one used during his spars.
Both warriors gripped their longswords with both hands as they circled each other, taking a measure of each other and looking for weakness.
A minute passed, and tension only mounted as the blades had yet to clash. Penrose was the first to move, throwing a savage overhead strike that Stannis parried downwards with little effort. Penrose did not falter as he retracted his sword before he overextended and stabbed at the king, who once more parried the blade sideways and retaliated with a cut to the shoulder. The regular steel did naught but dent the castellan's heavy plate, and judging by Penrose's grimace, it most likely left a bruise. Ser Cortnay retaliated with a backhanded slice, aiming to cut at the king's side, yet Stannis backstepped and allowed the sword to pass within inches of his armor before he lunged with a stab at Penrose's open torso.
The stab did not pierce the chest piece, but so strong was Stannis' strike that he sent the other knight tumbling back a few feet. The king did not allow him to recover as he took to the counterattack with fast and powerful blows that Penrose could only desperately block as he held his sword like a quarterstaff. Stannis continued to push the castellan, forcing him into the back foot. The king's face was a taut mask of determination while Ser Cortnay continued to lose ground, allowing Stannis to strike his sword in the same spot several times until, with a final savage strike, the king broke the castellan's sword in half, ripping it off his hand from the power of the blow. Davos stared in wonder as Stannis kicked the castellan in the chest, bringing him to the ground and holding his sword over his neck.
"Yield."
Everyone held their breath as the fallen knight stared at the sword at his throat, then the king. "I yield."
The gates opened with a groan again as the garrison came out to surrender. A vicious gust of wind deafened the cheers and hollers of the lords, and all the riot of silk and velvet cloaks whipped in the squall like banners.
Yet Davos only had eyes for the sky above. The clouds were black and churning with power, flickering with light as if lightning was about to strike. The hairs upon his neck and arms all rose as something rumbled from above.
A flash of light blinded the onion knight as the world turned deaf.
Davos couldn't hear a thing but the ringing in his ears. The horse beneath his hips grew uneasy, and the knight of onions had to use all of his strength to rein the beast blindly and struggle not to fall off the saddle.
Seven above, had lightning struck them?!
Suddenly, he could hear neighing in the distance. No, not in the distance; Davos realized his hearing was finally returning. By the time his gelding had calmed down, he could see blotched spots, which slowly turned into a mottled picture of colors. It took him some time to make out the surroundings. Many of the lords were gone as their steeds fled. Some had fallen or dismounted their horses, rolling on the ground and clutching their ears in pain.
And Stannis… the king, stood there like a statue, sword raised to the sky… it glowed with a power that made Davos' skin crawl in a way that Lightbringer didn't as arcs of lightning crackled along its length. Many stared with awe and confusion; others, including Davos, were rubbing their eyes. More importantly, Penrose had gotten up from the ground, his eyes wide in awe as he knelt, and laid his broken blade at His Grace's feet.
Sansa is not a cruel and sadistic girl. She is angry and vengeful, but it's easy to call for the death or harm of innocents from afar. Once she has Myrcella and Rosamund in front of her, however, she can't bear to abuse them for long. It helps that the girls are utter cupcakes.
Trying to make sense of how GRRM split Renly's forces was a nightmare and a half. He never mentioned what happened to the army of the Stormlands, but he does say that Tarly massacred the Florent forces. We never see the Stormlander army ever again in the books, so I can only assume he somehow massacred them all when they were under guest rights. Yet another way the antagonists get plot armor to do the most ridiculous things yet the protagonists get shit on for the slightest mistakes.
Ripples of change are affecting all sorts of people. Stannis was convinced of the Lord of Light because he was the only one who showed him signs and proof. Now, with magic in Westeros on the rise and the gods becoming more active, one of them approaches the descendant of The Godsgrief.
Stannis embraces his inner Mannis.
Melisandre mentions that Storm's End has magical protections that would stop her from birthing her abomination unless she was inside the castle. This loophole was snuffed out by magic's awakening, and Storm's End's influence now spreads far wider than just its walls.
As for the gods… they're a mess.
If you would like to read four chapters ahead, or simply support me, look me up on Patr(eo)n under the same pen name.
25th day of the 7th Moon.
Somewhere off the coast of Vale.
Onboard the Silver Lady,
Sansa
"You missed a spot."
Myrcella, who in another life might have been a close friend and goodsister to her, sighed as she redid her stitching on the banner they were making. Rosamund, the handmaid, worked silently yet kept throwing glances at the two of them.
Both girls were decent with a needle but not half as good as Sansa was, of course. Even now, they looked like a pair of golden-haired kittens instead of fierce lions. They lacked servants, and the two girls chaffed under the menial tasks they had never had to do before. Yet, despite the complaints, tears, and whinging, the two of them did it all.
Myrcella Baratheon was everything a nobleman would want in a daughter - diligent, kind, beautiful. Courteous and proud, any maiden would love to be a companion with such a girl. Yet none of that mattered much to Sansa, for she was Cersei's daughter.
"Quite the slave driver, aren't you?" Her savior was looking at them with amusement, his books and rolls of parchment forgotten. Half a moon ago, she would have been gravely insulted by such a vile insinuation. Yet, now she knew it was just some of his odd speech again and merely raised her nose.
"There is a difference between slaves and hostages," Sansa sniffed imperiously. "And they are of better use aiding us, especially since we lack servants. Furthermore, Percy…. Were you not supposed to be doing something yourself?"
"Ugh, yes, mom," Percy returned to his quill and parchment with an expression that reminded her of Arya when Septa Mordane forced her to work. Alas, the Septa was no more; the savage brutes calling themselves pious knights had chopped her head off, and her sister was gone, lost only the gods know where.
The sound of giggling came from where the girls were busy stitching the Stark banner, and Sansa decided to let them enjoy their laughs. Her new handmaidens had proven themselves useful and loyal… and Sansa had gotten tired of being angry. Fury still boiled within her veins, but it was reduced to a simmer now.
The first few days of their journey were a test of her temperament as she treated Myrcella and Rosamund as servants, having them learn how to cook, gut and clean fish, scrub the deck, clean Blackjack's stall, attend her during bath time… Sansa wanted to humble them, or so she convinced herself.
She was venting her rage on two girls who had done no wrong, she realized to her dread. The daughter of Eddard Stark dearly wanted them to rebel, to lash out, and give her a reason to make their life truly miserable.
Yet, they did not. They did all she demanded without questions, if with some whinging and wincing, no matter how ridiculous her commands had become. At first, Sansa thought they were meek and craven, but Rosamund was quick with a giggle and had a witty humor to her.
Myrcella had steel in her spine as she always looked her in the eye whenever she talked to her. There was something else in her gaze that Sansa had always noticed, not pity but sympathy and regret. The princess had been there when Joffrey had ordered the white cloaks to beat Sansa, but it didn't matter.
Arya, Father, Vayon, Jory, Septa Mordane, Porther, Heward, Desmond, Cayn, Wyl, Wayn, Varly, and all the other guardsmen… all slain. And for what? Even Jeyne Poole had been taken from her, and she shuddered to think what had happened to her friend.
"Are you alright, Sansa?"
"I'm fine, just a bit sleepy," she deflected, looking at the sun crawling down the western horizon.
Her gaze turned to the man she had been courting over the past few weeks. It was strange for a maiden to do the courting instead of the other way around, but her hand had been forced when she realized Percy had no idea about the proper customs or how to approach her. There was desire in his eyes, even though it had been held under a tight leash. He had been receptive to her approach, if somewhat hesitant and awkward. Sansa reminded herself to be patient, for whoever had taught Percy had clearly put all the effort into swordwork instead of proper customs. At least he never rebuffed her attempts at closeness, from chatting and spending time together to escorting her around the ship or the odd island they stopped in to exercise Blackjack.
Yet even Sansa's daring had a limit; courting was something she had never done before, and she felt as if she was wandering in the dark. Yet needs must; her family had been brought low by her own actions, and now they had too many and too strong foes. Sansa needed Percy on the side of House Stark, and the only way to make a proper alliance was through marriage. It did help that her savior was genuinely dashing, brave, gentle, and strong.
"Well, I say we should call it a night," Percy's voice broke her from her musings. He gave her a sly grin as he fled the reading lesson, making Sansa groan. At the door of the cabin, he halted, turned around, and bowed theatrically to the two hostages. "Sleep tight, ladies."
"Good night, Ser."
As always, the blondes were wary in their words, but Percy didn't seem to be bothered as he left the captain's quarters to sleep outside. He always claimed to enjoy sleeping outdoors and surrounded by the sea, yet Sansa knew his presence terrified the girls, causing her to sigh. Perseus Jackson was far too gentle of a man, yet she could not imagine a better person to wield such terrible powers. Turning to the two girls who looked like they were having a silent conversation, Sansa coughed loudly, and they scrambled back to return to the embroidery. Was this how Septa Mordane and Mother had felt when they tried to wrangle Arya to do her stitches?
With a sigh, Sansa grabbed her own needle and a ball of gray thread and joined them.
"We must finish the banner before we reach the Bite, lest we risk Lord Manderly taking us for pirates."
.
.
.
Sansa woke up with a start, feeling the warm breeze on her cheek as the air rang with the cheery song of chirping birds. It was not a bird she had heard before. A glance at her surroundings had her awake and alert. She was on a beach, the sand as soft as silk and glittering like gold under the sun, lush palm trees behind her, with a myriad of exotic birds with bright and colorful plumage.
Even the sea was as calm as a pool of water, the waters as clear as a crystal. She could see the fish, sand, rocks, and reefs with ease.
To her chagrin, someone had changed her clothing; for Sansa was now garbed in a strange gray dress. It was so scandalously scant and tight that it would make even whores blush. Gods, the last thing she remembered was finishing the banner with the girls and going to sleep. Was this a–
"You have awakened. Good."
Turning abruptly at the melodic voice behind her, Sansa's eyes widened, and her jaw dropped at the sheer vision of beauty that met her. It was a young maiden, barely a year older than her, with silky, sun-kissed hair that flowed down to her waist like a waterfall. She had a crown of lilies on her head, with large round honey-colored eyes on her beautiful face. Sansa couldn't decide if she was six and ten or five and twenty. Her full lips were upturned into a gentle smile, and Sansa finally managed to drag her eyes downwards to inspect the rest of the maiden's body.
Her skin was a healthy tan that reminded her of Percy's skin tone; her lithe body was dressed in a white dress that made the red-haired maiden flush. Even her smooth bare feet seemed to glide over the golden sand below as the woman came to face her.
"You have been staring at me for a while. Am I to your liking?"
The question caused the red-haired girl to flinch and shake her head. She had no idea who this beautiful maiden was, but she would not accept cheek from anyone, especially not someone her age. Sansa crossed her arms under her chest, subtly pushing up her pride and joy while fully utilizing her new dress, and raised her nose in the air as she looked down at the shorter girl.
"You are acceptable, I suppose. I have seen much better every day, however, when I look in the mirror."
The beautiful maiden's eyes widened at her audacity. In hindsight, Sansa wondered if it was smart to antagonize a potentially dangerous being who had somehow abducted her from her ship and companions. Her worry was unfounded, however, when the girl snorted as she burst out in boisterous laughter. It was certainly not a sound a noble maiden was supposed to make, but Sansa found herself smiling along before giggling at the silliness of the situation.
"Ah, you would have made for a fine court fool, if you were born a boy!" The maiden finally calmed down as she looked up at her. "Vanity and pride can be your undoing, Sansa Stark."
"You know who I am, yet I do not know you." Sansa schooled her face into a mask. "It is very rude to kidnap someone and not even introduce yourself."
"I am certain you know very well about the courtesies of kidnapping maidens." The sharp words made her take a step back with a grimace. "Regardless, it would not do for me to not fulfill the courtesies that millions espouse in my honor. I am known by many names; some call me the lady of the waves, and others confuse me for a mortal fox woman in the past who birthed many great men. It has been too long since I gained a conscience and freed myself from the weirwoods." Sansa's blood ran cold in a way that even Joffrey failed to incite with his cruelty as the maiden approached her and, despite her shorter stature, seemed to stare down at her. "Now, however? I am simply the Maiden."
.
.
.
"How do you like your tea?"
"It's wonderful. The finest beverage I've ever tried." Sansa sipped again from the porcelain teacup, enjoying the soothing taste of the hot drink. It had nothing in common with moon tea or what the cooks and maesters would make with herbs as cure for the chill. "I suppose it would be simple for a goddess to create food and drink."
"Only because this is your mind, my dear."
The Maiden giggled, and Sansa smiled sheepishly. After she had gotten over the shock of being in the presence of The Maiden, the goddess summoned a table and chairs with a teapot. The red-haired princess did not know how to feel about this situation. She had lost count of the amount of prayers she gave to the Seven, yet none of them were ever answered. Only when she was safe and in the company of a demigod did one of them deign to appear in her dreams.
"You have something on your mind."
It was a statement said with iron surety. Sansa emptied her cup in a single swig and gathered herself. So many questions swirled in her mind, but one in particular bothered her the most.
"You mentioned being freed from the weirwoods…"
"It is a complicated matter that I am afraid would take far too long to explain and you might simply not fathom the intricacies of it." The Maiden shook her head, and even this action was done with seamless, impossible grace. "I am certain you are interested in something far more personal."
"True. I have prayed so much to the Seven yet never did I receive even a sign, let alone an answer." Sansa tried to keep her voice neutral but clearly failed, judging by the other woman's look of sympathy.
"Oh, but I did hear it, my dear Sansa. I do not know about the others, for we are far more separate and different than you could imagine, but I did hear your prayers and even answered them to the best of my abilities." Sansa wanted to retort, yet she paused in thought, allowing the maiden to continue. "The world was a stifling place. My words could not be easily heard, and those who were worthy tend to be struck by misfortune."
"So, what changed?"
"Your hero's arrival, of course. With his powerful divine soul, he somehow shattered the thickening veil separating mortal from the divine like a hammer through glass. For better and for worse, all of us can now reach into the world once more, and some who were asleep have awakened."
The words made Sansa's spine crawl. "Why this island? Why me?"
"This island… I took a glimpse of Perseus' soul. Once, he had a maiden, and she lived on an island just like this." The Maiden's soft gaze was so piercing that it made Sansa feel naked. "As for why, you are worthy, but you certainly are not the most worthy." The words stabbed into her heart for some reason. "There are far more worthy and pious maidens who pray religiously and live diligently. Mayhaps I could visit the more powerful of them in their dreams as well, but the few I have done so had sadly become affected, and their blessings were seen as curses by those around them."
"That still does not answer why."
The goddess brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Indeed. Unlike the rest of them you have the power and potential to make the biggest difference and to accept my presence without losing your sanity. Your spark has continuously grown, and you are close to the man who has caused chaos among the divine."
"So because I could talk to you, I am worthy?" It stung her pride that it was only due to her lineage and fortune in meeting Percy that… she pushed the melancholy down. Now was not the time. "Why now? I've been with Percy for nearly a moon now."
"You treated your captives well tonight." The Maiden smiled, but it was a cold thing. Yet all the shame Sansa harbored of her own pettiness struck her like a tidal wave.
"They were innocent from the sins of their family." Even her own words sounded like a weak excuse in her ears.
"True," the Maiden nodded, face still cold, "and now that you acknowledged that and controlled your rage, I have deemed you worthy."
"Worthy of what?"
"That remains to be seen. For now, would you acquiesce if we meet again in similar circumstances? I confess that I have not spoken to anyone so freely in so long."
It was so… surprisingly mundane, so human. Could even gods want for companionship? The gods were dangerous, and Sansa had learned things were not as they seemed the hard way. "Only this?"
"For now."
"I am amenable to meeting with you again," Sansa decided, pushing down her hesitation. Spurning a king could be deadly, and she didn't even want to imagine how a deity would react to being scorned. "You have yet to tell me your name. Or should I keep calling you The Maiden?"
The Maiden's warm hand clasped Sansa's own, but an amused smirk spread across her soft lips. "Audacious. It seems like your man has helped you find your courage. You have a lot to learn… but for now, you can call me Calypso."
"Calypso," Sansa rolled the name on her tongue. "It sounds… foreign."
"It is not my name, but I find it fitting," Calypso laughed, confusing the red-haired girl. Or was it not-Calypso? "Now, I believe it is time for you to awaken. Should you survive your ordeal, you ought to find a welcoming gift."
"Wait-" before Sansa could ask anything else, the world began to fade, and not-Calypso was gone like a mirage in the wind.
The island shook, and then Sansa opened her eyes, only to realize she was staring at the cabin's ceiling, Myrcella and Rosamund clutching her tightly on each side. The nights had only grown colder as they sailed north, and her hostages had turned into her bedmaids. A small sign of trust the girls recognized, and it helped ward off the chill of night.
The ship shook again, but it was far more abrupt than the swaying of the waves, waking Sansa fully as she felt all her hackles rise and every one of her senses screamed danger.
A*H*M
Same day.
Outside Storm's End,
Davos
Black Betha had sailed through the stormy sea, filled with trepidation, only for Davos to land at Storm's End and find Stannis' host swelled with Reachmen. A freak storm had crossed from the Narrow Sea overland and into Blackwater Bay, yet it had not delayed him by much, though he did appear to have missed some excitement.
The moment he had stepped on land, the former smuggler had requested an audience with Stannis, but he had been told the king was occupied. It seemed the king was often occupied, for there was no time to meet a former smuggler.
With Renly dead, many of the Storm and Reach lords had sworn fealty to the older brother, making the army camp a riot of colors. The mercurial weather had taken a turn for the worse, and the king had decided to send most of the fleet away to dock at Haystack Hall and other smaller, well-protected ports to the north. Only a handful of galleys had remained here, just enough to keep any boat from sailing into Storm's End.
The ancient yet mighty keep stood firm, mighty walls looming above, unbothered by the army gathered on its outskirts. Before Davos had arrived, the king had parlayed with Cortnay Penrose, Devan, his son and one of the king's squires, had told him.
Stannis had demanded a complete surrender and offered mercy. However, the castellan did not budge and challenged the king to single combat.
Penrose's tongue had been barbed, for all the shiny and mighty lords seemed to loathe him. Insults, jeers, mockery - one of the younger red apple knights had fainted from fury at the abuse. If there had been no maester in the camp, the foolish man would have been the first knight to die to a taunt.
And so, days had passed since Davos had come, and nothing had changed. A few younger lords were rearing to storm the fortress, but it seemed the king had decided upon a siege.
"Since Renly died, he has been troubled by terrible nightmares," Devan confided to him. "The maester's potions do nothing… even Lady Melisandre fails to soothe him to sleep."
She had shared his pavilion at night, but no longer. It seemed even her prayers and fires had not proven enough. Or even… other ways of soothing Stannis to sleep. Regardless, Melisandre of Asshai remained in the camp, staring at the fires as if dazed. The air of mystique and allure clung to her like her red gown, but she seemed to pay the world around her no heed.
Yet, Stannis had found another way to lull himself, it seemed, something… uncharacteristic. It was the first time Davos had seen his liege spar openly. Many a knight from the Reach and the Stormlands had even decided to test their mettle against him. Very few won, and very rarely - most when the king was exhausted.
With all that fighting seemed to come a hearty appetite, for Stannis feasted as if every meal would be his last. Fish, steak, poultry - he devoured all with relish. Seven days prior, he looked like he had aged ten years, but now, there was a newfound liveliness to him.
Yet today, the drudgery of the siege had finally been broken. Stannis had called for a war council in the command tent, demanding the presence of even his lowly Onion Knight. Davos felt out of place amidst the sea of plumes, colorful cloaks, and surcoats of silk and velvet and silvery and gold-inlaid armor polished so well it could serve as a mirror. Now, they were gathered around a large oaken table, covered with a sprawling map of the Seven Kingdoms.
After they began, Lord Donnel Swann was the first to speak, "Your Grace, my brother has managed to escape the lion's clutches from the capital, arriving in our camp just this dawn."
The words were met with a weak cheer and a sea of murmurs - quite a few had kin or kith held hostage in King's Landing by the lion queen.
"He must have a valuable word of the happenings in the city," Lord Monterys Velaryon said thoughtfully. "Far better than hearsay from those simple-minded beggars." All sorts of odd hearsay had swarmed as of late, and none believed any of it, for each rumor was more fantastical than the last.
"Indeed. Summon him here," the king's voice was flat. The Swann Lord scrambled over to call a servant to fetch for his knightly brother. "Any word from Ser Erren Florent and Ser Parmen Crane?"
"None, Your Grace," Lord Bryce Fossoway replied, a man clad in his velvet surcoat proudly displaying a green apple. "The rest of the Reachmen have yet to send ravens or come here to pay homage."
"So the Seven be-damned roses have chosen treason again." There was no surprise in Stannis, but for the first time, Davos saw a hint of anger, of fury in him, the stoic facade of iron broken. His liege's eyes seemed as bright blue as the summer sky above. And… it had been the first time in moons since Stannis had mentioned the Seven, let alone… cursed so openly. Judging by the surprised looks of the other lords, they had noticed, too. Melisandre's gaze held a hint of displeasure, but she remained silent, watching. "Lord Florent, I pray for the safety of your son."
"Thank you, Your Grace." The Lord of Brightwater Keep was an aging man, and Davos could see the red-gold snout of the fox peek through a wreath of blue flowers on his polished breastplate. "Erren knew his duty, and the Lord of Light shall watch over him."
"The Lord of Light…" Stannis shook his head, not finishing his thought. The former smuggler noticed the stag pin on his chest was no longer aflame. "It appears your wisdom in sending those ravens to your contacts after Loras Tyrell and Randall Tarly left bore fruit."
"Indeed, Your Grace. Regretfully, my son Alekyne could only convince the Stormlands army to march for their rightful king. The rest of the Reachmen were content to fiddle their thumbs at Bitterbridge." Alester Florent scowled before nodding to the Red Witch gratefully. "It was as Lady Melisandre had foreseen; my treacherous good son abandoned our bonds of kin in favor of the upstart stewards. Thanks to your warning, my lady, we managed to rally all those loyal to the king, and form lines before Tarly could take them by surprise. Mace Tyrell would not be foolish enough to force a battle that could prove disastrous when they lacked cavalry or knights, even if they had the numbers. Without a claimant like Renly, he had no right to command another kingdom's lords, and a temporary truce was reached. The Stormlands army, along with my forces, were allowed to leave."
The Red Witch tilted her head in silent acknowledgment and returned her gaze to the flickering brazier. So far, among the Reachmen, only Lord Florent appeared to truly believe in the foreign faith, yet the rest of the lords were skeptical at best and hostile at worst. Even the Queen's Men had seemed less enthusiastic about the Red God, especially now that the king had expressed some hesitation. Ser Richard Horpe and Ser Godry Farring had always made their voices heard, yet Davos had not seen them goad any of the pious Reachmen since his arrival.
"When should we expect the rest of the army to arrive?"
"After treating with the Fat Flower," the Reachlord's words thickened with contempt, "the Stormlords, commanded by your cousin Aemon Estermont, had taken the Roseroad to the Kingswood before diverting to one of the lesser roads for Felwood. They have the bulk of the supplies Renly had gathered. Even after force marching in case the Tyrells renege on the truce and attack their rear, I expect they will arrive there in a fortnight, but the weather does not make me hopeful. So much rain in the middle of summer is unnatural, and the rivers might soon flood."
More mutterings around the tent about troop counts, supplies, and other important matters. Even after being knighted for fifteen years, Davos still felt like an old, foolish smuggler with such talk. Put him on a boat and ask him to chart a course around the Stepstones, and he would be your man. Or sail a ship anywhere in the known world.
Yet from what the smuggler understood, the king's army had swelled greatly; fifteen thousand Reachmen joined their five thousand from the Narrow Sea, bringing it up to twenty thousand. The issue was that the Reachmen were all cavalry, proud knights and their squires, yet they lacked supplies and their foot. For whatever reason, Renly Baratheon had not taken any Stormlander with him aside from his direct vassals and their retinues. Many of these lords, like the elderly Eldon Estermont, left their heirs with the bulk of the Stormlands army near Bitterbridge. Then, there were the Florent men, but those he learned were not many. The bulk of their forces were in Brightwater Keep, deterring any Tyrell retaliation.
This was why Stannis was in no real rush to take Storm's End, for they needed to wait for the rest of their army to reform. There were also envoys sent to the Stormlander houses that had not mustered for Renly, calling on them to join their one true king with what troops or supplies they could spare. From what he gleaned, Davos understood that supplies were of paramount importance, for the Royal Fleet could not supply them efficiently with only Haystack Hall and Tarth as the closest ports.
Then, there were also the Marcher houses that could not afford to muster too many troops or risk Dornish incursions. Doran Martell had called his banners, and he heard tell they were mustering along the Boneway and the Prince's Pass.
"Your Grace, we need to plan for what to do after we take Storm's End." Lord Bryce Caron's declaration brought the chatter to a silence. "With the Tyrells recalcitrant and unmoving, I say we bring the fight to them. You are the only righteous claimant, and if we leave them to their devices, we risk them allying with one of the other usurpers! The tyranny of the Roses as they deny the Reachmen from joining their rightful king must be answered!"
The command tent was filled with clamor as every lord in attendance wanted their voice to be heard. The Reachmen were understandably wary of bringing the war to their lands, yet many of them were indignant at the Tyrell's pressing their levies into their services, and not allowing the foot to join them. Davos knew that Stannis planned to take King's Landing after Storm's End, and the King was not one to change his mind.
Surprisingly, however, Stannis paused, as if he truly considered changing his course. "What is the word from the Riverlands?"
"The last we heard was Robb Stark plundering the Westerlands and Tywin Lannister marching for Riverrun. This was moons ago, however." The Hand of the King coughed as he rubbed his brow. "We have little to no contacts in the Riverlands, and all our knowledge came from the Tyrells. My son noted that since Renly's death, Mace Tyrell had been sending and receiving many ravens from the north."
"So he is either courting Stark or Lannister–"
Before more could be said, a guard entered the pavilion. "Your Grace, Ser Balon Swann requesting entrance."
"Let him through."
The Swann knight entered the tent wearing a brown, tattered cloak over a suit of battered armor, all drenched by the pittering rain outside. The Stormlander seemed to have had his fair share of fighting, for there was steel in his gaze. Even looking like a haggard hedge knight with his unkempt beard compared to the shiny lords, his blue eyes seemed to be full of steel despite the heavy bags under them.
"I serve at your pleasure, Your Grace," the knight kneeled, head bowed down.
A rare small smile crept on the king's face. "Rise, Ser Balon. What can you tell us of the happenstance in King's Landing?"
"Madness and sorcery," Balon Swann's eyes turned distant. "I would have scarcely believed half of it if I didn't see it with my own two eyes. I swear on my honor, I swear it by the Mother-"
"Nobody questions your honor here, Ser," Stannis raised his hand and waved over a page with a wine flask for the knight. "Drink. Soothe your parched throat and tell your tale."
The knight bowed deeper still, grabbed the flask, and took a generous swallow of wine. "It all began when the princess Myrcella-"
"The girl is no princess, but a bastard born of incest," Stannis interrupted, and the former smuggler could hear the grinding of his teeth. "Continue."
"As… Cersei's daughter was sent off-"
.
.
.
Madness and sorcery indeed, many of the lords looked skeptical at the Swann knight and his tale. Buckler, Morrigen, Selmy, Caron, Horpe, and a handful of others seemed to trust the man. Davos himself did not know what to think; the king's face was unreadable, and Melisandre was hovering at the edges of the dark tent as usual, silent.
"So, the Lannisters lost their princess," Stannis Baratheon's fingers drummed on the table, awakening many from their stupor.
"I had already left the city at the time, but I did witness their fleet returning from across the bay. Yet at every inn and village, the local bailiffs were shouting about a bounty on the heads of Sansa Stark and her pet sorcerer. There was a reward for the safe return of Myrcella…" Balon Swann tiredly rubbed his head, "Waters. A lordship and a hundred thousand golden dragons, they said."
Mutterings filled out the tent, but Stannis' amused snort cut through it like a knife through butter.
"Promising castles and lands they do not own, and coin they do not have. A hefty reward for a crown knee-deep in debt and an empty treasury. Unless the old lion can shit gold or fly it all by raven."
Laughter and jeers erupted in the tent; it seemed none here thought much of the old Lion of Lannister. Davos had heard the whispers - Tywin Lannister was an inept fool who couldn't even beat a young boy, only good for sacking defenseless cities.
Stannis raised his hand, and the laughter quickly died out. "Regardless, I have made my decision. Lord Hand," Alester Florent straightened his back in attention, quill and parchment ready to write down the king's orders. "Send word to Felwood. Ser Aemon is to secure the Wendwater Bridge and accept the Wendwaters' fealty. They may be part of the Crownlands, yet they were historically Stormlanders. If they refuse, he has leave to take their castle and lands. Once that is done, I want him to keep outriders in the Kingswood and near the capital. We must secure a route to King's Landing, and I do not want a single rat entering my woods without my knowledge."
"It shall be done, Your Grace. Is there… anything else?" The graying Lord Florent stood there hesitantly, like an errant child before his father, and Davos had to suppress a snort.
"That will be all. You have done well, Ser Balon. Go now, get some rest, for you look in dire need of it. Meeting adjourned. Ser Davos, stay." The lords quickly made themselves scarce, and the tent was empty… aside from Melisandre, who still lingered by the shadows near the brazier. "My lady, I wish to speak with my Onion Knight in private."
Face unreadable, the red woman bowed stiffly and left, her crimson cloak billowing behind her.
"Your Grace," Davos bowed and joined Stannis by the brazier vacated by the priestess. Even the servants were dismissed, and the guardsmen were ordered not to let anyone near the tent. This had been the first time the Onion Knight had seen his liege so secretive.
"Melisandre had been irritable as of late." The words were said without a hint of feeling. Even now, Davos couldn't make what Stannis truly thought about the red priestess.
"Has she? Did her Lord of Light not reply to her prayers?"
"Possibly, for she claimed Storm's End's protections had gotten far more powerful over the past few weeks, and her visions had blurred." Stannis opened an ice chest and gave him a goblet of chilled water before serving himself. "Now, I have Ser Balon Swann say the same day it happened, Stark's daughter had escaped Cersei's grasp."
"Surely… it's a coincidence?" Davos grimaced and took a gulp of water to wet his lips. He was not a very pious man, but he held to the Seven as well as any other… and all this talk of magic and sorcery made him uncomfortable.
"I have been having dreams, Davos."
The change of topic caught the former smuggler flat-footed. "Dreams, Your Grace? I do not understand."
"An odd thing, for I struggle to make any sense of it either," Stannis admitted quietly. "Yet it was not a normal dream. It was so vivid, I can still see it when I close my eyes. I stood atop Storm's End, and a titanic warrior clad in clouds and wind, wielding a blade of lightning, stared down at me."
"That's… quite a specific dream, Your Grace," the old knight's throat went dry.
"Indeed. His voice was like a rumble of thunder, and his eyes - a raging sea storm. Yet every time I close my eyes, I dream of him. And every time he speaks to me; A jumbled, rustic speech, but he spoke of legacy, of wrath, of grief."
Davos rubbed his balding head, feeling more confused than ever. "A sign from the gods?"
"You could call it such." The king's voice grew hoarse. "I knew him, Davos. I had never seen such a being before, yet somehow… I just knew who he was. Elenei's sire himself. Yet his face looked just like the statue of the Warrior in the Sept of Baelor."
Was it the sign from the Seven themselves, Davos wondered. Yet he dared not speak it out loud. Elenei? The old smuggler knew of no Eleneis but a washerwoman near Duskendale. Yet her father had been just an old crofter, not worth a mention by a king. Then… the Onion Knight's eyes widened as realization sunk in. He picked up his cup and poured all of the water into his now-dry throat, yet it barely soothed him. Gods… even a man from Flea Bottom like him knew the story of the sea god and his daughter Elenei, who wedded the Godsgrief.
But it had been nothing more than an old wives' tale, and Davos was confused. "What would… a god want from mortals such as us?"
"Many things, it seems," the king's face turned stormy. "It seems like all the gods are demanding, wanting more and more. It was like speaking with my elder brother, you know? Arrogant and disdainful, and nothing truly pleased him. Disgruntled, but not unhappy with Renly's demise…"
"How did Renly die, Your Grace?" Davos dreaded the answer but asked anyway.
"His ambition killed him." Seven above, what had his liege gotten into? "I miss him, you know? The boy he was, not the man he became. Yet… even this god was hard to please. They all want more and more."
Father, give me strength, Davos prayed silently. He was just… an old smuggler from Fleabottom. But he had given his word. His word to be always honest and leal to Stannis. "And… what did this one demand?"
"Belief," Stannis exhaled slowly. "I am to forsake the Lord of Light and pay homage to him and his name instead."
The Onion Knight wiped the beads of sweat from his face, this talk had been harder than rowing a small boat for hours at sea at night. "Him… the Warrior or the Seven?"
"I ask much the same," the king's voice thickened with amusement. "Why would I forsake something I did not believe in anyway? He raged and thundered and even more so when I asked for a sign. The gods are greedy, cruel beings, and always take more than you offer and give little in return."
"Even R'hllor?"
"Especially R'hllor," Stannis's face darkened. Davos dared not ask what the price had been. "There is power there, indeed. Yet even Melisandre dared not claim my daughter could be cured of her affliction."
The little princess… his liege had called sorcerers, healers, hedge wizards, maesters, and even warlocks from the four corners of the world, just to save his only daughter. In the end, they had succeeded, if barely. Shireen was still scarred by the greyscale, but alive and sane, unlike all the stone men exiled to the Sorrows.
"And… does this god promise to heal Lady Shireen?"
The king stared at the dying brazier, face taut. "Nay. He promised me a sign. Soon he said, he would grant me a boon, should I prove myself."
"Prove yourself?" Davos echoed, confused. How could one truly prove himself before the gods? The Septons claimed you ought to be pious and pray before the stone statues; Melisandre had her fires and burning…
"With sword in hand, of course," Stannis scoffed. Was that why he had been training? "By winning the challenge I scorned before. My grandfather, Lord Estermont, would advise me to siege my own castle. The other, older lords have much of the same opinions - spend a year or two here and starve the defenders out. The younger ones are more impatient and are rearing to storm the gates or even champion me in a trial by combat. Melisandre promises a way for Penrose to fall without battle, too. I have heard all of their opinions… loudly and many a time, since they insist on braying and braying loudly, and now, I shall hear yours."
Was that how Renly had fallen? Struck down by R'hllor and his dark magicks? Yet the smuggler had promised to be truthful.
"A duel is a dangerous, risky thing." And better than the red priestess and her dark sorcery. Davos wiped the beads of sweat from his brow. "But… a lengthy siege will give your foes time to rest and regroup. I think you should fight, Your Grace."
"And why is that, Ser?"
The onion knight would not lie, not to Stannis, not now, not ever. "Because… it will show your men you are willing to fight and die for your own cause."
"The lords have already bent the knee and owe me obedience." Stannis ground his teeth. "They all turn their cloaks when it suits them; why would I fight for them?"
"Nay, not the lords, Your Grace. For the knights, the men-at-arms, pikemen, bowmen, the small, common men who would be doing the fighting and dying in your name. All of them would fight a little harder, knowing Your Grace would be willing to put his life on the line."
Before Davos could say further, an urgent knocking on the pavilion's pole caught their attention. The king's blue eyes hardened like two chips of sapphire as he looked at the entrance, where a guard's head was poking through. "What is it?"
"A parley flag was seen on the castle's gatehouse."
"Have my steed prepared."
.
.
.
It was noon, and Davos sat atop his horse with the rest of the lords behind their king below the walls, a seven-colored parley flag fluttered above them, ten feet out of arrow range from the looming walls of Storm's End. The smuggler looked out of place here, garbed in wool, boiled leather, and a heavy chainmail. Everyone else was clad in silk and gilded steel.
Everyone but Stannis, whose armor was plain, lacking in any ornaments, aside from the circlet of red gold atop his head. Melisandre was not far, mounted atop her mare, clad in red velvet and watching.
The wind and rain had finally abated, but storm clouds still hung above them, as if waiting for something.
Many had clamored to champion the duel for the king, but Stannis had been adamant to be the one to do it. Yet… it only earned the respect of the lords. Davos was reminded that despite their pomp, being a lord was a martial thing first and foremost.
The heavy gates groaned open, and Ser Cortnay Penrose marched out atop his sorrel stallion, this time clad in a plain suit of heavy armor, a young squire trailing beside him, carrying his personal banner.
The bald knight inspected the gathering of lords, his gaze briefly halting on his elderly father before moving on.
Twenty feet from Stannis, he finally halted, head raised high. "Finally found your backbone, your grace?"
Several lords bristled, only for Stannis to raise his hand, silencing the clearing. "I merely hoped you would see sense, yet you persist in your folly. Terms?"
"Should you prove victorious, the garrison shall surrender," Cortnay's voice turned heavy. "Should I win… well, your cause ends with you, does it not?"
"Insolent, but not untrue. Your terms are accepted." The king dismounted, and one of his squires led the horse away. "Let us duel, then."
Penrose also dismounted, forgoing a helmet, and the other knights and Penrose's standard-bearer moved back, giving them more space. Stannis, too, forwent a helmet, but when he drew his blade, Davos couldn't help but notice - it didn't glow. It wasn't Lightbringer that the king wielded, but a plain longsword of castle-forged steel, looking no different than the one used during his spars.
Both warriors gripped their longswords with both hands as they circled each other, taking a measure of each other and looking for weakness.
A minute passed, and tension only mounted as the blades had yet to clash. Penrose was the first to move, throwing a savage overhead strike that Stannis parried downwards with little effort. Penrose did not falter as he retracted his sword before he overextended and stabbed at the king, who once more parried the blade sideways and retaliated with a cut to the shoulder. The regular steel did naught but dent the castellan's heavy plate, and judging by Penrose's grimace, it most likely left a bruise. Ser Cortnay retaliated with a backhanded slice, aiming to cut at the king's side, yet Stannis backstepped and allowed the sword to pass within inches of his armor before he lunged with a stab at Penrose's open torso.
The stab did not pierce the chest piece, but so strong was Stannis' strike that he sent the other knight tumbling back a few feet. The king did not allow him to recover as he took to the counterattack with fast and powerful blows that Penrose could only desperately block as he held his sword like a quarterstaff. Stannis continued to push the castellan, forcing him into the back foot. The king's face was a taut mask of determination while Ser Cortnay continued to lose ground, allowing Stannis to strike his sword in the same spot several times until, with a final savage strike, the king broke the castellan's sword in half, ripping it off his hand from the power of the blow. Davos stared in wonder as Stannis kicked the castellan in the chest, bringing him to the ground and holding his sword over his neck.
"Yield."
Everyone held their breath as the fallen knight stared at the sword at his throat, then the king. "I yield."
The gates opened with a groan again as the garrison came out to surrender. A vicious gust of wind deafened the cheers and hollers of the lords, and all the riot of silk and velvet cloaks whipped in the squall like banners.
Yet Davos only had eyes for the sky above. The clouds were black and churning with power, flickering with light as if lightning was about to strike. The hairs upon his neck and arms all rose as something rumbled from above.
A flash of light blinded the onion knight as the world turned deaf.
Davos couldn't hear a thing but the ringing in his ears. The horse beneath his hips grew uneasy, and the knight of onions had to use all of his strength to rein the beast blindly and struggle not to fall off the saddle.
Seven above, had lightning struck them?!
Suddenly, he could hear neighing in the distance. No, not in the distance; Davos realized his hearing was finally returning. By the time his gelding had calmed down, he could see blotched spots, which slowly turned into a mottled picture of colors. It took him some time to make out the surroundings. Many of the lords were gone as their steeds fled. Some had fallen or dismounted their horses, rolling on the ground and clutching their ears in pain.
And Stannis… the king, stood there like a statue, sword raised to the sky… it glowed with a power that made Davos' skin crawl in a way that Lightbringer didn't as arcs of lightning crackled along its length. Many stared with awe and confusion; others, including Davos, were rubbing their eyes. More importantly, Penrose had gotten up from the ground, his eyes wide in awe as he knelt, and laid his broken blade at His Grace's feet.
Sansa is not a cruel and sadistic girl. She is angry and vengeful, but it's easy to call for the death or harm of innocents from afar. Once she has Myrcella and Rosamund in front of her, however, she can't bear to abuse them for long. It helps that the girls are utter cupcakes.
Trying to make sense of how GRRM split Renly's forces was a nightmare and a half. He never mentioned what happened to the army of the Stormlands, but he does say that Tarly massacred the Florent forces. We never see the Stormlander army ever again in the books, so I can only assume he somehow massacred them all when they were under guest rights. Yet another way the antagonists get plot armor to do the most ridiculous things yet the protagonists get shit on for the slightest mistakes.
Ripples of change are affecting all sorts of people. Stannis was convinced of the Lord of Light because he was the only one who showed him signs and proof. Now, with magic in Westeros on the rise and the gods becoming more active, one of them approaches the descendant of The Godsgrief.
Stannis embraces his inner Mannis.
Melisandre mentions that Storm's End has magical protections that would stop her from birthing her abomination unless she was inside the castle. This loophole was snuffed out by magic's awakening, and Storm's End's influence now spreads far wider than just its walls.
As for the gods… they're a mess.
If you would like to read four chapters ahead, or simply support me, look me up on Patr(eo)n under the same pen name.
Chapter 8 (Treasure Hunt)
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
26th day of the 7th Moon.
Onboard the Silver Lady.
"How are you holding up, son?"
"Well enough."
Percy hummed as he lay on a hammock and gazed at the stars. He was never one for astronomy, but he could still instinctively recognize the constellations whenever he was out at sea.
That was back on Earth, for here, he could not recognize any of the foreign celestial bodies in the skies. They did not have Aquila or Centaurus or the more recent Zoë the Huntress. From what he remembered from Sansa's study sessions and the navigation maps he went over, that cluster of stars was known as the Galley. It looked nothing like a boat and more of Dorito if you asked him, but it was an important navigation mark for those sailing the Narrow Sea.
Percy couldn't imagine how difficult it was for regular mortals to navigate by the stars, for even with his reduced navigation powers, he could easily tell the cardinal directions and sense the sea for miles away.
"I know something is bothering you, Percy. You can talk to me about it."
A sigh rolled off his tongue as he closed his eyes and found himself on the rocky island in his mind. The sea was still rough, and the sky overcast, but it was no longer stormy, and he could not sense the eldritch beings that his father warned. Poseidon smiled from his seat on the edge of the cliff, looking healthier and five years younger than before as he held his fishing rod. Percy plopped down next to him with a groan.
"So, having girl problems?"
"Huh?"
The demigod looked in confusion as his father burst out laughing. "It's been three weeks since the girl began her clumsy attempt at courting. She wants you, my boy. You know that, right?"
"Naturally, but I don't think it would work out."
"How come? She's your age, beautiful, and intelligent. While she has a mean streak, the princess has shown she is capable of kindness and compassion. Any man would be ecstatic to have such a woman by his side."
"Yeah, but…"
Poseidon placed his fishing rod on the ground and turned to him fully. "What is it, Percy? What burdens your mind, my son?"
"…You never mentioned how I could return."
His father's face fell, and he looked like a tired old man with sad eyes again. "You already know why, Percy."
"We can't go back, huh?" The words were like poison upon his tongue. He had suspected it would be the case for some time but didn't dare voice it out, for it would make it real.
And judging by his father's sad face, it was real. Percy was not going home.
"Indeed, we cannot. Believe me, my son, I've spent the past few weeks searching for a way back to no avail." The demigod just hid his face in his hands, trying to disappear.
"Are you sure?" Percy croaked out. "Nothing at all?"
"Sadly, yes. I want to return myself. The things I've learned here could greatly help my main self… but alas," Poseidon's words broke his heart. He would never get to see his mother, Grover, Chiron, Rachel, Annabeth, Nico, or even the Stoll twins. Percy expected this, yet the blow was still hard, and tears began pooling in his eyes as his father's hand patted his shoulder. "Was that holding you back from reciprocating the girl's advances?"
"Yeah." His voice was hoarse as he wiped away tears. All the crying in the world wouldn't help him, "It would be a shitty move to give her hope, then abandon her when the chance to go home appeared."
"So, is there anything stopping you now?" Poseidon prodded again.
"Dunno?" Percy picked up a flat pebble and hurled it into the sea. To his chagrin, it skipped only thrice.
His father chuckled. "Are you asking me, or are you telling me?"
"I have no idea what to do with a girl, alright?"
"Not knowing has never stopped you from learning before," Poseidon clicked his tongue. "Especially when you wanted it. Do you like the girl or not?"
"Well, yeah," Percy shrugged. "She's pretty hot, and smart. I like the fire in her. But I don't think a princess is exactly looking for a boyfriend."
The demigod stood and stretched, feeling a weight removed from his shoulders. Saying the words was liberating in an odd way. He liked Sansa Stark, and the words sounded right in his mind. Percy was never one for lying to himself.
Poseidon tugged on his line, pulling out a pale crab. With a frown, he tossed it back into the sea before casting his line again. "You can always bed her and leave. I did it plenty of times, and it worked quite well!"
"What? No!"
"You can leave without bedding her, then," his father chortled.
"I promised to get her home," Percy protested. "Maybe I'll leave afterward."
"And do what?" The demigod had no reply. "Perhaps you'd want to leave and not to watch her get married, I suppose. Seeing a woman you like in the arms of another man–"
"Just stop, Dad," Percy groaned, covering his face with his hands. "I know what you're doing."
"Just telling you the truth, son," Poseidon hummed. "I am not the best parent, but I can give you some advice on this. You have three options. Leave, fuck her and leave, or wed her and stay. Everything else will be lying to yourself."
The demigod frowned, "That's… drastic."
"Well, I could lie to you and say some bullshit about eternal friendship and the like, but why would I?"
"I don't like either option," Percy confessed. "I don't want to leave Sansa, but I'm not exactly ready for marriage either!"
"Nobody is ever ready for marriage, but if the girl doesn't wed you, she'll be married to someone else." The god's stormy words made his insides twist into a knot. "It's the fate of mortal princesses."
What would his mom say? For once, he wasn't sure. Percy couldn't ask her either because she was in another freaking world!
"I don't like this," he muttered again.
"Fate is rarely kind enough to give us options we like." His father shook his head. "My advice would be to make the choice that would leave you the least regrets. Believe me, I know plenty about regrets."
"I am not ready to be a husband or a father yet."
Poseidon laughed, "That is not something you can ever prepare or learn for. Being one… it's a learning experience. Besides, first shall be a betrothal - you've neither bedded the lass nor agreed to wed her."
"I want her," Percy admitted.
"Badly enough to never see her in the arms of another man?" His father asked knowingly.
"… Yes. I want her to be mine and mine alone."
"The sea is jealous and cannot be restrained. Besides, marrying a Princess is not without benefits. If half the things your girl said were true, House Stark is older than us gods. Unbroken martial lineage for eight thousand years! This is the highest prestige the mortal world could offer, and I have no doubt there would be other profound benefits by marrying into that house. As for power, you do not need others to give you any when you can grasp it all with your own two hands!"
Percy groaned, "I never thought about that stuff."
"When you marry, you must think of all the benefits, my son," Poseidon chuckled. "The parents are traditionally the ones who do that, so it is for me to advise you! Then there is this pesky mortal war, of course. I doubt you will have much woe with it!"
"I don't like killing."
"And that's what makes you a good man, Percy. Yet the world is cruel, and sometimes peace can only be achieved at the tip of the trident… or sword, in your case. Some battles must be fought, and some men must be killed, or it will be your people who die instead."
"I am not one to shy away from a fight," Percy shrugged, tiredly running a hand through his messy hair. "But I won't go around flooding cities or collapsing mountains."
"Like you accidentally did with that volcanic island?"
"Hey, you're the one who told me to see if my earthquake powers awakened."
"I didn't tell you to try it in your sleep, though."
"Yeah, well, they didn't awaken. It was the same as in Saint Helens, and… nobody got hurt this time?" Even Percy felt awkward at his father's disappointed gaze.
"Ah, whatever," Poseidon waved his hand as if shooing away some fly. "Let me tell you some words of wisdom. War… the more it drags on, the more men die. The quicker you end it, the lesser the cost."
"Yeah, whatever," he groaned, tired of the topic. "Any news from the divine side of things?"
His father continued to gaze at him until Percy looked down in embarrassment. "Surprisingly little. I could feel a few gazes on you, but nothing hostile. More curious than anything. You should still be wary of that Storm God. I have no doubt that was the one we saw on that first day."
"Yeah, there are too many conflicting tales about him. Sea God, Drowned God, Storm God, or whatnot."
"Mortals tend to confuse the divine and lump them together," Poseidon clicked his tongue, "Who knows? Perhaps the Storm God of the Ironborn is actually the Sea God of the Stormlands. There could even be more. Gods have many domains, after all."
"True. Any idea why they aren't watching us anymore?"
"Most likely, we are out of range of the lands where they settled. Even the monstrosity lurking deep under the waves seemed to change to something far more quiet. Or perhaps there simply isn't a sea deity in this sea. The further we travel North, the more… chill the divine side of things seems to be."
"Huh, so Sansa's gods are the cool kind?"
His father did not seem amused by his joke. In fact, Poseidon's face turned stern. "Absolutely not. I can sense misery, death, and an extreme amount of bloodlust from them." Percy gulped in worry. "Yet they are also far more neutral than any deity I've met. Almost as if they care not one whit what would happen to their followers or lands."
Before he could reply, something tugged on his senses in the real world, and his father also stood up straight.
"You should wake up and investigate."
Nodding seriously, Percy focused and woke up in his hammock, finding the rising sun peeking from the clouds behind him.
They had entered the Bite last night, and the shores of the Vale could barely be seen on their south. If the maps were right, he estimated they were three days away from White Harbor. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss, the Seaswift and the Crimson Gale lazily following the Silver Lady's wake, but he knew better. Blackjack looked at him curiously when he jumped out of the top of the mast, Ice in hand, and descended the ropes and the rigging to the deck.
"What's wrong, Boss? Not like you to wake up so early."
"Something doesn't feel right, Jack." Percy frowned as he continued looking around the ship, running from one end to the other, trying to find what was tickling his senses. "Stay in your stall and lay down on the straw in case of a fight."
"Come on, Boss. I haven't had a decent scuffle since you stole me from the stinking city." The stallion snorted and shook his head, "I can take on a cunt or three eas–"
The ship shook all of a sudden, and Percy turned to the port side swiftly. His eyes widened as he found a massive dark shape swimming under the ship and surfacing a few hundred feet away with a large splash that caused waves to rattle the ship.
It was a sea monster, a massive serpent easily over a hundred feet long with dull green scales and spikes on its back. Its head had two beady red eyes and a mouth full of sword-sized fangs. The monster roared when its eyes settled on him, the maw large enough to swallow a horse, and its roar echoed along the sea for miles as it glared at him challengingly.
"… On second thought, you can take this particular cunt, Boss. I'll take a nap."
The door to the galley slammed open, and Sansa hurried onto the deck, still in her sleepwear. "What happened?"
He didn't have to answer as the red-haired princess gawked at the monster in the distance. She stepped back and bumped into the blonde twins - because no matter how much they denied it, Percy would insist they were twins.
"Stay inside and hold on to something. Don't come out until I tell you to."
Whatever Sansa was about to say was lost as the monster roared once more and dove into the water. Percy could not allow it to capsize their ships and unsheathed Ice, dropping its sheath on the deck and leaping into the waves.
The sea serpent froze for a heartbeat as Percy appeared in front of it. Focusing, he glared at it with as much authority as he could muster. "Halt! I know you can understand me, serpent. Stop this now, and no one will get hurt."
Looking closer at the monster, its green scale was a result of many, many corals, algae, seaweed, and barnacles forming over its original skin. The creature must have been sleeping for a long time, and he wagered his presence awakened it.
"Usurper! Invader! Food!"
The son of Poseidon sighed as the monster was far too gone in its madness… or maybe it was just dumb and hungry.
He dodged out of the snake's lunging maws and swam away from the ships. The angry beast chased after him relentlessly.
Percy had no idea if it had any friends, but just in case, he would fight it away from his own. Gauging the capabilities of monsters here was also important.
By Hades, the beast was slow. He had to slow down, or the beast would give up on the chase.
They must have swum for an hour before Percy turned around and dodged another lunge, barreling beneath its belly. Testily, the demigod slashed at the serpent as it passed him. He gritted his teeth when Ice's incredibly sharp edge cut a large swath of the monster's scale… only it was all reef, and it felt like Percy was giving the beast a shave.
"Alright danger noodle. If I'm gonna be your barber for the day, you better behave and let me give you a proper buzzcut!"
The sea serpent roared, the sound echoing loud and clear in the water. It tried to bite him again, but Percy easily dodged sideways and gave it a come-hither motion. The monster narrowed its baleful red eyes and lunged at him again, with Percy dodging with ease. This continued for several moments, and the demigod of the sea noticed a few interesting things.
The monster was completely mundane. It had no magical abilities and relied utterly on its muscles and tail to navigate the sea. He wagered that a few fins could have helped it maneuver better, but if it had any, they were buried under the mounds of reef and coral that gave it a mighty defense and made it appear larger than it actually was.
Noticing that they were near the bottom of the sea and entering a valley of sorts, Percy decided he had had enough of playing with his food. He dodged one last feral bite before stabbing the serpent on its side.
Ice dug deeply into the coral armor, and Percy pushed with all his might as he held on for dear life as the monster screamed and thrashed in pain. Halfway through, the blade inexplicably stopped, as if hitting something unbreakable. The son of Poseidon's eyes widened, and before he could do anything, the serpent twisted straight into an underwater cliff and crashed.
The feeling of sharp rocks grinding over his back had Perseus roaring in agony and fury. This fucking eel dared! His eyes glowed with power as his divine power exploded and commanded the sea to obey him. The Bite was easier to control than the Narrow Sea, and within a few heartbeats, the serpent ceased thrashing as the very sea held it in place.
As the serpent sank to the bottom of the valley like an anchor, Perseus withdrew Ice and swam to its head. He slashed away the reefs and coral encrusting its skull until he reached the skin, stabbed the Valyrian Steel blade to the hilt, and punctured its brain.
The monster immediately went slack and collapsed, raising a cloud of murky sand from the bottom of the sea. Percy heaved heavily, gulping in more and more seawater.
The sea was already healing his back, and he ripped his ruined shirt from his body and hurried to pull out the rocks still stuck. The son of Poseidon stared down at his defeated foe and withdrew Ice, allowing red blood to flow out. Glancing around him, he noticed many schools of fish and a few sharks and whales staring at him with subdued hostility.
Percy glared at them, and they quickly swam away in fear, causing him to scoff.
He dropped from the corpse to the seafloor, feeling something crack underneath. Looking down, he found it was a piece of pottery. Inspecting his surroundings, Percy's eyes widened in shock as he realized that what he thought was a simple valley was an underwater city!
He could see, thanks to the glow of algae and his heritage, even in the darkness of the depths. There were the remains of houses and other buildings, but his eyes settled on a large palace built on a hill in the center of the city.
'Percy. There is something in there. Something…familiar.'
Despite his burning curiosity, Percy was loath to stay away from the ships for so long.
'Don't worry, my son. I have made sure all three ships continued on their course.'
Surprised, he quickly focused on the ships, finding them nearly a hundred miles away and steadily sailing toward him. Percy must not have realized how far he had swum, for he was already halfway to their destination.
"Thanks, Dad." Throwing one last glance at the dead serpent, Percy swam deeper into the city. He found many interesting things, such as bronze tools and weapons, intricate frescoes of mermen that still looked beautiful after carefully wiping the grime away, and many more. By far, however, what grabbed his attention the most were the skeletons. Whoever the inhabitants of this city, no, kingdom, were not human. They looked almost like–
'Mermen.'
He nodded in agreement. There were two clearly distinctive species that he found skeletons of.
Mermen, with their human upper body and fishtail, and some other strange being that had ten flexible limbs stretching from a torso but no lower body. Percy shuddered as he tried to imagine what manner of creature would look like that.
There must have been a massive battle here, for the signs of damage were evident, yet he did not feel any magic from the city. Except in what he assumed was the royal palace, where he had just entered through a massive entrance that did not have a door. Walking through a hallway, he found many rooms blocked with debris or led to other rooms that he had no desire to explore. The magic signal called to him from further in.
Percy inspected the skeletons and found more of the same; bronze arms and armor, mermen protecting their home against the tentacled invader, until he swam under an archway and arrived at a throne room.
More signs of fighting, but his eyes were on the large figure sitting on a throne of black marble. As if in a trance, Percy swam closer to it and found it was a large merman who still retained parts of his skin, but it was undoubtedly dead. It had several spears and tridents stabbed in its torso, pinning it to its throne, but Percy had eyes only on what it held in its hands. It was a brilliant lance, nearly twenty feet long that even now emitted a soft magical hum that the grime and algae couldn't hide.
'Take it, Percy. There's a spark of divinity in that spear that must have belonged to this dead god.'
"Dead god?!" Percy couldn't hide his shock even if he wanted to. "Gods can die? I thought they would reform or fade instead!"
'I am as lost as you are, my dear boy, yet my senses do not lie. This merman had divinity in him at one point, perhaps a demigod that ascended, but it's now gone. Devoured, I would assume.'
"Devoured? Could it be by that same thing you sensed when we first awakened?"
'I do not know. The Trident definitely has a spark of divinity from that god in it. Take it, and perhaps we shall learn more later on.'
Trident? It was clearly a spear, or a lance, but Percy shrugged as he grabbed it and ripped it out of the dead god's surprisingly firm grip.
Even dead, it would not easily relinquish its symbol of power, and the moment it left its grasp, the merman turned to ash that floated away in the water.
Percy wiped away the algae and grime to inspect the divine weapon. He stared in awe as the moment he wiped enough of the algae for his skin to touch the weapon, it vibrated and all the grime floated away, revealing a silver spear with a long blade made of a dark metal. It had two similar blades pointing downwards like the wings of a hawk as it dived after a rabbit.
Absentmindedly, his powers sank into the dark metal, and the blades sprang up to form a cross spear. With another thought, the two blades bent in the middle and pointed upwards, turning the spear into a trident. The weapon was taller than he could comfortably use, and before he could even finish his thoughts, it shrank from twenty feet to a more usable eight feet for the shaft and two feet for the blade.
Percy grinned as he willed the spear to stretch as far as it could go. He nearly dropped the heavy weapon as it sprang up into the vaulted ceiling, which was over thirty feet away. A feeling of lethargy hit him heavily, and Percy willed the spear back to its comfortable ten feet.
"This is so damn cool! Too bad I can't keep changing its size. It just tires me out so much."
'Don't forget you are also in the embrace of the sea. If it tires you here, I would not recommend playing around too much with it on the surface.'
Grimacing at the reminder, Percy grabbed some seaweed to strap Ice on his back. Then, he willed the spear to shrink even more and was delighted when it turned about a foot long, looking like a dagger rather than a spear. He would have tried to shrink it further, but his exhaustion quickly settled in, so he strapped it to his belt.
"Alright. I would love to explore this city more, but perhaps later when I don't have a couple of princesses to escort."
His father just hummed, seemingly distracted by something, and Percy shrugged. He swam out of the palace, ignoring the itch to search for treasure, but stopped once he was back at the serpent's corpse. None of the marine life had dared to approach it for fear of provoking him, and Percy found himself facing a dilemma. What to do with what would surely be a treasure trove of parts and meat. He was unused to monsters not dissipating after death and sighed as he realized he would need to butcher it if he wanted a trophy. Not to mention, he had gotten tired of eating fish and salted meat for the past three weeks.
Hades, the things Percy would do for a juicy burger… or a pizza.
Shaking his head, he grabbed the several-ton heavy beast by its tail and dragged it to the surface. His body was tired, but his powers aided him along. His muscles bulged as he swam to where the ships were sailing toward his position. He estimated the sunken city was about half a mile under the sea. The Bite was not particularly deep, but he still ended up swimming nearly forty miles for nearly an hour. A distance he could have swum in minutes if not for his heavy load.
Something nudged his senses, and Percy frowned. A small boat, most likely a dinghy or a fishing boat, approached the Silver Lady. The boat stopped next to his ship, even as they continued to move, and he scowled as he realized the row boat's occupants must have grappled with his ship. His gut twisted with worry for Sansa and the rest.
Percy dropped the serpent, willing the sea to keep it buoyant and float it the rest of the way while he barreled to the surface.
Finally, he neared the ships but decided against making an entrance. There was a risk of whoever was on board taking the girls hostage, and Percy would need the element of surprise then. Surfacing at the bow of the Silver Lady, he peeked around the wooden hull to find the skiff empty. It had a single triangle sail and room for a few oars but by no means a ship with barely room for a dozen occupants.
"Stop resisting, you Northern cunt! We only need your head to get the bounty, but we might use you for–"
Too many things happened at once. A shout of pain took the breath off Sansa's assailant, a horse's angry neigh, a fleshy smack, and then another one, followed by a feminine yelp that was cut off by a hawk screeching and a man screaming in pain. Percy was confused as he quickly climbed the ship and jumped on deck to find a strange scene.
A man was moaning in pain as he bled out on the ground courtesy of a knife in his belly. Sansa stood over him, her hands bloody, as she repeatedly kicked him in the groin, her face twisted into a furious scowl as she tried to adjust her ruined dress.
Another man was crying in a fetal position as he tried to cover his head with his webbed hands. Myrcella and Rosamund, each holding a pan and a rolling pin, respectively, blindly wailed on his pitiful form with vicious strikes. Blackjack stood nearby, his hoof raised as if poised to strike the man if he tried to resist the girls' punishment. Lastly, a final man was fighting off a large bird as it tried to peck his eyes out; his face was already a bloody mess, and the screaming was coming from him.
"Get it off me! Please, have mercy. I'm just a fisherman. Get it off me!!"
"That's enough, all of you!"
Everyone froze. The blonde twins opened their eyes as they stared at him warily, their weapons still raised. The large bird, easily the size of a condor from home but with the regal features of a hawk, glanced at him before flying off to land on Sansa's shoulders. The girl didn't seem to care as the massive, razor-sharp talons sank into her flesh but did not draw blood, preferring to kick her assailant one last vicious time in the groin, which had Percy wince.
Sansa Stark turned to him, her furious grimace melting into a beautiful smile that would have made anyone believe she could never brutally beat a man to death.
"Percy, you're back!"
.
.
.
"So, you had a dream from a divine that warned you of this attack; a divine who somehow knows the name of a woman I knew. You hurried to warn me, but too late, as the monster was already here. While I was fighting said monster, you obediently stayed inside the ship, making breakfast with the girls, and got blindsided by those suckers. Did I miss anything?"
The three girls, plus horse and hawk, shook their heads in unison.
He had tossed the dead pirate overboard, tied up the other two to the mast, and spoke with girls near the stern-castle. Percy was surprised by how utterly calm Sansa was despite having her first kill, but he shrugged it off. People in the Middle Ages were clearly all crazy, and who was he to judge?
"Alright, then, what happened? Where did the bird come from?"
"It's the gift, of course," Sansa smiled with a shrug. "I survived the ordeal and received the boon I was promised from the goddess, Calypso. And this is no mere bird, but a Moon Hawk." The girl stroked the massive bird's feathers lovingly, earning herself a happy chirp from the bloodied beak.
Percy pinched the bridge of his nose, how the hell did some deity know about Calypso of all people? He ignored the pang in his heart as he thought about the beautiful maiden and focused inwardly on his father.
'I did say some curious beings had their eyes on you. I can't really block everything out there, and they seemed benign enough.'
"Excuse me, but what are you talking about?" Both of them turned to Myrcella, who shuffled her feet. "It almost sounds like you are communicating with the gods. That's a beautiful bird." The blonde girl added hastily when the proud hawk glared at her.
Percy looked at Sansa, who returned his gaze with a raised eyebrow.
"Don't look at me." Her giggle did things to his stomach. "You're the one who knows these things."
"We'll explain later," Percy grunted, not feeling like having a theological talk now. Or, well, ever. Explaining stuff was not his forte! "For now, I am glad that you are all okay."
The blonde princess did not look satisfied, but a pointed look from Sansa had her shrink with a nod. Percy had also forgotten that she was a hostage.
"Come, Rosamund. I'm sure they will tell us in due time."
Percy gawked at the other blonde girl, only now realizing he was speaking to the wrong twin. Sansa's groan told him she didn't realize it either, while the blondes giggled at their mistake. Coughing to recover his dignity, he moved towards their captives and glared coldly at them.
"Anyway, what do you want us to do with these two?"
The two bound pirates shivered. One of them was a massive black and blue bruise, while the other was still bleeding from sporting the latest in hawk handshake scars. It looked like someone had tried to make a lump of minced meat with a knife but failed.
Scarface stuttered out first, "M-My lord, I-I swear to you, I'm just a humble fisherman from Old Castle! I had no clue at all what those two were planning."
"You liar! He's a smuggler milord, I swear it. He even deals with Essosi slavers."
"Fuck you, Cayn! You damn Sistermen are the ones known for being smugglers and pirates. I should have never agreed to ferry you to that pile of rocks you call home."
"Oh, fuck off, Shadd. You are the one who told us about the Stark girl's location and the bounty." The man with webbed hands turned to Percy, glancing at Sansa beside him warily. "The Lion Queen has a price on your head, milady. I swear, I didn't know that Jorah would try to…I-I mean, yer obviously a pretty lass and–"
If glares could kill, then Sansa's would have burned the Sisterman to ashes.
"What I am confused about is why you attacked the princess over here?" Percy pointed at Myrcella with his chin, the girl still holding onto a pan and glaring at her potential abductor. "Surely, that lion queen would have a reward for saving her daughter."
"… Daughter?"
The man looked catatonic as his eyes widened, and gazed at the blonde princess standing next to her friend. The 'fisherman' chuckled uproariously before flinching when his wounds opened. Percy was far too tired to deal with this shit and turned to Sansa and whispered, "What should we do with them?"
"They are hiding something, but I have no idea how to make them sing." Sansa's frown made her face look even more beautiful, and Percy gulped as he noticed her gray dress had tears in it, showing ample amounts of pale, unblemished skin. After the talk with his father, he was all too aware that he wanted her, and it took him all of his willpower to tear his gaze away. "We shall take them to White Harbor and have Lord Manderly work on them instead."
"Fine by me. Anyway, make sure they are tied up and don't release them no matter what." He raised his voice so everyone could hear him, "Even if they are thirsty or starving or need to take a shit, they shall remain here, tied to the mast. We're only a day away from White Harbor. I'm sure they can survive."
Percy waited until the girls nodded, and Blackjack snorted in agreement as he eyed the kidnappers with malice before stomping his hoof. Satisfied, he walked to the edge of the boat and raised his hands, bringing the corpse of the sea serpent to the surface.
"Oh my, I almost forgot." Sansa quickly joined him; her hawk flew up to roost at the top of the mast. "Where did that leviathan go?"
"It's here," Percy chuckled. "It was one oversized weakling, and I honestly expected more, you know? At least there's a lot of meat in it, I suppose!"
The golden-haired girls looked queasy, but Sansa nodded warmly, looking at him like he had hung the stars in the sky.
Hades, he didn't want to deal with that right now. He didn't even know how!
Shaking his head, Percy focused on positioning the Seaswift in a way that allowed him to drag the titanic carcass onboard the deck.
Percy clicked his tongue as the hull was scratched from dragging the coral-encrusted serpent along it, and he wondered if he should have used the sea to raise it and drop it on the deck. Most likely a terrible idea, considering how tired he was and the risk of capsizing the ship. Thankfully, the monster weighed less than twenty tons, and the ship's deck could comfortably hold ten times that amount.
"So, what do you think?" The boast left his mouth before he could stop it. "First time you've ever seen a real monster, huh?"
He had stopped the three ships close enough and the three girls were still stunned at the sight of the beast. The tied pirates, however, had gone deathly pale.
Sansa was the first to gather her bearing, "How did you kill that thing?"
"I am a professional monster hunter, and stabbing it with the pointy end usually works well." The son of Poseidon grinned as he pulled out the dagger from his belt and inspected the blade. It was pitch black, with straight lines of gold, different from Valyrian Steel's smokey ripples, yet Percy could tell it was just as sharp, if not sharper, but not particularly light. He moved towards where he had stabbed the serpent the first time, his curiosity peaking on why he could not stab further than half of Ice's length. Valyrian Steel could cut through regular steel and even stone.
Clearing away the corals and grime with the dagger, Percy was impressed with how sharp and solid the blade was. Even the silver grip was comfortable and stable, almost fusing with his hand and negating any problems with balance. Continuing his work, he could feel the rest of the girls watching him patiently, until his blade scraped against something metallic, and Percy froze. Clearing the crusts more carefully, he managed to yank away what had stopped Ice.
"This is…" Sansa's voice was shocked as Percy showed her what he found. "I didn't know they made them like that!"
"Well, I doubt you would be expected to know all about Valyrian Steel artifacts, Sansa." Percy grinned as he held onto the large round shield made from smokey dark metal. "I do wonder who it belonged to?"
Dragonstone,
The Crown Princess of the Narrow Sea.
Shireen Baratheon stood in the Great Hall with her mother and the castle's household as they listened to maester Pylos reading a raven about the capture of Storm's End. She ignored the excited chatter as her thoughts drifted to Cressen.
The old maester's absence was like an emptiness nothing could fill. Alas, Cressen was old and had claimed his time was short. Yet that fact did not quench her dislike for the red priestess.
At least life on Dragonstone had become dull and peaceful ever since her kingly father departed for war and took with him the Red Woman. While fervor for R'hllor did not die, it had been toned down significantly in the castle or the surrounding villages, as most of the zealots were gone. Then, there was her mother. Selyse Baratheon was greatly obsessed with the foreign god and his fire and was wroth when Shireen had been caught praying to a small statue of the Maiden in her room. Shireen herself wasn't particularly pious, not when her father and uncles all gave lip service to the Faith.
Before the Red Witch burned the castle's Sept, Septon Barre refused to allow her in the Sept in fear of her greyscale. Not that she ever truly tried to enter, for the Septon could scarcely bar the Lord's daughter if she desired entry.
Her father, Stannis Baratheon, was a hard and dutiful man, but few saw the warmth beneath the steel. While he couldn't express it well, Shireen knew her father loved her in his own way. It took Shireen a couple of years to notice, but her father loved her greatly… even more so than her mother. Regardless, she would never be able to visit the Sept now, and there was no weirwood on Dragonstone. The small polished statue was a gift from the kindly Lord Guncer Sunglass - who remained in the dungeon with the septon and Lord Rambton's sons.
"Is there anything else in the raven, maester?" Her great uncle Axel, the castle's castellan, asked once the chatter died.
"His Grace is sending Melisandre back to Dragonstone." Shireen's face fell; she had hoped the woman would stay as far away from here as possible. Mayhaps her father had tired of her and sent her away.
Would all the zealots come back, too?
"Has there been any news from the miners?" Selyse turned to Ser Clayton Blackberry, the knight of the Windwyrm Tower.
"Yes, Your Grace. They have finished excavating part of the new cave system formed in the Dragonmont."
Shireen shivered as she remembered that day. The terrible shaking, the stormy clouds, the crashing of the waves, and the smell of sulfur had become unbearable when the volcano spewed its wrath. Thankfully, no one was hurt in the castle, for Dragonstone was built to withstand such eruptions. Yet, the castle was filled with unease ever since.
"Under the waves," Patchface often sang about, singing while his motley face twisted as if in pain under his tin bucket for a helm. "The sky and sea fight and everything else burns!"
Her heart went out for the fool, for he cried in pain when he wasn't singing. Something was wrong with him, and it had taken a lot for her to beg and plead to prevent her mother and Uncle Axel from burning him alive.
Selyse had agreed but fed Shireen's statue of the Maiden to the flames instead.
"And? Have you discovered anything of note?"
The Blackberry knight nodded rapidly, his pointed beard nearly reaching his collarbone as he wiped the sweat on his pudgy face with a rag. "We discovered an iron ore vein and more obsidian in different colors. Yet, the heat was unbearable, and the fumes caused several men to be sick and were forced to retire back to the town. I had more men digging through one last cave before I hastened for the meeting."
"Obsidian is worthless, but the iron could be valuable depending on–"
Shireen ignored the chatter about establishing an iron mine and sighed despondently. She was well-read about her home, and this wasn't the first vein to appear in the Dragonmont. Yet there was a reason Dragonstone remained a poor island with no prospects of wealth. Ser Blackberry's words were familiar, for no miner would survive in the mountain long enough to make any mining mission worth it's time.
Hurried footsteps came from the hallway, and a whispered conversation with the guards was heard through the open doors. A guard entered and whispered to Ser Clayton Blackberry, whose eyes widened as he nodded quickly and coughed for attention.
"Your Grace, my lords. I have important news from the Dragonmont."
That silenced the chatter as the knight of The Windwyrm motioned for two miners in dirty and smudged clothes to enter through the hall's heavy red doors, holding a wooden chest. They shrank under Selyse's scrutiny, but a hurried wave from Ser Blackberry had them hasten through the dragon's maw.
They stopped in the middle of the hall.
The plain-looking chest was deposited before her mother and quickly latched open.
Shireen gulped as everyone else was staring at the contents.
"Are those…" Pylos's soft voice had gone hoarse.
The knight was saying something, but Shireen's whole attention was on the two large gem-like stones in the chest. Both looked identical, covered in shiny dark amethysts with streaks and swirls of black.
Dragon Eggs!
OC list so far, in case anyone loses track: Cayn "the sisterman", Shadd "the shady", and "Calypso" the Maiden.
As for Ser Clayton Blackberry, he is a semi-oc. We know two members of House Blackberry serve on Dragonstone, but they are not given first names.
Surprisingly, I do not think I was forced to use any OCs over the past few chapters, at least recurring ones. Only the captain of Myrcella's ship, I reckon. Her guards are all named characters, btw. Kudos to GRRM for taking the time to name his side characters and make them feel alive. I respect that.
Percy finally acknowledges that there is no way home and decides to make the best of the situation. Goes on an undersea adventure and finds a cool gadget. I wonder, would the giant sea monster will taste like Eel or Snake? Ah yes, Valyrian Steel shield. It baffles me how no one had ever made one yet.
Our protagonist accidentally unearths two dragon eggs for the mortals to play with… how nice.
If you would like to support me, or read four chapters ahead, join me on Patr(eo)n under the same penname.
26th day of the 7th Moon.
Onboard the Silver Lady.
"How are you holding up, son?"
"Well enough."
Percy hummed as he lay on a hammock and gazed at the stars. He was never one for astronomy, but he could still instinctively recognize the constellations whenever he was out at sea.
That was back on Earth, for here, he could not recognize any of the foreign celestial bodies in the skies. They did not have Aquila or Centaurus or the more recent Zoë the Huntress. From what he remembered from Sansa's study sessions and the navigation maps he went over, that cluster of stars was known as the Galley. It looked nothing like a boat and more of Dorito if you asked him, but it was an important navigation mark for those sailing the Narrow Sea.
Percy couldn't imagine how difficult it was for regular mortals to navigate by the stars, for even with his reduced navigation powers, he could easily tell the cardinal directions and sense the sea for miles away.
"I know something is bothering you, Percy. You can talk to me about it."
A sigh rolled off his tongue as he closed his eyes and found himself on the rocky island in his mind. The sea was still rough, and the sky overcast, but it was no longer stormy, and he could not sense the eldritch beings that his father warned. Poseidon smiled from his seat on the edge of the cliff, looking healthier and five years younger than before as he held his fishing rod. Percy plopped down next to him with a groan.
"So, having girl problems?"
"Huh?"
The demigod looked in confusion as his father burst out laughing. "It's been three weeks since the girl began her clumsy attempt at courting. She wants you, my boy. You know that, right?"
"Naturally, but I don't think it would work out."
"How come? She's your age, beautiful, and intelligent. While she has a mean streak, the princess has shown she is capable of kindness and compassion. Any man would be ecstatic to have such a woman by his side."
"Yeah, but…"
Poseidon placed his fishing rod on the ground and turned to him fully. "What is it, Percy? What burdens your mind, my son?"
"…You never mentioned how I could return."
His father's face fell, and he looked like a tired old man with sad eyes again. "You already know why, Percy."
"We can't go back, huh?" The words were like poison upon his tongue. He had suspected it would be the case for some time but didn't dare voice it out, for it would make it real.
And judging by his father's sad face, it was real. Percy was not going home.
"Indeed, we cannot. Believe me, my son, I've spent the past few weeks searching for a way back to no avail." The demigod just hid his face in his hands, trying to disappear.
"Are you sure?" Percy croaked out. "Nothing at all?"
"Sadly, yes. I want to return myself. The things I've learned here could greatly help my main self… but alas," Poseidon's words broke his heart. He would never get to see his mother, Grover, Chiron, Rachel, Annabeth, Nico, or even the Stoll twins. Percy expected this, yet the blow was still hard, and tears began pooling in his eyes as his father's hand patted his shoulder. "Was that holding you back from reciprocating the girl's advances?"
"Yeah." His voice was hoarse as he wiped away tears. All the crying in the world wouldn't help him, "It would be a shitty move to give her hope, then abandon her when the chance to go home appeared."
"So, is there anything stopping you now?" Poseidon prodded again.
"Dunno?" Percy picked up a flat pebble and hurled it into the sea. To his chagrin, it skipped only thrice.
His father chuckled. "Are you asking me, or are you telling me?"
"I have no idea what to do with a girl, alright?"
"Not knowing has never stopped you from learning before," Poseidon clicked his tongue. "Especially when you wanted it. Do you like the girl or not?"
"Well, yeah," Percy shrugged. "She's pretty hot, and smart. I like the fire in her. But I don't think a princess is exactly looking for a boyfriend."
The demigod stood and stretched, feeling a weight removed from his shoulders. Saying the words was liberating in an odd way. He liked Sansa Stark, and the words sounded right in his mind. Percy was never one for lying to himself.
Poseidon tugged on his line, pulling out a pale crab. With a frown, he tossed it back into the sea before casting his line again. "You can always bed her and leave. I did it plenty of times, and it worked quite well!"
"What? No!"
"You can leave without bedding her, then," his father chortled.
"I promised to get her home," Percy protested. "Maybe I'll leave afterward."
"And do what?" The demigod had no reply. "Perhaps you'd want to leave and not to watch her get married, I suppose. Seeing a woman you like in the arms of another man–"
"Just stop, Dad," Percy groaned, covering his face with his hands. "I know what you're doing."
"Just telling you the truth, son," Poseidon hummed. "I am not the best parent, but I can give you some advice on this. You have three options. Leave, fuck her and leave, or wed her and stay. Everything else will be lying to yourself."
The demigod frowned, "That's… drastic."
"Well, I could lie to you and say some bullshit about eternal friendship and the like, but why would I?"
"I don't like either option," Percy confessed. "I don't want to leave Sansa, but I'm not exactly ready for marriage either!"
"Nobody is ever ready for marriage, but if the girl doesn't wed you, she'll be married to someone else." The god's stormy words made his insides twist into a knot. "It's the fate of mortal princesses."
What would his mom say? For once, he wasn't sure. Percy couldn't ask her either because she was in another freaking world!
"I don't like this," he muttered again.
"Fate is rarely kind enough to give us options we like." His father shook his head. "My advice would be to make the choice that would leave you the least regrets. Believe me, I know plenty about regrets."
"I am not ready to be a husband or a father yet."
Poseidon laughed, "That is not something you can ever prepare or learn for. Being one… it's a learning experience. Besides, first shall be a betrothal - you've neither bedded the lass nor agreed to wed her."
"I want her," Percy admitted.
"Badly enough to never see her in the arms of another man?" His father asked knowingly.
"… Yes. I want her to be mine and mine alone."
"The sea is jealous and cannot be restrained. Besides, marrying a Princess is not without benefits. If half the things your girl said were true, House Stark is older than us gods. Unbroken martial lineage for eight thousand years! This is the highest prestige the mortal world could offer, and I have no doubt there would be other profound benefits by marrying into that house. As for power, you do not need others to give you any when you can grasp it all with your own two hands!"
Percy groaned, "I never thought about that stuff."
"When you marry, you must think of all the benefits, my son," Poseidon chuckled. "The parents are traditionally the ones who do that, so it is for me to advise you! Then there is this pesky mortal war, of course. I doubt you will have much woe with it!"
"I don't like killing."
"And that's what makes you a good man, Percy. Yet the world is cruel, and sometimes peace can only be achieved at the tip of the trident… or sword, in your case. Some battles must be fought, and some men must be killed, or it will be your people who die instead."
"I am not one to shy away from a fight," Percy shrugged, tiredly running a hand through his messy hair. "But I won't go around flooding cities or collapsing mountains."
"Like you accidentally did with that volcanic island?"
"Hey, you're the one who told me to see if my earthquake powers awakened."
"I didn't tell you to try it in your sleep, though."
"Yeah, well, they didn't awaken. It was the same as in Saint Helens, and… nobody got hurt this time?" Even Percy felt awkward at his father's disappointed gaze.
"Ah, whatever," Poseidon waved his hand as if shooing away some fly. "Let me tell you some words of wisdom. War… the more it drags on, the more men die. The quicker you end it, the lesser the cost."
"Yeah, whatever," he groaned, tired of the topic. "Any news from the divine side of things?"
His father continued to gaze at him until Percy looked down in embarrassment. "Surprisingly little. I could feel a few gazes on you, but nothing hostile. More curious than anything. You should still be wary of that Storm God. I have no doubt that was the one we saw on that first day."
"Yeah, there are too many conflicting tales about him. Sea God, Drowned God, Storm God, or whatnot."
"Mortals tend to confuse the divine and lump them together," Poseidon clicked his tongue, "Who knows? Perhaps the Storm God of the Ironborn is actually the Sea God of the Stormlands. There could even be more. Gods have many domains, after all."
"True. Any idea why they aren't watching us anymore?"
"Most likely, we are out of range of the lands where they settled. Even the monstrosity lurking deep under the waves seemed to change to something far more quiet. Or perhaps there simply isn't a sea deity in this sea. The further we travel North, the more… chill the divine side of things seems to be."
"Huh, so Sansa's gods are the cool kind?"
His father did not seem amused by his joke. In fact, Poseidon's face turned stern. "Absolutely not. I can sense misery, death, and an extreme amount of bloodlust from them." Percy gulped in worry. "Yet they are also far more neutral than any deity I've met. Almost as if they care not one whit what would happen to their followers or lands."
Before he could reply, something tugged on his senses in the real world, and his father also stood up straight.
"You should wake up and investigate."
Nodding seriously, Percy focused and woke up in his hammock, finding the rising sun peeking from the clouds behind him.
They had entered the Bite last night, and the shores of the Vale could barely be seen on their south. If the maps were right, he estimated they were three days away from White Harbor. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss, the Seaswift and the Crimson Gale lazily following the Silver Lady's wake, but he knew better. Blackjack looked at him curiously when he jumped out of the top of the mast, Ice in hand, and descended the ropes and the rigging to the deck.
"What's wrong, Boss? Not like you to wake up so early."
"Something doesn't feel right, Jack." Percy frowned as he continued looking around the ship, running from one end to the other, trying to find what was tickling his senses. "Stay in your stall and lay down on the straw in case of a fight."
"Come on, Boss. I haven't had a decent scuffle since you stole me from the stinking city." The stallion snorted and shook his head, "I can take on a cunt or three eas–"
The ship shook all of a sudden, and Percy turned to the port side swiftly. His eyes widened as he found a massive dark shape swimming under the ship and surfacing a few hundred feet away with a large splash that caused waves to rattle the ship.
It was a sea monster, a massive serpent easily over a hundred feet long with dull green scales and spikes on its back. Its head had two beady red eyes and a mouth full of sword-sized fangs. The monster roared when its eyes settled on him, the maw large enough to swallow a horse, and its roar echoed along the sea for miles as it glared at him challengingly.
"… On second thought, you can take this particular cunt, Boss. I'll take a nap."
The door to the galley slammed open, and Sansa hurried onto the deck, still in her sleepwear. "What happened?"
He didn't have to answer as the red-haired princess gawked at the monster in the distance. She stepped back and bumped into the blonde twins - because no matter how much they denied it, Percy would insist they were twins.
"Stay inside and hold on to something. Don't come out until I tell you to."
Whatever Sansa was about to say was lost as the monster roared once more and dove into the water. Percy could not allow it to capsize their ships and unsheathed Ice, dropping its sheath on the deck and leaping into the waves.
The sea serpent froze for a heartbeat as Percy appeared in front of it. Focusing, he glared at it with as much authority as he could muster. "Halt! I know you can understand me, serpent. Stop this now, and no one will get hurt."
Looking closer at the monster, its green scale was a result of many, many corals, algae, seaweed, and barnacles forming over its original skin. The creature must have been sleeping for a long time, and he wagered his presence awakened it.
"Usurper! Invader! Food!"
The son of Poseidon sighed as the monster was far too gone in its madness… or maybe it was just dumb and hungry.
He dodged out of the snake's lunging maws and swam away from the ships. The angry beast chased after him relentlessly.
Percy had no idea if it had any friends, but just in case, he would fight it away from his own. Gauging the capabilities of monsters here was also important.
By Hades, the beast was slow. He had to slow down, or the beast would give up on the chase.
They must have swum for an hour before Percy turned around and dodged another lunge, barreling beneath its belly. Testily, the demigod slashed at the serpent as it passed him. He gritted his teeth when Ice's incredibly sharp edge cut a large swath of the monster's scale… only it was all reef, and it felt like Percy was giving the beast a shave.
"Alright danger noodle. If I'm gonna be your barber for the day, you better behave and let me give you a proper buzzcut!"
The sea serpent roared, the sound echoing loud and clear in the water. It tried to bite him again, but Percy easily dodged sideways and gave it a come-hither motion. The monster narrowed its baleful red eyes and lunged at him again, with Percy dodging with ease. This continued for several moments, and the demigod of the sea noticed a few interesting things.
The monster was completely mundane. It had no magical abilities and relied utterly on its muscles and tail to navigate the sea. He wagered that a few fins could have helped it maneuver better, but if it had any, they were buried under the mounds of reef and coral that gave it a mighty defense and made it appear larger than it actually was.
Noticing that they were near the bottom of the sea and entering a valley of sorts, Percy decided he had had enough of playing with his food. He dodged one last feral bite before stabbing the serpent on its side.
Ice dug deeply into the coral armor, and Percy pushed with all his might as he held on for dear life as the monster screamed and thrashed in pain. Halfway through, the blade inexplicably stopped, as if hitting something unbreakable. The son of Poseidon's eyes widened, and before he could do anything, the serpent twisted straight into an underwater cliff and crashed.
The feeling of sharp rocks grinding over his back had Perseus roaring in agony and fury. This fucking eel dared! His eyes glowed with power as his divine power exploded and commanded the sea to obey him. The Bite was easier to control than the Narrow Sea, and within a few heartbeats, the serpent ceased thrashing as the very sea held it in place.
As the serpent sank to the bottom of the valley like an anchor, Perseus withdrew Ice and swam to its head. He slashed away the reefs and coral encrusting its skull until he reached the skin, stabbed the Valyrian Steel blade to the hilt, and punctured its brain.
The monster immediately went slack and collapsed, raising a cloud of murky sand from the bottom of the sea. Percy heaved heavily, gulping in more and more seawater.
The sea was already healing his back, and he ripped his ruined shirt from his body and hurried to pull out the rocks still stuck. The son of Poseidon stared down at his defeated foe and withdrew Ice, allowing red blood to flow out. Glancing around him, he noticed many schools of fish and a few sharks and whales staring at him with subdued hostility.
Percy glared at them, and they quickly swam away in fear, causing him to scoff.
He dropped from the corpse to the seafloor, feeling something crack underneath. Looking down, he found it was a piece of pottery. Inspecting his surroundings, Percy's eyes widened in shock as he realized that what he thought was a simple valley was an underwater city!
He could see, thanks to the glow of algae and his heritage, even in the darkness of the depths. There were the remains of houses and other buildings, but his eyes settled on a large palace built on a hill in the center of the city.
'Percy. There is something in there. Something…familiar.'
Despite his burning curiosity, Percy was loath to stay away from the ships for so long.
'Don't worry, my son. I have made sure all three ships continued on their course.'
Surprised, he quickly focused on the ships, finding them nearly a hundred miles away and steadily sailing toward him. Percy must not have realized how far he had swum, for he was already halfway to their destination.
"Thanks, Dad." Throwing one last glance at the dead serpent, Percy swam deeper into the city. He found many interesting things, such as bronze tools and weapons, intricate frescoes of mermen that still looked beautiful after carefully wiping the grime away, and many more. By far, however, what grabbed his attention the most were the skeletons. Whoever the inhabitants of this city, no, kingdom, were not human. They looked almost like–
'Mermen.'
He nodded in agreement. There were two clearly distinctive species that he found skeletons of.
Mermen, with their human upper body and fishtail, and some other strange being that had ten flexible limbs stretching from a torso but no lower body. Percy shuddered as he tried to imagine what manner of creature would look like that.
There must have been a massive battle here, for the signs of damage were evident, yet he did not feel any magic from the city. Except in what he assumed was the royal palace, where he had just entered through a massive entrance that did not have a door. Walking through a hallway, he found many rooms blocked with debris or led to other rooms that he had no desire to explore. The magic signal called to him from further in.
Percy inspected the skeletons and found more of the same; bronze arms and armor, mermen protecting their home against the tentacled invader, until he swam under an archway and arrived at a throne room.
More signs of fighting, but his eyes were on the large figure sitting on a throne of black marble. As if in a trance, Percy swam closer to it and found it was a large merman who still retained parts of his skin, but it was undoubtedly dead. It had several spears and tridents stabbed in its torso, pinning it to its throne, but Percy had eyes only on what it held in its hands. It was a brilliant lance, nearly twenty feet long that even now emitted a soft magical hum that the grime and algae couldn't hide.
'Take it, Percy. There's a spark of divinity in that spear that must have belonged to this dead god.'
"Dead god?!" Percy couldn't hide his shock even if he wanted to. "Gods can die? I thought they would reform or fade instead!"
'I am as lost as you are, my dear boy, yet my senses do not lie. This merman had divinity in him at one point, perhaps a demigod that ascended, but it's now gone. Devoured, I would assume.'
"Devoured? Could it be by that same thing you sensed when we first awakened?"
'I do not know. The Trident definitely has a spark of divinity from that god in it. Take it, and perhaps we shall learn more later on.'
Trident? It was clearly a spear, or a lance, but Percy shrugged as he grabbed it and ripped it out of the dead god's surprisingly firm grip.
Even dead, it would not easily relinquish its symbol of power, and the moment it left its grasp, the merman turned to ash that floated away in the water.
Percy wiped away the algae and grime to inspect the divine weapon. He stared in awe as the moment he wiped enough of the algae for his skin to touch the weapon, it vibrated and all the grime floated away, revealing a silver spear with a long blade made of a dark metal. It had two similar blades pointing downwards like the wings of a hawk as it dived after a rabbit.
Absentmindedly, his powers sank into the dark metal, and the blades sprang up to form a cross spear. With another thought, the two blades bent in the middle and pointed upwards, turning the spear into a trident. The weapon was taller than he could comfortably use, and before he could even finish his thoughts, it shrank from twenty feet to a more usable eight feet for the shaft and two feet for the blade.
Percy grinned as he willed the spear to stretch as far as it could go. He nearly dropped the heavy weapon as it sprang up into the vaulted ceiling, which was over thirty feet away. A feeling of lethargy hit him heavily, and Percy willed the spear back to its comfortable ten feet.
"This is so damn cool! Too bad I can't keep changing its size. It just tires me out so much."
'Don't forget you are also in the embrace of the sea. If it tires you here, I would not recommend playing around too much with it on the surface.'
Grimacing at the reminder, Percy grabbed some seaweed to strap Ice on his back. Then, he willed the spear to shrink even more and was delighted when it turned about a foot long, looking like a dagger rather than a spear. He would have tried to shrink it further, but his exhaustion quickly settled in, so he strapped it to his belt.
"Alright. I would love to explore this city more, but perhaps later when I don't have a couple of princesses to escort."
His father just hummed, seemingly distracted by something, and Percy shrugged. He swam out of the palace, ignoring the itch to search for treasure, but stopped once he was back at the serpent's corpse. None of the marine life had dared to approach it for fear of provoking him, and Percy found himself facing a dilemma. What to do with what would surely be a treasure trove of parts and meat. He was unused to monsters not dissipating after death and sighed as he realized he would need to butcher it if he wanted a trophy. Not to mention, he had gotten tired of eating fish and salted meat for the past three weeks.
Hades, the things Percy would do for a juicy burger… or a pizza.
Shaking his head, he grabbed the several-ton heavy beast by its tail and dragged it to the surface. His body was tired, but his powers aided him along. His muscles bulged as he swam to where the ships were sailing toward his position. He estimated the sunken city was about half a mile under the sea. The Bite was not particularly deep, but he still ended up swimming nearly forty miles for nearly an hour. A distance he could have swum in minutes if not for his heavy load.
Something nudged his senses, and Percy frowned. A small boat, most likely a dinghy or a fishing boat, approached the Silver Lady. The boat stopped next to his ship, even as they continued to move, and he scowled as he realized the row boat's occupants must have grappled with his ship. His gut twisted with worry for Sansa and the rest.
Percy dropped the serpent, willing the sea to keep it buoyant and float it the rest of the way while he barreled to the surface.
Finally, he neared the ships but decided against making an entrance. There was a risk of whoever was on board taking the girls hostage, and Percy would need the element of surprise then. Surfacing at the bow of the Silver Lady, he peeked around the wooden hull to find the skiff empty. It had a single triangle sail and room for a few oars but by no means a ship with barely room for a dozen occupants.
"Stop resisting, you Northern cunt! We only need your head to get the bounty, but we might use you for–"
Too many things happened at once. A shout of pain took the breath off Sansa's assailant, a horse's angry neigh, a fleshy smack, and then another one, followed by a feminine yelp that was cut off by a hawk screeching and a man screaming in pain. Percy was confused as he quickly climbed the ship and jumped on deck to find a strange scene.
A man was moaning in pain as he bled out on the ground courtesy of a knife in his belly. Sansa stood over him, her hands bloody, as she repeatedly kicked him in the groin, her face twisted into a furious scowl as she tried to adjust her ruined dress.
Another man was crying in a fetal position as he tried to cover his head with his webbed hands. Myrcella and Rosamund, each holding a pan and a rolling pin, respectively, blindly wailed on his pitiful form with vicious strikes. Blackjack stood nearby, his hoof raised as if poised to strike the man if he tried to resist the girls' punishment. Lastly, a final man was fighting off a large bird as it tried to peck his eyes out; his face was already a bloody mess, and the screaming was coming from him.
"Get it off me! Please, have mercy. I'm just a fisherman. Get it off me!!"
"That's enough, all of you!"
Everyone froze. The blonde twins opened their eyes as they stared at him warily, their weapons still raised. The large bird, easily the size of a condor from home but with the regal features of a hawk, glanced at him before flying off to land on Sansa's shoulders. The girl didn't seem to care as the massive, razor-sharp talons sank into her flesh but did not draw blood, preferring to kick her assailant one last vicious time in the groin, which had Percy wince.
Sansa Stark turned to him, her furious grimace melting into a beautiful smile that would have made anyone believe she could never brutally beat a man to death.
"Percy, you're back!"
.
.
.
"So, you had a dream from a divine that warned you of this attack; a divine who somehow knows the name of a woman I knew. You hurried to warn me, but too late, as the monster was already here. While I was fighting said monster, you obediently stayed inside the ship, making breakfast with the girls, and got blindsided by those suckers. Did I miss anything?"
The three girls, plus horse and hawk, shook their heads in unison.
He had tossed the dead pirate overboard, tied up the other two to the mast, and spoke with girls near the stern-castle. Percy was surprised by how utterly calm Sansa was despite having her first kill, but he shrugged it off. People in the Middle Ages were clearly all crazy, and who was he to judge?
"Alright, then, what happened? Where did the bird come from?"
"It's the gift, of course," Sansa smiled with a shrug. "I survived the ordeal and received the boon I was promised from the goddess, Calypso. And this is no mere bird, but a Moon Hawk." The girl stroked the massive bird's feathers lovingly, earning herself a happy chirp from the bloodied beak.
Percy pinched the bridge of his nose, how the hell did some deity know about Calypso of all people? He ignored the pang in his heart as he thought about the beautiful maiden and focused inwardly on his father.
'I did say some curious beings had their eyes on you. I can't really block everything out there, and they seemed benign enough.'
"Excuse me, but what are you talking about?" Both of them turned to Myrcella, who shuffled her feet. "It almost sounds like you are communicating with the gods. That's a beautiful bird." The blonde girl added hastily when the proud hawk glared at her.
Percy looked at Sansa, who returned his gaze with a raised eyebrow.
"Don't look at me." Her giggle did things to his stomach. "You're the one who knows these things."
"We'll explain later," Percy grunted, not feeling like having a theological talk now. Or, well, ever. Explaining stuff was not his forte! "For now, I am glad that you are all okay."
The blonde princess did not look satisfied, but a pointed look from Sansa had her shrink with a nod. Percy had also forgotten that she was a hostage.
"Come, Rosamund. I'm sure they will tell us in due time."
Percy gawked at the other blonde girl, only now realizing he was speaking to the wrong twin. Sansa's groan told him she didn't realize it either, while the blondes giggled at their mistake. Coughing to recover his dignity, he moved towards their captives and glared coldly at them.
"Anyway, what do you want us to do with these two?"
The two bound pirates shivered. One of them was a massive black and blue bruise, while the other was still bleeding from sporting the latest in hawk handshake scars. It looked like someone had tried to make a lump of minced meat with a knife but failed.
Scarface stuttered out first, "M-My lord, I-I swear to you, I'm just a humble fisherman from Old Castle! I had no clue at all what those two were planning."
"You liar! He's a smuggler milord, I swear it. He even deals with Essosi slavers."
"Fuck you, Cayn! You damn Sistermen are the ones known for being smugglers and pirates. I should have never agreed to ferry you to that pile of rocks you call home."
"Oh, fuck off, Shadd. You are the one who told us about the Stark girl's location and the bounty." The man with webbed hands turned to Percy, glancing at Sansa beside him warily. "The Lion Queen has a price on your head, milady. I swear, I didn't know that Jorah would try to…I-I mean, yer obviously a pretty lass and–"
If glares could kill, then Sansa's would have burned the Sisterman to ashes.
"What I am confused about is why you attacked the princess over here?" Percy pointed at Myrcella with his chin, the girl still holding onto a pan and glaring at her potential abductor. "Surely, that lion queen would have a reward for saving her daughter."
"… Daughter?"
The man looked catatonic as his eyes widened, and gazed at the blonde princess standing next to her friend. The 'fisherman' chuckled uproariously before flinching when his wounds opened. Percy was far too tired to deal with this shit and turned to Sansa and whispered, "What should we do with them?"
"They are hiding something, but I have no idea how to make them sing." Sansa's frown made her face look even more beautiful, and Percy gulped as he noticed her gray dress had tears in it, showing ample amounts of pale, unblemished skin. After the talk with his father, he was all too aware that he wanted her, and it took him all of his willpower to tear his gaze away. "We shall take them to White Harbor and have Lord Manderly work on them instead."
"Fine by me. Anyway, make sure they are tied up and don't release them no matter what." He raised his voice so everyone could hear him, "Even if they are thirsty or starving or need to take a shit, they shall remain here, tied to the mast. We're only a day away from White Harbor. I'm sure they can survive."
Percy waited until the girls nodded, and Blackjack snorted in agreement as he eyed the kidnappers with malice before stomping his hoof. Satisfied, he walked to the edge of the boat and raised his hands, bringing the corpse of the sea serpent to the surface.
"Oh my, I almost forgot." Sansa quickly joined him; her hawk flew up to roost at the top of the mast. "Where did that leviathan go?"
"It's here," Percy chuckled. "It was one oversized weakling, and I honestly expected more, you know? At least there's a lot of meat in it, I suppose!"
The golden-haired girls looked queasy, but Sansa nodded warmly, looking at him like he had hung the stars in the sky.
Hades, he didn't want to deal with that right now. He didn't even know how!
Shaking his head, Percy focused on positioning the Seaswift in a way that allowed him to drag the titanic carcass onboard the deck.
Percy clicked his tongue as the hull was scratched from dragging the coral-encrusted serpent along it, and he wondered if he should have used the sea to raise it and drop it on the deck. Most likely a terrible idea, considering how tired he was and the risk of capsizing the ship. Thankfully, the monster weighed less than twenty tons, and the ship's deck could comfortably hold ten times that amount.
"So, what do you think?" The boast left his mouth before he could stop it. "First time you've ever seen a real monster, huh?"
He had stopped the three ships close enough and the three girls were still stunned at the sight of the beast. The tied pirates, however, had gone deathly pale.
Sansa was the first to gather her bearing, "How did you kill that thing?"
"I am a professional monster hunter, and stabbing it with the pointy end usually works well." The son of Poseidon grinned as he pulled out the dagger from his belt and inspected the blade. It was pitch black, with straight lines of gold, different from Valyrian Steel's smokey ripples, yet Percy could tell it was just as sharp, if not sharper, but not particularly light. He moved towards where he had stabbed the serpent the first time, his curiosity peaking on why he could not stab further than half of Ice's length. Valyrian Steel could cut through regular steel and even stone.
Clearing away the corals and grime with the dagger, Percy was impressed with how sharp and solid the blade was. Even the silver grip was comfortable and stable, almost fusing with his hand and negating any problems with balance. Continuing his work, he could feel the rest of the girls watching him patiently, until his blade scraped against something metallic, and Percy froze. Clearing the crusts more carefully, he managed to yank away what had stopped Ice.
"This is…" Sansa's voice was shocked as Percy showed her what he found. "I didn't know they made them like that!"
"Well, I doubt you would be expected to know all about Valyrian Steel artifacts, Sansa." Percy grinned as he held onto the large round shield made from smokey dark metal. "I do wonder who it belonged to?"
P*O*D
Dragonstone,
The Crown Princess of the Narrow Sea.
Shireen Baratheon stood in the Great Hall with her mother and the castle's household as they listened to maester Pylos reading a raven about the capture of Storm's End. She ignored the excited chatter as her thoughts drifted to Cressen.
The old maester's absence was like an emptiness nothing could fill. Alas, Cressen was old and had claimed his time was short. Yet that fact did not quench her dislike for the red priestess.
At least life on Dragonstone had become dull and peaceful ever since her kingly father departed for war and took with him the Red Woman. While fervor for R'hllor did not die, it had been toned down significantly in the castle or the surrounding villages, as most of the zealots were gone. Then, there was her mother. Selyse Baratheon was greatly obsessed with the foreign god and his fire and was wroth when Shireen had been caught praying to a small statue of the Maiden in her room. Shireen herself wasn't particularly pious, not when her father and uncles all gave lip service to the Faith.
Before the Red Witch burned the castle's Sept, Septon Barre refused to allow her in the Sept in fear of her greyscale. Not that she ever truly tried to enter, for the Septon could scarcely bar the Lord's daughter if she desired entry.
Her father, Stannis Baratheon, was a hard and dutiful man, but few saw the warmth beneath the steel. While he couldn't express it well, Shireen knew her father loved her in his own way. It took Shireen a couple of years to notice, but her father loved her greatly… even more so than her mother. Regardless, she would never be able to visit the Sept now, and there was no weirwood on Dragonstone. The small polished statue was a gift from the kindly Lord Guncer Sunglass - who remained in the dungeon with the septon and Lord Rambton's sons.
"Is there anything else in the raven, maester?" Her great uncle Axel, the castle's castellan, asked once the chatter died.
"His Grace is sending Melisandre back to Dragonstone." Shireen's face fell; she had hoped the woman would stay as far away from here as possible. Mayhaps her father had tired of her and sent her away.
Would all the zealots come back, too?
"Has there been any news from the miners?" Selyse turned to Ser Clayton Blackberry, the knight of the Windwyrm Tower.
"Yes, Your Grace. They have finished excavating part of the new cave system formed in the Dragonmont."
Shireen shivered as she remembered that day. The terrible shaking, the stormy clouds, the crashing of the waves, and the smell of sulfur had become unbearable when the volcano spewed its wrath. Thankfully, no one was hurt in the castle, for Dragonstone was built to withstand such eruptions. Yet, the castle was filled with unease ever since.
"Under the waves," Patchface often sang about, singing while his motley face twisted as if in pain under his tin bucket for a helm. "The sky and sea fight and everything else burns!"
Her heart went out for the fool, for he cried in pain when he wasn't singing. Something was wrong with him, and it had taken a lot for her to beg and plead to prevent her mother and Uncle Axel from burning him alive.
Selyse had agreed but fed Shireen's statue of the Maiden to the flames instead.
"And? Have you discovered anything of note?"
The Blackberry knight nodded rapidly, his pointed beard nearly reaching his collarbone as he wiped the sweat on his pudgy face with a rag. "We discovered an iron ore vein and more obsidian in different colors. Yet, the heat was unbearable, and the fumes caused several men to be sick and were forced to retire back to the town. I had more men digging through one last cave before I hastened for the meeting."
"Obsidian is worthless, but the iron could be valuable depending on–"
Shireen ignored the chatter about establishing an iron mine and sighed despondently. She was well-read about her home, and this wasn't the first vein to appear in the Dragonmont. Yet there was a reason Dragonstone remained a poor island with no prospects of wealth. Ser Blackberry's words were familiar, for no miner would survive in the mountain long enough to make any mining mission worth it's time.
Hurried footsteps came from the hallway, and a whispered conversation with the guards was heard through the open doors. A guard entered and whispered to Ser Clayton Blackberry, whose eyes widened as he nodded quickly and coughed for attention.
"Your Grace, my lords. I have important news from the Dragonmont."
That silenced the chatter as the knight of The Windwyrm motioned for two miners in dirty and smudged clothes to enter through the hall's heavy red doors, holding a wooden chest. They shrank under Selyse's scrutiny, but a hurried wave from Ser Blackberry had them hasten through the dragon's maw.
They stopped in the middle of the hall.
The plain-looking chest was deposited before her mother and quickly latched open.
Shireen gulped as everyone else was staring at the contents.
"Are those…" Pylos's soft voice had gone hoarse.
The knight was saying something, but Shireen's whole attention was on the two large gem-like stones in the chest. Both looked identical, covered in shiny dark amethysts with streaks and swirls of black.
Dragon Eggs!
OC list so far, in case anyone loses track: Cayn "the sisterman", Shadd "the shady", and "Calypso" the Maiden.
As for Ser Clayton Blackberry, he is a semi-oc. We know two members of House Blackberry serve on Dragonstone, but they are not given first names.
Surprisingly, I do not think I was forced to use any OCs over the past few chapters, at least recurring ones. Only the captain of Myrcella's ship, I reckon. Her guards are all named characters, btw. Kudos to GRRM for taking the time to name his side characters and make them feel alive. I respect that.
Percy finally acknowledges that there is no way home and decides to make the best of the situation. Goes on an undersea adventure and finds a cool gadget. I wonder, would the giant sea monster will taste like Eel or Snake? Ah yes, Valyrian Steel shield. It baffles me how no one had ever made one yet.
Our protagonist accidentally unearths two dragon eggs for the mortals to play with… how nice.
If you would like to support me, or read four chapters ahead, join me on Patr(eo)n under the same penname.
Chapter 9 (The Young Wolf)
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
Ashemark,
Robb Stark.
Robb stood by the window of the lord's solar, a rather opulent room with a dark oak bookshelf filled to the brim with leather-bound books and scrolls.
The air was choked with the scent of parchment, wax, and a hint of roses and tulips carrying over from the gardens below. Behind him stood a large, heavy oak desk, its surface scattered with scrolls, quills, and pots of ink, along with a sheathed axe. A large, ornate fireplace occupied one wall, its mantle decorated with House Marbrand's burning tree and their words Burning Bright.
Above the fireplace hung a portrait of Lord Damon Marbrand, dressed in finery befitting his status, looking down upon the room with a gaze that spoke of power and intelligence.
Robb scoffed, the elderly man looked nothing like the portrait in person. Lord Damon was too fond of his food, always looking red-faced and heaving for breath at the earliest exertions. The light dusting on the book covers showed that they were mostly for show, for their owner did not seem to be an avid reader.
The flooring was made from mahogany, colored a rich reddish-brown, and upon it were Myrish carpets thicker than the width of his palm. Robb had walked barefoot on it and could affirm it was the most comfortable thing he had ever stepped foot on.
Finally, there was a small square table made from varnished walnut with a pitcher of ale. Arbor Gold was offered, along with a vast diversity of drinks that Robb could not even pronounce, yet ale was what he preferred.
The sheer opulence and wealth on display were a painful reminder of how those lands had gotten drunk on peace. The last time the Westerlands had seen any conflict was decades ago, aside from a handful of smaller rebellions.
As he gazed outside the windows, the King's eyes roamed over the sprawling hills and lush fields. The lands of House Marbrand were not large, yet they occupied a fertile valley surrounded by hills and mountains. From what he learned, the dormant volcanoes surrounding the region were responsible for keeping the lands fertile and the hills rich in ore.
Just outside the castle, men were building another warehouse to store the massive amount of loot his army had obtained so far. Nearly ten thousand cattle heads were allowed to graze across the land, much to the dismay of Lord Damon Marbrand. Maege Mormont had suggested taking them back to the Riverlands, but it was unfeasible for them to herd so many bulls and cows through the narrow goat path that Grey Wind discovered.
For now, they would wait here… along with all the other loot the men brought in daily. The Westerlands had never been so undefended, and Robb Stark had made it clear he planned to take everything of value from the Lannisters. Gold, silver, furniture, good steel, and more had steadily trickled in daily.
The King of the North would normally be in the front, leading the men as they sacked castles and won glory. Yet, for the past moon, he had been having strange dreams that caused him to wake up sweating. That would not have stopped him from fighting, however, yet those three ravens that arrived one after the other a fortnight ago…
Dark wings, Dark words, indeed. Yet, at least one of them brought a smile to everyone's lips.
His sweet sister Sansa had somehow managed to escape the lion's jaws and was now sailing North. Only his youngest sister, Arya, was missing, but he refused to believe she was dead. Robb prayed for her safety and hoped she would reappear, as she was wont to do after a long day of playing around in the Crypts.
If only the two other letters brought similarly good news. It shamed Robb, but when he heard of the Kingslayer's escape, followed by the Ironborn capturing Moat Cailin, he had fallen ill from rage. Theon's treachery, the stress of leading a war, and his uncle's incompetence had caused him to be bedridden for the better part of a fortnight.
That did not mean he had remained idle, for even abed, he could lead and direct a war. Robb's dreams had intensified, however, as he wore Grey Wind's skin several times during his hunts and explorations. It took him some time, but the eldest son of Eddard Stark had accepted that he was a Warg.
His men had spoken of him in whispered words of fear and awe as they witnessed his uncanny ability to control his direwolf.
Thankfully, he recovered thanks to the Maester and that vixen who cared for him. The men took their commands to raid and pillage gleefully, allowing him to rest and recuperate in Ashemark. The castle's central location to the rest of the Westerlands was a boon, as Robb directed his men to raid in every direction from the castle. Every castle north and east of Casterly Rock was ripe for the taking.
Another raven had just arrived from the Crag this morning. The Greatjon had taken the castle but complained about the lack of loot; only the Westerling's eldest daughter was worth the trouble. Robb wasn't sure he even wanted to know what that meant.
"Your Grace."
Robb broke from his musings and glanced at his granduncle. He turned to his squire, Olyvar Frey, who looked abashed at allowing the Blackfish in without notifying him. The king let it pass; despite being similar in age, Olyvar had a lot more to learn compared to himself.
"Granduncle," Robb greeted, schooling his face. "Olyvar, bring a platter of food for Ser Brynden."
His squire scrambled away to fulfill the order, making Brynden chuckle.
"Just call me Uncle," the Blackfish clicked his tongue. "Granduncle just reminds me of my age."
"As you wish," Robb smiled and poured a mug of ale for his uncle, motioning for him to join him by the dining table. The Blackfish took a heavy gulp before gazing at him.
"Scouts report that the footmen are halfway to the Golden Tooth," the old knight sighed. "Edmure leads them as you commanded, but he requests more men."
"Uncle Edmure can be assured that his troops are more than enough for what I have planned. And the men he leads?"
"Aye, five hundred each of Blackwood's finest archers and Flint men from Cape Kraken, with the rest all Tully men as you asked. However…"
"What is it, Uncle? You can speak your mind with me."
Brynden still looked reluctant but forged on, "Are you punishing my nephew for allowing the Kingslayer to escape?"
Robb's smile melted as his face went still as ice, "You are not accusing me of sending my uncle to his death." It was a statement said in such a cold voice that even Robb felt like it was someone else saying it. His face softened at his uncle's wary gaze.
"I don't know what to think, Your Grace," the knight muttered, suddenly finding the Lyseni vase in the corner very interesting.
Robb took half a minute to formulate his response carefully. The Blackfish was a capable knight, and it would not do to lose his loyalty over some petty misunderstandings.
"I was not pleased with the Kingslayer's escape," Robb admitted. "Yet that is not the reason. Uncle Edmure had still managed to cull Tywin Lannister's precious Red Cloaks - nearly three hundred of his finest men-at-arms, knights, and veteran captains. Their lives are ultimately worthless compared to the loss of my most important hostage, but their loss makes the Lion of Lannister weaker."
Truth be told, Robb was enraged. His blood boiled and burned at the sheer incompetence of the men in Riverrun to allow such an escape! He could almost hear Grey Wind howling in his mind as he vowed to capture Jaime Lannister once more.
Yet a week abed had given him plenty of time to clear his mind and consider the implications.
"With Sansa's escape, he would have been executed if Tywin Lannister had not agreed to our demands," Robb continued. "Recognition of our kingdom and indemnity for the war."
Yet the wariness on Brynden Tully's face was not yet gone.
"Then for what reason would you have Edmure lead them himself?"
"Do not underestimate your nephew, Ser Brynden." Robb's patience was running thin from the constant defiance, "As heir to Riverrun, Uncle Edmure is expected to lead and command troops into battle. His prior record may be cause for concern, but I have full confidence in what I have in mind for him."
The Blackfish must have noticed his clipped tone, for he nodded in acceptance before his gaze fell on the desk, specifically the sheathed axe head. "What's this?"
Robb removed the sheathe and gave it to his awed uncle to examine.
"Valyrian Steel!"
"Aye. The axehead is large enough to be placed on a short handle and used one-handed or on a pole to act as a poleaxe." The axe was a thing of beauty; it had one blade in the shape of a crescent moon with its ends curving into spikes. On its opposite end was a smaller spike, and yet another spike protruded between them to form a spear's tip. The metal was dark with the familiar smokey ripples that seemed to drink in all the light.
It showed the Blackfish was a veteran because he quickly gathered himself and placed the axe down.
"Where did you get it?"
"Damon Dustin won it from some Sarsfield knight," Robb explained, his eyes still lingering on the rippled metal that reminded him of Ice. "The fool leading the garrison thought he could beat Dustin and his men on the field and sallied out. He was mistaken."
The cousin of the Late Willam Dustin had joined his army after the Whispering Woods with five hundred Barrow Knights and their squires. Barbrey Dustin had only sent him greybeards and greenboys, not even worthy of being fodder, yet Damon Dustin had rallied many of the knights and rode south once word of his victory reached them. He had joined him in the campaign in the Westerlands and had proven leal and reliable.
"I never knew that the Sarsfields owned a Valyrian Steel weapon." The Blackfish inspected the axe and gave it a few experimental swings. "I know Archmaester Thurgood's Inventories claim two hundred and twenty-seven Valyrian Steel blades could be found in Westeros. I have read the book several times, yet I do not recall any mentions of axes."
"I've read it once as well. I believe the archmaester only counted swords, which is why this axe missed his purview."
"And Dustin just gifted it to you?"
"It's a poisoned gift, for the man wishes my support to supplant Barbrey Dustin as Lord of Barrowton." Robb carefully returned the axe to its sheathe, "My father assured the widow of the late Lord Willam Dustin that she could live in the castle, as per the Widow's Law, and even act as regent. Yet Damon claims that the woman had used that generosity to usurp the castle and its town with help from her maiden house, the Ryswells. Even now, she dares to claim one of her brothers as her heir without a blood claim on the land."
"I remember Willam, a fine rider and lancer. Wicked with an axe, too." The Blackfish smiled lightly before shaking his head, "I confess not to be knowledgeable about Northern politics, but if you had accepted the axe, does that mean…?"
Robb shrugged noncommittally.
"The man only asked that I hear his grievances, and I have done so. I did not promise him anything, but truthfully, through the simplest of inquiries, I could tell that Barbrey Dustin is disliked by her people and has not impressed me. What use do I have for greybeard levies and green stable boys? But such a thing can wait after the war is won."
Brynden nodded just as the door opened to allow Olyvar in, followed by a beautiful maiden with burning orange hair and amethyst eyes.
They held a tray in hand and set it on the table; lamb chops, beef steak, onion and mushroom stew, and other vegetables, along with a large loaf of bread, were on the first tray. The other tray held finger foods, fritters, cake, and other delectable treats. There was enough food for four men, yet Robb was already feeling hungry again. He had eaten earlier but ever since he had recovered, his appetite had grown tremendously.
"I thought you would also like to eat, so I brought more food, Your Grace."
The maiden's melodic voice had him gulp, even as his eyes met the young woman's smoldering amethysts. Damn that vixen; he wished he could confine her in her room, but this was her castle, and her Lord Father had surrendered peacefully.
To imprison his daughter just because she was being helpful would be shameful. The woman was two years his senior, and it was a surprise that she remained unwed at twenty. She wore a modest dress that utterly failed to hide her lithe form, pert behind, and ripe teats.
Even if she was seducing him, Robb could not afford to appear like a green boy. Just the thought of his lords gossiping about how their King banished a beautiful maiden because he could not hold himself from her presence was mortifying.
Robb held Elaena Marbrand's gaze for a few heartbeats, during which he had to do his damnedest not to let his eyes stray to her bountiful bosom and instead focus on her lightly freckled face.
"I apologize for the trouble, Lady Elaena, for I am sure you resent fulfilling a servant's duties." Robb turned to his squire, who wilted under his gaze, "Or a squire's."
"No trouble at all, Your Grace. I was in the kitchens when your squire requested help. It was my pleasure to be of assistance. Now, is there anything else I could be of assistance?" The young woman curtsied, her head lowered, but her eyes twinkled as she stole a gaze at him.
"… You may leave." The maiden bowed again and left the solar with an extra sway of her shapely hips. Robb's eyes lingered, but not before flinching when he heard her giggle as she glanced at him over her shoulders.
Her coy smile did things to him.
The moment she left, Brynden snorted in amusement, "That is one hungry chit if I ever saw one."
"Uncle!"
"Don't you uncle me, Robb. You've been too worn out lately with the war taking its toll on you. Bed the maiden if you like." The Blackfish tore a piece of bread and dipped it in the stew and hummed in appreciation as he chewed it. "Your squire won't tattle if you go after the girl, will you lad?"
"N-No, Ser," Olyvar looked reluctant but meekly nodded his head at his uncle's gaze. "Many a lord and a king had taken a paramour in war, but–"
"Indeed, your father took plenty, didn't he? Without ever going to war - Old Walder's appetites are legendary." Olyvar bristled yet looked away at Brynden's unimpressed gaze. "Your father had one as well, Robb. Otherwise, how would he have begotten your bastard brother?"
"That does not mean I would do the same. Has it occurred to you that perhaps the lady is scheming something malicious?" Robb grabbed a lamb chop and tore a piece off the bones.
His uncle froze as he stared at him strangely before chortling.
"You've heard too many queer tales from the mummers, nephew. A maiden must safeguard her maidenhead, not the other way around. I'm not telling you to marry the lass; just don't promise her anything and do what you will, as long as she is willing." Robb nodded in understanding, but that still did not mean– "Although, it would certainly be in poor taste to bed the daughter of the lord who surrendered his keep to you. Then again, unwed at her age, something must be amiss with her."
"What do we know of her?"
"Elaena Marbrand is Lord Damon's only daughter from his second marriage." Olyvar supplied stiffly, "Her mother, Ellyn Plumm, died in childbirth. I saw Lady Elaena in a tourney in King's Landing two years ago, and she stuck close to her brother, Ser Addam Marbrand, and Ser Jaime Lannister. As for why she remains unwed… I could not say."
Robb frowned inwardly as he could tell his squire had grown mutinous from the conversation. Even if the Blackfish did not see an issue, Robb was betrothed to Olyvar's sister.
"… Enough of this discussion, you are dismissed, Olyvar." His squire nodded and left the solar to wait with the guards in the hallway. "Let us eat."
Brynden nodded, and they descended on their meal like ravished wolves.
Some time later, their bellies were sated, and they were nursing a second mug of ale when Brynden hesitantly asked. "Is going after the Golden Tooth wise, Robb?"
"Wise?" Robb chuckled. "Most likely not. But with Tywin Lannister abandoning his march westward in favor of courting the Tyrells, I have no choice."
That particular alliance had killed another of his plans before it could even begin. He stood and moved to the large oak desk, removing the clatter and latching the axe to his belt. He then spread a map of the Westerlands.
"For too long, the central territories of the Westerlands depended on the Golden Tooth to stop any attacks from the east," Robb ran his finger over the hills surrounding the Lefford Seat. "They had grown lazy and lax and their castles had fallen into disrepair; why bother spending their gold on crenelations and moats when the Golden Tooth was impregnable? They had no fear from coastal raids, for the Ironborn never raided so deep, and any invaders from the south would have to pass through many strong castles such as Crakehall and Silverhill."
"And to the north are the Iron cliffs overlooking Ironman's Bay," Brynden nodded. "Hundreds of feet high cliffs combined with the bay's turbulent waters assure protection from the Ironborn."
"Exactly. The lords from the Pendric Hills to the Western Hills need only provide the levies, men-at-arms, and knights as taxes to their liege and have them fight abroad during war, for they had never needed to fear retaliation. With their duties paid, they would not bother spending a Stag more on fortifications, for not even Tywin Lannister can command his vassals to open their coffers to fortify their castles."
"It explains how we managed to take so many of the castles so easily," The Blackfish's words were laced with disdain. "Even with the lack of numbers, any of the castles should have been capable of delaying us by a bit, if not hold out against all odds. All the castles were fully stocked with supplies and foodstuffs from the long summer."
"I shall not complain, for all the castles were rich with loot." Robb shook his head as he glanced at the opulent solar they were in; the sheer extravagance that these Southron nobles surrounded themselves with astounded his Northern sensibilities. "The Lords had so much gold they simply spent it on frivolities and other luxuries instead of improving their household guard or investing in their lands. With Tywin Lannister calling their troops for the war and Stafford Lannister emptying the castles from their garrison, the Westerlands were virtually undefended. The only force remaining in the kingdom are the survivors of Oxcross, and they are camped outside Lannisport, too far to be a threat to anyone."
Robb grinned as he recalled how he took Ashemark; the moment Damon Marbrand saw his army approaching, the Lord surrendered without a fight.
"Tywin Lannister would not have wanted his vassals to improve their castles regardless. Do recall how he came to power," Brynden added as he grabbed a finger food, some fritter too heavy for Robb's taste. "Not to mention the taxes on machicolations and the moats. Who knows what else Tywin had placed during his tenure as Hand is still in effect. I am not certain about the North, for your kingdom has always enjoyed a certain degree of autonomy, but in the South, the lords need permission from their liege to repair their keeps… it's easier for them to build luxurious manors than fortify their keeps."
"Which brings us to the only true fortress in this part of the Westerlands." Robb moved his finger towards the Golden Tooth. "The castle is small, with only a single strong keep, and three towers, yet it commands the hill overlooking the road to the Riverlands. The road is close enough that any archers on the wall can pepper whoever would use it. Uncle, what are the scout's reports on the castle's defenders?"
"Not many, hardly three hundred men and a hundred more crossbows." The Blackfish scratched his scraggly beard, "With its lord away in war with most of the men, only his heir and only daughter, Alysanne Lefford, remains in the castle. However, Ser Forley Prester was seen on the walls. That knight is stout and stubborn."
"It makes no difference," Robb tilted his head. "We shall need to take that castle to return to the Riverlands."
"I do not understand how you plan to take the Golden Tooth with just three thousand infantry, Robb. You have not even recalled the cavalry from their raiding. With only a thousand horsemen here, it's unfeasible to crack the tooth with only four thousand men!"
"Just as unfeasible as it was to capture the Kingslayer or bypass the Golden Tooth?" The king shot back before taking a calming breath, "I understand your concern, Uncle, and I assure you I have a plan. I need to verify a few things before I am confident in disclosing it, but we cannot afford to allow such an opportunity to pass us."
"What opportunity?" Brynden still looked confused, "Why do you desire that castle so much? I understand its strategic position, but–"
"Lord Leo Lefford was also slain a few weeks ago by Martyn Rivers when the fool chased after his outriders only to be ambushed. I personally gave the order to shadow Tywin's army as they left the Riverlands, but I needed that man dead." Robb explained coldly, his eyes glinting as his admittedly insane plan was coming to fruition. He had to remember his father's teachings to learn the lay of the land for both sides of the battle - one with swords and the other with quills.
If only Ned Stark taught him for a couple of more years…
"That leaves Alysanne Lefford as Lady of the castle and all of its–" Suddenly, Brynden's eyes widened, and his eyebrows rose to his hairline before bursting out in laughter. "Oh, you sneaky wolf. Whoever said you Starks did not have any cunning was blind as a bat."
"What do you mean, Uncle? A wolf is always known for his cunning." Robb grinned as his great uncle continued to laugh himself hoarse.
"Do you think Edmure would agree? He had remained unwed for so long, and he's nearly thirty."
"He will not have a choice, for his King commands it." Robb replied stiffly, causing Brynden to look at him seriously. "We need that flank secured, both legally and through conquest for years to come."
"Very well," His great uncle scratched at his chainmail, and Robb realized the man must be urging for a bath. "Who would stay in Ashemark to command the men and coordinate the raiding parties?"
"Lord Rickard Karstark shall do so. I have already sent a rider for him to return and gave him his orders. I have Damon Dustin nearby as well and can swiftly reinforce Lord Karstark, but I am confident that they shall be able to maintain the campaign."
"Good, when do we march out?"
"In three days, Uncle Edmure should have the siege engines with him, so I shall give him a head start."
Brynden Tully nodded resolutely, "Understood, Your Grace. What are my orders?"
"I shall have you lead the outriders to keep an eye on Daven Lannister's army at Lannisport. I have no doubt that they shall stir once word of the siege reaches them. Hopefully, we could goad him into attacking Lord Karstark; I heard he had vowed never to shave until he killed Lord Rickard for killing his father."
"The young man is more likely to get lice if he isn't careful," Brynden shook his head before frowning. "Wasn't his mother a Lefford?"
Robb arched his brow before checking an open book on the desk and nodding. "Indeed, the only sister to the late Leo Lefford. He has two sisters but they are of no consequence. Still, this might complicate matters… unless he is removed from the matter entirely."
"My word, Robb. You seem to be gaining a talent for playing the game," Robb grimaced as his great uncle's tone was not flattering. "You remind me so much of my brother."
"Not so much a talent than a necessity," the King rubbed his brow as he decided to take the comparison to Hoster Tully as a compliment. "Disregarding all that intrigue and politicking, we need that pass in our hands to return to the Riverlands safely and with all our loot."
"True. Well, Your Grace, if that would be all? I stink quite a bit from riding, if you wouldn't mind?"
"You are dismissed, Ser Brynden." Robb shook his head in amusement as his granduncle saluted and left the solar. He scribbled the order for his men to prepare to march and followed the Blackfish, handing the orders to his squire to spread the word.
Once Olyvar disappeared down the hallway, Robb turned the other way, shadowed by his four guards. While he was hesitant to create a Northern kingsguard because it was a Southron knightly order, a king still needed protection.
Robb's footsteps echoed on the wooden flooring as he made his way down the steps and to the castle's garden. The keep was small, yet it was beautiful in a way that a fort should have no right to. Instead of alcoves, large glass windows lined the hallways every ten or so feet allowing the sun's rays to shine through… while also providing a large target for any intruder. The walls were adorned with portraits and tapestries of former lords and ladies of the castle.
Before long, Robb found himself deep in the castle's godswood.
"Wait for me outside."
The guards nodded and stood guard around the small walled grove while Robb continued until he found the heart tree of the castle. It was a sad sight, for he had learned the meaning of the Marbrand sigil; the burning tree symbolized the House forswearing their heathen ways when they adopted the Faith of the Seven and the burning of their castle's ancient Weirwood. Surprisingly, the stump remained, and Robb sat on the slightly blackened yet impossibly wide stump. How large had the heart tree been before?
The King of the North had taken every chance he got to rest in the Godswood, especially after his dreams had begun. It usually helped in bonding with Grey Wind as well, and even as he thought about it, Robb closed his eyes and found himself welcoming blissful slumber.
.
.
.
He sat patiently as he watched the stone pile - castle his human had taught him. The direwolf blended with the gray cliff, and none of the humans on the walls could hope to see him. His eyes, however, focused on the hills over the castle. They were steep, even for his surefooted paws, let alone for the two legged humans. Grey Wind had watched over the castle for the past few weeks, his human joining him occasionally as they searched for a weak point in the castle.
Suddenly, movement on the far side of the hill caught his attention, and Grey Wind rolled out his tongue in excitement. It was her! The direwolf loped down the cliff and away from the castle as he followed the she-wolf that had visited him several times in the past week.
She glanced at him lazily before heading deeper into the hills and the mountains. His human was grumbling in his mind, but Grey Wind was bored after days of doing nothing but watching a boring castle. His human tried to steer him away, but Grey Wind was stubborn, and finally, his human let him have his fun.
As Grey Wind followed the she-wolf through a meandering path up and down the mountain, he suddenly found himself on a ledge overlooking the castle. He was high up, and he could feel his human's excitement for something. Grey Wind, however, had eyes only for the she-wolf as she wiggled her tail at him, and he could feel his blood boil. Within a few heartbeats, he was pouncing on the bitch who nibbled at him playfully, and then–
.
.
.
Robb woke up with a start, feeling heat rushing through his body and to his groin. He groaned loudly as he felt light-headed, yet his member was rock-hard under his breeches. The young man's blood sang as the echoes of the direwolf mating with the she-wolf resonated in his mind, and Robb clawed out of his clothes to allow himself more air to breathe.
Fuck, he should not have done that…warging was already a dangerous thing to do, but he wagered warging into his bondmate when he was in mating sounded foolish in hindsight. Yet how in the seven hells would he have known about it anyway?
Robb tiredly stood up, hoping to quickly retire to his room, before the sound of a twig snapping had him whirling with a snarl… only to find the shocked face of Elaena Marbrand holding a basket of flowers.
"Y-Your Grace! I didn't realize you were here. I've been here so long, how could I not notice–" Her gaze fell to his groin, and her eyes widened, and she licked her lips. "Mayhaps I have stumbled at the wrong time?"
The King was breathing heavily; his tunic lay abandoned on the ground, showing a muscled physique, while his breeches were half off. The Marbrand Maiden placed her basket on the ground as she approached him, her hand unbuttoning her dress, "Would you like to–"
All thoughts and reason seemed to flee Robb's mind as he grabbed the maiden's supple body and sealed her lips with his own.
Elaena quickly reciprocated, and within moments, he had her on the weirwood stump, her dress ripped, his hands on her teats, and his cock shoved deeply inside her. The last thing Robb remembered before he entered a frenzy was the girl's wicked grin, her laughing amethyst eyes, and the sweet nothings she whispered in his ear as they rutted with abandon. He finished inside her again and again, his seed mixing with her blood as it dripped into the stump below. Soon, the chit's devilish smile melted as tired moans of ecstasy slipped from her red lips as her eyes were rolled.
He did not know how long he took the girl, but it did not matter. She was his now, and his blood sang for this…even as he seeded her again, the moon shining brilliantly above them. Embracing her tightly, Robb continued to sate his lust inside the nubile form of Elaena Marbrand, the exhausted girl weakly kissing him with passion.
27th Day of the 7th Moon.
The Bite,
Myrcella Baratheon.
Life on the Silver Lady had been eventful over the past few weeks.
As she had feared, Sansa Stark was not the most merciful when they met. Cella and Rosa had to learn the hard way how to do chores befitting servants. For good or bad, Myrcella could now knead the dough into a shape that sort of resembled bread.
And while she would never admit it out loud, it was… fun.
"Cella, the cake is burning!"
Roused from her thoughts by Rosa's cry, Myrcella grimaced as she quickly removed the thin pastry from the pan, only to flinch as it burned her fingers. Still, she managed to drop it on a side plate and scrubbed away the burned parts with a fork.
"Thanks for the save, Rosa."
Rosamund nodded as she busily whisked away at the eggs in the bowl before pouring them into a pan of melted butter.
It was interesting to learn all the ways one could cook eggs and how to use a stove. Perseus, or Percy as he insisted on being called, took his time to teach them how to cook, especially that thin, fluffy bread he called pancakes. Those were yummy, particularly when doused in honey. Speaking of, she added another mixture to the pan and stood next to Rosa, who was making what Percy called Ohmlet.
She was sure it was pronounced that way.
Myrcella frowned as she realized she had been speaking in that foreigner's strange language, even in her mind. It certainly had a catchy rhythm. Thinking about Percy had her wondering about what happened yesterday.
Sansa waking up suddenly scared them, yet they had yet to see that monster in the waves… For once, Myrcella was grateful for Percy's presence, else that sea serpent would have eaten them whole, probably with the ship!
Her thoughts went back to her dreams. They were always the same - waking up as a golden cat, playing around with a nice old man who just gave the best scratches and kept feeding her fish. Seven above, Myrcella didn't even like fish…
A silly smile appeared on her face before she remembered the stove in front of her. Flipping the pancakes, she couldn't help but recall a voice in her head when the ships suddenly started moving again. Cella had been afraid.
It took her a while to pinpoint where the fear stemmed from and why it did not go away. She was afraid of going North, never seeing her family again, and feared losing Rosa… but most of all, she was afraid of being alone.
When those pirates snuck onboard, that kindly voice in her head warned her, and Myrcella was glad that Sansa took her seriously. Grabbing whatever weapons they had, Cella still blushed at how foolish she had been to take this very pan to defend herself instead of a knife, as Sansa did. At least it was better than Rosa's rolling pin. Regardless, fighting off those pirates was both satisfying and terrifying.
"Are you done, Cella? Let's take the food to the deck."
Rosa's nudge on her side had her empty the last of the pancakes, and they took the plates to the deck, where Sansa and Percy had a table set. The morning sun was hidden behind a cloud.
"There you are. I'm starving."
Myrcella had barely placed down the plate of pancakes before Percy poured honey on it and ravenously devoured them, his face twisted in pleasure as he moaned in delight. She might not have gotten used to the demigod, but the fact he appreciated her cooking made her feel very proud of herself… even if she thought he was going overboard with those obscene sounds.
"Knock it off, Percy. You're making the food taste weird."
Sansa had a plate of ohmylet, or whatever Percy called it, on the table as she gestured for her and Rosa to sit.
"You girls just don't understand the awesomeness of pancakes. If I had some blueberries, I could have made you blue pancakes! Now, if only there were maple syrup as well…not sure if it exists here."
They stared strangely at Percy as he gobbled up the rest of the meal, before he stared at the two men tied at the mast, who looked on hungrily. "Easy there, boys, we are a few hours away from the city. I'm sure they will have a nice warm cell and a Happy Meal for you."
Happy meal? It sounded good, but it was said with a lilt of amusement.
Cella was unsure what he meant but focused on her food. She also had pancakes and added a generous amount of honey, causing Percy to nod in approval. "So, what did you mean by syrup?"
"Oh, there's this tree back home that grows in cold places. Its sap can be collected and turned into syrup through some process I haven't a clue about. Either way," he raised his voice when she was about to interrupt on how he wouldn't know. "It is sweet, sticky and just goes so well with pancakes."
Cella glanced at Sansa and Rosa, finding the former smiling fondly at the powerful warrior while the latter enjoyed her egg dish.
Yet the Stark maiden had paused.
"Percy, I think I know what you are talking about. Maple trees, right?"
Percy's green eyes seemed to glow as he beamed, "You have them here?"
"They are common in the North, and the honey made from it is more accessible than bee's honey due to the cold."
"Sweet! Once we get to that city, I'll get a batch and maybe see if I can cook some donuts."
"What's a donut?" Rosa whispered beside her, but Myrcella could only shrug helplessly as she stared at Sansa gazing at the man. How she looked at Percy reminded Cella of how her mother looked at Uncle Jaime.
She sighed sadly, to think Sansa would only see Percy as a brother after all he had done for her.
Suddenly, Sansa stood from her seat, her smiling face turning serious, causing everyone to follow suit. "Beauty sees ships coming. Manderly ships."
They followed Sansa's gaze as she stared at the distant cliffs. They had sailed past Old Castle last night and had encountered many merchant vessels going in and out of White Harbor, yet Sansa had them avoid contact with any of them. Myrcella agreed; many of them were Essosi, and she would rather not deal with the foreigners.
Now, however, they could see three ships sailing towards them from the direction of the city, with Sansa's Moon Hawk flying overhead. White Harbor was still about twenty miles into that strait, so it was no surprise that a Manderly patrol would approach them. Sansa had the direwolf banner fluttering proudly on the mast above.
Yet, it doubtlessly attracted a lot of attention.
No ships ever flew the Stark banners now because House Stark had no fleet for many centuries. Funnily enough, that meant that Sansa was the first Stark to command her fleet, albeit small.
The hawk screeched once before looping around and softly landing on Sansa's shoulder.
The bird was incredibly pretty. Moon Hawks were extremely difficult to catch, for they nested in the highest peaks of the Mountains of the Moon. It is said the Arryn falcon was inspired by them. Even those who were caught could not be tamed for some reason. Myrcella had only seen the stuffed body of one of them, which paled in comparison to the noble bird before her. To think Sansa received it as a gift from the Maiden herself!
Myrcella would not deny being jealous, yet that kind voice in her head encouraged her to be patient.
Once the three ships approached them enough to hear, a bell clanged several times.
Alas, nobody on the ship was versed in naval matters.
Percy, who was the one who should know stuff like this, looked rather confused, "Are they trying to signal us?"
"Maybe," Sansa squinted. "Stop the ship, Percy. These are my brother's bannermen. I have no fear from them."
Percy did as told, and all three ships stopped, their sails furling and tying themselves. It always amazed Myrcella to see the demigod's work; she still could not wrap it around her head that Perseus was a literal son of a god. It would be far harder to conceive such a notion if he had not shown he could do the impossible again and again.
Even after having more than a sennight to get used to the notion, Myrcella's mind was boggled. Yes, everyone believed in the gods, but they were something distant, far away. Not… going around and siring monsters like Percy!
Still, Sansa had ingrained the importance of keeping that a secret. Neither her nor Rosa were allowed to even hint at Percy's parentage to anyone. Myrcella had no reason to disobey that particular order; people would think her mad anyway. Better for them to assume Percy was some sorcerer from a far away land.
Soon, the leading ship approached them, and they could see a long line of marines holding axes and short swords, some even holding bows. They were led by a hard-faced man in chainmail with the Manderly sigil on his surcoat.
"Who dares fly the Stark banner?" The man's booming voice echoed through the gulf; definitely a soldier used to making his voice heard.
Sansa walked to the rails, her back straight and her face like ice. "It is I, Sansa of House Stark. I recognize you, Ser Medrick Manderly, from when my father, Eddard Stark, visited White Harbor years ago."
For a moment, Myrcella worried that the man did not recognize Sansa as he scrutinized her. Then, the knight's eyes widened, and his mouth opened as he finally found his voice. "Princess Sansa. You are alive!"
"Indeed I am, good Ser, and I bring more with me than just myself." Sansa glanced at her, and Myrcella was reminded that despite all they had been through, they were still hostages. "Nevertheless, I request you lead us back to the city. I am sure Lord Wyman would be glad to meet with me."
"Forsooth, Princess. Men, make way for the Princess' ships!" It spoke of how much presence Sansa commanded that the knight did not even question how three ships could sail with no sailors onboard.
Still, Myrcella wasn't concerned with that. She looked forward to finally returning to solid ground.
"What in the Seven Hells is that?!"
The sudden exclamation came from the sailors as the ship carrying the monster's corpse passed them by. Percy grinned as he stood beside Sansa, "That could be dinner or maybe breakfast. It depends on how fast you get us to the city."
OC list increases in size: Elaena Marbrand, Damon Dustin, and Medrick Manderly.
Magic awakening affects people in all sorts of different ways…like Robb accidentally warging into Grey Wind when he was mating with his girlfriend…and that feedback causes Robb to go full sex mode on a very suspicious woman.
Anyone guesses to Robb's plan in taking the Golden Tooth? I left enough hints, I think.
Damon Dustin is the son of Willam Dustin's uncle, who "was good with an axe" according to the wiki. I have no idea how Barbrey Dustin was allowed to rule a castle that was not hers when she provided no heirs for her husband. The Widow's laws only allow the widows to reside in the castle and get a stipend from the lord; nothing about them ruling.
Finally, the crew arrives in White Harbor.
If you would like to read four chapters ahead, or simply support me, look me up on Patr(eo)n under the same pen name.
Ashemark,
Robb Stark.
Robb stood by the window of the lord's solar, a rather opulent room with a dark oak bookshelf filled to the brim with leather-bound books and scrolls.
The air was choked with the scent of parchment, wax, and a hint of roses and tulips carrying over from the gardens below. Behind him stood a large, heavy oak desk, its surface scattered with scrolls, quills, and pots of ink, along with a sheathed axe. A large, ornate fireplace occupied one wall, its mantle decorated with House Marbrand's burning tree and their words Burning Bright.
Above the fireplace hung a portrait of Lord Damon Marbrand, dressed in finery befitting his status, looking down upon the room with a gaze that spoke of power and intelligence.
Robb scoffed, the elderly man looked nothing like the portrait in person. Lord Damon was too fond of his food, always looking red-faced and heaving for breath at the earliest exertions. The light dusting on the book covers showed that they were mostly for show, for their owner did not seem to be an avid reader.
The flooring was made from mahogany, colored a rich reddish-brown, and upon it were Myrish carpets thicker than the width of his palm. Robb had walked barefoot on it and could affirm it was the most comfortable thing he had ever stepped foot on.
Finally, there was a small square table made from varnished walnut with a pitcher of ale. Arbor Gold was offered, along with a vast diversity of drinks that Robb could not even pronounce, yet ale was what he preferred.
The sheer opulence and wealth on display were a painful reminder of how those lands had gotten drunk on peace. The last time the Westerlands had seen any conflict was decades ago, aside from a handful of smaller rebellions.
As he gazed outside the windows, the King's eyes roamed over the sprawling hills and lush fields. The lands of House Marbrand were not large, yet they occupied a fertile valley surrounded by hills and mountains. From what he learned, the dormant volcanoes surrounding the region were responsible for keeping the lands fertile and the hills rich in ore.
Just outside the castle, men were building another warehouse to store the massive amount of loot his army had obtained so far. Nearly ten thousand cattle heads were allowed to graze across the land, much to the dismay of Lord Damon Marbrand. Maege Mormont had suggested taking them back to the Riverlands, but it was unfeasible for them to herd so many bulls and cows through the narrow goat path that Grey Wind discovered.
For now, they would wait here… along with all the other loot the men brought in daily. The Westerlands had never been so undefended, and Robb Stark had made it clear he planned to take everything of value from the Lannisters. Gold, silver, furniture, good steel, and more had steadily trickled in daily.
The King of the North would normally be in the front, leading the men as they sacked castles and won glory. Yet, for the past moon, he had been having strange dreams that caused him to wake up sweating. That would not have stopped him from fighting, however, yet those three ravens that arrived one after the other a fortnight ago…
Dark wings, Dark words, indeed. Yet, at least one of them brought a smile to everyone's lips.
His sweet sister Sansa had somehow managed to escape the lion's jaws and was now sailing North. Only his youngest sister, Arya, was missing, but he refused to believe she was dead. Robb prayed for her safety and hoped she would reappear, as she was wont to do after a long day of playing around in the Crypts.
If only the two other letters brought similarly good news. It shamed Robb, but when he heard of the Kingslayer's escape, followed by the Ironborn capturing Moat Cailin, he had fallen ill from rage. Theon's treachery, the stress of leading a war, and his uncle's incompetence had caused him to be bedridden for the better part of a fortnight.
That did not mean he had remained idle, for even abed, he could lead and direct a war. Robb's dreams had intensified, however, as he wore Grey Wind's skin several times during his hunts and explorations. It took him some time, but the eldest son of Eddard Stark had accepted that he was a Warg.
His men had spoken of him in whispered words of fear and awe as they witnessed his uncanny ability to control his direwolf.
Thankfully, he recovered thanks to the Maester and that vixen who cared for him. The men took their commands to raid and pillage gleefully, allowing him to rest and recuperate in Ashemark. The castle's central location to the rest of the Westerlands was a boon, as Robb directed his men to raid in every direction from the castle. Every castle north and east of Casterly Rock was ripe for the taking.
Another raven had just arrived from the Crag this morning. The Greatjon had taken the castle but complained about the lack of loot; only the Westerling's eldest daughter was worth the trouble. Robb wasn't sure he even wanted to know what that meant.
"Your Grace."
Robb broke from his musings and glanced at his granduncle. He turned to his squire, Olyvar Frey, who looked abashed at allowing the Blackfish in without notifying him. The king let it pass; despite being similar in age, Olyvar had a lot more to learn compared to himself.
"Granduncle," Robb greeted, schooling his face. "Olyvar, bring a platter of food for Ser Brynden."
His squire scrambled away to fulfill the order, making Brynden chuckle.
"Just call me Uncle," the Blackfish clicked his tongue. "Granduncle just reminds me of my age."
"As you wish," Robb smiled and poured a mug of ale for his uncle, motioning for him to join him by the dining table. The Blackfish took a heavy gulp before gazing at him.
"Scouts report that the footmen are halfway to the Golden Tooth," the old knight sighed. "Edmure leads them as you commanded, but he requests more men."
"Uncle Edmure can be assured that his troops are more than enough for what I have planned. And the men he leads?"
"Aye, five hundred each of Blackwood's finest archers and Flint men from Cape Kraken, with the rest all Tully men as you asked. However…"
"What is it, Uncle? You can speak your mind with me."
Brynden still looked reluctant but forged on, "Are you punishing my nephew for allowing the Kingslayer to escape?"
Robb's smile melted as his face went still as ice, "You are not accusing me of sending my uncle to his death." It was a statement said in such a cold voice that even Robb felt like it was someone else saying it. His face softened at his uncle's wary gaze.
"I don't know what to think, Your Grace," the knight muttered, suddenly finding the Lyseni vase in the corner very interesting.
Robb took half a minute to formulate his response carefully. The Blackfish was a capable knight, and it would not do to lose his loyalty over some petty misunderstandings.
"I was not pleased with the Kingslayer's escape," Robb admitted. "Yet that is not the reason. Uncle Edmure had still managed to cull Tywin Lannister's precious Red Cloaks - nearly three hundred of his finest men-at-arms, knights, and veteran captains. Their lives are ultimately worthless compared to the loss of my most important hostage, but their loss makes the Lion of Lannister weaker."
Truth be told, Robb was enraged. His blood boiled and burned at the sheer incompetence of the men in Riverrun to allow such an escape! He could almost hear Grey Wind howling in his mind as he vowed to capture Jaime Lannister once more.
Yet a week abed had given him plenty of time to clear his mind and consider the implications.
"With Sansa's escape, he would have been executed if Tywin Lannister had not agreed to our demands," Robb continued. "Recognition of our kingdom and indemnity for the war."
Yet the wariness on Brynden Tully's face was not yet gone.
"Then for what reason would you have Edmure lead them himself?"
"Do not underestimate your nephew, Ser Brynden." Robb's patience was running thin from the constant defiance, "As heir to Riverrun, Uncle Edmure is expected to lead and command troops into battle. His prior record may be cause for concern, but I have full confidence in what I have in mind for him."
The Blackfish must have noticed his clipped tone, for he nodded in acceptance before his gaze fell on the desk, specifically the sheathed axe head. "What's this?"
Robb removed the sheathe and gave it to his awed uncle to examine.
"Valyrian Steel!"
"Aye. The axehead is large enough to be placed on a short handle and used one-handed or on a pole to act as a poleaxe." The axe was a thing of beauty; it had one blade in the shape of a crescent moon with its ends curving into spikes. On its opposite end was a smaller spike, and yet another spike protruded between them to form a spear's tip. The metal was dark with the familiar smokey ripples that seemed to drink in all the light.
It showed the Blackfish was a veteran because he quickly gathered himself and placed the axe down.
"Where did you get it?"
"Damon Dustin won it from some Sarsfield knight," Robb explained, his eyes still lingering on the rippled metal that reminded him of Ice. "The fool leading the garrison thought he could beat Dustin and his men on the field and sallied out. He was mistaken."
The cousin of the Late Willam Dustin had joined his army after the Whispering Woods with five hundred Barrow Knights and their squires. Barbrey Dustin had only sent him greybeards and greenboys, not even worthy of being fodder, yet Damon Dustin had rallied many of the knights and rode south once word of his victory reached them. He had joined him in the campaign in the Westerlands and had proven leal and reliable.
"I never knew that the Sarsfields owned a Valyrian Steel weapon." The Blackfish inspected the axe and gave it a few experimental swings. "I know Archmaester Thurgood's Inventories claim two hundred and twenty-seven Valyrian Steel blades could be found in Westeros. I have read the book several times, yet I do not recall any mentions of axes."
"I've read it once as well. I believe the archmaester only counted swords, which is why this axe missed his purview."
"And Dustin just gifted it to you?"
"It's a poisoned gift, for the man wishes my support to supplant Barbrey Dustin as Lord of Barrowton." Robb carefully returned the axe to its sheathe, "My father assured the widow of the late Lord Willam Dustin that she could live in the castle, as per the Widow's Law, and even act as regent. Yet Damon claims that the woman had used that generosity to usurp the castle and its town with help from her maiden house, the Ryswells. Even now, she dares to claim one of her brothers as her heir without a blood claim on the land."
"I remember Willam, a fine rider and lancer. Wicked with an axe, too." The Blackfish smiled lightly before shaking his head, "I confess not to be knowledgeable about Northern politics, but if you had accepted the axe, does that mean…?"
Robb shrugged noncommittally.
"The man only asked that I hear his grievances, and I have done so. I did not promise him anything, but truthfully, through the simplest of inquiries, I could tell that Barbrey Dustin is disliked by her people and has not impressed me. What use do I have for greybeard levies and green stable boys? But such a thing can wait after the war is won."
Brynden nodded just as the door opened to allow Olyvar in, followed by a beautiful maiden with burning orange hair and amethyst eyes.
They held a tray in hand and set it on the table; lamb chops, beef steak, onion and mushroom stew, and other vegetables, along with a large loaf of bread, were on the first tray. The other tray held finger foods, fritters, cake, and other delectable treats. There was enough food for four men, yet Robb was already feeling hungry again. He had eaten earlier but ever since he had recovered, his appetite had grown tremendously.
"I thought you would also like to eat, so I brought more food, Your Grace."
The maiden's melodic voice had him gulp, even as his eyes met the young woman's smoldering amethysts. Damn that vixen; he wished he could confine her in her room, but this was her castle, and her Lord Father had surrendered peacefully.
To imprison his daughter just because she was being helpful would be shameful. The woman was two years his senior, and it was a surprise that she remained unwed at twenty. She wore a modest dress that utterly failed to hide her lithe form, pert behind, and ripe teats.
Even if she was seducing him, Robb could not afford to appear like a green boy. Just the thought of his lords gossiping about how their King banished a beautiful maiden because he could not hold himself from her presence was mortifying.
Robb held Elaena Marbrand's gaze for a few heartbeats, during which he had to do his damnedest not to let his eyes stray to her bountiful bosom and instead focus on her lightly freckled face.
"I apologize for the trouble, Lady Elaena, for I am sure you resent fulfilling a servant's duties." Robb turned to his squire, who wilted under his gaze, "Or a squire's."
"No trouble at all, Your Grace. I was in the kitchens when your squire requested help. It was my pleasure to be of assistance. Now, is there anything else I could be of assistance?" The young woman curtsied, her head lowered, but her eyes twinkled as she stole a gaze at him.
"… You may leave." The maiden bowed again and left the solar with an extra sway of her shapely hips. Robb's eyes lingered, but not before flinching when he heard her giggle as she glanced at him over her shoulders.
Her coy smile did things to him.
The moment she left, Brynden snorted in amusement, "That is one hungry chit if I ever saw one."
"Uncle!"
"Don't you uncle me, Robb. You've been too worn out lately with the war taking its toll on you. Bed the maiden if you like." The Blackfish tore a piece of bread and dipped it in the stew and hummed in appreciation as he chewed it. "Your squire won't tattle if you go after the girl, will you lad?"
"N-No, Ser," Olyvar looked reluctant but meekly nodded his head at his uncle's gaze. "Many a lord and a king had taken a paramour in war, but–"
"Indeed, your father took plenty, didn't he? Without ever going to war - Old Walder's appetites are legendary." Olyvar bristled yet looked away at Brynden's unimpressed gaze. "Your father had one as well, Robb. Otherwise, how would he have begotten your bastard brother?"
"That does not mean I would do the same. Has it occurred to you that perhaps the lady is scheming something malicious?" Robb grabbed a lamb chop and tore a piece off the bones.
His uncle froze as he stared at him strangely before chortling.
"You've heard too many queer tales from the mummers, nephew. A maiden must safeguard her maidenhead, not the other way around. I'm not telling you to marry the lass; just don't promise her anything and do what you will, as long as she is willing." Robb nodded in understanding, but that still did not mean– "Although, it would certainly be in poor taste to bed the daughter of the lord who surrendered his keep to you. Then again, unwed at her age, something must be amiss with her."
"What do we know of her?"
"Elaena Marbrand is Lord Damon's only daughter from his second marriage." Olyvar supplied stiffly, "Her mother, Ellyn Plumm, died in childbirth. I saw Lady Elaena in a tourney in King's Landing two years ago, and she stuck close to her brother, Ser Addam Marbrand, and Ser Jaime Lannister. As for why she remains unwed… I could not say."
Robb frowned inwardly as he could tell his squire had grown mutinous from the conversation. Even if the Blackfish did not see an issue, Robb was betrothed to Olyvar's sister.
"… Enough of this discussion, you are dismissed, Olyvar." His squire nodded and left the solar to wait with the guards in the hallway. "Let us eat."
Brynden nodded, and they descended on their meal like ravished wolves.
Some time later, their bellies were sated, and they were nursing a second mug of ale when Brynden hesitantly asked. "Is going after the Golden Tooth wise, Robb?"
"Wise?" Robb chuckled. "Most likely not. But with Tywin Lannister abandoning his march westward in favor of courting the Tyrells, I have no choice."
That particular alliance had killed another of his plans before it could even begin. He stood and moved to the large oak desk, removing the clatter and latching the axe to his belt. He then spread a map of the Westerlands.
"For too long, the central territories of the Westerlands depended on the Golden Tooth to stop any attacks from the east," Robb ran his finger over the hills surrounding the Lefford Seat. "They had grown lazy and lax and their castles had fallen into disrepair; why bother spending their gold on crenelations and moats when the Golden Tooth was impregnable? They had no fear from coastal raids, for the Ironborn never raided so deep, and any invaders from the south would have to pass through many strong castles such as Crakehall and Silverhill."
"And to the north are the Iron cliffs overlooking Ironman's Bay," Brynden nodded. "Hundreds of feet high cliffs combined with the bay's turbulent waters assure protection from the Ironborn."
"Exactly. The lords from the Pendric Hills to the Western Hills need only provide the levies, men-at-arms, and knights as taxes to their liege and have them fight abroad during war, for they had never needed to fear retaliation. With their duties paid, they would not bother spending a Stag more on fortifications, for not even Tywin Lannister can command his vassals to open their coffers to fortify their castles."
"It explains how we managed to take so many of the castles so easily," The Blackfish's words were laced with disdain. "Even with the lack of numbers, any of the castles should have been capable of delaying us by a bit, if not hold out against all odds. All the castles were fully stocked with supplies and foodstuffs from the long summer."
"I shall not complain, for all the castles were rich with loot." Robb shook his head as he glanced at the opulent solar they were in; the sheer extravagance that these Southron nobles surrounded themselves with astounded his Northern sensibilities. "The Lords had so much gold they simply spent it on frivolities and other luxuries instead of improving their household guard or investing in their lands. With Tywin Lannister calling their troops for the war and Stafford Lannister emptying the castles from their garrison, the Westerlands were virtually undefended. The only force remaining in the kingdom are the survivors of Oxcross, and they are camped outside Lannisport, too far to be a threat to anyone."
Robb grinned as he recalled how he took Ashemark; the moment Damon Marbrand saw his army approaching, the Lord surrendered without a fight.
"Tywin Lannister would not have wanted his vassals to improve their castles regardless. Do recall how he came to power," Brynden added as he grabbed a finger food, some fritter too heavy for Robb's taste. "Not to mention the taxes on machicolations and the moats. Who knows what else Tywin had placed during his tenure as Hand is still in effect. I am not certain about the North, for your kingdom has always enjoyed a certain degree of autonomy, but in the South, the lords need permission from their liege to repair their keeps… it's easier for them to build luxurious manors than fortify their keeps."
"Which brings us to the only true fortress in this part of the Westerlands." Robb moved his finger towards the Golden Tooth. "The castle is small, with only a single strong keep, and three towers, yet it commands the hill overlooking the road to the Riverlands. The road is close enough that any archers on the wall can pepper whoever would use it. Uncle, what are the scout's reports on the castle's defenders?"
"Not many, hardly three hundred men and a hundred more crossbows." The Blackfish scratched his scraggly beard, "With its lord away in war with most of the men, only his heir and only daughter, Alysanne Lefford, remains in the castle. However, Ser Forley Prester was seen on the walls. That knight is stout and stubborn."
"It makes no difference," Robb tilted his head. "We shall need to take that castle to return to the Riverlands."
"I do not understand how you plan to take the Golden Tooth with just three thousand infantry, Robb. You have not even recalled the cavalry from their raiding. With only a thousand horsemen here, it's unfeasible to crack the tooth with only four thousand men!"
"Just as unfeasible as it was to capture the Kingslayer or bypass the Golden Tooth?" The king shot back before taking a calming breath, "I understand your concern, Uncle, and I assure you I have a plan. I need to verify a few things before I am confident in disclosing it, but we cannot afford to allow such an opportunity to pass us."
"What opportunity?" Brynden still looked confused, "Why do you desire that castle so much? I understand its strategic position, but–"
"Lord Leo Lefford was also slain a few weeks ago by Martyn Rivers when the fool chased after his outriders only to be ambushed. I personally gave the order to shadow Tywin's army as they left the Riverlands, but I needed that man dead." Robb explained coldly, his eyes glinting as his admittedly insane plan was coming to fruition. He had to remember his father's teachings to learn the lay of the land for both sides of the battle - one with swords and the other with quills.
If only Ned Stark taught him for a couple of more years…
"That leaves Alysanne Lefford as Lady of the castle and all of its–" Suddenly, Brynden's eyes widened, and his eyebrows rose to his hairline before bursting out in laughter. "Oh, you sneaky wolf. Whoever said you Starks did not have any cunning was blind as a bat."
"What do you mean, Uncle? A wolf is always known for his cunning." Robb grinned as his great uncle continued to laugh himself hoarse.
"Do you think Edmure would agree? He had remained unwed for so long, and he's nearly thirty."
"He will not have a choice, for his King commands it." Robb replied stiffly, causing Brynden to look at him seriously. "We need that flank secured, both legally and through conquest for years to come."
"Very well," His great uncle scratched at his chainmail, and Robb realized the man must be urging for a bath. "Who would stay in Ashemark to command the men and coordinate the raiding parties?"
"Lord Rickard Karstark shall do so. I have already sent a rider for him to return and gave him his orders. I have Damon Dustin nearby as well and can swiftly reinforce Lord Karstark, but I am confident that they shall be able to maintain the campaign."
"Good, when do we march out?"
"In three days, Uncle Edmure should have the siege engines with him, so I shall give him a head start."
Brynden Tully nodded resolutely, "Understood, Your Grace. What are my orders?"
"I shall have you lead the outriders to keep an eye on Daven Lannister's army at Lannisport. I have no doubt that they shall stir once word of the siege reaches them. Hopefully, we could goad him into attacking Lord Karstark; I heard he had vowed never to shave until he killed Lord Rickard for killing his father."
"The young man is more likely to get lice if he isn't careful," Brynden shook his head before frowning. "Wasn't his mother a Lefford?"
Robb arched his brow before checking an open book on the desk and nodding. "Indeed, the only sister to the late Leo Lefford. He has two sisters but they are of no consequence. Still, this might complicate matters… unless he is removed from the matter entirely."
"My word, Robb. You seem to be gaining a talent for playing the game," Robb grimaced as his great uncle's tone was not flattering. "You remind me so much of my brother."
"Not so much a talent than a necessity," the King rubbed his brow as he decided to take the comparison to Hoster Tully as a compliment. "Disregarding all that intrigue and politicking, we need that pass in our hands to return to the Riverlands safely and with all our loot."
"True. Well, Your Grace, if that would be all? I stink quite a bit from riding, if you wouldn't mind?"
"You are dismissed, Ser Brynden." Robb shook his head in amusement as his granduncle saluted and left the solar. He scribbled the order for his men to prepare to march and followed the Blackfish, handing the orders to his squire to spread the word.
Once Olyvar disappeared down the hallway, Robb turned the other way, shadowed by his four guards. While he was hesitant to create a Northern kingsguard because it was a Southron knightly order, a king still needed protection.
Robb's footsteps echoed on the wooden flooring as he made his way down the steps and to the castle's garden. The keep was small, yet it was beautiful in a way that a fort should have no right to. Instead of alcoves, large glass windows lined the hallways every ten or so feet allowing the sun's rays to shine through… while also providing a large target for any intruder. The walls were adorned with portraits and tapestries of former lords and ladies of the castle.
Before long, Robb found himself deep in the castle's godswood.
"Wait for me outside."
The guards nodded and stood guard around the small walled grove while Robb continued until he found the heart tree of the castle. It was a sad sight, for he had learned the meaning of the Marbrand sigil; the burning tree symbolized the House forswearing their heathen ways when they adopted the Faith of the Seven and the burning of their castle's ancient Weirwood. Surprisingly, the stump remained, and Robb sat on the slightly blackened yet impossibly wide stump. How large had the heart tree been before?
The King of the North had taken every chance he got to rest in the Godswood, especially after his dreams had begun. It usually helped in bonding with Grey Wind as well, and even as he thought about it, Robb closed his eyes and found himself welcoming blissful slumber.
.
.
.
He sat patiently as he watched the stone pile - castle his human had taught him. The direwolf blended with the gray cliff, and none of the humans on the walls could hope to see him. His eyes, however, focused on the hills over the castle. They were steep, even for his surefooted paws, let alone for the two legged humans. Grey Wind had watched over the castle for the past few weeks, his human joining him occasionally as they searched for a weak point in the castle.
Suddenly, movement on the far side of the hill caught his attention, and Grey Wind rolled out his tongue in excitement. It was her! The direwolf loped down the cliff and away from the castle as he followed the she-wolf that had visited him several times in the past week.
She glanced at him lazily before heading deeper into the hills and the mountains. His human was grumbling in his mind, but Grey Wind was bored after days of doing nothing but watching a boring castle. His human tried to steer him away, but Grey Wind was stubborn, and finally, his human let him have his fun.
As Grey Wind followed the she-wolf through a meandering path up and down the mountain, he suddenly found himself on a ledge overlooking the castle. He was high up, and he could feel his human's excitement for something. Grey Wind, however, had eyes only for the she-wolf as she wiggled her tail at him, and he could feel his blood boil. Within a few heartbeats, he was pouncing on the bitch who nibbled at him playfully, and then–
.
.
.
Robb woke up with a start, feeling heat rushing through his body and to his groin. He groaned loudly as he felt light-headed, yet his member was rock-hard under his breeches. The young man's blood sang as the echoes of the direwolf mating with the she-wolf resonated in his mind, and Robb clawed out of his clothes to allow himself more air to breathe.
Fuck, he should not have done that…warging was already a dangerous thing to do, but he wagered warging into his bondmate when he was in mating sounded foolish in hindsight. Yet how in the seven hells would he have known about it anyway?
Robb tiredly stood up, hoping to quickly retire to his room, before the sound of a twig snapping had him whirling with a snarl… only to find the shocked face of Elaena Marbrand holding a basket of flowers.
"Y-Your Grace! I didn't realize you were here. I've been here so long, how could I not notice–" Her gaze fell to his groin, and her eyes widened, and she licked her lips. "Mayhaps I have stumbled at the wrong time?"
The King was breathing heavily; his tunic lay abandoned on the ground, showing a muscled physique, while his breeches were half off. The Marbrand Maiden placed her basket on the ground as she approached him, her hand unbuttoning her dress, "Would you like to–"
All thoughts and reason seemed to flee Robb's mind as he grabbed the maiden's supple body and sealed her lips with his own.
Elaena quickly reciprocated, and within moments, he had her on the weirwood stump, her dress ripped, his hands on her teats, and his cock shoved deeply inside her. The last thing Robb remembered before he entered a frenzy was the girl's wicked grin, her laughing amethyst eyes, and the sweet nothings she whispered in his ear as they rutted with abandon. He finished inside her again and again, his seed mixing with her blood as it dripped into the stump below. Soon, the chit's devilish smile melted as tired moans of ecstasy slipped from her red lips as her eyes were rolled.
He did not know how long he took the girl, but it did not matter. She was his now, and his blood sang for this…even as he seeded her again, the moon shining brilliantly above them. Embracing her tightly, Robb continued to sate his lust inside the nubile form of Elaena Marbrand, the exhausted girl weakly kissing him with passion.
A*H*M
27th Day of the 7th Moon.
The Bite,
Myrcella Baratheon.
Life on the Silver Lady had been eventful over the past few weeks.
As she had feared, Sansa Stark was not the most merciful when they met. Cella and Rosa had to learn the hard way how to do chores befitting servants. For good or bad, Myrcella could now knead the dough into a shape that sort of resembled bread.
And while she would never admit it out loud, it was… fun.
"Cella, the cake is burning!"
Roused from her thoughts by Rosa's cry, Myrcella grimaced as she quickly removed the thin pastry from the pan, only to flinch as it burned her fingers. Still, she managed to drop it on a side plate and scrubbed away the burned parts with a fork.
"Thanks for the save, Rosa."
Rosamund nodded as she busily whisked away at the eggs in the bowl before pouring them into a pan of melted butter.
It was interesting to learn all the ways one could cook eggs and how to use a stove. Perseus, or Percy as he insisted on being called, took his time to teach them how to cook, especially that thin, fluffy bread he called pancakes. Those were yummy, particularly when doused in honey. Speaking of, she added another mixture to the pan and stood next to Rosa, who was making what Percy called Ohmlet.
She was sure it was pronounced that way.
Myrcella frowned as she realized she had been speaking in that foreigner's strange language, even in her mind. It certainly had a catchy rhythm. Thinking about Percy had her wondering about what happened yesterday.
Sansa waking up suddenly scared them, yet they had yet to see that monster in the waves… For once, Myrcella was grateful for Percy's presence, else that sea serpent would have eaten them whole, probably with the ship!
Her thoughts went back to her dreams. They were always the same - waking up as a golden cat, playing around with a nice old man who just gave the best scratches and kept feeding her fish. Seven above, Myrcella didn't even like fish…
A silly smile appeared on her face before she remembered the stove in front of her. Flipping the pancakes, she couldn't help but recall a voice in her head when the ships suddenly started moving again. Cella had been afraid.
It took her a while to pinpoint where the fear stemmed from and why it did not go away. She was afraid of going North, never seeing her family again, and feared losing Rosa… but most of all, she was afraid of being alone.
When those pirates snuck onboard, that kindly voice in her head warned her, and Myrcella was glad that Sansa took her seriously. Grabbing whatever weapons they had, Cella still blushed at how foolish she had been to take this very pan to defend herself instead of a knife, as Sansa did. At least it was better than Rosa's rolling pin. Regardless, fighting off those pirates was both satisfying and terrifying.
"Are you done, Cella? Let's take the food to the deck."
Rosa's nudge on her side had her empty the last of the pancakes, and they took the plates to the deck, where Sansa and Percy had a table set. The morning sun was hidden behind a cloud.
"There you are. I'm starving."
Myrcella had barely placed down the plate of pancakes before Percy poured honey on it and ravenously devoured them, his face twisted in pleasure as he moaned in delight. She might not have gotten used to the demigod, but the fact he appreciated her cooking made her feel very proud of herself… even if she thought he was going overboard with those obscene sounds.
"Knock it off, Percy. You're making the food taste weird."
Sansa had a plate of ohmylet, or whatever Percy called it, on the table as she gestured for her and Rosa to sit.
"You girls just don't understand the awesomeness of pancakes. If I had some blueberries, I could have made you blue pancakes! Now, if only there were maple syrup as well…not sure if it exists here."
They stared strangely at Percy as he gobbled up the rest of the meal, before he stared at the two men tied at the mast, who looked on hungrily. "Easy there, boys, we are a few hours away from the city. I'm sure they will have a nice warm cell and a Happy Meal for you."
Happy meal? It sounded good, but it was said with a lilt of amusement.
Cella was unsure what he meant but focused on her food. She also had pancakes and added a generous amount of honey, causing Percy to nod in approval. "So, what did you mean by syrup?"
"Oh, there's this tree back home that grows in cold places. Its sap can be collected and turned into syrup through some process I haven't a clue about. Either way," he raised his voice when she was about to interrupt on how he wouldn't know. "It is sweet, sticky and just goes so well with pancakes."
Cella glanced at Sansa and Rosa, finding the former smiling fondly at the powerful warrior while the latter enjoyed her egg dish.
Yet the Stark maiden had paused.
"Percy, I think I know what you are talking about. Maple trees, right?"
Percy's green eyes seemed to glow as he beamed, "You have them here?"
"They are common in the North, and the honey made from it is more accessible than bee's honey due to the cold."
"Sweet! Once we get to that city, I'll get a batch and maybe see if I can cook some donuts."
"What's a donut?" Rosa whispered beside her, but Myrcella could only shrug helplessly as she stared at Sansa gazing at the man. How she looked at Percy reminded Cella of how her mother looked at Uncle Jaime.
She sighed sadly, to think Sansa would only see Percy as a brother after all he had done for her.
Suddenly, Sansa stood from her seat, her smiling face turning serious, causing everyone to follow suit. "Beauty sees ships coming. Manderly ships."
They followed Sansa's gaze as she stared at the distant cliffs. They had sailed past Old Castle last night and had encountered many merchant vessels going in and out of White Harbor, yet Sansa had them avoid contact with any of them. Myrcella agreed; many of them were Essosi, and she would rather not deal with the foreigners.
Now, however, they could see three ships sailing towards them from the direction of the city, with Sansa's Moon Hawk flying overhead. White Harbor was still about twenty miles into that strait, so it was no surprise that a Manderly patrol would approach them. Sansa had the direwolf banner fluttering proudly on the mast above.
Yet, it doubtlessly attracted a lot of attention.
No ships ever flew the Stark banners now because House Stark had no fleet for many centuries. Funnily enough, that meant that Sansa was the first Stark to command her fleet, albeit small.
The hawk screeched once before looping around and softly landing on Sansa's shoulder.
The bird was incredibly pretty. Moon Hawks were extremely difficult to catch, for they nested in the highest peaks of the Mountains of the Moon. It is said the Arryn falcon was inspired by them. Even those who were caught could not be tamed for some reason. Myrcella had only seen the stuffed body of one of them, which paled in comparison to the noble bird before her. To think Sansa received it as a gift from the Maiden herself!
Myrcella would not deny being jealous, yet that kind voice in her head encouraged her to be patient.
Once the three ships approached them enough to hear, a bell clanged several times.
Alas, nobody on the ship was versed in naval matters.
Percy, who was the one who should know stuff like this, looked rather confused, "Are they trying to signal us?"
"Maybe," Sansa squinted. "Stop the ship, Percy. These are my brother's bannermen. I have no fear from them."
Percy did as told, and all three ships stopped, their sails furling and tying themselves. It always amazed Myrcella to see the demigod's work; she still could not wrap it around her head that Perseus was a literal son of a god. It would be far harder to conceive such a notion if he had not shown he could do the impossible again and again.
Even after having more than a sennight to get used to the notion, Myrcella's mind was boggled. Yes, everyone believed in the gods, but they were something distant, far away. Not… going around and siring monsters like Percy!
Still, Sansa had ingrained the importance of keeping that a secret. Neither her nor Rosa were allowed to even hint at Percy's parentage to anyone. Myrcella had no reason to disobey that particular order; people would think her mad anyway. Better for them to assume Percy was some sorcerer from a far away land.
Soon, the leading ship approached them, and they could see a long line of marines holding axes and short swords, some even holding bows. They were led by a hard-faced man in chainmail with the Manderly sigil on his surcoat.
"Who dares fly the Stark banner?" The man's booming voice echoed through the gulf; definitely a soldier used to making his voice heard.
Sansa walked to the rails, her back straight and her face like ice. "It is I, Sansa of House Stark. I recognize you, Ser Medrick Manderly, from when my father, Eddard Stark, visited White Harbor years ago."
For a moment, Myrcella worried that the man did not recognize Sansa as he scrutinized her. Then, the knight's eyes widened, and his mouth opened as he finally found his voice. "Princess Sansa. You are alive!"
"Indeed I am, good Ser, and I bring more with me than just myself." Sansa glanced at her, and Myrcella was reminded that despite all they had been through, they were still hostages. "Nevertheless, I request you lead us back to the city. I am sure Lord Wyman would be glad to meet with me."
"Forsooth, Princess. Men, make way for the Princess' ships!" It spoke of how much presence Sansa commanded that the knight did not even question how three ships could sail with no sailors onboard.
Still, Myrcella wasn't concerned with that. She looked forward to finally returning to solid ground.
"What in the Seven Hells is that?!"
The sudden exclamation came from the sailors as the ship carrying the monster's corpse passed them by. Percy grinned as he stood beside Sansa, "That could be dinner or maybe breakfast. It depends on how fast you get us to the city."
OC list increases in size: Elaena Marbrand, Damon Dustin, and Medrick Manderly.
Magic awakening affects people in all sorts of different ways…like Robb accidentally warging into Grey Wind when he was mating with his girlfriend…and that feedback causes Robb to go full sex mode on a very suspicious woman.
Anyone guesses to Robb's plan in taking the Golden Tooth? I left enough hints, I think.
Damon Dustin is the son of Willam Dustin's uncle, who "was good with an axe" according to the wiki. I have no idea how Barbrey Dustin was allowed to rule a castle that was not hers when she provided no heirs for her husband. The Widow's laws only allow the widows to reside in the castle and get a stipend from the lord; nothing about them ruling.
Finally, the crew arrives in White Harbor.
If you would like to read four chapters ahead, or simply support me, look me up on Patr(eo)n under the same pen name.
Chapter 10 (Epiphanies)
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
The Gulf leading to White Harbor.
Percy
After meeting with the Manderly ships, Percy led their small fleet up the narrow gulf to where he could see the distant city of White Harbor. The White Gulf was aptly named; it was surrounded by white cliffs and white sand beaches.
Even the waves were white!
The Merman Knight who joined them on the ship explained that while the Bite didn't freeze in winter, the snow would make everything look white regardless. The water also had a higher-than-normal salt content, which helped keep it flowing in winter.
Medrick Manderly was a decent sort, but Percy could tell he did not trust him. He didn't mind; he was an outsider and a sorcerer, and making a name for himself would be enough to gain their trust.
Besides, it's pretty damn cool how they wore mermen on their sigil, though he thought they needed more blue in their outfits. Green was alright, but it wasn't half as cool as blue.
The merman and his trident in the banner were familiar, however.
Their escort was joined by more ships as they sailed closer to the city, and all of them were instructed to keep their distance. Sansa did not want many people to know of his powers, and had requested the Manderly knight have some of his most trusted men stationed on the Seaswift and the Crimson Gale.
Naturally, they were utterly freaked out when the ships didn't have any sailors and even more so when Percy had them moving with a wave of his hands. He didn't need the hand wave, but let it not be said he did not enjoy a prank… or a jest, as the Westerosi called it.
Surprisingly, the Northmen didn't gawk too much over the sea monster; they were a pragmatic lot that easily believed and adapted to what was in front of them. They continued with no qualms after sending a fast ship ahead to notify the city lord.
Now, they were approaching the so-called White Harbor, and Percy whistled at the sight from the porthole.
"Impressed?"
He turned to Sansa as she sent Myrcella away, the girl bowing before grabbing her Not-twin as they left the quarters for the deck. They were in the Captain's quarters, and the blonde girl was helping Sansa braid her luscious red locks into a long French braid, though they called it the Northmarch braid here.
The redheaded princess approached him by the window, and Percy inspected her dress appreciatively. She had been busy sewing it herself over the past few weeks; it was a modest yet classy gray with blue motifs of wolves, trouts, and a single large bird of prey over her breast that she added at the last minute.
Beauty was out flying somewhere, and Percy thought it was wicked how Sansa's eyes randomly glowed and she could tell what the hawk was seeing.
"It's definitely cleaner and smells nicer than King's Landing." Percy shrugged as he whistled at a colony of seals on an islet. The water doggies barked and clapped happily as he waved at them. "It's quite smaller, though."
"While it is considered the smallest of the five major cities of Westeros, it's still the largest city in the North with a population of at least fifty thousand. That's only in summer, for in winter, that number more than doubles."
"Sure, sure. That's very impressive." Percy had no wish to insult the lovely girl. No need to tell her that the city, while about the same size as Manhattan, still had fewer people than his city block.
Sansa glanced his way as if she could tell he was patronizing her.
Percy coughed and changed the topic, "What should we expect from that merman lord? Do you trust him?"
She blinked and stared at the city as they waited for the harbor to flag them for docking. There were some delays as they waited for the lord to arrive, and so they opted to wait in their quarters.
"He is loyal."
"I'm sure he is, but would he listen to you? No offense, but to him, you're just a little girl who is way over her head. I'm sure he could be loyal yet keep you protected in some nice room while he does his own thing."
Sansa shook her head as a cold glint formed in her eyes. "I shall not be treated as a child. As a Lady of House Stark, I am owed certain liberties, and as Princess of the North, that comes with authority. Considering my home lacks a solid regent with my brother Robb fighting in the South, I am confident I'll be able to sway Lord Manderly to my side."
"What about your other brothers?"
"Bran is crippled, and Rickon is too young to lead." The red-haired girl smiled sadly, "I love them both to death, but the North needs someone capable of making decisions at the helm."
"Even if it's a girl?"
"My mother always said a woman can rule as well as any man. Besides, it won't matter if I have you by my side."
Sansa's gaze refused to meet his eyes as she stubbornly looked at the approaching docks, though a flush crept up her pale neck.
Percy's mouth went dry as his brain untangled her last word.
"…Is that a proposal?"
"Yes…." it was barely a whisper. So quiet that even Percy's sharp senses almost lost it in the sea breeze.
"Sure," the words left his mouth before his thoughts caught up. His ears reddened when he realized what he had just agreed to. Yet… yet, he would.
Sansa, however, whipped her head and looked at him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.
"Wait! Are you… jesting?"
"What?" Percy raised his hands. "No. I… kinda thought about it before."
His father's laughter echoed in his mind, full of pride…and amusement.
"About marriage?" She raised her eyebrow.
He bobbed his head.
"Yeah. Uhh… if it's you, I don't mind," he finished lamely. Way to go, Percy; you achieved the lamest wedding agreement ever.
Sansa lunged at him, and he was suddenly very well aware of the two generous globes pressing to his chest as two dainty hands grabbed his face and a pair of red lips sealed his mouth.
Percy was pretty sure he saw fireworks behind his eyes as thunder rumbled in the distance. His mind turned blank, but his hands were already embracing Sansa's willowy figure, as his mouth was trying to plunder hers for everything it was worth.
This was his first real kiss… aside from that chaste one with Rachel that felt like a million years ago.
It was sweet, too sweet, and he couldn't nearly get enough of it.
'Control your powers, son,' his father whispered, and he became all the more aware of that tangible pull behind his navel as the blue sky was being choked with clouds.
Reluctantly, Percy pried his limbs off Sansa as they both gasped for breath, though his exhaustion stemmed from his attempt to thwart the budding storm he had just created.
"Sweet Maiden." Her words were breathless and her face was as red as a tomato. But her eyes now looked at him with desire and… lust. "I wanted to do that for too long."
"Me too," he admitted with a silly smile. Though, a fire now burned inside him, making its way down to his loins. Percy had to physically suppress his desire to tear off Sansa's dress and bend her over here and now for all to see.
"So… marriage," Sansa muttered shyly after she took a breather. "You would wed me?"
"Yes," Percy admitted. His shoulders felt lighter as if a burden he never knew was there disappeared. Yet… a new one, a different weight, settled upon him.
'It's the weight of responsibility, my son,' his father supplied. 'The weight of your words and promises. Breaking it hurts.'
Percy grimaced. His father definitely knew about breaking vows of all sorts, including his wedding ones.
Sansa's face also twisted into a grimace.
"What of your kin? Your mother, your cousins, your friends back home? I do not think I can follow you there."
"I can't go back," he muttered weakly. "I suppose I'm staying with you if you'd have me."
'You can always bed her a few times and go exploring the world!' His father's enthusiastic proposal was also ignored. His mother had taught him better than that.
"That's so sad," Sansa quickly hugged him. "In that case, let's talk details."
"Uh… the ceremony?" Percy scratched his nose dumbly.
"No, any ceremony will be handled by me," Sansa's predatory smile sent butterflies through his stomach. "Marital obligations, duties, titles, and how we must present this before others."
Percy's head began to hurt.
.
.
.
Half an hour later, his mind had turned to mush and not in a pleasant way. After a painfully long talk, Percy had agreed to technically fulfill the role of Sansa's consort to leverage her royal position. Etiquette, obligations, duties, and a bunch of things he had already forgotten.
'You chose to marry a princess, son,' Poseidon chortled in his mind. 'At least this lass seems to know what she's doing, and she has ambition to spare. A good pick, as I said.'
"So the goal is to get to Winterfell," Percy tiredly rubbed his face. "And then, uh… take the reins of the North from your young brothers?"
"Indeed," Sansa bobbed her head with a wide smile. Though, he did not mind how she clung to his arm or how her chest pressed to his side. "Bran… Bran is a sweet boy but too young and a cripple. Rickon is even younger and more unruly. What would they know of running a kingdom?"
Did he just agree to help his betrothed usurp her brothers?
'No, Sansa is not trying to supplant her kingly brother. Only, she's confident to consolidate the North with your backing - young children are easily led astray by advisors or deceived by foes.'
That lessened the uncomfortable tangle in his gut.
"So, we're now officially betrothed," Percy coughed awkwardly. "Didn't you say earlier that parents negotiate such stuff?"
'I give you my blessing, Percy! I'm sure Sally would love Sansa if she could see her.' Poseidon's words were almost reassuring. But the nervousness returned like a wrecking ball; he was not ready to be a father or a husband. He was barely sixteen!
"Indeed, but I've decided to elope with this dashing hero who saved me," Sansa smiled coyly. "And then bring him back home."
Percy ran a hand through his messy hair.
"What about the wedding, then?"
"In White Harbor. Lord Manderly won't be able to stop us, I'd say."
'The fangs of her! Oh, my boy, the feisty ones are the best in bed-'
'Enough, Dad!' Percy had to fight the heat rising to his cheeks again.
Well, the marriage was in the bag.
He didn't mind spending the rest of his life with Sansa. She was hot, fun to be around, and with a heart of gold if sometimes ruthless.
Now, he only had to fight her wars, or well, her elder brother's wars. Percy had agreed to wed into House Stark, which meant their children would keep Sansa's family name while he kept his. He wasn't particularly fond of his Jackson surname, which stemmed from a grandfather he had never seen.
Besides, he could still carry his mother's family name and did not mind if his children followed in his footsteps. House Stark was the stuff of legends if even a quarter of what Sansa had told him was true.
'It's the blood that matters,' his father had said.
It was an ambitious move, for usually only ruling ladies had consorts. Yet Sansa had no lands to her name, and neither did Percy. He wasn't worried about wealth with his abilities, so they would never remain homeless. Once the war ended, he'd take her on the Silver Lady, and they would travel the world together before settling on some nice sunny island.
Let her brother deal with all that nonsense that comes with ruling.
Yet it was now official. He had… given up on going home. A small part of him clung to hope, but if his powerful and wise divine father could not see a way back, how could silly Percy do it?
Perhaps everyone back home would be better off without him. Everyone did call him a troublemaker. At least there were no monsters here to be attracted to his scent like hellhounds to a piece of steak. Not having to be on guard constantly was a blessing and a relief he would never get tired of.
If only he could at least see his mother one last time… to tell her that he loved her and hear her telling him the same. His Dad might have joked about it, but Percy was certain that Sally Jackson would have loved Sansa, and he wished she could be there at the wedding.
In the end, his only regret was that he couldn't say goodbye to his mother. Sally was the best mother, and she deserved to know that he was fine instead of worrying…
A small part of Percy's mind that sounded suspiciously like Annabeth asked if he was thinking with his dick.
Percy wasn't the smartest guy, but surely his father would have told him if that was the case, right?
His gaze once again settled on Sansa. Her eyes were bright blue, her waist was lithe, her chest more than big, and her hips shapely in a way that made his mouth water. And she would be his very soon. Yeah… being married didn't sound so bad, even with all the extra baggage.
A knock on the door ruined the moment as the old Manderly knight announced himself.
"Princess, My Lord." Medrick nodded politely to him, and Percy felt strange to be addressed with such politeness; only horses and fish called him lord. "We are preparing to dock. Would you be joining us on the deck?"
"Brilliant," Sansa let go of him as he grabbed Ice, strapped it on his back, and tied the shield to the sheath before allowing the girl to hook her arms with his.
Myrcella and Rosamund joined them on the deck, although they attempted to hide behind Sansa.
The red-haired maiden leaned on his shoulders and murmured, "Lord Manderly is on the docks. He's that very fat blonde man."
"The one who looks like a meal away from a heart attack?"
The lord in question looked winded as if he had sprinted all the way here. There were two young women with him, nearly a hundred armored soldiers led by another girl, and a sizeable crowd of townsfolk who looked on with interest.
"That's the one, but be nice!" Sansa nudged him as he grinned. "The Northmen mislike outsiders. If I am to introduce you as my betrothed, I will need you to make a strong first impression while keeping your powers as secret as possible."
"A strong impression, you say?" Percy grinned as he willed their three ships towards the empty pier and inspected the docks. "I have just the thing in mind."
Earlier,
New Castle.
Wyman
"You are certain of this?"
"Without a doubt, my lord. My cousin was a sailor on the Boldwind and managed to escape the Imp's mad scheme for the defense of King's Landing."
Wyman Manderly stroked his beard as he processed what the merchant's son had told him.
Mathos Redstone of Gulltown had been a reliable source of information since Wyman saved him from a misunderstanding with the port authorities some twenty-five years ago. Since then, the merchant's family and his associates have fed him important information consistently in return for trading rights and other perks.
Especially during wartime, knowledge of the realm was worth gold.
The newly independent Kingdom of the North and the Trident had lost many trade routes with the now hostile kingdoms. Yet that only served to make their existing connections stronger, and the Vale being the closest kingdom and also neutral made that even better. The late and lamented Lord Eddard Stark's time in the kingdom had endeared many of the Vale lords to the Northmen.
Against all odds, White Harbor had gained a significant boost in trade and population; refugees and those seeking their fortune away from the other kingdoms found White Harbor to be a haven.
Anders was the third son of Mathos and the captain of his own ship, and this was his second voyage to White Harbor before continuing North to Karhold then east to Bravos and all the way to Ibb. He carried shipments of beeswax and honey from the south of Vale, precious stones and blocks of marble from northern Vale… as well as news from the south.
The Redstones had lofty positions in the Gulltown merchant's guild, yet they were not nobles but hailing from a natural lineage of House Shett.
Nevertheless, the guilds had their own methods of communication and resources to rival nobles. Their extensive use of carrier pigeons allowed Mathos to send word of the happenings in the south to his son, who was in Coldwater at the time.
Naturally, Wyman wanted a piece of that delicious pie. Using the debt owed, he had Mathos' daughter marry his captain of the guards, Rodwell Long, and also played mediator for White Harbor's merchant's guild to form connections with the Vale merchants.
Rodwell's hesitance to marry a lowly merchant's daughter melted when the buxom lass gifted him three strong boys and two comely girls.
The generous dowry also helped.
So far, this arrangement had been a massive boon to him, yet this particular bit of information, while interesting, was not valuable enough for Wyman to reward him.
Tales and Ravens had been sent to the North with the bounty on Sansa Stark's head; he suspected the Imp's hand in the insidious plot, for he had heard plenty of terrible rumors about him.
Setting the Northmen against the Starks with an insanely high reward on their princess' head, like she was some common brigand - the tales of sorcery might cause fear in the South, but the North were Stark Men first and foremost.
Yet that was not his only concern. Wyman had received ravens from the Lannisters with promises to release his heir, Wylis, in return for their loyalty. It burned him to be forced to choose between his son and his liege, yet the choice was simple.
Wylis himself would sooner fall on his sword rather than dishonor their house with treachery.
Anders merely confirmed what he already knew and provided further details he had missed, such as the confirmation of the sorcerer in Sansa Stark's employ, his features and powers, and their destination.
Here, White Harbor.
Wyman was naturally ecstatic for the safety of the Princess, yet the lass was expected to arrive in at least ten more days.
The northern winds of the small summer allowed swift progress for any ship sailing south, yet the opposite was true for those sailing north. Nevertheless, he awaited Sansa's arrival and looked forward to meeting the sorcerer Perseus and judging his character.
For now, he needed to finish with the lad quickly so he could greet his unannounced yet not unwelcome visitor.
"What else have you found out?"
The young captain looked hesitant before pulling out a scroll from his pocket.
"My father was not sure if you would find this interesting, but you did ask for anything that might be connected to the North."
It was a raven's scroll and had a short message on it.
To the Sweetest Sister. Wolfhunt before Bite. Secure her in DF. Snow will cover.
His blood grew cold as he read the brief message. The words made little sense without understanding the codes but it was not the words that worried him - it's the handwriting.
Wyman Manderly had always read and written his correspondence and kept all raven scrolls for safekeeping. Many lords preferred to have their maesters and scribes write and receive their messages, yet he found that foolish.
Especially since his own Maester Theomore was born Theomore Lannister of Lannisport. Maesters were supposed to serve the seat they were sworn to, but Wyman knew blood ran thicker than words. Yet it was better to keep the devil you knew close. He was aware of Theomore and continued feeding him information he would think vital, but were merely smoke.
Something told him that he should recognize that thin handwriting, but he couldn't recall for the life of him.
"How did you come upon this scroll?"
"A few weeks ago, a merchant associate came upon a sickly raven on his way back from the Riverlands." Anders rubbed his chin as he read a note, presumably from his father. "The raven was one of those larger northern breeds, and the man swore he saw a group of Northmen patrolling nearby. He was on his ship, you see, and they couldn't do anything when they saw him sailing past."
"And what sigil did they wear?"
"He claimed they wore no sigil, but they looked, begging your pardon for what I will say milord, but they looked like savages. According to him, milord."
Wyman stifled a smirk as the young captain shifted uneasily. "No harm done, my good man. Now, where did he find the scroll again?"
"Near Darry. The Northmen were besieging it at the time, though we don't know of the outcome. He believes the raven must have gotten lost in that ash cloud from Dragonstone."
Darry was under Lannister control, but the Northern army was close. Wyman was unaware they were ordered to take the castle; the last bit of information he received was Tywin Lannister marching south, Edmure Tully marching west and Roose supposedly sieging Harrenhal. Perhaps, different orders were given?
For a moment, Wyman worried that Tywin Lannister might have agents in the North, but that was ludicrous. Besides, the handwriting differed from what he knew of the Old Lion's and his brother's as he kept their correspondence safe in his solar.
Northmen who looked like savages… that wasn't much of a clue for the Southrons saw everyone above the Neck as barbarians. Nevertheless, it was enough to suspect foul play from a Northern lord, and Wyman's bias screamed it was the Leech Lord.
Considering his woes with the Bolton Bastard, the Lord of New Castle worried that there was a conspiracy afoot. He shook his head inwardly; there was caution, and then there was paranoia. Ramsay Snow would get his due for what he did to his dear cousin Donella, but Wyman would not go chasing after red herrings.
He stared at the scroll in his meaty hand and stroked his beard again. The handwriting was definitely familiar, and he decided to compare it with other scrolls later.
Recalling the man's words, It was possible that whoever sent the raven would realize that it was intercepted and would send another message. The main issue, however, was they had no idea where the message was going if he could perhaps find a way to decipher the code.
"Who else knows of this?"
"The merchant, my father who purchased it from him, and anyone else he told."
The Lord of White Harbor calmly pocketed the scroll and decided he would need to think on the matter later.
"You have done well bringing this to me. We will discuss more later, but for now, you can use my warehouse for your shipment, and to load your supply of seasoned timber." He handed the lad an already prepared document. "Give this to my cousin, Marlon. He will know what to do."
Anders nodded gratefully and was led outside the side chamber by a guard. Wyman turned to another door where Rodwell Long, his captain of the guards, waited.
"My Lord, the court is waiting."
"Let us go then, Ser."
Rodwell opened the door for him, and they found themselves in the Merman's Court. The hall was full of his people, and his granddaughters had just led his guest to the hall's center.
Wyman walked purposely to his cushioned throne but did not sit. He smiled at his guest with open arms.
"Lord Jojen Reed, I am honored. It is a pleasure to meet you again so soon."
"The pleasure and honor is mine, my lord. White Harbor is as beautiful as my father told me."
Young Jojen looked far healthier since Wyman last saw him at the harvest feast. He stood straight and confidently. His green eyes were bright, and he had a serene smile. The skin on his face lacked the sickly pallor that plagued him.
Wyman frowned inwardly, for he was told Jojen had arrived with his sister and more men. Yet here he stood, the heir of Greywater Watch, completely alone.
"And I shall always welcome a son of Howland Reed in my halls. Wylla."
His granddaughter understood and quickly grabbed a tray of bread and salt from a table and offered it to the young man. Jojen smiled gratefully as he tore a piece of bread in half and sprinkled salt on it before eating it.
"Guest right is invoked." Wyman's smile widened as he descended the steps to stand before the young Crannogman. "Now, tell me, are you here as heir to Greywater Watch? Or a representative of Winterfell? Does it have to do with the considerable retinue you have brought?"
"I come by the order of the Stark of Winterfell." Jojen's serene smile did not waver as his voice echoed in the hall, "Our newly independent kingdom is under threat from within and without. Already, the Ironborn have taken Moat Cailin and are reaving their way to Barrowton."
The mention of the reavers filled his hall with worried clamor. The Squids had taken them unawares with the treachery of Theon Greyjoy, yet none truly feared an attack from them. White Harbor was situated on the eastern shore of the White Knife, while the western shore was hilly and heavily fortified by many of his vassals' castles.
"The reavers can be thrown back to the sea in time." Jojen continued, "Barrowton is strong and can beat back an army of pirates away from their ships."
Not entirely true, for Wyman doubted the Lady of Barrowhall would have the grit to withstand a siege. Not to mention the town's wooden walls and even the castle was made from wood. The last time he was there a few years ago, it did not look well-maintained.
"That is all well and good, but what about the problems within?" The young Reed was leading to it, so a little nudge would help now that he lit a fire in the crowd's belly.
"Ramsay Snow had wreaked enough havoc in our lands. Lord Brandon had hoped Lord Bolton would reign in his wayward bastard's mischief, yet to no avail. He sends a hundred of his finest men to help in subduing the bandits. Justice for the Hornwoods shall be meted, and King Robb's peace shall be restored."
The proclamation was met with a cheer, but Wyman remained reserved. A hundred men were not much when he could call upon ten times that number within two days and march on to weed out the bastard from whatever hole he hid in.
Yet, the fact that they were Stark men sent by the Stark of Winterfell changed the game.
Instead of this being a brigand problem, as Roose Bolton had insisted in their correspondence, the Starks were now involved. If used right, Wyman could march on the Dreadfort if need be, and the North would fully support him.
"And who shall lead the fight against the Bolton Bastard?"
He glanced at his granddaughter, Wylla, as the crowd calmed at her question. Who indeed? To command men from Winterfell was impossible unless it was a Stark or a noble highly trusted by them. Even the infantry in the Riverlands were not commanded by Bolton but rather stationed in Riverrun after Edmure Tully emptied his garrison to head West.
Rodrik Cassel would be the obvious choice as the castellan of Winterfell, yet he was conspicuously absent.
"I was only commanded to lead the men here, then I shall continue to the Neck. I am needed by my father's side, but fret not," The Reed heir hurried as knights and nobles began muttering over who would have the honor of commanding the host. "I have prayed to the gods, and they have answered. I believe a Stark shall arrive to take command."
Wyman blinked. The hall was as quiet as a lichyard as his granddaughters and courtiers looked at the lad like he lost his wits.
Suddenly, the metal clinking of hurried armored boots echoed from the open double doors.
A guard captain dashed into the hall, nearly out of breath. He recognized the lad as Rodwell's eldest, a normally level-headed lad if a bit slow on the uptake.
"Matrid! What is it, boy?"
The lad straightened at his father's bark, "Ships sighted flying the Direwolf banner. Ser Medrick sends word, my lord. Sansa Stark has returned."
Wyman did not remember much of what happened later except for Jojen Reed looking particularly smug. He also did not remember ever running so fast in his life… at least for the short distance to get on the closest wheelhouse with his granddaughters.
Even sending a rider to the harbor to delay the docking as long as possible so he could muster a proper welcome did not feel enough. By the time they arrived at the dock, Wyman wanted to curse the young Reed lad. The Stark men were all lined up like an honor guard, with Meera Reed commanding them.
That answered the question of why she was not with her brother.
The empty pier had space for two ships to dock, one on each side, where a large crane took the space in the middle to unload any large cargo. A peculiarly large bird was roosted on top of the crane and Wyman thought it stared signalled him from the crowd and set its predatory gaze on him. He shook his head, and his eyes settled on the moored ships; A carrack and a galley were docking simultaneously, and Wyman stared at the Silver Lady where the Princess gazed dispassionately at the crowd as she held the arm of a dark-haired man.
Once the ship was approached, ropes were thrown to the dockhands, and both were secured. There was a gasp from further back in the crowd, but Wyman did not turn in favor of approaching Sansa Stark as she was helped down the gangway with whom he assumed was Perseus.
By the gods, old and new! He had not seen the lass in years, and she had grown to be the spitting image of her mother, if taller and more beautiful.
More movement from the deck had him find his cousin, Medrick, gently leading two identical blonde girls, and Wyman's eyes widened. This had to be Myrcella Baratheon and her handmaiden.
Sansa stopped before Wyman, her arm conspicuously still holding the sorcerer's arm. Wyman's brows nearly flew to his hairline when he recognized Ice's hilt under a shield on the young man's back. He had a suspicion of the meaning of such a gesture.
"Princess Sansa, White Harbor is yours."
The red-haired young woman did not say anything as her gaze roamed over the crowd, her eyes falling on the contingent of Winterfell men.
They instantly slapped their right fists to their armored chest.
"We are yours to command, Princess Sansa!"
Apart from a blink so quick he could have imagined it, Sansa Stark showed no shock or surprise and nodded imperiously.
"Thank you, Lord Manderly." Her face softened to a beautiful smile that moved even his old heart. "May I introduce my betrothed, Perseus Jackson."
Wyman couldn't help but inspect the young man more closely, ignoring the murmurs threatening to drown the docks.
Lord-too-fat-to-ride-a-horse, many called him. Wyman knew and took it with a smile, pretending it was not an insult. It was regretfully true, and he leveraged that reputation to make others underestimate him even further. Yet Wyman had fought in many tourneys in his youth, then three wars, and he knew the make of warriors.
And Perseus Jackson reminded him of the likes of Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy. The way the young man carried himself screamed confidence, yet his eyes were darting around, looking for any danger. Even now, Wyman couldn't see any openings in his stance, as if Perseus was expecting to fight at a moment's notice.
Yet Perseus had an easy grin of the sort that would either put you at ease or provoke you into a fight.
"Perseus, you say?" Wyman coughed. "Would you happen to be the acclaimed sorcerer?"
"I suppose what I do can be counted as sorcery." The young man shrugged before walking towards the Seaswift - he had a peculiar dialect that Wyman could not determine where it was from. "Where I'm from, it is common courtesy for a guest to bring gifts to his host. Let it not be said that Percy Jackson was not raised well by his mother."
Suddenly, the dark-haired warrior jumped onboard the galley, and Wyman gawked; it was no short distance, nearly a dozen feet from the pier to the railing. Yet, the feat was done with laughable ease.
Grunting could be heard, and something large scraping on wood.
Worried murmurs and gasps sounded behind him from the crowd as a massive dark shape was thrown from the ship and landed in a heap on the dock. Perseus jumped after it before withdrawing a strange-looking dagger. It suddenly stretched, and within a few heartbeats, what Wyman now recognized as a massive sea monster was displayed for all to see while Perseus stood over its head with a wicked trident.
"I found this beauty in the waters just outside White Harbor. Who knows how many ships it would have sunk if I had not brought it down?" Perseus' grin widened even further, "I heard you were a connoisseur of delicacies from the deep. I gift this treat to you and the city of White Harbor."
It's official! They're getting married!!
Starring: Sansa "the usurper?" Stark, Percy "am I thinking with my dick?" Jackson, Wyman "the man" Manderly, and Jojen "the troll" Reed.
Everyone knows Wyman is savvy as fuck, but people seem to think that means he's some sort of merchant prince. That's not how it works. This is my interpretation of how he makes connections with merchants.
Who knew a healthy Jojen could be such a troll?
If you would like to read four chapters ahead, or simply support me, look me up on Patr(eo)n under the same pen name.
The Gulf leading to White Harbor.
Percy
After meeting with the Manderly ships, Percy led their small fleet up the narrow gulf to where he could see the distant city of White Harbor. The White Gulf was aptly named; it was surrounded by white cliffs and white sand beaches.
Even the waves were white!
The Merman Knight who joined them on the ship explained that while the Bite didn't freeze in winter, the snow would make everything look white regardless. The water also had a higher-than-normal salt content, which helped keep it flowing in winter.
Medrick Manderly was a decent sort, but Percy could tell he did not trust him. He didn't mind; he was an outsider and a sorcerer, and making a name for himself would be enough to gain their trust.
Besides, it's pretty damn cool how they wore mermen on their sigil, though he thought they needed more blue in their outfits. Green was alright, but it wasn't half as cool as blue.
The merman and his trident in the banner were familiar, however.
Their escort was joined by more ships as they sailed closer to the city, and all of them were instructed to keep their distance. Sansa did not want many people to know of his powers, and had requested the Manderly knight have some of his most trusted men stationed on the Seaswift and the Crimson Gale.
Naturally, they were utterly freaked out when the ships didn't have any sailors and even more so when Percy had them moving with a wave of his hands. He didn't need the hand wave, but let it not be said he did not enjoy a prank… or a jest, as the Westerosi called it.
Surprisingly, the Northmen didn't gawk too much over the sea monster; they were a pragmatic lot that easily believed and adapted to what was in front of them. They continued with no qualms after sending a fast ship ahead to notify the city lord.
Now, they were approaching the so-called White Harbor, and Percy whistled at the sight from the porthole.
"Impressed?"
He turned to Sansa as she sent Myrcella away, the girl bowing before grabbing her Not-twin as they left the quarters for the deck. They were in the Captain's quarters, and the blonde girl was helping Sansa braid her luscious red locks into a long French braid, though they called it the Northmarch braid here.
The redheaded princess approached him by the window, and Percy inspected her dress appreciatively. She had been busy sewing it herself over the past few weeks; it was a modest yet classy gray with blue motifs of wolves, trouts, and a single large bird of prey over her breast that she added at the last minute.
Beauty was out flying somewhere, and Percy thought it was wicked how Sansa's eyes randomly glowed and she could tell what the hawk was seeing.
"It's definitely cleaner and smells nicer than King's Landing." Percy shrugged as he whistled at a colony of seals on an islet. The water doggies barked and clapped happily as he waved at them. "It's quite smaller, though."
"While it is considered the smallest of the five major cities of Westeros, it's still the largest city in the North with a population of at least fifty thousand. That's only in summer, for in winter, that number more than doubles."
"Sure, sure. That's very impressive." Percy had no wish to insult the lovely girl. No need to tell her that the city, while about the same size as Manhattan, still had fewer people than his city block.
Sansa glanced his way as if she could tell he was patronizing her.
Percy coughed and changed the topic, "What should we expect from that merman lord? Do you trust him?"
She blinked and stared at the city as they waited for the harbor to flag them for docking. There were some delays as they waited for the lord to arrive, and so they opted to wait in their quarters.
"He is loyal."
"I'm sure he is, but would he listen to you? No offense, but to him, you're just a little girl who is way over her head. I'm sure he could be loyal yet keep you protected in some nice room while he does his own thing."
Sansa shook her head as a cold glint formed in her eyes. "I shall not be treated as a child. As a Lady of House Stark, I am owed certain liberties, and as Princess of the North, that comes with authority. Considering my home lacks a solid regent with my brother Robb fighting in the South, I am confident I'll be able to sway Lord Manderly to my side."
"What about your other brothers?"
"Bran is crippled, and Rickon is too young to lead." The red-haired girl smiled sadly, "I love them both to death, but the North needs someone capable of making decisions at the helm."
"Even if it's a girl?"
"My mother always said a woman can rule as well as any man. Besides, it won't matter if I have you by my side."
Sansa's gaze refused to meet his eyes as she stubbornly looked at the approaching docks, though a flush crept up her pale neck.
Percy's mouth went dry as his brain untangled her last word.
"…Is that a proposal?"
"Yes…." it was barely a whisper. So quiet that even Percy's sharp senses almost lost it in the sea breeze.
"Sure," the words left his mouth before his thoughts caught up. His ears reddened when he realized what he had just agreed to. Yet… yet, he would.
Sansa, however, whipped her head and looked at him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.
"Wait! Are you… jesting?"
"What?" Percy raised his hands. "No. I… kinda thought about it before."
His father's laughter echoed in his mind, full of pride…and amusement.
"About marriage?" She raised her eyebrow.
He bobbed his head.
"Yeah. Uhh… if it's you, I don't mind," he finished lamely. Way to go, Percy; you achieved the lamest wedding agreement ever.
Sansa lunged at him, and he was suddenly very well aware of the two generous globes pressing to his chest as two dainty hands grabbed his face and a pair of red lips sealed his mouth.
Percy was pretty sure he saw fireworks behind his eyes as thunder rumbled in the distance. His mind turned blank, but his hands were already embracing Sansa's willowy figure, as his mouth was trying to plunder hers for everything it was worth.
This was his first real kiss… aside from that chaste one with Rachel that felt like a million years ago.
It was sweet, too sweet, and he couldn't nearly get enough of it.
'Control your powers, son,' his father whispered, and he became all the more aware of that tangible pull behind his navel as the blue sky was being choked with clouds.
Reluctantly, Percy pried his limbs off Sansa as they both gasped for breath, though his exhaustion stemmed from his attempt to thwart the budding storm he had just created.
"Sweet Maiden." Her words were breathless and her face was as red as a tomato. But her eyes now looked at him with desire and… lust. "I wanted to do that for too long."
"Me too," he admitted with a silly smile. Though, a fire now burned inside him, making its way down to his loins. Percy had to physically suppress his desire to tear off Sansa's dress and bend her over here and now for all to see.
"So… marriage," Sansa muttered shyly after she took a breather. "You would wed me?"
"Yes," Percy admitted. His shoulders felt lighter as if a burden he never knew was there disappeared. Yet… a new one, a different weight, settled upon him.
'It's the weight of responsibility, my son,' his father supplied. 'The weight of your words and promises. Breaking it hurts.'
Percy grimaced. His father definitely knew about breaking vows of all sorts, including his wedding ones.
Sansa's face also twisted into a grimace.
"What of your kin? Your mother, your cousins, your friends back home? I do not think I can follow you there."
"I can't go back," he muttered weakly. "I suppose I'm staying with you if you'd have me."
'You can always bed her a few times and go exploring the world!' His father's enthusiastic proposal was also ignored. His mother had taught him better than that.
"That's so sad," Sansa quickly hugged him. "In that case, let's talk details."
"Uh… the ceremony?" Percy scratched his nose dumbly.
"No, any ceremony will be handled by me," Sansa's predatory smile sent butterflies through his stomach. "Marital obligations, duties, titles, and how we must present this before others."
Percy's head began to hurt.
.
.
.
Half an hour later, his mind had turned to mush and not in a pleasant way. After a painfully long talk, Percy had agreed to technically fulfill the role of Sansa's consort to leverage her royal position. Etiquette, obligations, duties, and a bunch of things he had already forgotten.
'You chose to marry a princess, son,' Poseidon chortled in his mind. 'At least this lass seems to know what she's doing, and she has ambition to spare. A good pick, as I said.'
"So the goal is to get to Winterfell," Percy tiredly rubbed his face. "And then, uh… take the reins of the North from your young brothers?"
"Indeed," Sansa bobbed her head with a wide smile. Though, he did not mind how she clung to his arm or how her chest pressed to his side. "Bran… Bran is a sweet boy but too young and a cripple. Rickon is even younger and more unruly. What would they know of running a kingdom?"
Did he just agree to help his betrothed usurp her brothers?
'No, Sansa is not trying to supplant her kingly brother. Only, she's confident to consolidate the North with your backing - young children are easily led astray by advisors or deceived by foes.'
That lessened the uncomfortable tangle in his gut.
"So, we're now officially betrothed," Percy coughed awkwardly. "Didn't you say earlier that parents negotiate such stuff?"
'I give you my blessing, Percy! I'm sure Sally would love Sansa if she could see her.' Poseidon's words were almost reassuring. But the nervousness returned like a wrecking ball; he was not ready to be a father or a husband. He was barely sixteen!
"Indeed, but I've decided to elope with this dashing hero who saved me," Sansa smiled coyly. "And then bring him back home."
Percy ran a hand through his messy hair.
"What about the wedding, then?"
"In White Harbor. Lord Manderly won't be able to stop us, I'd say."
'The fangs of her! Oh, my boy, the feisty ones are the best in bed-'
'Enough, Dad!' Percy had to fight the heat rising to his cheeks again.
Well, the marriage was in the bag.
He didn't mind spending the rest of his life with Sansa. She was hot, fun to be around, and with a heart of gold if sometimes ruthless.
Now, he only had to fight her wars, or well, her elder brother's wars. Percy had agreed to wed into House Stark, which meant their children would keep Sansa's family name while he kept his. He wasn't particularly fond of his Jackson surname, which stemmed from a grandfather he had never seen.
Besides, he could still carry his mother's family name and did not mind if his children followed in his footsteps. House Stark was the stuff of legends if even a quarter of what Sansa had told him was true.
'It's the blood that matters,' his father had said.
It was an ambitious move, for usually only ruling ladies had consorts. Yet Sansa had no lands to her name, and neither did Percy. He wasn't worried about wealth with his abilities, so they would never remain homeless. Once the war ended, he'd take her on the Silver Lady, and they would travel the world together before settling on some nice sunny island.
Let her brother deal with all that nonsense that comes with ruling.
Yet it was now official. He had… given up on going home. A small part of him clung to hope, but if his powerful and wise divine father could not see a way back, how could silly Percy do it?
Perhaps everyone back home would be better off without him. Everyone did call him a troublemaker. At least there were no monsters here to be attracted to his scent like hellhounds to a piece of steak. Not having to be on guard constantly was a blessing and a relief he would never get tired of.
If only he could at least see his mother one last time… to tell her that he loved her and hear her telling him the same. His Dad might have joked about it, but Percy was certain that Sally Jackson would have loved Sansa, and he wished she could be there at the wedding.
In the end, his only regret was that he couldn't say goodbye to his mother. Sally was the best mother, and she deserved to know that he was fine instead of worrying…
A small part of Percy's mind that sounded suspiciously like Annabeth asked if he was thinking with his dick.
Percy wasn't the smartest guy, but surely his father would have told him if that was the case, right?
His gaze once again settled on Sansa. Her eyes were bright blue, her waist was lithe, her chest more than big, and her hips shapely in a way that made his mouth water. And she would be his very soon. Yeah… being married didn't sound so bad, even with all the extra baggage.
A knock on the door ruined the moment as the old Manderly knight announced himself.
"Princess, My Lord." Medrick nodded politely to him, and Percy felt strange to be addressed with such politeness; only horses and fish called him lord. "We are preparing to dock. Would you be joining us on the deck?"
"Brilliant," Sansa let go of him as he grabbed Ice, strapped it on his back, and tied the shield to the sheath before allowing the girl to hook her arms with his.
Myrcella and Rosamund joined them on the deck, although they attempted to hide behind Sansa.
The red-haired maiden leaned on his shoulders and murmured, "Lord Manderly is on the docks. He's that very fat blonde man."
"The one who looks like a meal away from a heart attack?"
The lord in question looked winded as if he had sprinted all the way here. There were two young women with him, nearly a hundred armored soldiers led by another girl, and a sizeable crowd of townsfolk who looked on with interest.
"That's the one, but be nice!" Sansa nudged him as he grinned. "The Northmen mislike outsiders. If I am to introduce you as my betrothed, I will need you to make a strong first impression while keeping your powers as secret as possible."
"A strong impression, you say?" Percy grinned as he willed their three ships towards the empty pier and inspected the docks. "I have just the thing in mind."
A*H*M
Earlier,
New Castle.
Wyman
"You are certain of this?"
"Without a doubt, my lord. My cousin was a sailor on the Boldwind and managed to escape the Imp's mad scheme for the defense of King's Landing."
Wyman Manderly stroked his beard as he processed what the merchant's son had told him.
Mathos Redstone of Gulltown had been a reliable source of information since Wyman saved him from a misunderstanding with the port authorities some twenty-five years ago. Since then, the merchant's family and his associates have fed him important information consistently in return for trading rights and other perks.
Especially during wartime, knowledge of the realm was worth gold.
The newly independent Kingdom of the North and the Trident had lost many trade routes with the now hostile kingdoms. Yet that only served to make their existing connections stronger, and the Vale being the closest kingdom and also neutral made that even better. The late and lamented Lord Eddard Stark's time in the kingdom had endeared many of the Vale lords to the Northmen.
Against all odds, White Harbor had gained a significant boost in trade and population; refugees and those seeking their fortune away from the other kingdoms found White Harbor to be a haven.
Anders was the third son of Mathos and the captain of his own ship, and this was his second voyage to White Harbor before continuing North to Karhold then east to Bravos and all the way to Ibb. He carried shipments of beeswax and honey from the south of Vale, precious stones and blocks of marble from northern Vale… as well as news from the south.
The Redstones had lofty positions in the Gulltown merchant's guild, yet they were not nobles but hailing from a natural lineage of House Shett.
Nevertheless, the guilds had their own methods of communication and resources to rival nobles. Their extensive use of carrier pigeons allowed Mathos to send word of the happenings in the south to his son, who was in Coldwater at the time.
Naturally, Wyman wanted a piece of that delicious pie. Using the debt owed, he had Mathos' daughter marry his captain of the guards, Rodwell Long, and also played mediator for White Harbor's merchant's guild to form connections with the Vale merchants.
Rodwell's hesitance to marry a lowly merchant's daughter melted when the buxom lass gifted him three strong boys and two comely girls.
The generous dowry also helped.
So far, this arrangement had been a massive boon to him, yet this particular bit of information, while interesting, was not valuable enough for Wyman to reward him.
Tales and Ravens had been sent to the North with the bounty on Sansa Stark's head; he suspected the Imp's hand in the insidious plot, for he had heard plenty of terrible rumors about him.
Setting the Northmen against the Starks with an insanely high reward on their princess' head, like she was some common brigand - the tales of sorcery might cause fear in the South, but the North were Stark Men first and foremost.
Yet that was not his only concern. Wyman had received ravens from the Lannisters with promises to release his heir, Wylis, in return for their loyalty. It burned him to be forced to choose between his son and his liege, yet the choice was simple.
Wylis himself would sooner fall on his sword rather than dishonor their house with treachery.
Anders merely confirmed what he already knew and provided further details he had missed, such as the confirmation of the sorcerer in Sansa Stark's employ, his features and powers, and their destination.
Here, White Harbor.
Wyman was naturally ecstatic for the safety of the Princess, yet the lass was expected to arrive in at least ten more days.
The northern winds of the small summer allowed swift progress for any ship sailing south, yet the opposite was true for those sailing north. Nevertheless, he awaited Sansa's arrival and looked forward to meeting the sorcerer Perseus and judging his character.
For now, he needed to finish with the lad quickly so he could greet his unannounced yet not unwelcome visitor.
"What else have you found out?"
The young captain looked hesitant before pulling out a scroll from his pocket.
"My father was not sure if you would find this interesting, but you did ask for anything that might be connected to the North."
It was a raven's scroll and had a short message on it.
To the Sweetest Sister. Wolfhunt before Bite. Secure her in DF. Snow will cover.
His blood grew cold as he read the brief message. The words made little sense without understanding the codes but it was not the words that worried him - it's the handwriting.
Wyman Manderly had always read and written his correspondence and kept all raven scrolls for safekeeping. Many lords preferred to have their maesters and scribes write and receive their messages, yet he found that foolish.
Especially since his own Maester Theomore was born Theomore Lannister of Lannisport. Maesters were supposed to serve the seat they were sworn to, but Wyman knew blood ran thicker than words. Yet it was better to keep the devil you knew close. He was aware of Theomore and continued feeding him information he would think vital, but were merely smoke.
Something told him that he should recognize that thin handwriting, but he couldn't recall for the life of him.
"How did you come upon this scroll?"
"A few weeks ago, a merchant associate came upon a sickly raven on his way back from the Riverlands." Anders rubbed his chin as he read a note, presumably from his father. "The raven was one of those larger northern breeds, and the man swore he saw a group of Northmen patrolling nearby. He was on his ship, you see, and they couldn't do anything when they saw him sailing past."
"And what sigil did they wear?"
"He claimed they wore no sigil, but they looked, begging your pardon for what I will say milord, but they looked like savages. According to him, milord."
Wyman stifled a smirk as the young captain shifted uneasily. "No harm done, my good man. Now, where did he find the scroll again?"
"Near Darry. The Northmen were besieging it at the time, though we don't know of the outcome. He believes the raven must have gotten lost in that ash cloud from Dragonstone."
Darry was under Lannister control, but the Northern army was close. Wyman was unaware they were ordered to take the castle; the last bit of information he received was Tywin Lannister marching south, Edmure Tully marching west and Roose supposedly sieging Harrenhal. Perhaps, different orders were given?
For a moment, Wyman worried that Tywin Lannister might have agents in the North, but that was ludicrous. Besides, the handwriting differed from what he knew of the Old Lion's and his brother's as he kept their correspondence safe in his solar.
Northmen who looked like savages… that wasn't much of a clue for the Southrons saw everyone above the Neck as barbarians. Nevertheless, it was enough to suspect foul play from a Northern lord, and Wyman's bias screamed it was the Leech Lord.
Considering his woes with the Bolton Bastard, the Lord of New Castle worried that there was a conspiracy afoot. He shook his head inwardly; there was caution, and then there was paranoia. Ramsay Snow would get his due for what he did to his dear cousin Donella, but Wyman would not go chasing after red herrings.
He stared at the scroll in his meaty hand and stroked his beard again. The handwriting was definitely familiar, and he decided to compare it with other scrolls later.
Recalling the man's words, It was possible that whoever sent the raven would realize that it was intercepted and would send another message. The main issue, however, was they had no idea where the message was going if he could perhaps find a way to decipher the code.
"Who else knows of this?"
"The merchant, my father who purchased it from him, and anyone else he told."
The Lord of White Harbor calmly pocketed the scroll and decided he would need to think on the matter later.
"You have done well bringing this to me. We will discuss more later, but for now, you can use my warehouse for your shipment, and to load your supply of seasoned timber." He handed the lad an already prepared document. "Give this to my cousin, Marlon. He will know what to do."
Anders nodded gratefully and was led outside the side chamber by a guard. Wyman turned to another door where Rodwell Long, his captain of the guards, waited.
"My Lord, the court is waiting."
"Let us go then, Ser."
Rodwell opened the door for him, and they found themselves in the Merman's Court. The hall was full of his people, and his granddaughters had just led his guest to the hall's center.
Wyman walked purposely to his cushioned throne but did not sit. He smiled at his guest with open arms.
"Lord Jojen Reed, I am honored. It is a pleasure to meet you again so soon."
"The pleasure and honor is mine, my lord. White Harbor is as beautiful as my father told me."
Young Jojen looked far healthier since Wyman last saw him at the harvest feast. He stood straight and confidently. His green eyes were bright, and he had a serene smile. The skin on his face lacked the sickly pallor that plagued him.
Wyman frowned inwardly, for he was told Jojen had arrived with his sister and more men. Yet here he stood, the heir of Greywater Watch, completely alone.
"And I shall always welcome a son of Howland Reed in my halls. Wylla."
His granddaughter understood and quickly grabbed a tray of bread and salt from a table and offered it to the young man. Jojen smiled gratefully as he tore a piece of bread in half and sprinkled salt on it before eating it.
"Guest right is invoked." Wyman's smile widened as he descended the steps to stand before the young Crannogman. "Now, tell me, are you here as heir to Greywater Watch? Or a representative of Winterfell? Does it have to do with the considerable retinue you have brought?"
"I come by the order of the Stark of Winterfell." Jojen's serene smile did not waver as his voice echoed in the hall, "Our newly independent kingdom is under threat from within and without. Already, the Ironborn have taken Moat Cailin and are reaving their way to Barrowton."
The mention of the reavers filled his hall with worried clamor. The Squids had taken them unawares with the treachery of Theon Greyjoy, yet none truly feared an attack from them. White Harbor was situated on the eastern shore of the White Knife, while the western shore was hilly and heavily fortified by many of his vassals' castles.
"The reavers can be thrown back to the sea in time." Jojen continued, "Barrowton is strong and can beat back an army of pirates away from their ships."
Not entirely true, for Wyman doubted the Lady of Barrowhall would have the grit to withstand a siege. Not to mention the town's wooden walls and even the castle was made from wood. The last time he was there a few years ago, it did not look well-maintained.
"That is all well and good, but what about the problems within?" The young Reed was leading to it, so a little nudge would help now that he lit a fire in the crowd's belly.
"Ramsay Snow had wreaked enough havoc in our lands. Lord Brandon had hoped Lord Bolton would reign in his wayward bastard's mischief, yet to no avail. He sends a hundred of his finest men to help in subduing the bandits. Justice for the Hornwoods shall be meted, and King Robb's peace shall be restored."
The proclamation was met with a cheer, but Wyman remained reserved. A hundred men were not much when he could call upon ten times that number within two days and march on to weed out the bastard from whatever hole he hid in.
Yet, the fact that they were Stark men sent by the Stark of Winterfell changed the game.
Instead of this being a brigand problem, as Roose Bolton had insisted in their correspondence, the Starks were now involved. If used right, Wyman could march on the Dreadfort if need be, and the North would fully support him.
"And who shall lead the fight against the Bolton Bastard?"
He glanced at his granddaughter, Wylla, as the crowd calmed at her question. Who indeed? To command men from Winterfell was impossible unless it was a Stark or a noble highly trusted by them. Even the infantry in the Riverlands were not commanded by Bolton but rather stationed in Riverrun after Edmure Tully emptied his garrison to head West.
Rodrik Cassel would be the obvious choice as the castellan of Winterfell, yet he was conspicuously absent.
"I was only commanded to lead the men here, then I shall continue to the Neck. I am needed by my father's side, but fret not," The Reed heir hurried as knights and nobles began muttering over who would have the honor of commanding the host. "I have prayed to the gods, and they have answered. I believe a Stark shall arrive to take command."
Wyman blinked. The hall was as quiet as a lichyard as his granddaughters and courtiers looked at the lad like he lost his wits.
Suddenly, the metal clinking of hurried armored boots echoed from the open double doors.
A guard captain dashed into the hall, nearly out of breath. He recognized the lad as Rodwell's eldest, a normally level-headed lad if a bit slow on the uptake.
"Matrid! What is it, boy?"
The lad straightened at his father's bark, "Ships sighted flying the Direwolf banner. Ser Medrick sends word, my lord. Sansa Stark has returned."
Wyman did not remember much of what happened later except for Jojen Reed looking particularly smug. He also did not remember ever running so fast in his life… at least for the short distance to get on the closest wheelhouse with his granddaughters.
Even sending a rider to the harbor to delay the docking as long as possible so he could muster a proper welcome did not feel enough. By the time they arrived at the dock, Wyman wanted to curse the young Reed lad. The Stark men were all lined up like an honor guard, with Meera Reed commanding them.
That answered the question of why she was not with her brother.
The empty pier had space for two ships to dock, one on each side, where a large crane took the space in the middle to unload any large cargo. A peculiarly large bird was roosted on top of the crane and Wyman thought it stared signalled him from the crowd and set its predatory gaze on him. He shook his head, and his eyes settled on the moored ships; A carrack and a galley were docking simultaneously, and Wyman stared at the Silver Lady where the Princess gazed dispassionately at the crowd as she held the arm of a dark-haired man.
Once the ship was approached, ropes were thrown to the dockhands, and both were secured. There was a gasp from further back in the crowd, but Wyman did not turn in favor of approaching Sansa Stark as she was helped down the gangway with whom he assumed was Perseus.
By the gods, old and new! He had not seen the lass in years, and she had grown to be the spitting image of her mother, if taller and more beautiful.
More movement from the deck had him find his cousin, Medrick, gently leading two identical blonde girls, and Wyman's eyes widened. This had to be Myrcella Baratheon and her handmaiden.
Sansa stopped before Wyman, her arm conspicuously still holding the sorcerer's arm. Wyman's brows nearly flew to his hairline when he recognized Ice's hilt under a shield on the young man's back. He had a suspicion of the meaning of such a gesture.
"Princess Sansa, White Harbor is yours."
The red-haired young woman did not say anything as her gaze roamed over the crowd, her eyes falling on the contingent of Winterfell men.
They instantly slapped their right fists to their armored chest.
"We are yours to command, Princess Sansa!"
Apart from a blink so quick he could have imagined it, Sansa Stark showed no shock or surprise and nodded imperiously.
"Thank you, Lord Manderly." Her face softened to a beautiful smile that moved even his old heart. "May I introduce my betrothed, Perseus Jackson."
Wyman couldn't help but inspect the young man more closely, ignoring the murmurs threatening to drown the docks.
Lord-too-fat-to-ride-a-horse, many called him. Wyman knew and took it with a smile, pretending it was not an insult. It was regretfully true, and he leveraged that reputation to make others underestimate him even further. Yet Wyman had fought in many tourneys in his youth, then three wars, and he knew the make of warriors.
And Perseus Jackson reminded him of the likes of Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy. The way the young man carried himself screamed confidence, yet his eyes were darting around, looking for any danger. Even now, Wyman couldn't see any openings in his stance, as if Perseus was expecting to fight at a moment's notice.
Yet Perseus had an easy grin of the sort that would either put you at ease or provoke you into a fight.
"Perseus, you say?" Wyman coughed. "Would you happen to be the acclaimed sorcerer?"
"I suppose what I do can be counted as sorcery." The young man shrugged before walking towards the Seaswift - he had a peculiar dialect that Wyman could not determine where it was from. "Where I'm from, it is common courtesy for a guest to bring gifts to his host. Let it not be said that Percy Jackson was not raised well by his mother."
Suddenly, the dark-haired warrior jumped onboard the galley, and Wyman gawked; it was no short distance, nearly a dozen feet from the pier to the railing. Yet, the feat was done with laughable ease.
Grunting could be heard, and something large scraping on wood.
Worried murmurs and gasps sounded behind him from the crowd as a massive dark shape was thrown from the ship and landed in a heap on the dock. Perseus jumped after it before withdrawing a strange-looking dagger. It suddenly stretched, and within a few heartbeats, what Wyman now recognized as a massive sea monster was displayed for all to see while Perseus stood over its head with a wicked trident.
"I found this beauty in the waters just outside White Harbor. Who knows how many ships it would have sunk if I had not brought it down?" Perseus' grin widened even further, "I heard you were a connoisseur of delicacies from the deep. I gift this treat to you and the city of White Harbor."
It's official! They're getting married!!
Starring: Sansa "the usurper?" Stark, Percy "am I thinking with my dick?" Jackson, Wyman "the man" Manderly, and Jojen "the troll" Reed.
Everyone knows Wyman is savvy as fuck, but people seem to think that means he's some sort of merchant prince. That's not how it works. This is my interpretation of how he makes connections with merchants.
Who knew a healthy Jojen could be such a troll?
If you would like to read four chapters ahead, or simply support me, look me up on Patr(eo)n under the same pen name.
Chapter 11 (Princess Schemes)
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
28th day of the 7th Moon.
New Castle.
Sansa
Sansa sipped her tea as she gazed out of the balcony. Unlike King's Landing, White Harbor was smaller but far cleaner and more orderly with its wide, straight cobbled streets and whitewashed walls and houses. Even the harbors could be seen from the balcony, huddled just beneath the curtain walls, churning with activity as ships came and departed. Men and women looked small and insignificant in the distance, like ants, yet they were an important aspect of the city, and her father once said a million ants could bring down a mammoth. Sansa had never seen a mammoth, yet her uncle Benjen claims they are thrice as large as the largest horse!
Into the White Gulf, many galleys and trade cogs waited for permission and their turn to moor at the many docks.
To the west, the White Knife slithered lazily into the sea, the mouth of the river over half a league wide across, far more imposing than the Blackwater Rush, if somewhat slower. There were even more harbors on the eastern, and more shallow, shore, with barges, drydocks, and shipyards sequestered in hidden inlets.
The Manderly Keep, New Castle, was both a pragmatic yet comfortable castle, supposed to be designed in a similar way Dunstonbury had been before the Mermen lords fled the Reach. Its chambers and hallways were large and airy, with an open-air terrace that doubled as ramparts and a balcony. It was far smaller than Winterfell, even smaller than the Red Keep, yet Sansa could not deny it was one of the more beautiful castles she had stayed in.
Sansa had visited the city before but didn't remember much of the visit other than she was very impressed and somewhat afraid of the unusually large crowds. Or, well, unusually large crowds for a naive child who had yet to see the world. Now, though, she was still impressed with the city even after seeing and experiencing more.
It felt like forever since Sansa was last here, but in truth, only a meager five, nearly six years had passed. They had visited with her father to pay respects to an old relative of the Starks who was on his deathbed. Artos the Implacable had served as Castellan of Winterfell to his death in the Nine Penny King Wars, yet his twin sons Brandon and Benjen survived him.
Brandon settled in Barrowton, marrying a Dustin lady and taking her name - Sansa was unsure if they had any children, nor was she sure if he was even alive. Her father never mentioned him, so perhaps he passed away in one of the many wars that the Starks found themselves in the past decades.
His brother Benjen Stark, however, settled in White Harbor and married a Locke woman who died in childbirth, giving him his only son, Edwyle, who in turn was lost at sea. The kind old man she met a few years ago reminded her of her own Uncle Benjen - but he did not survive their visit.
Sansa still remembered the funeral in the Sept of Snow, where he wished to be buried. She had yet to visit the Sept since her arrival, despite staying in the castle for two days now, but perhaps she could pay her respects and light a candle to the Stranger. She noticed Beauty flying high above her, and Sansa smiled wistfully - another candle to the Maiden would also be prudent.
It saddened her that so few of her kin remained alive, and there were no male members of her house to give her away during the marriage ceremony. It might even raise some doubts about the legality of her marriage down the line. Hopefully, Lord Manderly, his vassals, and Meera Reed would be enough witnesses to squash any doubts about the legitimacy and her willingness. It was a bold step, one that made her feel uneasy. Technically, her hand in marriage should have been given away by Robb as head of the family, but Sansa was eloping.
She was eloping because of selfishness. Sansa liked Perseus, he made her heart flutter and butterflies loop into her belly, and most importantly, he made her feel safe. It wasn't some childish flight of fancy or a stupid obsession that she had with Joffrey's gallant looks. No, after that cruel stay in King's Landing, she could recognize the false smiles, the fake faces, and the ugliness hidden beneath the pretty faces, and would not fall for such things again.
There was always the chance that Robb would decide to wed her off for one alliance or another, promising her hand for swords here or there. Sansa was unwilling to let her destiny be dictated by others again, now that she had gotten a taste of freedom, a taste of power. Besides, what good would any number of swords be against Perseus?
There was no doubt in her mind that Sansa was right in her decision to elope so shamelessly. Yes, it was selfish, but not without cause. She lied to herself that it would suit House Stark more. But deep down, Sansa knew it was a lie because she simply wanted Perseus to never leave. She…loved him. It was that simple.
A sigh rolled off her lips and she turned her attention to the soothing cup of tea.
"How do you like the blend, Princess?" Wynafryd's voice almost made her jump. Sansa had nearly forgotten about her company.
Sansa smiled at Lord Manderly's granddaughter, as they sat at the large round table with her other companions. "Acceptable. I am grateful you found a merchant with access to those leaves. I did not expect they could be found so quickly."
"It was no trouble, Princess." Wynafryd sipped from her own cup, face almost melting in pleasure. "I never thought such blends of tea could be made, and I feel foolish for never browsing the city's market and procuring it earlier."
"Truly, it is," Wylla added from next to her sister. "So simple, yet so delicious, especially with the pastries your betrothed introduced to the castle. While the muffins tasted splendid, they were a bit hard to swallow, the tea helps with that."
Myrcella had remained as her handmaiden, and Sansa allowed her to sit with her. Rosamund made her laugh, so Sansa also allowed her to join them, despite her lower birth.
The golden-haired girls had managed to endear themselves to the ladies of the castle by showcasing the skills they learned from Percy in the kitchen.
Sansa smirked inwardly as she watched one of the blonde Not-Twins, as Percy called them, preen at the praise; how the mighty have fallen. A princess of the realm, born and raised with a golden spoon, with all of her desires satisfied at a hand's wave, feeling pleasure at serving others.
Yet Sansa chided herself inwardly, there was no need to belittle the princess. It surprised her how Myrcella had insisted on helping in the kitchens, and at first, Sansa thought she wanted an excuse to stay away from her. Turns out, the girls truly did enjoy cooking.
Naturally, it would not have mattered, for Myrcella and Rosamund were her prisoners and Sansa had no plans to let them go. Besides being hostages against House Baratheon of King's Landing and the Lannisters, they were her wards, and her responsibility to raise well and find them good husbands. It surprised her how easily she had come to care for the girls, but one thing was certain in her mind. Sansa could claim that she was not an ambitious, and greedy woman, but that would be a lie.
Yes, she craved friendship and companionship similar to what she had with poor Jeyne, but the supposed daughter of the late king was invaluable. Sansa wanted more power and more influence, Percy and Cersei had shown that if you had enough, you would be in control of your life, and she wanted that for herself. Greedy, and selfish, but Sansa would not forget House Stark in the process.
"It reminds me of some of the herbs we grow in the Neck." Meera Reed looked at the crushed leaves at the bottom of her empty cup with a frown. "Normally, they would need to be distilled and purified from any poisons and toxins, but some of them could be both soothing and tasty."
Wynafryd leaned forward in interest, "Oh? I had heard plenty of things regarding the botany of the Neck. Flower arrangements and gardening are a hobby of mine, you see."
"Truly? Mine too," Myrcella piped up from across the heiress to White Harbor. "What sort of flowers would be common here?"
Sansa tuned out the rest of the chatter. She was glad the maidens were getting along nicely; there was some tension when Cersei's daughter was introduced to the Merman's Court, but Lord Manderly and his family were gracious and courteous. It helped that Sansa herself had proclaimed she and Rosa were her handmaidens.
She suspected it had to do with the heir of the city being captive to the Lannisters, yet Lord Manderly had yet to bring up such a topic. Myrcella would be an excellent bargaining chip to release the captive nobles of the North, yet Sansa was loath to even discuss that. She had just decided to raise Myrcella and had no wish to send her and Rosa back to Cersei.
Speaking of the lesser lioness, she watched in amusement as Rosamund and Meera stared down the railing at the training yard below, talking and giggling in hushed tones. Percy was training their men diligently, having them go through significantly harder gauntlets and formation training. All the men were armed for battle, but Percy fought with his top naked, showing off his incredible physique.
Sansa thought something was bothering her betrothed yet he claimed it was just the weather. Judging by how little he dressed, she was unconvinced but decided to give him his privacy but not before looking meaningfully at his half naked form.
Percy claimed it was to train his dodging, but judging by that lopsided grin he threw at her every once in a while, her hero had other motives.
A flush was creeping up Rosa's neck yet she still looked warily as Percy dueled five men at the same time, only to have them all on the ground within a few heartbeats. Meera, on the other hand, was wholly engrossed in the sparring below, yet that only amused Sansa.
The daughter of Howland Reed had been her constant shadow since her arrival two days ago, along with a couple of her father's men. Once they had some privacy, her brother, Jojen, introduced themselves and Meera had sworn fealty directly to her, which had greatly confused Sansa. Not to House Stark, not to Robb - Her.
Jojen had then left the city for Greywater Watch that same day, with a few of his father's men who had come to escort him. She worried how he would find his way to his home with Moat Cailin under the Ironborn's control, but the young man simply smiled when questioned.
"None know the Neck better than the Crannogmen."
Sansa found the Crannog woman to be both mysterious and intriguing. She was three years older than her at eight and ten, yet still unmarried. Her hair was glossy and voluminous, a light-brown shade with a hint of red, that the girl tied in a simple plait. Meera had gladly joined her in applying oils and herbal concoctions from the Neck to keep their hair silky and vibrant. Her eyes were bright, not dissimilar to Percy's sea green, but reminded her of moss or the leaves of a tree. Her soft features complimented her kind nature as she spoke softly to Rosa, causing the younger girl's wariness to melt as she stared at her man.
Yet, Sansa knew that underneath that softness hid a hardened woman who had grown in the treacherous lands of the Neck. Meera had trained with Percy last eve, and her demigod had declared her to be acceptable, which was quite the compliment coming from a man who could slay a sea monster.
"He is quite impressive, is he not?"
Both girls flinched as they turned to her, Meera coughing awkwardly. "Indeed. Disregarding his slaying of the sea monster, Perseus is also an excellent trainer and clearly a veteran of war."
"He taught me how to cook." Rosa shrugged as the rest of the girls looked in interest. "I will admit that he terrified me when we first met. I mean, disabling two warships and swimming so fast… I thought he was a merman!"
"Ah, yes. You have to tell us more about your betrothed, Princess." Wylla clapped her hands, "The wedding is in a few days, yet we hardly know anything about him."
The older sister, Wynafryd, was almost vibrating with excitement. "Is it true that he is a secret prince from a faraway land? Or that he is blessed by the gods with wonderful powers? There are so many rumors flying about him."
"With his skills in cooking, he has to be the personal cook of a king!" Wylla interjected, "Those pancakes were exquisite, and the way he cooked those eggs… what were they called?"
"Omelets." Rosamund supplied helpfully, but Sansa noticed Myrcella looking strangely at her not-twin as she mouthed the word.
"Yes, omelets and not to mention Sandwiches." Wylla looked as if she was sharing a secret, "Some scullery maids claim Perseus told them he learned how to make those from a witch he met on a beach!"
Sansa chuckled ruefully as the table descended into chatter. Of course, the two of them had been intentionally vague about Percy's origins. Having a son of a god walk alongside mortals would be preposterous, powers or not. Let alone him coming from another world. It was a whole ball of trouble the two of them had agreed to not disclose to the public. And so, Perseus Jackson claimed that he was a son of the sea, hailing from far, far away, a place that could not be found on any maps.
Vague, but mostly true.
There were many subtle inquiries about Percy's origin, but nobody had been openly pushy about it. After all, her betrothed was not a man to be trifled with, and he had amusingly shown inhuman powers. The driftwood hero, some called him. Others had claimed he was a sorcerer prince from some lost city beyond the Saffron Straits and the Shadowlands.
Of all the things that interested the ladies about Percy, his culinary skills were the most prominent topic. Her betrothed had confessed that he was not considered a decent cook by the standards of his home, and Lord Manderly and his head cook agreed yet that was not an issue. It was the recipes and ideas that he brought that were of far more interest.
As the chatter shifted to Percy's good looks, Sansa smiled languidly as she inspected Lord Manderly's granddaughters. Both of them were comely with a heart-shaped face and blue eyes, but that's where the similarities ended.
Wynafryd had her chestnut-brown hair in a simple braid that reached her elbows, while Wylla dyed it a garish green in a similar braid, though the girl let slip she planned to dye it blue - Sansa suspected Percy was the cause. Wynafryd was tall and willowy; a graceful beauty with a serene smile and intelligent eyes - as befitting of the heiress of a major city like White Harbor. Wylla was shorter, yet had much more pronounced curves, with an easy grin and a charismatic way of bringing people together. An enticing beauty, who could probably charm a septon if she wanted to.
Both were clearly interested in her betrothed, yet Sansa felt no worry. It was only natural for women to be attracted to Percy - power attracts, and it helped he was dashing and comely. Even Meera stared at him with a certain hunger, yet she kept a healthy distance from him. All of them understood that they may only watch, but not touch - for he was hers.
Eventually, Sansa was dragged into the conversation as she regaled the ladies of the daring rescue from King's Landing and their adventures along the Narrow Sea. At some point, Beauty landed on the railing much to the girls's shock, but Sansa easily assuaged their worried when she stroked her feathers.
"She's beautiful, Princess!" Wylla moved her hands towards the moon hawk before looking at her hesitantly, "May I?"
"Certainly, but be gentle. Beauty is still a proud and fearsome bird of prey."
The moon hawk looked at the Manderly maiden inquisitively but accepted the gentle hand that petted it. Soon the rest of the girls joined in, and Wynafryd even called for a maid to get pieces of meat for her.
They were interrupted by a cough from the doorway to find Lord Manderly smiling at them. "Princess, could I have a moment of your time?"
Sansa nodded and gracefully stood, "Certainly, My Lord. In your solar, perhaps?"
"That would be best, yes."
She waved farewell to her new friends, who seemed more interested in pampering Beauty. Sansa signaled Meera to remain with the Not-Twins, and followed the corpulent lord with his guard captain keeping a respectable distance. "How do you fare, Princess?"
"I must say White Harbor is more magnificent than I remember," Sansa smiled. "A beautiful city with a gracious host. Your granddaughters have been nothing but courteous and pleasant to speak to."
The old merman almost blushed from the praise, and Sansa allowed herself a small chuckle. It was true, after all. Why would she spare her more than deserved praise?
Like every other place in New Castle, the hallways had varnished walnut and oak planks on the floor and walls, warding away the chill of the granite and flagstones. Even now, Sansa saw faded banners, broken shields, and rusted swords from ancient victories hanging on the walls for display. There were even a few ship prows and figureheads hung high above like hunting trophies.
The Manderlys were a loyal, but very proud house.
"I am pleased to hear that," Manderly let out a jovial chortle, merrily patting his sizeable gut. "If you have any requests or desires, please don't hesitate to bring them directly to me."
"Thank you, My Lord."
They continued on in silence, and soon they were in the lord's solar. The room was paneled with walls of dark wood, with intricate carvings of merman and mermaids. A few select tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of war and peace; one of them was more recent where a Manderly knight slammed his warhammer at a Rosby knight with the Targaryen banner in the background, most likely the battle of the Trident. Another one was of the port of White Harbor, with many ships and smiling merchants in the forefront. A nod to the city's bustling trade.
"Please, have a seat, Princess."
Wyman Manderly forwent the large oak desk with a particularly large and comfortable chair and instead led her to a small table near the window laden with a few parchment scrolls and a small beer keg. The lord waited patiently for her to sit on one of the comfortable chairs tapered with sea-green Lyseni velvet, before sitting on a much larger one opposite her.
He poured himself a mug of White Harbor's famous beer, the foamy drink making fuzzy sounds as it filled the mug.
"Would you like a drink, Princess?"
"Thank you, My Lord." Lord Wyman poured her a mug and she took a sip, nodding appreciatively - it was a pleasant mix of sweet and sour that warmed her throat and settled in her belly. "Tell me, how are Percy's orders coming?"
"Oh, yes. Your spoils were more than enough to cover the costs of equipping your men with the finest arms and armor my city can provide. Soon, you will have a contingent of men better armed than the finest southern knights, all paid with Lannister gold! It will just take a bit of time to have it all ready." Wyman chuckled heartily, his booming laugh reverberating in the room, and she joined along.
The dowry that Cersei Lannister prepared for her daughter was truly an extravagant one. There were surprisingly few coins, for she had learned the crown was heavily in debt, yet the ship was full to the brim with valuables; statues made from solid gold, bolts of the finest Myrish silk, bundles of Torrentine cotton, yards of Norvoshi wool, a gilded couch made from goldenheart wood, and many other precious materials.
Not to mention the more martial gifts; There were arms and armor, and even a score of Myrish Crossbows, apparently from Joffrey's own collection. Yet the most valuable item had to be the gilded suit of armor made by Tobho Mott that Sansa decided to have Percy wear, though it would need to be refitted for his frame.
All of that was hers now, and Sansa did not waste time in having anything gold or silver melted into coins through White Harbor's mint and used the city's extensive guilds and workshops to outfit her one hundred men-at-arms with the finest equipment; including warhorses. It would take over a dozen days for her order to be processed - possibly more depending on how fast the resources could be secured. It would have been way slower if Sansa had simply not thrown gold at the forging guild and told them she wanted the best they could do as soon as possible.
It was the perks of being a princess, and a wealthy one at that. The blacksmiths all scrambled, from the green boys to the greybeards, and the hammering on the Smith's Square could be heard in the distance once you entered the city proper. The masters focused on forging suits of heavy plate, greaves, helmets, and gorges, with the finest steel the North had, while a small army of apprentices was churning out additional chainmail.
Meanwhile, Percy had taken it upon himself to train the men to his standards, for it would not do to invest in such expenses on men who were not worthy of it.
So far, he reported that they were not bad but that there was ample room for improvement, which coming from Percy was quite the compliment. Sansa would confess to knowing little about fighting and matters of warfare, yet she trusted in Percy and in Ser Rodrik Cassel; he was the one who handpicked and initially trained those men. Her father… only accepted the finest men of skill and character into the Winterfell household.
Meanwhile, Manderly was still sipping on his beer, looking like a proud, if overly plump, peacock for the capabilities of his city.
"I am sure Percy will be very pleased with that," Sansa replied, blinking innocently. It was a skill she had mastered in King's Landing, looking meek, innocent, and subservient, to minimize the threat to her being after that misstep. "He was the one who won all those spoils, you know. Took them right from the Lannister fleet, and they could do nothing but cower in front of his might."
The subtle threat was probably unnecessary, and Sansa watched Wyman's face intently, but the elderly lord remained unfazed with his ever present jovial smile. She had wanted to get a measure of him, but he was hard to read. After a few days, Sansa was confident that the craven, foolish face that always smiled affably was just a disguise. All of her senses screamed that the Manderly Lord could play the game better than any Southron noble in King's Landing.
"Indeed, your betrothed is a remarkable man - I have seen and heard enough proof of his might. Claiming his hand in marriage was a very astute decision, Princess." Wyman lifted his mug in respect before taking a sip, "The young man had even mentioned improving your ship, The Silver Lady, and requested a meeting with one of my shipbuilders. I promised to grant him use of one of the shipyards sequestered in one of the inlets of the White Knife for a moon."
Her fingers tightened around the warm wooden handle of the mug.
"Did he offer you something in return? I would rather not make you think we are abusing your generosity, My Lord."
"Nothing of the sort at all! I am loyal to the Starks and your cause, Princess. With your help, we shall rid the lands of brigands and pirates. It is the least I could do."
Sansa gave her practiced, polite smile, yet she felt troubled on the inside. There was no doubt she would have taken the fight to the Ironborn and other foes of the North, but she was not aware of trouble with brigands and bandits. Still, Wyman Manderly had declared his intentions clearly; Loyal to the Starks, that was Robb, Bran, and then her.
Yet if she, or Percy, to be precise, assisted him with his brigand problem, Sansa would command his full loyalty, second only to the king.
"I am grateful, My Lord, but I must insist. Percy does not strike me as the type to accept free boons."
"Indeed, Perseus told me as much. He promised to help better design our budding fleet. Your brother, King Robb, had ordered me to build a new fleet for him to better protect our Eastern shores. I have already built twenty warships and sent recruiters from Old Castle to Skagos for sailors and marines."
"I confess to not being the most knowledgeable on maritime matters, but to build so many ships in less than six moons? Impressive." Wyman preened at her light praise, causing her to smile inwardly. "How is the recruitment process?"
"Very well, princess. Ships arrive every week with sailors and marines. I had to expand a district in the city to house them all. Your betrothed promised to look into the designs and assured me he could improve them, though he was interested in meeting with the small branch of the Alchemist Guild we have here first before he committed to anything."
Sansa almost choked on her gulp of beer. Why would Percy want to meet with the pyromancers? Yet the matter was shelved for later, she could always ask him. Now, there were far more important matters that required her attention. Manderly would not go to summon her in person for nothing.
"Is there any other news from along the coast?"
"Ah, yes," the fat lord nodded, looking rather troubled. "Word just came this morning. It seems you were not the first ones to come upon sea monster attacks. An Ibbenese whaler limped to port, reporting they lost a ship to a similarly sized beast like the one your betrothed slayed."
"That's…not good." Sansa had thought there was only one of those beasts. But if there was a second, there could be a third, a fourth, and many more. "Where did they sight it?"
"Just south of Widow's Watch. I was hoping Perseus could share his insights on how to deal with those menaces." Manderly's words almost made her leap with joy inwardly. They were not going behind her back to contact Percy directly. Asking for permission from her meant that they wanted to hold to the connection to House Stark first and foremost. And it did not diminish her presence or standing.
"I will let him know," Sansa promised.
Yet even this would not be enough to trouble the Lord of White Harbor. At least not enough to summon a princess in person. No, there was another problem, larger. Even now, as Sansa sipped from her beer, she could see Wyman's pale brow look heavy, as if he was troubled by something. Yet, he seemed too hesitant to speak up.
Eventually, Sansa lost her patience and prodded, "What troubles you, My Lord?"
"My gaoler, Garth, had succeeded in…convincing your prisoners to talk."
"Oh? And do those lowlifes have anything of interest to confess?"
"Enough to both please and worry me, Princess." The fat old lord grimaced. "First, I would like you to inspect this scroll."
He gave her a small scroll, a raven scroll, and Sansa read through it quickly.
"Sweetest sister…I recall one of the prisoners was a Sisterman. Could he be from Sweet Sister?"
"Aye, I have reason to believe these orders came from the south, specifically from Roose Bolton. I compared the handwriting with another scroll of his, and they matched. What Garth discovered from the prisoners confirmed my fears." Lord Manderly took a deep gulp of his beer, "I won't bore you with the details, but apparently Roose Bolton had somehow learned of your escape North and had planned to kidnap you."
Sansa ignored the sinking feeling in her gut and the anger threatening to erupt, and schooled herself.
"Kidnap? Not rescue?"
"Indeed, the three who attacked you were but one of many scouts sent to sweep the Bite for your ship." The more he spoke, the more worried Manderly seemed. Rivulets of sweat glistened down his face and dripped down his fur-lined collar. "They had a galley on standby they were supposed to report to once they discovered you. My men are now searching for it, it might be out at sea, but we know it operates out of Roose Bolton's new port on the mouth of the Weeping Water. The leech lord had requested your late father for a charter to build that small town as a reward for his achievements during the rebellion."
"I see, but I was certain those pirates worked for the Lannisters for they were far more interested in my head rather than kidnapping me."
"Aye, they were supposed to scout for your ships before reporting to their masters to attack. Greed got the better of them, once word of the ludicrous bounty reached them." Wyman shook his head in disbelief, "placing a bounty on a noble lady's head like she's some common brigand? And I thought the Lannisters could sink no lower."
"Yet they must not have heard the rest of the news, for Myrcella had an even bigger bounty for her rescue," Sansa coldly pointed out. "They were surprised to find her onboard."
"It's what happens when you expect competence and integrity from lowly fishermen and pirates." Lord Manderly clicked his tongue. "It's a dangerous game the lords play, and it's easy for one to be arrogant and think they are infallible after they experience some success."
"Perhaps we should issue bounties of our own, then. I doubt we could actually pay them, though." Sansa chuckled sardonically, Wyman laughing along as he slapped his belly. "They must have at least known of Percy's presence."
"Apparently, they did, but none of them seemed concerned with it. You have to understand, Princess, even now, when I see his powers with my own two eyes, I find it difficult to believe I am not dreaming. Yes, sorcery has dwindled as of late, and few remember the glory of the Freehold, but what your betrothed can do could easily be a tale from the Age of Heroes."
"Indeed," Sansa agreed with a chuckle. "But what does that have to do with Roose Bolton? Accusing him of treason is a serious matter, My Lord."
"It's what they planned to do to you afterward. Their orders were to take you to the Dreadfort where Roose's bastard son would care for you." Wyman Manderly's genial face was replaced with a savage, hateful snarl, and his skin turned purple from rage as he ground his teeth. "I have no doubt, that monster would have had you killed or worse; wedded to him in some asinine scheme to claim Winterfell."
Sansa's eyes widened, "What makes you certain that is their goal?"
"Have you learned what happened to the Hornwoods?"
She shook her head, and the Lord of White Harbor proceeded to tell her of the terrible atrocities that had been committed by the bastard of the Dreadfort against her brother's subjects. From the usurpation of the Hornwood to the forceful wedding of Donella Hornwood, Wyman's cousin, to what he had discovered from his spies; the former Lady Hornwood had been brutally murdered by the insane bastard.
"And Bran did nothing? He could have sent Ser Rodrik with Winterfell's garrison to rid that scum from the lands!"
"The young lord…has been distracted, I hear." Wyman looked ill-at-ease with the topic, his words were laced with hesitation. "With the Ironborn reaving in the west, he claimed he needed Rodrik and the bulk of their troops in Winterfell to rout them in case they raid too deep."
"Yet you could have taken Hornwood by yourself. You are a lord of considerable influence and power, not to mention the title of Warden of the White Knife offers you certain liberties to protect the realm. Any house along the White Knife would be honor-bound to muster their troops for you if you called, even if they are not your direct vassals."
"That is true, I was ready to send my men, but the Ironborn snatching Moat Cailin took everyone by surprise." If Lord Manderly was flattered by her previous comments, he did not show - his face was calm, yet she could see his subdued rage in his blue eyes. "Despite my dearest wish to have that bastard drawn and quartered, and send his head to his wretched father, I needed to look to my people first."
"Speaking of, why have the bastard marry your cousin and then murder her?"
"I suspect he did so on his father's orders. Why waste his hand in marriage to a widow of a single castle, when he could use you as a political tool for a claim on the entire North."
The sheer…boldness of such schemes utterly dumbfounded her. "How did Bolton ever think he could get away with that?"
"It's the perks of using bastards, I'm afraid." Wyman drained the last of his beer. "A lord can reap all the benefits from the achievements of his bastard son, but could just as easily disavow him if he had committed a crime. Not all bastards are like your half-brother or even the late Hallis Hornwood's own son; dutiful and honorable boys, I hear. Some of them would grasp above their stations, but it would ultimately be up to the lords how they raise their sons. In fact, Roose Bolton has not even officially acknowledged Ramsay as his bastard yet."
Sansa tried to get a full picture of what was going on here. It didn't help that everything Wyman said would naturally be biased, for even if he believed it all to be true, she would need to listen to the other side to give judgment.
"And, how could Ramsay Snow have taken the Hornwood lands without an army?"
"He was declared castellan of the Dreadfort, and that alone should be enough to call the old Leech out. Yet Bolton claims that his castellan is innocent and all our claims are frivolous. That what's happening in the Hornwood is simply a bandit problem."
"How do you know it was actually Ramsay Snow? Do you know what he looks like?"
"Yes, and worse; I know all about his proclivities, and I assure you it is not for a maiden's ears."
Wyman's face was grim, yet Sansa was not phased. "I assure you I have heard and seen plenty of terrible things, My Lord. Indulge me, what do you know about Ramsay Snow and his proclivities?"
And so Wyman did. The Lord of White Harbor must have dearly loved his cousin, for he had not spared an expense in learning all that could be learned about the Bolton bastard in the short amount of time since he appeared. It both impressed her to know of the connections and assets the Manderly lord had at his disposal and utterly disturbed her that such a monster was allowed to roam free under her father's rule.
A kinslayer, a murderer, a torturer, a raper…was there any sin he did not commit?
Sansa wanted to sigh loudly and rub her brows, but it would not do to do so in front of Lord Manderly. It irked her that such atrocities were happening in her brother's kingdom. It irritated her, even more, to be in the dark - so much had changed in the past few weeks she was at sea; she had been busy settling and preparing for the wedding the last few days.
The thing that vexed her the most, however, was her brother's apathy towards the whole matter. Even if he sent her those one hundred men, even if Bran was crippled and young; Sansa expected more, a lot more, from a Son of Winterfell.
"My Lord, I must apologize for being ignorant of the happenings of the North. The Ironborn, the Hornwoods and Boltons… Is there a wildling threat as well?" She involuntarily scoffed, causing Lord Manderly to chuckle. "I will ask that you tell me all you know about what has been happening in my brother's kingdom. I need all the information I can get before I would commit to a decision, and make no mistake; House Stark shall stand by its oaths, protect its subjects, and punish those who break the king's peace with extreme prejudice."
First of three chapters I plan for White Harbor. Reports, plans, and news of the North.
Don't expect any uplifts here except for ones that Percy can realistically make. A ship nerd, with a ship god in his mind - that's the extent of uplifting here.
If you would like to read four chapters ahead, or simply support me, look me up on Patr(eo)n under the same pen name.
28th day of the 7th Moon.
New Castle.
Sansa
Sansa sipped her tea as she gazed out of the balcony. Unlike King's Landing, White Harbor was smaller but far cleaner and more orderly with its wide, straight cobbled streets and whitewashed walls and houses. Even the harbors could be seen from the balcony, huddled just beneath the curtain walls, churning with activity as ships came and departed. Men and women looked small and insignificant in the distance, like ants, yet they were an important aspect of the city, and her father once said a million ants could bring down a mammoth. Sansa had never seen a mammoth, yet her uncle Benjen claims they are thrice as large as the largest horse!
Into the White Gulf, many galleys and trade cogs waited for permission and their turn to moor at the many docks.
To the west, the White Knife slithered lazily into the sea, the mouth of the river over half a league wide across, far more imposing than the Blackwater Rush, if somewhat slower. There were even more harbors on the eastern, and more shallow, shore, with barges, drydocks, and shipyards sequestered in hidden inlets.
The Manderly Keep, New Castle, was both a pragmatic yet comfortable castle, supposed to be designed in a similar way Dunstonbury had been before the Mermen lords fled the Reach. Its chambers and hallways were large and airy, with an open-air terrace that doubled as ramparts and a balcony. It was far smaller than Winterfell, even smaller than the Red Keep, yet Sansa could not deny it was one of the more beautiful castles she had stayed in.
Sansa had visited the city before but didn't remember much of the visit other than she was very impressed and somewhat afraid of the unusually large crowds. Or, well, unusually large crowds for a naive child who had yet to see the world. Now, though, she was still impressed with the city even after seeing and experiencing more.
It felt like forever since Sansa was last here, but in truth, only a meager five, nearly six years had passed. They had visited with her father to pay respects to an old relative of the Starks who was on his deathbed. Artos the Implacable had served as Castellan of Winterfell to his death in the Nine Penny King Wars, yet his twin sons Brandon and Benjen survived him.
Brandon settled in Barrowton, marrying a Dustin lady and taking her name - Sansa was unsure if they had any children, nor was she sure if he was even alive. Her father never mentioned him, so perhaps he passed away in one of the many wars that the Starks found themselves in the past decades.
His brother Benjen Stark, however, settled in White Harbor and married a Locke woman who died in childbirth, giving him his only son, Edwyle, who in turn was lost at sea. The kind old man she met a few years ago reminded her of her own Uncle Benjen - but he did not survive their visit.
Sansa still remembered the funeral in the Sept of Snow, where he wished to be buried. She had yet to visit the Sept since her arrival, despite staying in the castle for two days now, but perhaps she could pay her respects and light a candle to the Stranger. She noticed Beauty flying high above her, and Sansa smiled wistfully - another candle to the Maiden would also be prudent.
It saddened her that so few of her kin remained alive, and there were no male members of her house to give her away during the marriage ceremony. It might even raise some doubts about the legality of her marriage down the line. Hopefully, Lord Manderly, his vassals, and Meera Reed would be enough witnesses to squash any doubts about the legitimacy and her willingness. It was a bold step, one that made her feel uneasy. Technically, her hand in marriage should have been given away by Robb as head of the family, but Sansa was eloping.
She was eloping because of selfishness. Sansa liked Perseus, he made her heart flutter and butterflies loop into her belly, and most importantly, he made her feel safe. It wasn't some childish flight of fancy or a stupid obsession that she had with Joffrey's gallant looks. No, after that cruel stay in King's Landing, she could recognize the false smiles, the fake faces, and the ugliness hidden beneath the pretty faces, and would not fall for such things again.
There was always the chance that Robb would decide to wed her off for one alliance or another, promising her hand for swords here or there. Sansa was unwilling to let her destiny be dictated by others again, now that she had gotten a taste of freedom, a taste of power. Besides, what good would any number of swords be against Perseus?
There was no doubt in her mind that Sansa was right in her decision to elope so shamelessly. Yes, it was selfish, but not without cause. She lied to herself that it would suit House Stark more. But deep down, Sansa knew it was a lie because she simply wanted Perseus to never leave. She…loved him. It was that simple.
A sigh rolled off her lips and she turned her attention to the soothing cup of tea.
"How do you like the blend, Princess?" Wynafryd's voice almost made her jump. Sansa had nearly forgotten about her company.
Sansa smiled at Lord Manderly's granddaughter, as they sat at the large round table with her other companions. "Acceptable. I am grateful you found a merchant with access to those leaves. I did not expect they could be found so quickly."
"It was no trouble, Princess." Wynafryd sipped from her own cup, face almost melting in pleasure. "I never thought such blends of tea could be made, and I feel foolish for never browsing the city's market and procuring it earlier."
"Truly, it is," Wylla added from next to her sister. "So simple, yet so delicious, especially with the pastries your betrothed introduced to the castle. While the muffins tasted splendid, they were a bit hard to swallow, the tea helps with that."
Myrcella had remained as her handmaiden, and Sansa allowed her to sit with her. Rosamund made her laugh, so Sansa also allowed her to join them, despite her lower birth.
The golden-haired girls had managed to endear themselves to the ladies of the castle by showcasing the skills they learned from Percy in the kitchen.
Sansa smirked inwardly as she watched one of the blonde Not-Twins, as Percy called them, preen at the praise; how the mighty have fallen. A princess of the realm, born and raised with a golden spoon, with all of her desires satisfied at a hand's wave, feeling pleasure at serving others.
Yet Sansa chided herself inwardly, there was no need to belittle the princess. It surprised her how Myrcella had insisted on helping in the kitchens, and at first, Sansa thought she wanted an excuse to stay away from her. Turns out, the girls truly did enjoy cooking.
Naturally, it would not have mattered, for Myrcella and Rosamund were her prisoners and Sansa had no plans to let them go. Besides being hostages against House Baratheon of King's Landing and the Lannisters, they were her wards, and her responsibility to raise well and find them good husbands. It surprised her how easily she had come to care for the girls, but one thing was certain in her mind. Sansa could claim that she was not an ambitious, and greedy woman, but that would be a lie.
Yes, she craved friendship and companionship similar to what she had with poor Jeyne, but the supposed daughter of the late king was invaluable. Sansa wanted more power and more influence, Percy and Cersei had shown that if you had enough, you would be in control of your life, and she wanted that for herself. Greedy, and selfish, but Sansa would not forget House Stark in the process.
"It reminds me of some of the herbs we grow in the Neck." Meera Reed looked at the crushed leaves at the bottom of her empty cup with a frown. "Normally, they would need to be distilled and purified from any poisons and toxins, but some of them could be both soothing and tasty."
Wynafryd leaned forward in interest, "Oh? I had heard plenty of things regarding the botany of the Neck. Flower arrangements and gardening are a hobby of mine, you see."
"Truly? Mine too," Myrcella piped up from across the heiress to White Harbor. "What sort of flowers would be common here?"
Sansa tuned out the rest of the chatter. She was glad the maidens were getting along nicely; there was some tension when Cersei's daughter was introduced to the Merman's Court, but Lord Manderly and his family were gracious and courteous. It helped that Sansa herself had proclaimed she and Rosa were her handmaidens.
She suspected it had to do with the heir of the city being captive to the Lannisters, yet Lord Manderly had yet to bring up such a topic. Myrcella would be an excellent bargaining chip to release the captive nobles of the North, yet Sansa was loath to even discuss that. She had just decided to raise Myrcella and had no wish to send her and Rosa back to Cersei.
Speaking of the lesser lioness, she watched in amusement as Rosamund and Meera stared down the railing at the training yard below, talking and giggling in hushed tones. Percy was training their men diligently, having them go through significantly harder gauntlets and formation training. All the men were armed for battle, but Percy fought with his top naked, showing off his incredible physique.
Sansa thought something was bothering her betrothed yet he claimed it was just the weather. Judging by how little he dressed, she was unconvinced but decided to give him his privacy but not before looking meaningfully at his half naked form.
Percy claimed it was to train his dodging, but judging by that lopsided grin he threw at her every once in a while, her hero had other motives.
A flush was creeping up Rosa's neck yet she still looked warily as Percy dueled five men at the same time, only to have them all on the ground within a few heartbeats. Meera, on the other hand, was wholly engrossed in the sparring below, yet that only amused Sansa.
The daughter of Howland Reed had been her constant shadow since her arrival two days ago, along with a couple of her father's men. Once they had some privacy, her brother, Jojen, introduced themselves and Meera had sworn fealty directly to her, which had greatly confused Sansa. Not to House Stark, not to Robb - Her.
Jojen had then left the city for Greywater Watch that same day, with a few of his father's men who had come to escort him. She worried how he would find his way to his home with Moat Cailin under the Ironborn's control, but the young man simply smiled when questioned.
"None know the Neck better than the Crannogmen."
Sansa found the Crannog woman to be both mysterious and intriguing. She was three years older than her at eight and ten, yet still unmarried. Her hair was glossy and voluminous, a light-brown shade with a hint of red, that the girl tied in a simple plait. Meera had gladly joined her in applying oils and herbal concoctions from the Neck to keep their hair silky and vibrant. Her eyes were bright, not dissimilar to Percy's sea green, but reminded her of moss or the leaves of a tree. Her soft features complimented her kind nature as she spoke softly to Rosa, causing the younger girl's wariness to melt as she stared at her man.
Yet, Sansa knew that underneath that softness hid a hardened woman who had grown in the treacherous lands of the Neck. Meera had trained with Percy last eve, and her demigod had declared her to be acceptable, which was quite the compliment coming from a man who could slay a sea monster.
"He is quite impressive, is he not?"
Both girls flinched as they turned to her, Meera coughing awkwardly. "Indeed. Disregarding his slaying of the sea monster, Perseus is also an excellent trainer and clearly a veteran of war."
"He taught me how to cook." Rosa shrugged as the rest of the girls looked in interest. "I will admit that he terrified me when we first met. I mean, disabling two warships and swimming so fast… I thought he was a merman!"
"Ah, yes. You have to tell us more about your betrothed, Princess." Wylla clapped her hands, "The wedding is in a few days, yet we hardly know anything about him."
The older sister, Wynafryd, was almost vibrating with excitement. "Is it true that he is a secret prince from a faraway land? Or that he is blessed by the gods with wonderful powers? There are so many rumors flying about him."
"With his skills in cooking, he has to be the personal cook of a king!" Wylla interjected, "Those pancakes were exquisite, and the way he cooked those eggs… what were they called?"
"Omelets." Rosamund supplied helpfully, but Sansa noticed Myrcella looking strangely at her not-twin as she mouthed the word.
"Yes, omelets and not to mention Sandwiches." Wylla looked as if she was sharing a secret, "Some scullery maids claim Perseus told them he learned how to make those from a witch he met on a beach!"
Sansa chuckled ruefully as the table descended into chatter. Of course, the two of them had been intentionally vague about Percy's origins. Having a son of a god walk alongside mortals would be preposterous, powers or not. Let alone him coming from another world. It was a whole ball of trouble the two of them had agreed to not disclose to the public. And so, Perseus Jackson claimed that he was a son of the sea, hailing from far, far away, a place that could not be found on any maps.
Vague, but mostly true.
There were many subtle inquiries about Percy's origin, but nobody had been openly pushy about it. After all, her betrothed was not a man to be trifled with, and he had amusingly shown inhuman powers. The driftwood hero, some called him. Others had claimed he was a sorcerer prince from some lost city beyond the Saffron Straits and the Shadowlands.
Of all the things that interested the ladies about Percy, his culinary skills were the most prominent topic. Her betrothed had confessed that he was not considered a decent cook by the standards of his home, and Lord Manderly and his head cook agreed yet that was not an issue. It was the recipes and ideas that he brought that were of far more interest.
As the chatter shifted to Percy's good looks, Sansa smiled languidly as she inspected Lord Manderly's granddaughters. Both of them were comely with a heart-shaped face and blue eyes, but that's where the similarities ended.
Wynafryd had her chestnut-brown hair in a simple braid that reached her elbows, while Wylla dyed it a garish green in a similar braid, though the girl let slip she planned to dye it blue - Sansa suspected Percy was the cause. Wynafryd was tall and willowy; a graceful beauty with a serene smile and intelligent eyes - as befitting of the heiress of a major city like White Harbor. Wylla was shorter, yet had much more pronounced curves, with an easy grin and a charismatic way of bringing people together. An enticing beauty, who could probably charm a septon if she wanted to.
Both were clearly interested in her betrothed, yet Sansa felt no worry. It was only natural for women to be attracted to Percy - power attracts, and it helped he was dashing and comely. Even Meera stared at him with a certain hunger, yet she kept a healthy distance from him. All of them understood that they may only watch, but not touch - for he was hers.
Eventually, Sansa was dragged into the conversation as she regaled the ladies of the daring rescue from King's Landing and their adventures along the Narrow Sea. At some point, Beauty landed on the railing much to the girls's shock, but Sansa easily assuaged their worried when she stroked her feathers.
"She's beautiful, Princess!" Wylla moved her hands towards the moon hawk before looking at her hesitantly, "May I?"
"Certainly, but be gentle. Beauty is still a proud and fearsome bird of prey."
The moon hawk looked at the Manderly maiden inquisitively but accepted the gentle hand that petted it. Soon the rest of the girls joined in, and Wynafryd even called for a maid to get pieces of meat for her.
They were interrupted by a cough from the doorway to find Lord Manderly smiling at them. "Princess, could I have a moment of your time?"
Sansa nodded and gracefully stood, "Certainly, My Lord. In your solar, perhaps?"
"That would be best, yes."
She waved farewell to her new friends, who seemed more interested in pampering Beauty. Sansa signaled Meera to remain with the Not-Twins, and followed the corpulent lord with his guard captain keeping a respectable distance. "How do you fare, Princess?"
"I must say White Harbor is more magnificent than I remember," Sansa smiled. "A beautiful city with a gracious host. Your granddaughters have been nothing but courteous and pleasant to speak to."
The old merman almost blushed from the praise, and Sansa allowed herself a small chuckle. It was true, after all. Why would she spare her more than deserved praise?
Like every other place in New Castle, the hallways had varnished walnut and oak planks on the floor and walls, warding away the chill of the granite and flagstones. Even now, Sansa saw faded banners, broken shields, and rusted swords from ancient victories hanging on the walls for display. There were even a few ship prows and figureheads hung high above like hunting trophies.
The Manderlys were a loyal, but very proud house.
"I am pleased to hear that," Manderly let out a jovial chortle, merrily patting his sizeable gut. "If you have any requests or desires, please don't hesitate to bring them directly to me."
"Thank you, My Lord."
They continued on in silence, and soon they were in the lord's solar. The room was paneled with walls of dark wood, with intricate carvings of merman and mermaids. A few select tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of war and peace; one of them was more recent where a Manderly knight slammed his warhammer at a Rosby knight with the Targaryen banner in the background, most likely the battle of the Trident. Another one was of the port of White Harbor, with many ships and smiling merchants in the forefront. A nod to the city's bustling trade.
"Please, have a seat, Princess."
Wyman Manderly forwent the large oak desk with a particularly large and comfortable chair and instead led her to a small table near the window laden with a few parchment scrolls and a small beer keg. The lord waited patiently for her to sit on one of the comfortable chairs tapered with sea-green Lyseni velvet, before sitting on a much larger one opposite her.
He poured himself a mug of White Harbor's famous beer, the foamy drink making fuzzy sounds as it filled the mug.
"Would you like a drink, Princess?"
"Thank you, My Lord." Lord Wyman poured her a mug and she took a sip, nodding appreciatively - it was a pleasant mix of sweet and sour that warmed her throat and settled in her belly. "Tell me, how are Percy's orders coming?"
"Oh, yes. Your spoils were more than enough to cover the costs of equipping your men with the finest arms and armor my city can provide. Soon, you will have a contingent of men better armed than the finest southern knights, all paid with Lannister gold! It will just take a bit of time to have it all ready." Wyman chuckled heartily, his booming laugh reverberating in the room, and she joined along.
The dowry that Cersei Lannister prepared for her daughter was truly an extravagant one. There were surprisingly few coins, for she had learned the crown was heavily in debt, yet the ship was full to the brim with valuables; statues made from solid gold, bolts of the finest Myrish silk, bundles of Torrentine cotton, yards of Norvoshi wool, a gilded couch made from goldenheart wood, and many other precious materials.
Not to mention the more martial gifts; There were arms and armor, and even a score of Myrish Crossbows, apparently from Joffrey's own collection. Yet the most valuable item had to be the gilded suit of armor made by Tobho Mott that Sansa decided to have Percy wear, though it would need to be refitted for his frame.
All of that was hers now, and Sansa did not waste time in having anything gold or silver melted into coins through White Harbor's mint and used the city's extensive guilds and workshops to outfit her one hundred men-at-arms with the finest equipment; including warhorses. It would take over a dozen days for her order to be processed - possibly more depending on how fast the resources could be secured. It would have been way slower if Sansa had simply not thrown gold at the forging guild and told them she wanted the best they could do as soon as possible.
It was the perks of being a princess, and a wealthy one at that. The blacksmiths all scrambled, from the green boys to the greybeards, and the hammering on the Smith's Square could be heard in the distance once you entered the city proper. The masters focused on forging suits of heavy plate, greaves, helmets, and gorges, with the finest steel the North had, while a small army of apprentices was churning out additional chainmail.
Meanwhile, Percy had taken it upon himself to train the men to his standards, for it would not do to invest in such expenses on men who were not worthy of it.
So far, he reported that they were not bad but that there was ample room for improvement, which coming from Percy was quite the compliment. Sansa would confess to knowing little about fighting and matters of warfare, yet she trusted in Percy and in Ser Rodrik Cassel; he was the one who handpicked and initially trained those men. Her father… only accepted the finest men of skill and character into the Winterfell household.
Meanwhile, Manderly was still sipping on his beer, looking like a proud, if overly plump, peacock for the capabilities of his city.
"I am sure Percy will be very pleased with that," Sansa replied, blinking innocently. It was a skill she had mastered in King's Landing, looking meek, innocent, and subservient, to minimize the threat to her being after that misstep. "He was the one who won all those spoils, you know. Took them right from the Lannister fleet, and they could do nothing but cower in front of his might."
The subtle threat was probably unnecessary, and Sansa watched Wyman's face intently, but the elderly lord remained unfazed with his ever present jovial smile. She had wanted to get a measure of him, but he was hard to read. After a few days, Sansa was confident that the craven, foolish face that always smiled affably was just a disguise. All of her senses screamed that the Manderly Lord could play the game better than any Southron noble in King's Landing.
"Indeed, your betrothed is a remarkable man - I have seen and heard enough proof of his might. Claiming his hand in marriage was a very astute decision, Princess." Wyman lifted his mug in respect before taking a sip, "The young man had even mentioned improving your ship, The Silver Lady, and requested a meeting with one of my shipbuilders. I promised to grant him use of one of the shipyards sequestered in one of the inlets of the White Knife for a moon."
Her fingers tightened around the warm wooden handle of the mug.
"Did he offer you something in return? I would rather not make you think we are abusing your generosity, My Lord."
"Nothing of the sort at all! I am loyal to the Starks and your cause, Princess. With your help, we shall rid the lands of brigands and pirates. It is the least I could do."
Sansa gave her practiced, polite smile, yet she felt troubled on the inside. There was no doubt she would have taken the fight to the Ironborn and other foes of the North, but she was not aware of trouble with brigands and bandits. Still, Wyman Manderly had declared his intentions clearly; Loyal to the Starks, that was Robb, Bran, and then her.
Yet if she, or Percy, to be precise, assisted him with his brigand problem, Sansa would command his full loyalty, second only to the king.
"I am grateful, My Lord, but I must insist. Percy does not strike me as the type to accept free boons."
"Indeed, Perseus told me as much. He promised to help better design our budding fleet. Your brother, King Robb, had ordered me to build a new fleet for him to better protect our Eastern shores. I have already built twenty warships and sent recruiters from Old Castle to Skagos for sailors and marines."
"I confess to not being the most knowledgeable on maritime matters, but to build so many ships in less than six moons? Impressive." Wyman preened at her light praise, causing her to smile inwardly. "How is the recruitment process?"
"Very well, princess. Ships arrive every week with sailors and marines. I had to expand a district in the city to house them all. Your betrothed promised to look into the designs and assured me he could improve them, though he was interested in meeting with the small branch of the Alchemist Guild we have here first before he committed to anything."
Sansa almost choked on her gulp of beer. Why would Percy want to meet with the pyromancers? Yet the matter was shelved for later, she could always ask him. Now, there were far more important matters that required her attention. Manderly would not go to summon her in person for nothing.
"Is there any other news from along the coast?"
"Ah, yes," the fat lord nodded, looking rather troubled. "Word just came this morning. It seems you were not the first ones to come upon sea monster attacks. An Ibbenese whaler limped to port, reporting they lost a ship to a similarly sized beast like the one your betrothed slayed."
"That's…not good." Sansa had thought there was only one of those beasts. But if there was a second, there could be a third, a fourth, and many more. "Where did they sight it?"
"Just south of Widow's Watch. I was hoping Perseus could share his insights on how to deal with those menaces." Manderly's words almost made her leap with joy inwardly. They were not going behind her back to contact Percy directly. Asking for permission from her meant that they wanted to hold to the connection to House Stark first and foremost. And it did not diminish her presence or standing.
"I will let him know," Sansa promised.
Yet even this would not be enough to trouble the Lord of White Harbor. At least not enough to summon a princess in person. No, there was another problem, larger. Even now, as Sansa sipped from her beer, she could see Wyman's pale brow look heavy, as if he was troubled by something. Yet, he seemed too hesitant to speak up.
Eventually, Sansa lost her patience and prodded, "What troubles you, My Lord?"
"My gaoler, Garth, had succeeded in…convincing your prisoners to talk."
"Oh? And do those lowlifes have anything of interest to confess?"
"Enough to both please and worry me, Princess." The fat old lord grimaced. "First, I would like you to inspect this scroll."
He gave her a small scroll, a raven scroll, and Sansa read through it quickly.
"Sweetest sister…I recall one of the prisoners was a Sisterman. Could he be from Sweet Sister?"
"Aye, I have reason to believe these orders came from the south, specifically from Roose Bolton. I compared the handwriting with another scroll of his, and they matched. What Garth discovered from the prisoners confirmed my fears." Lord Manderly took a deep gulp of his beer, "I won't bore you with the details, but apparently Roose Bolton had somehow learned of your escape North and had planned to kidnap you."
Sansa ignored the sinking feeling in her gut and the anger threatening to erupt, and schooled herself.
"Kidnap? Not rescue?"
"Indeed, the three who attacked you were but one of many scouts sent to sweep the Bite for your ship." The more he spoke, the more worried Manderly seemed. Rivulets of sweat glistened down his face and dripped down his fur-lined collar. "They had a galley on standby they were supposed to report to once they discovered you. My men are now searching for it, it might be out at sea, but we know it operates out of Roose Bolton's new port on the mouth of the Weeping Water. The leech lord had requested your late father for a charter to build that small town as a reward for his achievements during the rebellion."
"I see, but I was certain those pirates worked for the Lannisters for they were far more interested in my head rather than kidnapping me."
"Aye, they were supposed to scout for your ships before reporting to their masters to attack. Greed got the better of them, once word of the ludicrous bounty reached them." Wyman shook his head in disbelief, "placing a bounty on a noble lady's head like she's some common brigand? And I thought the Lannisters could sink no lower."
"Yet they must not have heard the rest of the news, for Myrcella had an even bigger bounty for her rescue," Sansa coldly pointed out. "They were surprised to find her onboard."
"It's what happens when you expect competence and integrity from lowly fishermen and pirates." Lord Manderly clicked his tongue. "It's a dangerous game the lords play, and it's easy for one to be arrogant and think they are infallible after they experience some success."
"Perhaps we should issue bounties of our own, then. I doubt we could actually pay them, though." Sansa chuckled sardonically, Wyman laughing along as he slapped his belly. "They must have at least known of Percy's presence."
"Apparently, they did, but none of them seemed concerned with it. You have to understand, Princess, even now, when I see his powers with my own two eyes, I find it difficult to believe I am not dreaming. Yes, sorcery has dwindled as of late, and few remember the glory of the Freehold, but what your betrothed can do could easily be a tale from the Age of Heroes."
"Indeed," Sansa agreed with a chuckle. "But what does that have to do with Roose Bolton? Accusing him of treason is a serious matter, My Lord."
"It's what they planned to do to you afterward. Their orders were to take you to the Dreadfort where Roose's bastard son would care for you." Wyman Manderly's genial face was replaced with a savage, hateful snarl, and his skin turned purple from rage as he ground his teeth. "I have no doubt, that monster would have had you killed or worse; wedded to him in some asinine scheme to claim Winterfell."
Sansa's eyes widened, "What makes you certain that is their goal?"
"Have you learned what happened to the Hornwoods?"
She shook her head, and the Lord of White Harbor proceeded to tell her of the terrible atrocities that had been committed by the bastard of the Dreadfort against her brother's subjects. From the usurpation of the Hornwood to the forceful wedding of Donella Hornwood, Wyman's cousin, to what he had discovered from his spies; the former Lady Hornwood had been brutally murdered by the insane bastard.
"And Bran did nothing? He could have sent Ser Rodrik with Winterfell's garrison to rid that scum from the lands!"
"The young lord…has been distracted, I hear." Wyman looked ill-at-ease with the topic, his words were laced with hesitation. "With the Ironborn reaving in the west, he claimed he needed Rodrik and the bulk of their troops in Winterfell to rout them in case they raid too deep."
"Yet you could have taken Hornwood by yourself. You are a lord of considerable influence and power, not to mention the title of Warden of the White Knife offers you certain liberties to protect the realm. Any house along the White Knife would be honor-bound to muster their troops for you if you called, even if they are not your direct vassals."
"That is true, I was ready to send my men, but the Ironborn snatching Moat Cailin took everyone by surprise." If Lord Manderly was flattered by her previous comments, he did not show - his face was calm, yet she could see his subdued rage in his blue eyes. "Despite my dearest wish to have that bastard drawn and quartered, and send his head to his wretched father, I needed to look to my people first."
"Speaking of, why have the bastard marry your cousin and then murder her?"
"I suspect he did so on his father's orders. Why waste his hand in marriage to a widow of a single castle, when he could use you as a political tool for a claim on the entire North."
The sheer…boldness of such schemes utterly dumbfounded her. "How did Bolton ever think he could get away with that?"
"It's the perks of using bastards, I'm afraid." Wyman drained the last of his beer. "A lord can reap all the benefits from the achievements of his bastard son, but could just as easily disavow him if he had committed a crime. Not all bastards are like your half-brother or even the late Hallis Hornwood's own son; dutiful and honorable boys, I hear. Some of them would grasp above their stations, but it would ultimately be up to the lords how they raise their sons. In fact, Roose Bolton has not even officially acknowledged Ramsay as his bastard yet."
Sansa tried to get a full picture of what was going on here. It didn't help that everything Wyman said would naturally be biased, for even if he believed it all to be true, she would need to listen to the other side to give judgment.
"And, how could Ramsay Snow have taken the Hornwood lands without an army?"
"He was declared castellan of the Dreadfort, and that alone should be enough to call the old Leech out. Yet Bolton claims that his castellan is innocent and all our claims are frivolous. That what's happening in the Hornwood is simply a bandit problem."
"How do you know it was actually Ramsay Snow? Do you know what he looks like?"
"Yes, and worse; I know all about his proclivities, and I assure you it is not for a maiden's ears."
Wyman's face was grim, yet Sansa was not phased. "I assure you I have heard and seen plenty of terrible things, My Lord. Indulge me, what do you know about Ramsay Snow and his proclivities?"
And so Wyman did. The Lord of White Harbor must have dearly loved his cousin, for he had not spared an expense in learning all that could be learned about the Bolton bastard in the short amount of time since he appeared. It both impressed her to know of the connections and assets the Manderly lord had at his disposal and utterly disturbed her that such a monster was allowed to roam free under her father's rule.
A kinslayer, a murderer, a torturer, a raper…was there any sin he did not commit?
Sansa wanted to sigh loudly and rub her brows, but it would not do to do so in front of Lord Manderly. It irked her that such atrocities were happening in her brother's kingdom. It irritated her, even more, to be in the dark - so much had changed in the past few weeks she was at sea; she had been busy settling and preparing for the wedding the last few days.
The thing that vexed her the most, however, was her brother's apathy towards the whole matter. Even if he sent her those one hundred men, even if Bran was crippled and young; Sansa expected more, a lot more, from a Son of Winterfell.
"My Lord, I must apologize for being ignorant of the happenings of the North. The Ironborn, the Hornwoods and Boltons… Is there a wildling threat as well?" She involuntarily scoffed, causing Lord Manderly to chuckle. "I will ask that you tell me all you know about what has been happening in my brother's kingdom. I need all the information I can get before I would commit to a decision, and make no mistake; House Stark shall stand by its oaths, protect its subjects, and punish those who break the king's peace with extreme prejudice."
First of three chapters I plan for White Harbor. Reports, plans, and news of the North.
Don't expect any uplifts here except for ones that Percy can realistically make. A ship nerd, with a ship god in his mind - that's the extent of uplifting here.
If you would like to read four chapters ahead, or simply support me, look me up on Patr(eo)n under the same pen name.
Chapter 12 (Whispers of Ice and Fire)
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
White Harbor,
Alchemist guild.
"What do you think, Pops?"
"Hmm, it's close. Very close to the real thing, but far too unstable in its current form to be useful."
Percy hummed as he ignored the odd whisper in his mind, focusing instead on his father's voice. He willed the green liquid to flow around his hand, smirking inwardly at the alchemists hiding behind a corner as he stood in the center of an empty chamber with a single window. He couldn't blame them; the Stark men he had handpicked excused themselves to the privy when he announced his decision to peruse the green stuff. Still, some punishment for abandoning their boss was in order.
Perhaps he should have them do a hundred extra push-ups later. Or maybe he should dress them in pink as they walk around town.
Having minions was so cool.
"In its current form, you say?" Percy rubbed his chin. "Does that mean there is a way to control it?"
"Yes, for even though it's fire, it's still a liquid. I may not be known for fire, but my forges were underwater, so I have some understanding of the aspect. Depending on how it's made, you can use a drop of your blood as a medium for stability."
"Huh, is that how you do magic?"
"I'm not proficient in witchcraft like Hera or Hecate, but when you have as much raw power as I or my brothers do, you discover that we can simply will something to happen and be done with it."
"So, a drop of my blood, instill my will in it somehow, and it should be stable?"
"Should be. Also, Son, try not to speak out loud."
Percy gulped, warily looking around. But no, the alchemists were all hiding out of fear of the wildfire, so nobody had heard or would claim him a loon. For good or for bad, his ADHD brain got distracted when speaking with his Dad, and sometimes, his mouth just moved with his thoughts anyway.
"Thanks, Dad. And this stuff is quite interesting," Percy snapped his fingers, and the wildfire ignited over his hand. "Almost hot enough to rival Greek Fire."
The whispers were getting distracting like they usually were, but Percy had learned to ignore them.
Focusing on the green flames on his hands, Percy could feel the heat of the substance, even through his heat-resistant skin. It was unpleasant but not yet painful, and Percy wanted to see its limitations. He had never been doused with Greek Fire before, thank the gods, but he did have chunks of lava thrown at him, so he thought it was a close comparison.
"Alright, this is enough." It was spoken outloud this time. He took a deep breath, deeper than he should be capable of, and blew a gust of cold air into his hand, snuffing the flames and leaving his skin red and slightly blistered - pouring a flask of seawater he kept for such occasions, his skin knitted itself before his eyes. "You can come out now."
A handful of alchemists entered the chamber where he tested the Wildfire, their hands fidgeting in worry and excitement. "My Lord, were you satisfied?"
"I believe so. How much more can you make of this?"
"Oh… That was the only batch we had in reserve, My Lord." One of the alchemists, a gaunt older man known as Wisdom Artos, bowed his head in apology. "We could make more, but we are not like the pyromani–excuse me, the pyromancers in King's Landing. We specialize in the traditional teachings of alchemy."
"Uh, like what? Turning lead to gold and making elixirs of immortality?"
The alchemists gawked at him in shock, and Percy grimaced inwardly - hopefully, he didn't just give them ideas. He blamed the annoying whispers for his lapse in judgement, and he could feel Poseidon shrugging helplessly in his mind.
"Their teachings are much more mundane, My Lord. Matters of engineering, carpentry, smithing, and such, but on the more delicate and precise side. They also dabble with potions and tinctures, but I would not trust them to heal me from a cold."
The voice came from another hallway, and Percy raised an eyebrow at his returning men, led by a young man wearing the common livery for a household guard of House Stark but with a small chain hanging from his collar; Donnis was an apprentice taught by the Maester of Winterfell, while the two other men were Kyle and Mark. All three of them were part of the contingent sent to serve Sansa.
"Sup, Donnis. Took you a bit long in the loo, don't you think? Constipation, perhaps? Did the muffins not sit well with your stomach?"
The maester apprentice grimaced and rubbed his head in embarrassment; the two other guardsmen looked just as uncomfortable. "My apologies, My Lord. Maester Luwin had told me horror stories of wildfire going out of control. Not to mention, the substance is not popular in the North owing to what it was used for twenty years ago."
Percy's smirk turned into a frown as he recalled Sansa's history lessons. Her grandfather, Rickard Stark, was a victim of the Mad King's justice and was burned with the substance.
"Understandable," He turned back to the alchemists who had been giving Donnis the stink eye. "What sort of things should I expect from you? Lord Manderly recommended your services, and I find myself with a lot of gold to spend. But what achievements have you made? I gotta know the capabilities of who I'm hiring, after all."
From there, the alchemists took him on a tour of their guild. Percy had to stifle a grin as the alchemists took every opportunity to disparage the maester's order, hoping to get a reaction out of Donnis. He was briefed by the half-maester, as some men called him, on the rivalry between the two organizations, as well as what to expect from their guild; Their hierarchy, capabilities, talents, and so on.
Surprisingly, Donnis had no qualms with the alchemists, returning their petty insults with jokes but not provoking them…for the most part.
He was also fond of reiterating that he was not a maester - only an apprentice and had never been to the Citadel. Something about being celibate was not in his plans; Percy could definitely understand that as his mind wandered to Sansa's beautiful face and alluring curves.
Regardless, it's why Percy picked the dark-haired man with sharp brown eyes. In his early twenties, Donnis Poole was respectful and diligent, not to mention one of the few men who could read, write, and do all the stuff required from a scholar and administrator. With an open mind towards knowledge and an eye for detail, Donnis was useful in providing him information on matters he would be ignorant of.
It helped that he was no weakling who would need people to protect him. As a noble, even a petty one with no future prospects, he was trained at arms from a young age before finding his calling as a scholar. That meant he had to suffer with the rest of the men in training, for Percy would accept no weaklings among his ranks.
Still, Percy was glad he found someone to dump any paperwork on.
As for his two other minions, Kyle was a decent rider and an excellent swordsman, yet it was his gregarious nature and eye for talent that had Percy drag him along for his jaunt to the city. Mark was a silent man, yet quite the marksman, pun unintended, and had the uncanny ability to blend in with any crowd as well as listen for any interesting topics.
Even in this world, his aim was worse than terrible, so Percy had given out those twenty crossbows he found on the ship to the twenty best shots of their little army, Mark included. Myrish Crossbows, he thought they were called, massive things that needed a windlass to reload but could hold three bolts that could fire simultaneously or one at a time.
It had given Percy some ideas, and he ran them through with the shipmaster working on the Silver Lady - it remained to be seen what would come from it.
Back to the Alchemist Guild, Wisdom Artos led the procession and explained the history of their organization. They had existed since before White Harbor's founding. When the Guild was still relevant, it rivaled the Citadel and served the Wolf's Den before the Manderlys took over, but it had always been a small branch owing to the city's small size. With the distance between the North and the South and the constant wars, it made sense for them to diverge from their southern counterparts in focus and studies.
They still claimed to have vast knowledge stored in reserve, but as Donnis said, their focus was mostly on the science of the world. Mechanics and physics, instead of magic and fire, though they assured him they still communicated with their southern counterparts and shared knowledge.
A whisper, still making little sense, seemed to be proud for some reason.
The guild hall was dug into one of the cliffs outside the city in case of accidents, and as they walked through the hallways, Percy passed by several windows carved from the cliff. At its height, the guild had ten Wisdoms, dozens of apprentices, and many more acolytes. Now, they were a shadow of their former self, with only two Wisdoms, a handful of apprentices, and a dozen or so acolytes, surviving only by the grace of Lord Manderly and what service they could provide for him and the city.
They passed by many chambers, most abandoned or sealed off, but a few had interesting experiments going on. While the alchemists were few, they collaborated heavily with the rest of the city's craftsmen and were hired for commissions and other contracts. All of them were residents of White Harbor and had family in the other guilds, so it was normal for them to be contracted by the other guilds of the city - especially as they rarely set things on fire…at least not without reason.
Currently, Percy was inside a chamber with a strange device made from some sort of dark silver alloy being tended to by an apprentice. It almost looked like a low-caliber cannon with a cranking mechanism. "What's this?"
"Ah, this is one of our newer inventions. Bennard here is a smith's son and has been helping with its tests." The apprentice bowed his head and moved aside for Wisdom Artos to rub a gentle hand over the device. "The Pyromancers of King's Landing have always been obsessed with creating the substance, yet they never truly innovated a way to use it in practice. The closest they had come was during King Aegon IV's reign with their wooden dragons."
"With catastrophic consequences," Donnis elaborated from behind him. "Burned down a quarter of the Kingswood and countless men."
"Indeed, who knew using wood would be a terrible idea when dealing with fire." Bennard tutted, "We have worked on this invention for the past few years for Lord Manderly's defenses."
"Yes, but what is it?"
"We call them Spitfires. As the name would suggest, we pour liquid fire in them, light a wick at the end of the barrel, turn the windlass, and it shall spit fire at its targets."
"Impressive." It reminded Percy of how the mortals of Byzantium attempted to imitate Greek Fire. "And it doesn't melt from the heat?"
"Ah, we tried several metals and alloys that could withstand the heat and discovered that only the tip of the barrel needed to be made from a special alloy of steel and nickel, while iron or bronze could be used for the rest." Bennard explained enthusiastically. "My father and brothers helped create that alloy, and we have decided to call it Stainless Steel."
Percy raised an eyebrow as he recognized the term, but it looked nothing like all the kitchen utensils he had back home that claimed to be made from the stuff. He shrugged; he would never claim to be an expert in metallurgy, and his Dad remained silent.
"Have you tested it?"
"We have. We did not dare use the substance, of course, but there are weaker formulas that are more stable and less hazardous to the men operating the spitfires, though with less devastating results. I can give a demonstration if you would like?" Bennard, or Ben as Percy decided to call him, turned to Wisdom Artos, who in turn turned to Percy, who nodded.
Within a few minutes, they loaded the device on a cart and rolled it out to a rampart, placed it on a stone pedestal, and aimed at an empty clearing. Ben operated it on his lonesome, but he explained that having three people working it together would be far more efficient: one to secure the fuel sac made from pig bladder, one to turn the crank (or windlass), and one to make sure the wick was burning, and the aim was true.
"Ready?" Ben turned to them as he grabbed the handle and waited for their nod. "Ignite!"
The alchemist apprentice cranked the handle as fast as he could; the fuel in the sack of pig bladder was pressurized and compressed to the limit before Ben flicked a handle that released it through the barrel. The effect was instantaneous, as whatever volatile liquid they used burst into red-hot flames from the lit wick underneath the barrel and sprang across the yard at a couple of targets about a hundred feet away, setting everything along the way on fire.
It barely lasted a few seconds before the bladder was deflated and its payload delivered. Just before it was empty, Ben flicked another handle, cutting the burst off and preventing the flames from spreading around him.
"It's not the safest weapon, but if the crew is well-trained, there shouldn't be any cause for concern." Ben stood up and detached the empty sack, causing some liquid to spill onto the ground, which he quickly threw some sand on. "As you can see, the operator needs to follow all the safety procedures, or else an accident could occur. It takes some time to refill the sack, but it's possible to keep several of them on hand and quickly switch them for constant firing. Having several men working the spitfire would help in that process."
Wisdom Artos looked pleased with his apprentice's show, and Percy would admit he was also very impressed. A glance at Donnis and the rest of the men showed both trepidation and awe - it's only natural to be wary when dealing with fire.
Another whisper in his mind, this one full of glee at the sight of the fire, but Percy vehemently ignored it.
"And you plan to have those devices installed along the walls and fortifications of the city?"
"Indeed, My Lord. They would be very effective against ships and ladders or even charging groups of soldiers."
As Percy watched the effects of the archaic flamethrower, he couldn't help but grin as ideas ran in his mind. "What about installing them on wagons or ships?"
.
.
.
They returned to the city, and Percy took this chance to check on the orders for his men. It had only been four days since Manderly bought out the metal ores in the city on their behalf and sent his cogs to other ports to replenish the city's stores. The smithing guilds would use all that to finish their orders, even though they were already busy forging arms and armor for the war effort. White Harbor's armies were mustering, along with those of Old Castle and Widow's Watch; their lords and ladies were already travelling as fast as they could for the wedding.
Gods, he's starting to speak like them.
Riding on Blackjack through the streets, with his men on their warhorses, Percy could see signs of the preparations of the wedding feast Wyman Manderly ordered for the city. Buildings and stores were adorned with colorful banners, flags, and garlands, giving the white city a myriad of colors that gave it a festive feel. Men were busy sweeping the streets, and making sure they were presentable for the wedding procession. Women were carrying purchases for their houses, and children played with kites or watched jugglers and acrobats playing on one of the makeshift stages on the squares.
A grunt from behind him had Percy glance at his new companion holding on to his mule's saddle like his life depended on it, "Alright there, Ben?"
"Y-Yes, My Lord. I'm just not used to riding…well, anything!"
"You'll get used to it." He was tempted to have his men call him Percy as the whole My Lord thing still felt strange to him, but both his father and Sansa shot him down - he needed to preserve that air of authority he already established or something. Truth be told, he had only listened with half an ear. "If it helps, the mule says to stop kicking him too much, or he will knock you off its back."
"Y-Y-Yes, M-My Lord."
Gone was the confident smith and alchemist from before, and in his place was a shy and reticent fellow. Percy offered the man a position in his retinue, with permission from the Wisdom and a hefty commission of course, and both the guild and Bennard agreed since his project with them was over. Still, he didn't think the man would be such an introvert, as once they entered the city, he had clammed up like a turtle in a shell.
He'll get over it. He and Donnis seem to have struck a quick enough friendship as their interests aligned.
Meanwhile, Percy tore a bite of the smoked meat in his hand and chewed in pleasure. The leviathan was a tasty treat, and he had the privilege of getting first dibs on it. The rest of the beast was still getting butchered; most of it will go towards the city's festival, yet the juiciest parts of the meat will go to the wedding feast itself.
If what he heard was true, there were even more of them out there, and Percy planned to hunt them. Still, he could not be in two places at once, and his place should always be next to Sansa.
Thinking of the beautiful girl who was to be his wife made his insides twist with anxiety while butterflies were trying to fly around at the same time.
Gods, he was not ready. What if things didn't work out-
"Percy, stop that. I told you already, son. Being nervous is fine. Problems will inevitably appear sooner rather than later, and a good marriage is one where you deal with such woes as soon as possible. Besides, It's not like you had trouble being a problem solver before."
His father's words once again brought him a measure of relief. The nervousness receded, if not completely, but his mind still drifted. He still could not believe he was getting married!
Ah, yet another whisper at the back of his mind; this one almost seemed lustful.
Strangely, he very much looked forward to marrying Sansa, but it was part of his new responsibilities to help her brother's subjects, so those sea monsters needed to be dealt with.
His monster-slaying instincts were also tingling.
Thoughts and plans sped through his mind on the best way for regular mortals to slay such beasts. If only he could recreate cannons and gunpowder, yet while he knew the recipe for black powder thanks to his Dad, making cannons was far easier said than done. Instead, Percy focused on what was available, hence his visit to the Alchemist guild.
Harpoons could be useful, but he recalled the tough hide of that monster. He might need something with a bit more oomph in it to crack it open. Something to think on later, but for now, he had an appointment with the tailor for his wedding.
.
.
.
"Where to next, My Lord?"
It was a couple of hours later, and the late afternoon sun shyly peeked from behind the clouds. After having to endure many prods and nudges from a team of seamstresses and tailors over his choice of wedding clothes, Percy was finally free. His order would be ready tomorrow at noon, and he would have an extra day to get used to it before the wedding. He had already visited a silversmith for some accessories that his father insisted he wear during the wedding - it would not do to look like a bum and embarrass Sansa.
"You three shall stable my horse, then take our new companion to our training yard. Get him up to speed, and make sure he could swing a hammer at someone as well as he could swing it at the anvil."
"B-But, My Lord! I'm not a fighter, and I thought you would need my expertise in other matters. Like designing a portable spitfire, or an extra large spitfire…oh, or maybe–"
"Stop whinging, you pansy Harborman." Kyle slapped Ben on the shoulder from on top of his courser. "We'll make a real man out of him, Lord Perseus."
"Good, and don't worry, Ben. You will get all the materials you need to make all sorts of contraptions that go boom. But first, you gotta prove to me that you can take care of yourself. We're in the middle of a war, after all."
Kyle laughed at the morose alchemist while Donnis gave him a consoling nod.
Mark stared at him with his stoic face - Percy had yet to get the marksman to smile. "What about you, My Lord?"
"I got business in the Wolf's Den. I'll meet you by dinner time."
His companions nodded and left him at the foot of the Castle Stair, and Percy adjusted the Valyrian Steel shield he carried on his back. Its sharp rim was a hazard, but he managed to have a special sheath made for it; no matter how sharp Valyrian Steel was, it still needed leverage and inertia to cut anything.
Its handle was not comfortable compared to his old shield - he dearly missed his brother and wished he was here; Tyson would have been a godsend in this medieval world. Thankfully, whoever designed the shield had left grooves on the inner side of the shield where the handle's position could be adjusted. He just needed to find a dependable smith to make him a handle worthy of the shield - or just have Ben do it; he did just hire him.
As he walked the cobbled path to the ancient castle, Percy inspected the houses clinging to the outer walls - like all of White Harbor's houses, they were made from whitewashed stones with a crenelated roof. White Harbor might be small and vulnerable to attacks from the shore due to its open harbors, yet every house and building was designed in such a way that it could double as a defensive structure.
The blackened walls of the Wolf's Den looked to have survived many fires and sported many scars of battle; a section had half of its top crumbled, and Percy suspected the rubble was reused to build some of the houses, using the wall as a fourth wall. The guards by the gates saluted him as he entered, finding himself in a large courtyard with men training and lounging.
Everyone recognized him by sight or the hilt of Ice sticking from his back, and they all saluted him as he made his way through the courtyard. His destination was a massive set of double doors with a small side door, only to be stopped by an old knight with one leg and one eye.
"Lord Perseus," The knight rasped as he eyed him with suspicion and wariness. "Ser Bartimus Snow, at your service. I was told by Lord Manderly you would visit, but…"
"I promise you I will not harm anything inside. I only wish to pay respect to the gods."
The knight's face was like a block of stone as he stared at him with his single eye, the other covered by a gray eye patch. Finally, he nodded and opened the side door for him.
Soon, he was in a lush garden with a tangle of oak, elm, and birch trees that were choked by the massive roots and limbs of the great Weirwood. A glance at the walls surrounding the Godswood showed a door that led towards a stairway connecting to the garden of New Castle. That one did not have a Heart Tree - Wyman Manderly confessed neither he nor his ancestors ever bothered to plant one.
The Manderlys might follow the Seven, but from what he noticed in the city, the average citizen did not seem to hold to just one set of gods. There were parks and private gardens in the city with small Weirwoods, and he had seen men and women praying to statues of the seven made from the holy tree. Even in the Sept of Snow, when he accompanied Sansa to visit a tomb of a family member, he had seen small statues made from the wood; clearly, that little bit of heresy was tolerated by the clergy here or even encouraged by Manderly.
Yet those weirwoods he had seen lacked the hallmark of a Heart Tree, unlike the one before him. It was quite the foreboding sight, and Percy found himself gulping as thousands of whispers resounded in the godswood as he stepped closer to the fat and angry face carved into the bone-white trunk. They were much louder and far more incoherent than anything he had experienced.
As he approached, the whispers got more urgent, more excited or angry, yet he could not understand anything - the tree wept crimson sap from its eyes and mouth, and a flock of ravens cawed from the branches.
"It looks like that fat lord if someone stole the last piece of lamprey from his plate."
Percy burst out in laughter at the unbidden image, "Thanks, Pops. I needed that."
With the spell of foreboding broken, Percy was confident to inspect the tree again. He could feel power thrumming from its bark; its leaves had a pleasant, sweet smell, yet the tree bore no fruits or even nuts.
"Are you sure about this, son? I do not feel hostility from whatever entities dwell in those trees, yet I advise caution, nevertheless."
"That would be the wise thing, I suppose - to turn back and ignore that constant whispering that has plagued my mind since I set foot in these lands. Not even you could shut it up, Dad."
"True. Then again, you are just like I am, son."
"In that wisdom has chased us for so long, yet we always tend to be just a bit faster than it?"
"Cheeky. Touch the damned tree, and let's be done with this."
Percy's grin melted as he prepared himself and placed his palm on the fat face.
His world turned dark.
Far, far, beyond the realms of men.
They came for him again. They had him bound to a throne of black stone with ice that he could barely feel. It was not cold, nor did it freeze him, yet it was tough. His arms almost melded with the armrests, and his legs bound the same way. His new home was a dark, icy cavern with a single hole in the ceiling, letting the moonlight through to fall on a pit where a crystal orb sat. The moon was seemingly eternal, for he had not seen the sun in so long.
Benjen Stark did not remember how long he had been held here. The last he remembered was his mission and his companions slain ignominiously. He fought those cold shadows and disarmed two, but his blade did nothing but shatter against their skin. They would laugh at him, their voices like shattered ice, grating heavily on his ears.
So he shoved his fingers deep into one of their eyes, killing it as he scrambled its brains.
That shut them up, and it was his turn to laugh as the fucker had inexplicably shattered to dust.
Whatever magic they used, it repelled blades and steel, yet they could do nothing against flesh - as long as he endured the bitter cold. They were strong in body and had cat-like reflexes, yet they had no martial skills. Any proper knight could have bested them, for they fought worse than wildlings.
They still captured him, for they had numbers, and he was exhausted, but not before he snapped another one of their necks. They might be strong, but their frames were fragile, like brittle ice.
He could not recall how long ago that was, only that they brought him to their home. A snow castle deep in the Lands of Always Winter! It would have made his sister jump in excitement; so similar it was to the ones they would build in the Godswood when they were children.
Benjen saw giant spiders and wooly mammoths along the way, for they also had villages and hamlets. They were herded by giants, yet they were entirely different from the giants he had known - less furry and far more comfortable with the cold; men, and women, towering over fifteen feet, while the children would make an Umber look small.
There were far more strange creatures and things but his captors did not give him a chance to inspect more. They dragged him before their chiefs and elders - their women and children, too, and they stared at him like he was an unusual specimen.
He couldn't blame them, for he stared in return. It was not out of fear but shock and disbelief.
Pale skin with a bluish tint, like ice, as graceful as shadowcats. They were the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen. Their hair came in different pale colors, but most of them were white, silver, gray, platinum, or even the rare blue. Their faces were sharp and ethereal, their features as if sculpted by an artist, with straight noses and high cheekbones and eyes in all the shades of blue.
Their bodies were lithe and tall for the men - willowy and curvy for the women. They were a much fairer sight than the ones who brought him here, who looked more like an imitation of what one of them should look like.
But they were not the only things he found there.
There were humans there, humans like him, yet not truly there. It took him a few minutes to realize they were dead, with eerily glowing blue eyes, and served as menial servants.
It was then he finally understood who had taken him captive.
Others and their wights!
He had struggled mightily then; he refused to be turned into some monstrous doll for them to be used against his brothers - his nephew! He could not afford to get himself killed, and he had to escape!!
But where would he go? The freezing cold was everywhere, and it seeped into his bones. He always prided himself on his fortitude against the chill, laughing and teasing the Southrons who joined the Watch in summer and complained about the mildest gale.
They had yet to experience true winter, he would say.
And neither did he, it seemed.
Benjen had fully expected to die then, that they had brought him to their leaders for execution, a show before they would raise them as one of their thralls.
Instead, they placed him here, his new home.
They would not let him move or exercise. He did not seem to need to shit, either. They fed him milk of some kind and meat, enough to keep him alive but not sated. Days flew by, weeks, months, maybe years - he could not tell. Every week, they would come and cut his wrists or feet, allowing his blood to flow down funnels toward the thing in the pit.
Some strange crystal orb that drank his blood hungrily.
He had gradually grown weaker; the loss of blood combined with a lack of movement and proper food caused his muscles to atrophy, and he could barely feel his limbs.
Until suddenly, he could!
His sleep had always been mired by nightmares that he could not remember. Sometimes, he would be lucky and be too exhausted to dream.
But one day, it changed.
Benjen started feeling better. His sleep was more peaceful, and his dreams more vivid. Someone was trying to tell him something in his dreams, but he could barely remember them when he awoke.
It didn't matter, for his body had started to regain its strength. Days passed, the moon turned its cycle, and suddenly, Benjen could feel it.
The ice, snow, and cold around him used to sap his strength and make him feel alone. Suddenly, it felt different. The frost fed him, gave him strength, and soothed him.
Benjen felt far too calm and collected than he had any right to. More lightheaded, too. It shouldn't have been possible. Not even Old Nan told such tales!
Perhaps he was dying or already dead, and this was some feverish dream or the afterlife. Perhaps… perhaps it was real. He could not yet tell the difference.
Before, the Others would send their ice dolls to feed him daily, while two older shamans or priests of some kind would extract his blood once a week. At least, he thought it was once a week. But since the day he had started to recover, there was a new addition to their numbers.
A young woman he recalled seeing on that first day. Back then, she had looked at him disdainfully, like a queen would look at a dirty peasant. He suspected she was the daughter of their leader, for she had stood behind him back then, and had the bearing of royalty along with a small crystal crown over her head that held a large obsidian stone in the center. Now, she stared at him in interest, her blue eyes twinkling in amusement and her leaf-shaped ears twitching behind her blueish hair as he tried to talk to her.
At first, they could not understand each other, but he didn't care. It had been a long time since he had spoken to anyone, and none of the rest seemed to pay him any heed. She would speak to him in her melodic tongue, yet he could not understand it either. Benjen was unsure why she suddenly became interested in him, but he did not mind as she always brought more food than the dolls. More milk, that strange meat, and even cheese!
Day after day, she would visit him. Talk to him. Soon, they could understand each other, taught each others' languages, and learn about each other. Her name was far too difficult for him to pronounce, so he just called her Nyra. He learned the milk and cheese came from the mammoths, while the meat was from spider legs.
He was unsure whether he preferred to know whether he had been eating spider meat. In the end, he shrugged; It tasted like chicken.
The snowy princess seemed very interested in his name, his blood, and tales about the Wall. Benjen got the feeling she felt both excitement and fear from the mention of the Wall. Yet it was the sun that she asked about the most, and he could understand considering he had yet to see the bright light of the sun since coming here.
One day, Nyra arrived alone, and it was not feeding time. Benjen could feel his muscles recovering to their former strength and had slowly been trying to free himself from his icy binds. He stared at her then, for normally, she would be dressed in white silk, which gave her a modest and dignified appearance.
This time, she only had a cloak made from mammoth wool, and as she stood before him, Nyra shrugged it off, showing him her bare skin - naked except for the small crown on her head.
Benjen had been bound naked to his frozen throne for so long, yet the sight before him had his mind go blank. He would not claim to have kept to the vows of the Night's Watch religiously, for he had had the occasional tumble in Mole's Town or even the daring spear wife who would sell herself for a piece of bacon.
It was a badly kept secret among the more senior brothers that the vows of celibacy were bogus, but none of that registered in his mind at the sight of sheer beauty before him.
Pale unblemished skin, large perky breasts topped with dark pink nipples, a toned stomach, wide hips, pert ass and long legs. Nyra was a sight to behold, and he felt his member rise from its slumber.
The minx had then sat on his lap and kissed him deeply, Benjen struggling mightily as he tried to free himself to grab that arse and slam her down his cock. Nyra merely smirked once she saw his struggles, and then she grabbed his member and plunged down with a pained moan.
For a moment, his mind felt blank.
Tight!
Even tighter than a vice, yet softer than velvet, her core gripped him almost painfully. The usual warmth of the coupling was replaced by a pleasant chill that made his spine tingle with pleasure.
He was surprised to see purple blood seep into his loins. She gently rode him then, her moans growing more sensual as she adjusted to his size, and the pain subsided.
It was a long time since he had laid with a woman, and no woman could ever compare to the ethereal one on his lap. Benjen continued to struggle mightily, his hips slamming upwards to meet her downward thrusts. His muscles bulged, and he could hear cracking sounds from the ice digging into his skin, the pain giving him moments of clarity.
He suddenly recalled the tale of the Night's King and his Corpse Bride. The 13th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had supposedly given his seed to his bride, whatever the fuck that meant. Could Nyra be doing the same? Did he care? The Night's King remained married for ten years, thriving on the Wall with his bride, yet none cared about it until he declared himself king.
Benjen was not particularly pleased with his stay in this prison, yet he would not mind taking this woman for himself if he could be free.
The moment the idea came to him, he managed to shatter his shackles and grabbed Nyra by her waist. Her shocked face caused something primal to roar in his mind as he claimed her lips and finished inside her with a powerful thrust. As she was frozen in rapture, he growled as his legs struggled mightily against their confines before, with a screeching noise, broke the ice to pieces; then, he turned his lover on the throne and thrust again from behind. His hands roughly kneaded her soft teats, while all his instincts demanded he claim her, mark her!
Benjen could not remember much of what happened later, only that he lost count of how many times he had spent himself inside Nyra… and the taste of her blood in his mouth as he bit deeply on her shoulder. The woman was exhausted and incoherent, yet he still felt plenty of vigor, if hungry.
This was his chance.
The idea of abandoning Nyra never came to his mind - she was his woman now, his teeth marked her flesh as his, and his seed was sown inside her. Slinging her over his shoulder and wearing her heavy cloak, Benjen grabbed the crystal orb from the pit before making his way out of the cave. It was incredibly reckless, yet he knew he would never get another chance to escape.
He stopped by the cave's entrance and sneaked a peak behind a corner. There was one of those ice dolls, staring outwards and keeping watch for intruders - giving the impression that Nyra was not supposed to be here. There was also what seemed to be a horse with a pelt as white as snow grazing nearby. The guard was wearing armor but no helmet. Benjen carefully placed Nyra on the ground and covered her with her cloak before sneakily approaching the ice construct and grabbing its neck from behind.
It was a bit awkward as it was taller than him, yet he dragged it to the ground and with a grunt - twisted. The strange creature barely had time to choke before shattering to ice dust, but surprisingly, leaving its armor and sword. Benjen thanked the gods for the boon, although the armor was too tight.
He wished he had actual clothes, for while he barely felt the cold now, the translucent ice was uncomfortable. Benjen stared at the horse, shocked to discover it had a horn. A Unicorn! And not like the goats of Skagos.
The unicorn lazily stared back before snorting and continuing to graze. It was saddled and nearly half again as large as the largest destrier he had seen. He warily approached it and patted its neck, noticing it was a mare rather than a stallion. The steed was docile enough as he led it back to where he left Nyra.
As he walked, he caught his reflection in a clear ice sheet and froze. Staring back at him with eyes that were more blue than grey, was a familiar face, if a bit gaunt, but his hair and wild beard had gone completely white. Just how long had he been here?
Benjen shook his head and quickly collected the sleeping girl and the crystal, chuckling to himself at a job well done, before climbing the unicorn and holding his woman before him. With a click of his tongue, the mare shook her head and exited the cave.
Outside, he found himself on a cliff's ledge, a bit far from the settlement and its castle. Looking at it now, he could tell it was not as large as he thought - barely larger than an average castle like Cerwyn's and made from stone as well as Ice, yet with a queer design that was both sharp and elegant. He wondered if there were more castles and settlements, hidden by the inhospitable lands of always winter?
Benjen shook his head. Such thoughts could wait for later.
The skies were bright with northern lights, a beautiful sight that was rare in the North, yet he had learned it was the norm in the Lands of Always Winter. The land was covered in snow and rocks, but there was a surprising amount of woodlands and vegetation.
He tried to figure out where he was, yet the constellations were difficult to see from the northern lights. Benjen needed to return to the Wall. Whatever the Others were up to, he had no idea, but he needed to report that they existed and were active.
Nyra fidgeted in his arms but continued sleeping as she snuggled deeper into his embrace. He had no idea how she would react once she awakened, yet he would cross that bridge when they arrived. Sighing, he nudged the horse away down the hill and towards the distant mountains.
He had a long journey ahead of him. He just hoped those were the Frost Fangs.
Percy meets the alchemists. Flamethrowers GET!
Spitfires are mentioned in the books yet are never elaborated on. We know medieval flamethrowers existed, so why not make some?
We finally get an update on our erstwhile Stark. Percy awakening magic had far-reaching consequences, such as giving Benjen a boost…as well as the Others.
What the Others gained from this remains to be seen.
And yes, I'm making my own twist regarding the Others plotline.
If you would like to read four chapters ahead, or simply support me, look me up on Patr(eo)n under the same pen name.
White Harbor,
Alchemist guild.
"What do you think, Pops?"
"Hmm, it's close. Very close to the real thing, but far too unstable in its current form to be useful."
Percy hummed as he ignored the odd whisper in his mind, focusing instead on his father's voice. He willed the green liquid to flow around his hand, smirking inwardly at the alchemists hiding behind a corner as he stood in the center of an empty chamber with a single window. He couldn't blame them; the Stark men he had handpicked excused themselves to the privy when he announced his decision to peruse the green stuff. Still, some punishment for abandoning their boss was in order.
Perhaps he should have them do a hundred extra push-ups later. Or maybe he should dress them in pink as they walk around town.
Having minions was so cool.
"In its current form, you say?" Percy rubbed his chin. "Does that mean there is a way to control it?"
"Yes, for even though it's fire, it's still a liquid. I may not be known for fire, but my forges were underwater, so I have some understanding of the aspect. Depending on how it's made, you can use a drop of your blood as a medium for stability."
"Huh, is that how you do magic?"
"I'm not proficient in witchcraft like Hera or Hecate, but when you have as much raw power as I or my brothers do, you discover that we can simply will something to happen and be done with it."
"So, a drop of my blood, instill my will in it somehow, and it should be stable?"
"Should be. Also, Son, try not to speak out loud."
Percy gulped, warily looking around. But no, the alchemists were all hiding out of fear of the wildfire, so nobody had heard or would claim him a loon. For good or for bad, his ADHD brain got distracted when speaking with his Dad, and sometimes, his mouth just moved with his thoughts anyway.
"Thanks, Dad. And this stuff is quite interesting," Percy snapped his fingers, and the wildfire ignited over his hand. "Almost hot enough to rival Greek Fire."
The whispers were getting distracting like they usually were, but Percy had learned to ignore them.
Focusing on the green flames on his hands, Percy could feel the heat of the substance, even through his heat-resistant skin. It was unpleasant but not yet painful, and Percy wanted to see its limitations. He had never been doused with Greek Fire before, thank the gods, but he did have chunks of lava thrown at him, so he thought it was a close comparison.
"Alright, this is enough." It was spoken outloud this time. He took a deep breath, deeper than he should be capable of, and blew a gust of cold air into his hand, snuffing the flames and leaving his skin red and slightly blistered - pouring a flask of seawater he kept for such occasions, his skin knitted itself before his eyes. "You can come out now."
A handful of alchemists entered the chamber where he tested the Wildfire, their hands fidgeting in worry and excitement. "My Lord, were you satisfied?"
"I believe so. How much more can you make of this?"
"Oh… That was the only batch we had in reserve, My Lord." One of the alchemists, a gaunt older man known as Wisdom Artos, bowed his head in apology. "We could make more, but we are not like the pyromani–excuse me, the pyromancers in King's Landing. We specialize in the traditional teachings of alchemy."
"Uh, like what? Turning lead to gold and making elixirs of immortality?"
The alchemists gawked at him in shock, and Percy grimaced inwardly - hopefully, he didn't just give them ideas. He blamed the annoying whispers for his lapse in judgement, and he could feel Poseidon shrugging helplessly in his mind.
"Their teachings are much more mundane, My Lord. Matters of engineering, carpentry, smithing, and such, but on the more delicate and precise side. They also dabble with potions and tinctures, but I would not trust them to heal me from a cold."
The voice came from another hallway, and Percy raised an eyebrow at his returning men, led by a young man wearing the common livery for a household guard of House Stark but with a small chain hanging from his collar; Donnis was an apprentice taught by the Maester of Winterfell, while the two other men were Kyle and Mark. All three of them were part of the contingent sent to serve Sansa.
"Sup, Donnis. Took you a bit long in the loo, don't you think? Constipation, perhaps? Did the muffins not sit well with your stomach?"
The maester apprentice grimaced and rubbed his head in embarrassment; the two other guardsmen looked just as uncomfortable. "My apologies, My Lord. Maester Luwin had told me horror stories of wildfire going out of control. Not to mention, the substance is not popular in the North owing to what it was used for twenty years ago."
Percy's smirk turned into a frown as he recalled Sansa's history lessons. Her grandfather, Rickard Stark, was a victim of the Mad King's justice and was burned with the substance.
"Understandable," He turned back to the alchemists who had been giving Donnis the stink eye. "What sort of things should I expect from you? Lord Manderly recommended your services, and I find myself with a lot of gold to spend. But what achievements have you made? I gotta know the capabilities of who I'm hiring, after all."
From there, the alchemists took him on a tour of their guild. Percy had to stifle a grin as the alchemists took every opportunity to disparage the maester's order, hoping to get a reaction out of Donnis. He was briefed by the half-maester, as some men called him, on the rivalry between the two organizations, as well as what to expect from their guild; Their hierarchy, capabilities, talents, and so on.
Surprisingly, Donnis had no qualms with the alchemists, returning their petty insults with jokes but not provoking them…for the most part.
He was also fond of reiterating that he was not a maester - only an apprentice and had never been to the Citadel. Something about being celibate was not in his plans; Percy could definitely understand that as his mind wandered to Sansa's beautiful face and alluring curves.
Regardless, it's why Percy picked the dark-haired man with sharp brown eyes. In his early twenties, Donnis Poole was respectful and diligent, not to mention one of the few men who could read, write, and do all the stuff required from a scholar and administrator. With an open mind towards knowledge and an eye for detail, Donnis was useful in providing him information on matters he would be ignorant of.
It helped that he was no weakling who would need people to protect him. As a noble, even a petty one with no future prospects, he was trained at arms from a young age before finding his calling as a scholar. That meant he had to suffer with the rest of the men in training, for Percy would accept no weaklings among his ranks.
Still, Percy was glad he found someone to dump any paperwork on.
As for his two other minions, Kyle was a decent rider and an excellent swordsman, yet it was his gregarious nature and eye for talent that had Percy drag him along for his jaunt to the city. Mark was a silent man, yet quite the marksman, pun unintended, and had the uncanny ability to blend in with any crowd as well as listen for any interesting topics.
Even in this world, his aim was worse than terrible, so Percy had given out those twenty crossbows he found on the ship to the twenty best shots of their little army, Mark included. Myrish Crossbows, he thought they were called, massive things that needed a windlass to reload but could hold three bolts that could fire simultaneously or one at a time.
It had given Percy some ideas, and he ran them through with the shipmaster working on the Silver Lady - it remained to be seen what would come from it.
Back to the Alchemist Guild, Wisdom Artos led the procession and explained the history of their organization. They had existed since before White Harbor's founding. When the Guild was still relevant, it rivaled the Citadel and served the Wolf's Den before the Manderlys took over, but it had always been a small branch owing to the city's small size. With the distance between the North and the South and the constant wars, it made sense for them to diverge from their southern counterparts in focus and studies.
They still claimed to have vast knowledge stored in reserve, but as Donnis said, their focus was mostly on the science of the world. Mechanics and physics, instead of magic and fire, though they assured him they still communicated with their southern counterparts and shared knowledge.
A whisper, still making little sense, seemed to be proud for some reason.
The guild hall was dug into one of the cliffs outside the city in case of accidents, and as they walked through the hallways, Percy passed by several windows carved from the cliff. At its height, the guild had ten Wisdoms, dozens of apprentices, and many more acolytes. Now, they were a shadow of their former self, with only two Wisdoms, a handful of apprentices, and a dozen or so acolytes, surviving only by the grace of Lord Manderly and what service they could provide for him and the city.
They passed by many chambers, most abandoned or sealed off, but a few had interesting experiments going on. While the alchemists were few, they collaborated heavily with the rest of the city's craftsmen and were hired for commissions and other contracts. All of them were residents of White Harbor and had family in the other guilds, so it was normal for them to be contracted by the other guilds of the city - especially as they rarely set things on fire…at least not without reason.
Currently, Percy was inside a chamber with a strange device made from some sort of dark silver alloy being tended to by an apprentice. It almost looked like a low-caliber cannon with a cranking mechanism. "What's this?"
"Ah, this is one of our newer inventions. Bennard here is a smith's son and has been helping with its tests." The apprentice bowed his head and moved aside for Wisdom Artos to rub a gentle hand over the device. "The Pyromancers of King's Landing have always been obsessed with creating the substance, yet they never truly innovated a way to use it in practice. The closest they had come was during King Aegon IV's reign with their wooden dragons."
"With catastrophic consequences," Donnis elaborated from behind him. "Burned down a quarter of the Kingswood and countless men."
"Indeed, who knew using wood would be a terrible idea when dealing with fire." Bennard tutted, "We have worked on this invention for the past few years for Lord Manderly's defenses."
"Yes, but what is it?"
"We call them Spitfires. As the name would suggest, we pour liquid fire in them, light a wick at the end of the barrel, turn the windlass, and it shall spit fire at its targets."
"Impressive." It reminded Percy of how the mortals of Byzantium attempted to imitate Greek Fire. "And it doesn't melt from the heat?"
"Ah, we tried several metals and alloys that could withstand the heat and discovered that only the tip of the barrel needed to be made from a special alloy of steel and nickel, while iron or bronze could be used for the rest." Bennard explained enthusiastically. "My father and brothers helped create that alloy, and we have decided to call it Stainless Steel."
Percy raised an eyebrow as he recognized the term, but it looked nothing like all the kitchen utensils he had back home that claimed to be made from the stuff. He shrugged; he would never claim to be an expert in metallurgy, and his Dad remained silent.
"Have you tested it?"
"We have. We did not dare use the substance, of course, but there are weaker formulas that are more stable and less hazardous to the men operating the spitfires, though with less devastating results. I can give a demonstration if you would like?" Bennard, or Ben as Percy decided to call him, turned to Wisdom Artos, who in turn turned to Percy, who nodded.
Within a few minutes, they loaded the device on a cart and rolled it out to a rampart, placed it on a stone pedestal, and aimed at an empty clearing. Ben operated it on his lonesome, but he explained that having three people working it together would be far more efficient: one to secure the fuel sac made from pig bladder, one to turn the crank (or windlass), and one to make sure the wick was burning, and the aim was true.
"Ready?" Ben turned to them as he grabbed the handle and waited for their nod. "Ignite!"
The alchemist apprentice cranked the handle as fast as he could; the fuel in the sack of pig bladder was pressurized and compressed to the limit before Ben flicked a handle that released it through the barrel. The effect was instantaneous, as whatever volatile liquid they used burst into red-hot flames from the lit wick underneath the barrel and sprang across the yard at a couple of targets about a hundred feet away, setting everything along the way on fire.
It barely lasted a few seconds before the bladder was deflated and its payload delivered. Just before it was empty, Ben flicked another handle, cutting the burst off and preventing the flames from spreading around him.
"It's not the safest weapon, but if the crew is well-trained, there shouldn't be any cause for concern." Ben stood up and detached the empty sack, causing some liquid to spill onto the ground, which he quickly threw some sand on. "As you can see, the operator needs to follow all the safety procedures, or else an accident could occur. It takes some time to refill the sack, but it's possible to keep several of them on hand and quickly switch them for constant firing. Having several men working the spitfire would help in that process."
Wisdom Artos looked pleased with his apprentice's show, and Percy would admit he was also very impressed. A glance at Donnis and the rest of the men showed both trepidation and awe - it's only natural to be wary when dealing with fire.
Another whisper in his mind, this one full of glee at the sight of the fire, but Percy vehemently ignored it.
"And you plan to have those devices installed along the walls and fortifications of the city?"
"Indeed, My Lord. They would be very effective against ships and ladders or even charging groups of soldiers."
As Percy watched the effects of the archaic flamethrower, he couldn't help but grin as ideas ran in his mind. "What about installing them on wagons or ships?"
.
.
.
They returned to the city, and Percy took this chance to check on the orders for his men. It had only been four days since Manderly bought out the metal ores in the city on their behalf and sent his cogs to other ports to replenish the city's stores. The smithing guilds would use all that to finish their orders, even though they were already busy forging arms and armor for the war effort. White Harbor's armies were mustering, along with those of Old Castle and Widow's Watch; their lords and ladies were already travelling as fast as they could for the wedding.
Gods, he's starting to speak like them.
Riding on Blackjack through the streets, with his men on their warhorses, Percy could see signs of the preparations of the wedding feast Wyman Manderly ordered for the city. Buildings and stores were adorned with colorful banners, flags, and garlands, giving the white city a myriad of colors that gave it a festive feel. Men were busy sweeping the streets, and making sure they were presentable for the wedding procession. Women were carrying purchases for their houses, and children played with kites or watched jugglers and acrobats playing on one of the makeshift stages on the squares.
A grunt from behind him had Percy glance at his new companion holding on to his mule's saddle like his life depended on it, "Alright there, Ben?"
"Y-Yes, My Lord. I'm just not used to riding…well, anything!"
"You'll get used to it." He was tempted to have his men call him Percy as the whole My Lord thing still felt strange to him, but both his father and Sansa shot him down - he needed to preserve that air of authority he already established or something. Truth be told, he had only listened with half an ear. "If it helps, the mule says to stop kicking him too much, or he will knock you off its back."
"Y-Y-Yes, M-My Lord."
Gone was the confident smith and alchemist from before, and in his place was a shy and reticent fellow. Percy offered the man a position in his retinue, with permission from the Wisdom and a hefty commission of course, and both the guild and Bennard agreed since his project with them was over. Still, he didn't think the man would be such an introvert, as once they entered the city, he had clammed up like a turtle in a shell.
He'll get over it. He and Donnis seem to have struck a quick enough friendship as their interests aligned.
Meanwhile, Percy tore a bite of the smoked meat in his hand and chewed in pleasure. The leviathan was a tasty treat, and he had the privilege of getting first dibs on it. The rest of the beast was still getting butchered; most of it will go towards the city's festival, yet the juiciest parts of the meat will go to the wedding feast itself.
If what he heard was true, there were even more of them out there, and Percy planned to hunt them. Still, he could not be in two places at once, and his place should always be next to Sansa.
Thinking of the beautiful girl who was to be his wife made his insides twist with anxiety while butterflies were trying to fly around at the same time.
Gods, he was not ready. What if things didn't work out-
"Percy, stop that. I told you already, son. Being nervous is fine. Problems will inevitably appear sooner rather than later, and a good marriage is one where you deal with such woes as soon as possible. Besides, It's not like you had trouble being a problem solver before."
His father's words once again brought him a measure of relief. The nervousness receded, if not completely, but his mind still drifted. He still could not believe he was getting married!
Ah, yet another whisper at the back of his mind; this one almost seemed lustful.
Strangely, he very much looked forward to marrying Sansa, but it was part of his new responsibilities to help her brother's subjects, so those sea monsters needed to be dealt with.
His monster-slaying instincts were also tingling.
Thoughts and plans sped through his mind on the best way for regular mortals to slay such beasts. If only he could recreate cannons and gunpowder, yet while he knew the recipe for black powder thanks to his Dad, making cannons was far easier said than done. Instead, Percy focused on what was available, hence his visit to the Alchemist guild.
Harpoons could be useful, but he recalled the tough hide of that monster. He might need something with a bit more oomph in it to crack it open. Something to think on later, but for now, he had an appointment with the tailor for his wedding.
.
.
.
"Where to next, My Lord?"
It was a couple of hours later, and the late afternoon sun shyly peeked from behind the clouds. After having to endure many prods and nudges from a team of seamstresses and tailors over his choice of wedding clothes, Percy was finally free. His order would be ready tomorrow at noon, and he would have an extra day to get used to it before the wedding. He had already visited a silversmith for some accessories that his father insisted he wear during the wedding - it would not do to look like a bum and embarrass Sansa.
"You three shall stable my horse, then take our new companion to our training yard. Get him up to speed, and make sure he could swing a hammer at someone as well as he could swing it at the anvil."
"B-But, My Lord! I'm not a fighter, and I thought you would need my expertise in other matters. Like designing a portable spitfire, or an extra large spitfire…oh, or maybe–"
"Stop whinging, you pansy Harborman." Kyle slapped Ben on the shoulder from on top of his courser. "We'll make a real man out of him, Lord Perseus."
"Good, and don't worry, Ben. You will get all the materials you need to make all sorts of contraptions that go boom. But first, you gotta prove to me that you can take care of yourself. We're in the middle of a war, after all."
Kyle laughed at the morose alchemist while Donnis gave him a consoling nod.
Mark stared at him with his stoic face - Percy had yet to get the marksman to smile. "What about you, My Lord?"
"I got business in the Wolf's Den. I'll meet you by dinner time."
His companions nodded and left him at the foot of the Castle Stair, and Percy adjusted the Valyrian Steel shield he carried on his back. Its sharp rim was a hazard, but he managed to have a special sheath made for it; no matter how sharp Valyrian Steel was, it still needed leverage and inertia to cut anything.
Its handle was not comfortable compared to his old shield - he dearly missed his brother and wished he was here; Tyson would have been a godsend in this medieval world. Thankfully, whoever designed the shield had left grooves on the inner side of the shield where the handle's position could be adjusted. He just needed to find a dependable smith to make him a handle worthy of the shield - or just have Ben do it; he did just hire him.
As he walked the cobbled path to the ancient castle, Percy inspected the houses clinging to the outer walls - like all of White Harbor's houses, they were made from whitewashed stones with a crenelated roof. White Harbor might be small and vulnerable to attacks from the shore due to its open harbors, yet every house and building was designed in such a way that it could double as a defensive structure.
The blackened walls of the Wolf's Den looked to have survived many fires and sported many scars of battle; a section had half of its top crumbled, and Percy suspected the rubble was reused to build some of the houses, using the wall as a fourth wall. The guards by the gates saluted him as he entered, finding himself in a large courtyard with men training and lounging.
Everyone recognized him by sight or the hilt of Ice sticking from his back, and they all saluted him as he made his way through the courtyard. His destination was a massive set of double doors with a small side door, only to be stopped by an old knight with one leg and one eye.
"Lord Perseus," The knight rasped as he eyed him with suspicion and wariness. "Ser Bartimus Snow, at your service. I was told by Lord Manderly you would visit, but…"
"I promise you I will not harm anything inside. I only wish to pay respect to the gods."
The knight's face was like a block of stone as he stared at him with his single eye, the other covered by a gray eye patch. Finally, he nodded and opened the side door for him.
Soon, he was in a lush garden with a tangle of oak, elm, and birch trees that were choked by the massive roots and limbs of the great Weirwood. A glance at the walls surrounding the Godswood showed a door that led towards a stairway connecting to the garden of New Castle. That one did not have a Heart Tree - Wyman Manderly confessed neither he nor his ancestors ever bothered to plant one.
The Manderlys might follow the Seven, but from what he noticed in the city, the average citizen did not seem to hold to just one set of gods. There were parks and private gardens in the city with small Weirwoods, and he had seen men and women praying to statues of the seven made from the holy tree. Even in the Sept of Snow, when he accompanied Sansa to visit a tomb of a family member, he had seen small statues made from the wood; clearly, that little bit of heresy was tolerated by the clergy here or even encouraged by Manderly.
Yet those weirwoods he had seen lacked the hallmark of a Heart Tree, unlike the one before him. It was quite the foreboding sight, and Percy found himself gulping as thousands of whispers resounded in the godswood as he stepped closer to the fat and angry face carved into the bone-white trunk. They were much louder and far more incoherent than anything he had experienced.
As he approached, the whispers got more urgent, more excited or angry, yet he could not understand anything - the tree wept crimson sap from its eyes and mouth, and a flock of ravens cawed from the branches.
"It looks like that fat lord if someone stole the last piece of lamprey from his plate."
Percy burst out in laughter at the unbidden image, "Thanks, Pops. I needed that."
With the spell of foreboding broken, Percy was confident to inspect the tree again. He could feel power thrumming from its bark; its leaves had a pleasant, sweet smell, yet the tree bore no fruits or even nuts.
"Are you sure about this, son? I do not feel hostility from whatever entities dwell in those trees, yet I advise caution, nevertheless."
"That would be the wise thing, I suppose - to turn back and ignore that constant whispering that has plagued my mind since I set foot in these lands. Not even you could shut it up, Dad."
"True. Then again, you are just like I am, son."
"In that wisdom has chased us for so long, yet we always tend to be just a bit faster than it?"
"Cheeky. Touch the damned tree, and let's be done with this."
Percy's grin melted as he prepared himself and placed his palm on the fat face.
His world turned dark.
A*H*M
Far, far, beyond the realms of men.
They came for him again. They had him bound to a throne of black stone with ice that he could barely feel. It was not cold, nor did it freeze him, yet it was tough. His arms almost melded with the armrests, and his legs bound the same way. His new home was a dark, icy cavern with a single hole in the ceiling, letting the moonlight through to fall on a pit where a crystal orb sat. The moon was seemingly eternal, for he had not seen the sun in so long.
Benjen Stark did not remember how long he had been held here. The last he remembered was his mission and his companions slain ignominiously. He fought those cold shadows and disarmed two, but his blade did nothing but shatter against their skin. They would laugh at him, their voices like shattered ice, grating heavily on his ears.
So he shoved his fingers deep into one of their eyes, killing it as he scrambled its brains.
That shut them up, and it was his turn to laugh as the fucker had inexplicably shattered to dust.
Whatever magic they used, it repelled blades and steel, yet they could do nothing against flesh - as long as he endured the bitter cold. They were strong in body and had cat-like reflexes, yet they had no martial skills. Any proper knight could have bested them, for they fought worse than wildlings.
They still captured him, for they had numbers, and he was exhausted, but not before he snapped another one of their necks. They might be strong, but their frames were fragile, like brittle ice.
He could not recall how long ago that was, only that they brought him to their home. A snow castle deep in the Lands of Always Winter! It would have made his sister jump in excitement; so similar it was to the ones they would build in the Godswood when they were children.
Benjen saw giant spiders and wooly mammoths along the way, for they also had villages and hamlets. They were herded by giants, yet they were entirely different from the giants he had known - less furry and far more comfortable with the cold; men, and women, towering over fifteen feet, while the children would make an Umber look small.
There were far more strange creatures and things but his captors did not give him a chance to inspect more. They dragged him before their chiefs and elders - their women and children, too, and they stared at him like he was an unusual specimen.
He couldn't blame them, for he stared in return. It was not out of fear but shock and disbelief.
Pale skin with a bluish tint, like ice, as graceful as shadowcats. They were the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen. Their hair came in different pale colors, but most of them were white, silver, gray, platinum, or even the rare blue. Their faces were sharp and ethereal, their features as if sculpted by an artist, with straight noses and high cheekbones and eyes in all the shades of blue.
Their bodies were lithe and tall for the men - willowy and curvy for the women. They were a much fairer sight than the ones who brought him here, who looked more like an imitation of what one of them should look like.
But they were not the only things he found there.
There were humans there, humans like him, yet not truly there. It took him a few minutes to realize they were dead, with eerily glowing blue eyes, and served as menial servants.
It was then he finally understood who had taken him captive.
Others and their wights!
He had struggled mightily then; he refused to be turned into some monstrous doll for them to be used against his brothers - his nephew! He could not afford to get himself killed, and he had to escape!!
But where would he go? The freezing cold was everywhere, and it seeped into his bones. He always prided himself on his fortitude against the chill, laughing and teasing the Southrons who joined the Watch in summer and complained about the mildest gale.
They had yet to experience true winter, he would say.
And neither did he, it seemed.
Benjen had fully expected to die then, that they had brought him to their leaders for execution, a show before they would raise them as one of their thralls.
Instead, they placed him here, his new home.
They would not let him move or exercise. He did not seem to need to shit, either. They fed him milk of some kind and meat, enough to keep him alive but not sated. Days flew by, weeks, months, maybe years - he could not tell. Every week, they would come and cut his wrists or feet, allowing his blood to flow down funnels toward the thing in the pit.
Some strange crystal orb that drank his blood hungrily.
He had gradually grown weaker; the loss of blood combined with a lack of movement and proper food caused his muscles to atrophy, and he could barely feel his limbs.
Until suddenly, he could!
His sleep had always been mired by nightmares that he could not remember. Sometimes, he would be lucky and be too exhausted to dream.
But one day, it changed.
Benjen started feeling better. His sleep was more peaceful, and his dreams more vivid. Someone was trying to tell him something in his dreams, but he could barely remember them when he awoke.
It didn't matter, for his body had started to regain its strength. Days passed, the moon turned its cycle, and suddenly, Benjen could feel it.
The ice, snow, and cold around him used to sap his strength and make him feel alone. Suddenly, it felt different. The frost fed him, gave him strength, and soothed him.
Benjen felt far too calm and collected than he had any right to. More lightheaded, too. It shouldn't have been possible. Not even Old Nan told such tales!
Perhaps he was dying or already dead, and this was some feverish dream or the afterlife. Perhaps… perhaps it was real. He could not yet tell the difference.
Before, the Others would send their ice dolls to feed him daily, while two older shamans or priests of some kind would extract his blood once a week. At least, he thought it was once a week. But since the day he had started to recover, there was a new addition to their numbers.
A young woman he recalled seeing on that first day. Back then, she had looked at him disdainfully, like a queen would look at a dirty peasant. He suspected she was the daughter of their leader, for she had stood behind him back then, and had the bearing of royalty along with a small crystal crown over her head that held a large obsidian stone in the center. Now, she stared at him in interest, her blue eyes twinkling in amusement and her leaf-shaped ears twitching behind her blueish hair as he tried to talk to her.
At first, they could not understand each other, but he didn't care. It had been a long time since he had spoken to anyone, and none of the rest seemed to pay him any heed. She would speak to him in her melodic tongue, yet he could not understand it either. Benjen was unsure why she suddenly became interested in him, but he did not mind as she always brought more food than the dolls. More milk, that strange meat, and even cheese!
Day after day, she would visit him. Talk to him. Soon, they could understand each other, taught each others' languages, and learn about each other. Her name was far too difficult for him to pronounce, so he just called her Nyra. He learned the milk and cheese came from the mammoths, while the meat was from spider legs.
He was unsure whether he preferred to know whether he had been eating spider meat. In the end, he shrugged; It tasted like chicken.
The snowy princess seemed very interested in his name, his blood, and tales about the Wall. Benjen got the feeling she felt both excitement and fear from the mention of the Wall. Yet it was the sun that she asked about the most, and he could understand considering he had yet to see the bright light of the sun since coming here.
One day, Nyra arrived alone, and it was not feeding time. Benjen could feel his muscles recovering to their former strength and had slowly been trying to free himself from his icy binds. He stared at her then, for normally, she would be dressed in white silk, which gave her a modest and dignified appearance.
This time, she only had a cloak made from mammoth wool, and as she stood before him, Nyra shrugged it off, showing him her bare skin - naked except for the small crown on her head.
Benjen had been bound naked to his frozen throne for so long, yet the sight before him had his mind go blank. He would not claim to have kept to the vows of the Night's Watch religiously, for he had had the occasional tumble in Mole's Town or even the daring spear wife who would sell herself for a piece of bacon.
It was a badly kept secret among the more senior brothers that the vows of celibacy were bogus, but none of that registered in his mind at the sight of sheer beauty before him.
Pale unblemished skin, large perky breasts topped with dark pink nipples, a toned stomach, wide hips, pert ass and long legs. Nyra was a sight to behold, and he felt his member rise from its slumber.
The minx had then sat on his lap and kissed him deeply, Benjen struggling mightily as he tried to free himself to grab that arse and slam her down his cock. Nyra merely smirked once she saw his struggles, and then she grabbed his member and plunged down with a pained moan.
For a moment, his mind felt blank.
Tight!
Even tighter than a vice, yet softer than velvet, her core gripped him almost painfully. The usual warmth of the coupling was replaced by a pleasant chill that made his spine tingle with pleasure.
He was surprised to see purple blood seep into his loins. She gently rode him then, her moans growing more sensual as she adjusted to his size, and the pain subsided.
It was a long time since he had laid with a woman, and no woman could ever compare to the ethereal one on his lap. Benjen continued to struggle mightily, his hips slamming upwards to meet her downward thrusts. His muscles bulged, and he could hear cracking sounds from the ice digging into his skin, the pain giving him moments of clarity.
He suddenly recalled the tale of the Night's King and his Corpse Bride. The 13th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had supposedly given his seed to his bride, whatever the fuck that meant. Could Nyra be doing the same? Did he care? The Night's King remained married for ten years, thriving on the Wall with his bride, yet none cared about it until he declared himself king.
Benjen was not particularly pleased with his stay in this prison, yet he would not mind taking this woman for himself if he could be free.
The moment the idea came to him, he managed to shatter his shackles and grabbed Nyra by her waist. Her shocked face caused something primal to roar in his mind as he claimed her lips and finished inside her with a powerful thrust. As she was frozen in rapture, he growled as his legs struggled mightily against their confines before, with a screeching noise, broke the ice to pieces; then, he turned his lover on the throne and thrust again from behind. His hands roughly kneaded her soft teats, while all his instincts demanded he claim her, mark her!
Benjen could not remember much of what happened later, only that he lost count of how many times he had spent himself inside Nyra… and the taste of her blood in his mouth as he bit deeply on her shoulder. The woman was exhausted and incoherent, yet he still felt plenty of vigor, if hungry.
This was his chance.
The idea of abandoning Nyra never came to his mind - she was his woman now, his teeth marked her flesh as his, and his seed was sown inside her. Slinging her over his shoulder and wearing her heavy cloak, Benjen grabbed the crystal orb from the pit before making his way out of the cave. It was incredibly reckless, yet he knew he would never get another chance to escape.
He stopped by the cave's entrance and sneaked a peak behind a corner. There was one of those ice dolls, staring outwards and keeping watch for intruders - giving the impression that Nyra was not supposed to be here. There was also what seemed to be a horse with a pelt as white as snow grazing nearby. The guard was wearing armor but no helmet. Benjen carefully placed Nyra on the ground and covered her with her cloak before sneakily approaching the ice construct and grabbing its neck from behind.
It was a bit awkward as it was taller than him, yet he dragged it to the ground and with a grunt - twisted. The strange creature barely had time to choke before shattering to ice dust, but surprisingly, leaving its armor and sword. Benjen thanked the gods for the boon, although the armor was too tight.
He wished he had actual clothes, for while he barely felt the cold now, the translucent ice was uncomfortable. Benjen stared at the horse, shocked to discover it had a horn. A Unicorn! And not like the goats of Skagos.
The unicorn lazily stared back before snorting and continuing to graze. It was saddled and nearly half again as large as the largest destrier he had seen. He warily approached it and patted its neck, noticing it was a mare rather than a stallion. The steed was docile enough as he led it back to where he left Nyra.
As he walked, he caught his reflection in a clear ice sheet and froze. Staring back at him with eyes that were more blue than grey, was a familiar face, if a bit gaunt, but his hair and wild beard had gone completely white. Just how long had he been here?
Benjen shook his head and quickly collected the sleeping girl and the crystal, chuckling to himself at a job well done, before climbing the unicorn and holding his woman before him. With a click of his tongue, the mare shook her head and exited the cave.
Outside, he found himself on a cliff's ledge, a bit far from the settlement and its castle. Looking at it now, he could tell it was not as large as he thought - barely larger than an average castle like Cerwyn's and made from stone as well as Ice, yet with a queer design that was both sharp and elegant. He wondered if there were more castles and settlements, hidden by the inhospitable lands of always winter?
Benjen shook his head. Such thoughts could wait for later.
The skies were bright with northern lights, a beautiful sight that was rare in the North, yet he had learned it was the norm in the Lands of Always Winter. The land was covered in snow and rocks, but there was a surprising amount of woodlands and vegetation.
He tried to figure out where he was, yet the constellations were difficult to see from the northern lights. Benjen needed to return to the Wall. Whatever the Others were up to, he had no idea, but he needed to report that they existed and were active.
Nyra fidgeted in his arms but continued sleeping as she snuggled deeper into his embrace. He had no idea how she would react once she awakened, yet he would cross that bridge when they arrived. Sighing, he nudged the horse away down the hill and towards the distant mountains.
He had a long journey ahead of him. He just hoped those were the Frost Fangs.
Percy meets the alchemists. Flamethrowers GET!
Spitfires are mentioned in the books yet are never elaborated on. We know medieval flamethrowers existed, so why not make some?
We finally get an update on our erstwhile Stark. Percy awakening magic had far-reaching consequences, such as giving Benjen a boost…as well as the Others.
What the Others gained from this remains to be seen.
And yes, I'm making my own twist regarding the Others plotline.
If you would like to read four chapters ahead, or simply support me, look me up on Patr(eo)n under the same pen name.
Well this was an interesting chapter. I wonder what's going to happen next? Regardless keep up the great work!
With this chapter, I've posted all available chapters on other websites. Next chapter for this story will be on Friday.
What other websites if you can say? Like ao3 or ffn?
And are you under the same username?
AO3 and FFN under the same penname
Fried_Chicken
CRISPY, Terrific, EXCELLENT, Yummy, and DELICIOUS.
- Location
- An oven near you today!
Interesting that the Others had a society of their own, feels kinda bad that Benjen just jumped straight to murder, even when it was demonstrably shown that the Others have a society and culture (and thus are not monsters). Perhaps they are on the warpath precisely because humans have killed them and driven them up to the north? Then again, I'm not too familiar with the canon Others and their motivations.
Chapter 13 (The Son of Ice and Fire)
This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
Fist of the First Men
Lord Commander Jeor Mormont
"Hold the line! Hold the fucking line, damn you!" Jeor grabbed Fornio as he stumbled out of the line and shoved him back with a new torch in hand. "Don't use your swords, you fools! Burn them, burn them all!"
His men roared in defiance as they brandished their torches and obsidian weapons at the enemy. Wights burned as if they were soaked in oil, and Tumberjon kicked a burning corpse down the hill, setting its fellows on fire. Simply stabbing them with obsidian was not enough, but it helped keep them in place long enough for a brother to set them on fire.
Whatever foul magic caused the dead to rise and walk seemed to conflict with the dragonglass, rendering any wight stabbed with them inert. However, when the men withdrew the obsidian, the wights would stand back up and continue shambling towards them.
Cutting them to pieces was even worse, as they would have to stab each separate piece and burn it.
If only they had more than two Valyrian Steel weapons.
Whatever magick the Valyrians had imbued in their blades permanently severed the connection of the Others with their wights, unlike obsidian. A single slice or stab was enough to drop the wights like mummer's dolls with their strings cut. The men would quickly set them on fire in case the Cold Shadows reformed the connection.
Jeor glanced at his steward as he performed a deadly dance with the gifted Longclaw, sending limbs and heads flying everywhere. Jon Snow kept an entire flank of the monsters at bay, showing his fortitude. Jeor had given him twenty men to command, and Snow silenced any grumbling from the older rangers by proving his mettle and skill with the sword.
At seven and ten, Jon Snow had a good head on his shoulder, sharp wits to go with it, and a very stable sword hand. Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, had proven his skill in teaching once more, building a good foundation in yet another pupil. Just like his uncle, Benjen Stark, Jon Snow was a diamond in the rough, an able warrior who only lacked experience, and if he lived long enough to gain it, he would be nigh unstoppable.
Or that was what Jeor had thought until things changed drastically over a moon prior.
Every morning, since that fated day, there was a newfound confidence in Jon Snow, both in his actions and stride. The Lord Commander observed how, with every new dawn, the boy practiced harder, and that awkwardness that clung to youth quickly melted away like summer snow under the sun. It reminded Jeor Mormont of how a fresh squire or son acted after their first battle. However, it was as if Jon Snow was fighting a bloody war every time he went to sleep, and he woke up a bloodied and more experienced veteran the next day.
All that experience that the young Snow lacked was appearing faster than Jeor could comprehend. Watching Stark's natural-born son dispose of the shambling corpses with well-practiced finesse and experience was a sobering experience. Each strike was precise, sharp yet fluid, and judging by the ease with which Longclaw bit into bone, bronze, and fur - strong. As an old man with his prime long gone, Jeor could admit, he would not be the boy's match even at his peak.
In fact, the only two in the Night's Watch that could hold against the current Jon Snow would be Qhorin Halfhand and Benjen Stark if he were found alive. And gods save him, Jeor would place all his coin on Snow in another sennight if he continued his current rate of growth.
His choice for steward was beginning to pay even more dividends because it was one thing for the men to follow some highlord's bastard and yet another thing entirely to follow another legend in the making. Any doubt in Jeor's mind about the boy's mother evaporated. This could only be that legendary Dayne talent mixing with the blood of the Kings of Winter.
And gods, the rumors of Eddard Stark raising him as a spare were indeed proven true. Tactics, command, leadership, knowledge, heraldry, history–Jon Snow was trained in it all.
Jeor could still remember their talk on that fated day a moon ago.
They had just left Craster's keep and were a sennight away from the wretch's home when they camped for the night near a spring. Jeor was speaking to his commanders in his tent when a disturbed Jon approached them.
The lad insisted he speak to him privately, but Thoren Smallwood had bristled at the impudence. The look in Jon Snow's haunted eyes and his direwolf's massive, looming form as it poked its head inside the tent convinced Jeor to give him a chance. There was something uncanny about the Weirwood colors of the Direwolf. Touched by the gods, some of the older rangers claimed when they saw Ghost the first time.
Jeor bid Jon enter, where the lad spoke to them about impossible things.
Lord Commander Brynden Bloodraven being alive; a greenseer who can see through the weirwoods the past and present, the return of the Others, Craster colluding with them… so many mad things that Jeor had immediately refused to believe. Jarman Buckwell even rebuked the young Snow for wasting their time with children's tales while Thoren's face increasingly turned red, muttering about heathen devilry as the young Snow spoke.
Then, Jon declared he had proof and brought them outside to show them. Despite Jeor's hesitance, Mallador Locke, who had remained silent throughout, followed the lad, causing Jeor and the others to hurry after them. At the edge of the camp, they found flocks of ravens on the trees, Jeor's own large raven screeching SNOW and flying to join them.
The bushes moved, showing figures with short statures and bright eyes. Jeor was a Northman and had been a member of the Night's Watch for many years. He had his fair share of dealings with wildlings and their foul magics. Skinchangers and wargs were rare but not unheard of, along with whatever charlatans pretending to be woods witches existed in these parts. However, that was the extent of the so-called magic that the lands beyond the Wall offered.
And yet, even he could not deny the existence of the Children of the Forest when they stared at him from the bushes.
Thoren Smallwood had unsheathed his blade and nearly ran one of them through if not for Locke grabbing his hand. The Riverlander had wide, bloodshot eyes and was frothing in the mouth about devils, but a command from Jeor had him stand down.
Only one of the Children could speak the common tongue; Leaf was her name. "We are Those-Who-Sing-The-Song-Of-The-Earth," she introduced them, the Children being a name they loathed for some reason, but Jon called them Earth Singers for short. Jeor felt like he was in a dream as all the fables of the North came alive in front of him.
Leaf, the Earth Singer, claimed the Last Greenseer, Brynden Rivers, was on their side and would be helping them through Jon Snow. Jeor did not know why it had to be Jon Snow in particular, but Jon confessed to him later that Bloodraven was not keen on approaching the Watch. It was only due to Jon's stubborn insistence that he acquiesced and sent the Earth Singers along with something else.
As a sign of goodwill, they gifted him a Valyrian Steel sword.
"Wait, this looks like the description of Dark fucking Sister," Jarman Buckwell gasped in shock as he picked up the sword.
Any doubts about the authenticity of the claims were washed away then, for everyone knew the blade was with Bloodraven during his final, ill-fated ranging.
Bloodraven even spoke to them through one of the ravens. Poor Thoren nearly got a stroke from the shock and had to lay down. The ancient ranger provided them important information about what was happening in these savage lands.
The Others were stirring once more. They were never gone, merely hidden to the far north and west beyond the Frostfangs, in lands neither the Watch nor anyone had ever charted. Jeor did not disbelieve him, for he had seen the corpses of Jaffer Flowers and Othor rise from the dead. His commanders were skeptical, but the existence of the Children rendered any of their suspicions moot.
"I spent decades trying to gleam into the Cold Ones," the murder of ravens crowed out in a small chorus. "Past, present, future. But to my greatest surprise, the Others were not one folk or group. It reminded me of wildlings, coming and going in tribes and clans, with their customs and languages."
And what united them? Apparently, their hatred of warmbloods. Humans. In simple terms, they were like the Essosi scum to the East. They desired more slaves to do their bidding, and they did so either by raising the dead or by creating Ice Dolls with the use of human babies.
Jeor now knew what Craster did with his sons, and he had half a mind to turn back to gut the heathen scum on a Weirwood.
"What changed, then?" The Lord Commander asked grimly. "Why would they unite now, after so many millennia?"
"I know no more than you do," came the bleak response. "But does it matter?"
It didn't matter, of course. The Others were driving the wildlings towards the Wall out of desperation, and they were hunting the rangers. Whatever the cause, it was an act of war.
"And how can we defeat those foul fiends?" Ser Mallador Locke, a senior ranger and commander of the scouts, asked impetuously. "Surely, there is a way?"
"There is," Leaf's voice was laced with sorrow, but then again, her speech sounded sad. "Wights take to fire like kindling, but it scarcely does anything to the Cold Ones. Obsidian or dragonsteel would shatter the frost dolls hewn from human babes. It's those hidden ones that are the most troublesome. They could control their dolls and dead thralls from afar."
"It's not going to be an easy fight," Brynden warned. "Or a short one. But you already suspected that. No, your immediate trouble will come from Mance Rayder and his army camped near the Frostfangs, west of the First of the First Men. The fool's searching for a magical horn that he believes could bring down the Wall. Pah, lackwits, and imbeciles, as if Brandon's Wall could be brought down by some pesky runic horn!"
The blatant derision in the raven's crowing had gotten a few chuckles from the rangers.
The corvids continued with their gargled cawing, "Of course, there are other, not-so-urgent matters. Magic seems to have awoken fully, and some things have changed."
Dread welled up in Jeor's chest. Magic was feared, and for good reason. But he asked anyway, "What things?"
"Dunno. I can feel the change, but how in the seven bloody hells would I know all of it? Some things that I never thought possible now easily happen. You might feel different or awaken some obscure talent or ability previously dormant in your lineage. Perhaps something entirely different. Or, well, you wouldn't notice a thing."
Jon Snow had stubbornly looked away as he patted his white direwolf, who happily wagged his shaggy tail like an obedient dog.
There was more information that Jeor found useful. Qhorin had left the Shadow Tower with one hundred men and was following the Milkwater's west bank towards the Fist. Bloodraven warns that if he continues on this path, he might stumble on Mance Rayder's wildling army. Jeor trusted Qhorin to have scouts on the field to avoid such a situation, yet he still decided to send Thoren and a score of men to better coordinate with the men from the Shadow Tower.
Finally, there were the whereabouts of his First Ranger. Bloodraven had watched from the Weirwoods as Benjen Stark fought valiantly against a group of the Ice Thralls but was ultimately captured. His whereabouts were still unknown, but it was worrying that the Others would want him alive. Regardless, they had learned valuable information from that confrontation.
Regular steel did nothing against the foe, but fisticuffs still worked - if you could overpower the mythical strength of the monsters and withstand their cold.
From there, the Earth Singers split into two groups. One of them, led by Leaf, would head north and west, beyond the Frostfangs, as they search for the base of the Others, where they believe they have Benjen Stark in captivity. Apparently, one of them was a skinchanger with an owl companion, making them excellent scouts, and they agreed that they would shadow Thoren's group as they meet with Qhorin and help them scout the wildlings.
His commander of the rangers was far too tired to object to it, thankfully.
A dozen of them remained, promising to act as forward scouts and supply them with obsidian. The Singers had pointed the Watchmen to vast deposits and caches that could be found… all over the place, really. Bloodraven also promised to translate for them through his ravens, although Jon Snow asked to be taught their tongue.
"No human had ever managed to fully learn it before. Even Brynden still has difficulty speaking it." Leaf had warned, "But I suppose it doesn't hurt to try."
And Jeor decided to keep his steward close.
Especially when it became clear the young man was a warg. Jeor had always suspected it with his uncanny control of Ghost, but his suspicions were confirmed when he saw him communing with ravens and reporting what they found. He did not care; considering their foes, a bit of magic on their side would not hurt.
Besides, it was not some wildling or a no-named peasant but the son of Ned Stark, a man who lived and breathed honor and duty. If any man could overcome whatever stigma or curse that came with using magic, it would be a Son of Winterfell.
Snow or not, it did not matter; the lad was raised there, and the blood of the Kings of Winter flowed thickly in his veins.
Jeor had, of course, ordered his commanders and the rest to keep mum about the Singers lest the men do something stupid. But word about the Others would be spread out, so the rangers were not unprepared when the black brothers faced them in battle.
The men were, predictably, distraught with the news about the Others. Many, led by Ottyn Wythers, had argued it would be best to return to the Wall now that they knew about the wildling army. If the Wall was impregnable, why should they risk their lives on the field?
"What happens if the coming winter proves cold enough to freeze the Bay of Ice or the Bay of Seals?" Jeor asked then. "It happened thirty years ago and twice more half a century prior."
That had silenced most complaints. The men grumbled, but that was something they always did.
"Besides, we still need to deal with the wildlings sooner or later," the Locke knight added. "What if the savage fucks decide to ally with the bloody Others like Craster?"
The rest of the commanders and senior rangers all agreed. And so, Jeor led the ranging towards the Fist. Ser Mallador was ordered to keep an eye on the troops in case the dissent spilled out of hand. Without his First Ranger, that duty would need to fall on a trusted ranger, and Mallador Locke was a Northman, a knight, and most importantly, one of the scant few who had taken the Black out of duty, not to avoid punishment.
Over the days and weeks, they trekked through the Haunted Forest, finding it to be eerily empty of any wildling. It was full of wild game, however, for the lack of human predators had allowed plenty of deer, elks, moose, boars, and other such animals to propagate.
The same could be said for the predators.
Jon Snow's direwolf prowled ahead daily, and returned with companions. It started slowly with a second direwolf, a she-wolf to be precise, then a couple of wolves, then more and more. Soon, Jeor suspected nearly a hundred bloody direwolves were just out of sight of the rangers. This was nearly five times the size of the biggest pack he had encountered prior - and that was regular wolves. Not even Jon Snow knew how many there were, as he claimed they followed Ghost. Even more grumblings sounded, particularly from the southerners and adherents of the Seven. The men had to waste time calming the horses while throwing dirty looks at his steward.
But one did not simply make problems for a man with a hundred direwolves at his beck and call. Jeor had seen a few shaggy beasts approach him late at night, rubbing playfully at the Stark bastard. Even two or three younger pups were always loitering around the young Snow.
It did not help that Jon Snow was in constant communication with Bloodraven. Jeor might have believed the ancient ranger's words but did not trust the old bastard himself. Who would not have his wits scrambled after living to such an old age?! Spending so many decades alone with nothing to do but spy on the realm… it would surely ruin the mind. He hoped young Jon would not take a similar path with how he used those ravens.
On the bright side, the hounds they brought were foisted on the young man to care for. What did it matter if he had a dozen more canines? Strangely, Chett, the kennel attendant, seemed upset about relinquishing control over the hounds and joining the front. Jeor recalled the leechman's son was an aid to Maester Aemon but was replaced by the literate Samwell Tarly.
Any of the men's worries and skepticism were squashed when they came upon the first group of shambling corpses. Jon's wolves sniffed them from miles away, and he, along with Jarman Buckwell, the second-best sword in the ranging after the young bastard, now wielding Dark Sister, led twenty men with obsidian and torches to clear them out. They lost no one, but they did not find the masters, only the thralls. There was no doubt it was a scouting party, and knowing the magic of the Others, they knew where they were.
At least the men grumbled less as they increased their pace to the Fist.
Jeor shook his head as he continued walking up and down the line, leaving Snow's position and barking orders at the men to hold their ground. Their foes did not tire nor retreat. They did not suffer from the cold, nor did they hunger. They surrounded them from all sides except the west, where the Milkwater acted as a moat for the fort, and the north, where the incline was too sharp for even the dead to attack from. The wights were slow and clumsy yet incredibly strong once they got a hold of you, as they discovered the hard way when one of the brothers was torn to pieces by a few of them.
Yet, as long as they knew their weaknesses, they were incredibly easy to defeat. Jeor worried more about their masters. His army had arrived at the Fist of the First Men two days ago, and the Singers reported Qhorin was still a few days away but had found the Wildling's camp, which meant his arrival could be delayed. The Halfhand would want to scout things properly, as he always did. Not that Jeor minded; knowing the position of your foes was essential in battle.
They had barely rested and started building fortifications when the Others struck late at night. Thankfully, Jon had warned them an hour ahead, and they had enough time to prepare torches and fashion whatever obsidian they found into weapons. They had been fighting for many hours now, yet the lack of sunlight hid the true numbers of the enemy.
Suddenly, a sudden cold snap tickled his spine, and Jeor turned towards where a screeching sound was heard. It was not a sound he had ever heard. It caused inexplicable fear to crawl up his back. The sound was like steel grinding on glass. The men were wavering, looking around wildly at where the sound came from, but he quickly asserted his presence.
"Focus on the dead! Forget the noise, burn those wretches, damn you!"
His commanders repeated his orders, though some needed more than a rap on the head to keep them fighting. On the southern part of the fort, a cowardly brother dropped his torch and pushed one of his fellow brothers at the advancing wights in an attempt to run towards the horses.
Before anyone could react, Mallador Locke stabbed the traitor from behind before beheading him. The Northern knight scowled as he dragged the corpse to one of the dismantlers to strip it of valuable clothes and armor before setting it on fire - then he turned to the rest of his troops, "You will fight, or you will fucking die. Better die doing your duty than be an oath-breaking scum!"
The men did not have time to think of retreating before the Wights increased their onslaught. But the clanging sound continued, followed by inhuman screeching. Jeor gathered his trusted reserves and hurried to the eastern side of the fort, where Jon Snow was stationed.
One man hurried to him as he approached, "Lord Commander! It's them, they're here!"
He did not need to guess who They were. Everyone was armed with dragonglass daggers and studded clubs, while Jarman Buckwell adjusted his grip on Dark Sister. They hurried to the eastern walls, finding many wounded and a couple of naked corpses set on fire, their garments set aside to be reused.
Jon Snow fiercely dueled three of the Cold Shadows, his blade a whirlwind of steel as he slashed, parried, deflected, stabbed, and fought like a bloody demon that belayed his young age of seven and ten. The clanging and screeching sound came from the Valyrian Steel clashing with the Other's Blade. His wolf pack had torn apart a giant spider and was in the process of tearing another, but many animal wights were attacking as well, yet the men peppered them with fire arrows.
The Others… were certainly a sight to behold, but now that he was forewarned by Bloodraven, he could tell that they were…lesser. Some imperfections like those he would find on the seams of a cheap cloak. Despite their ethereal beauty and the grace of their movements, they were too much like statues to believe them real.
They were Ice Dolls. Formerly human babes that were corrupted by whatever monstrous magic their masters used to become thralls. They lacked the skill to wield their blades as they threw wild swings at Jon Snow, which he expertly avoided, but they certainly did not lack strength, judging by the lad's grimace every time his blade met frost.
It only took Jeor a few heartbeats to inspect the scene before coming to a decision.
"Men, advance!"
.
.
.
For once, the sun shone brightly in this cold land, and Jeor could feel the exhaustion of his age. They had been fighting without respite for hours all through the night. More of the Ice Dolls appeared after slaying the three fighting Jon Snow, but dragonsteel and dragonglass, combined with valor and skill at arms, had beaten them back.
Their greatest adversaries were two dead giants and a mammoth. The mammoth was brought down by the direwolves while the giants struggled to climb up the hill, allowing them enough time to gather as many archers as possible and rain fire on them. Their furry hide set them ablaze.
By dawn, hardly any of the foes remained, and by sunrise, the scant few remaining had completely retreated. The men rejoiced, and Jeor allowed many to sleep while those awake to have a hearty breakfast, while he conversed with the Greenseer and the Singers. The conspicuous absence of the hidden masters of the Icy Constructs frustrated Bloodraven. The Others had once again proven elusive, somehow capable of hiding from his senses, though perhaps their magic was simply so strong that they could control their thralls from vast distances.
The smell of charred corpses still permeated the air as Brown Bernarr tended to his bleeding temple.
"It's just a scratch, Lord Commander. Normally, a poultice and clean bandages should have it healed within a sennight, but I'm not sure what manner of sorcery was in those blades."
"That will be all, Bernarr." He sent the squat ranger away with a wave of his hand and nodded to the tired Mallador Locke as he joined their campfire. "How many did we lose, Ser Mallador?"
"13 men dead and 19 wounded, all but two would recover after a few days rest. We must have slayed over a thousand wights and a dozen Others."
A low cheer sounded around the campfire, where most men were having breakfast or being treated for wounds. The casualties could have been far worse if not for Bloodraven's warnings. The wights were difficult to count because many burned to ashes, and more were animals instead of men.
"Seven fucking hells, those bastards used anything and everything to throw at us, even the bloody rabbits! Yet we still beat those bunnies!"
Another cheer resounded at one of the younger brothers' words, Pypar, he thought was his name. Jeor should work on remembering the names of his recruits.
"Jon the Slayer! Fucker slew three of those icy fucks. I swear on me mum, I saw it with me own eyes!" One of the younger brothers, Grenn, clapped Jon Snow's shoulder, causing the young man to grimace heavily; he had suffered a wound on his upper arm from the same blade that wounded Jeor.
Sam the Craven cautiously approached, and it seemed the fat lad had earned his moniker.
"How did you do it, Jon? I-I was so terrified, and I was tending to the ravens!"
"Let's hope you didn't eat any of them out of stress, Fat Sam."
"I-I did not!"
"Why so defensive, then? Ah, never mind. So, Jon," Pyper coughed as Snow kicked his legs, "We knew you were a fancy lord's son, but I swear I've never seen anyone swing a sword so damn fast in my life."
Everyone stared at the young Snow in a mix of curiosity and respect. Jeor also looked on from across the campfire. He had fought alongside the young man and saw him holding his own and ultimately defeating those three monsters when his best men floundered against them.
It was now clear that Jon Snow had awoken something, something other than skinchanging or the like. And Jeor felt pained to imagine how this ranging would have ended if they had gone in blind without the knowledge provided by his young steward. Or without his increasingly lethal sword skill.
"I just…trusted in my training," Jon Snow lowered his head. The boy was too humble for his own good; many others in his shoes would be boasting for the world to hear until their throat went sore. "The cold didn't bother me much. All I felt was my heart beating like a drum and my blood singing for battle."
He then rubbed his right hand over that icy bracer he wore on his left - his eyes glazed over and a queer smile blooming on his face. "It was like…like I needed to show those things not to underestimate me. I needed to kill them, no, to assert my power and dominance…"
A strange silence fell over them before Pypar alleviated it with more jests. Jeor glanced at his commanders, Ser Jarman and Ser Mallador, who shrugged. Ser Jarman had also slayed one of the Cold Shadows after a brutal duel while the rest were driven back by a hail of obsidian-tipped arrows.
Ned Stark must have trained his son very well indeed. Snow's wounded arm was bare, as if the cold did not bother him, and the linen wrapped around the cut had dried blood as if the wound was already closed. Strangely, he seemed to be recovering fine. Jon Snow had recovered a bracer from that icy material the Other wore. Any who touched it was burned by the cold, yet Snow felt nothing and wore it on his left arm.
Starks were built different, he supposed.
After the tiring night, nobody questioned Jon Snow anymore. Even now, Jeor could see he had won the grudging respect of all rangers, new, old, veteran, from the North or the South.
"Any word on Qhorin?"
The question was directed to Jon Snow, who was inspecting a sack of some sort that his snowy direwolf dug up. He stared into space for a heartbeat. "He's an hour away with Thoren Smallwood. They seem to have taken some wildlings captive."
He nodded, even as he ignored the queer looks thrown by his men at Snow. He might have proven himself formidable in battle, yet it was still hard to let go of the fears the men grew up with. Wargs, skinchangers, sorcerers…what was the world coming to when that was becoming normal?
Snow returned to the sack in hand, where he uncovered more dragonglass, which he quickly distributed. Before Jeor could grow more curious, Ser Locke signaled for him to speak in private. The Lord Commander tiredly stood and joined him a short-distance away where the man's squire, Donnel Hill, was waiting.
"Well, Mallador? What is it?"
"The traitor who tried to desert, and I beheaded. He was our former houndsman."
"What about him?"
"I had Donnel befriend him and keep an eye for any mischief. Donnel?"
"Aye, Chett had planned to have you and many of the higher-ranked brothers killed, Milord." Donnel Hill had an uneasy smile as he reported. "Tried to recruit many of us in some mad scheme to have Ottyn Wythers be commander, whom they hoped would then return to the Wall."
Jeor wanted to groan; mutiny so deep into the cold wilderness? Madness!
He once again lamented his order's lack of proper men of honor. There were enough in the higher ranks, but the common foot soldiers were scum who chose the Black over the noose.
He turned to the nervous squire only for his master to speak on his behalf, "Donnel agreed to join in the plot under my orders. We needed to root out such corruption among the ranks, and this was the best method."
Leave it to the most Southerly placed House in the North to have enough cunning to plan for such a ruse. Jeor was not made for such games; give him an ax in hand and a target, and he would gladly split an enemy's head. "Aye, if you vouch for him. But the coward is dead, so why bother with this now?"
"Chett was but the ringleader. There were other conspirators, milord." Donnel Hill glanced around warily as if worried they would be overheard. "They planned to kill Tarly to prevent ravens from making it to the Wall. I know they tried to recruit Small Paul, but he stuck close to Snow after receiving a raven chick as a pet from the warg."
Jeor rubbed his brow as Donnel reported on all the conspirators who would most likely follow through with the plot, even with their ringleader dead.
"Any of the conspirators die in the fighting?"
"Aside from Chett? Sadly, no." Locke answered him before glancing to the south. "I can see Qhorin's group."
Jeor turned to where over a hundred men and their animals stopped by the edge of the forest, most likely gawking at the burning corpses. They still needed to trek up the hill to their camp, so they got some time.
"Keep an eye on those men. The moment they so much as whisper any treason, you let us know."
Donnel nodded and left, while Mallador gazed at him. "You intend to pick them out one by one?"
"Aye, I can't afford morale to drop now, not after a victory and with Qhorin's group arriving. Better to have them get into accidents or sent on suicide missions."
The knight nodded, and they left to rouse the men and gather by the fort's entrance, where Qhorin arrived. Greetings were made, prisoners were placed in stockades, and the rest of the men were assigned bunks in the ring fort. The wildlings would naturally be put to work rebuilding the fort, but that could wait.
Meanwhile, Jeor and his commanders discussed their next step in his tent. Qhorin gazed strangely at Jon Snow's presence but shrugged it off.
"Eighty thousand?!"
"Aye, give or take five thousand, I say, though there were many more in the hills or on patrols. And that's aside from the giants. As many as two thousand we managed to count before the fuckers started scouting with their animals. We would have been caught if not for the Earth Singers," Thoren grumbled, but Qhorin's voice was full of awe as he spoke of the Earth Singers and, dare he say, worship. "Even the Thenns were there, and they were all digging for something."
"That's good. They can keep digging and waste their supplies all they want. The Frostfangs are as inhospitable as they come."
"Aye, I can't see them staying for another moon or two before they either find what they're looking for or decide to move on or risk starving." Qhorin stared at a rough map they made of the region. "So what's the plan, Jeor?"
"You already know about the Others and Bloodraven's message?"
Qhorin glanced at Jon again, specifically his icy bracer, before nodding, "Aye, Smallwood talked my ear off about heathen sorcery and devilry." His commander of the Rangers scowled but wisely remained silent. "Leaf also explained her side of the tale before she moved on with her own mission." Again, his voice was full of respect compared to his fellow brother. "I've also seen the corpses outside. Spiders the size of horses, the lad's bracer, and the queer chill in the air. Aye, I believe it even more after seeing all of that with my eyes."
"Good, then we shall not waste time." Jeor turned to Jon, who stood even straighter at his gaze before turning to his remaining commanders. "This is an opportunity. The savages might be humans like us and are escaping from the Others. However, we cannot allow them to pass through the Wall, no matter what. At least not on their terms, and only with the grace of the Lord of Winterfell."
Jeor's gaze lingered on every one of his commanders, and they all mirrored his resolve. Others or not, the Wildlings were still uncivilized savages, and allowing them past the Wall in large numbers would be a catastrophe. While Jeor, the Lord of Bear Island, could have thought differently about the matter, he did not have the authority to negotiate with Mance Rayder aside from his position of Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Only the King or the Warden of the North could have the authority for such negotiations.
Besides, what was a deserting oathbreaker's word worth?
The Night's Watch would also be unable to fight them on the open field. Even the best equipped and trained brother would fall against such numbers, even if less than half of the Wildlings could fight. No, the path for them was clear. Delay them as much as possible while preparing the Wall for a siege. Send word to Winterfell and the Northern Houses for men. Keep the Wildlings on the west bank of the Milkwater, destroy all possible crossings, and force them to attack the Bridge of Skulls.
Hopefully, the North would have enough men to provide them with aid. The only true problem here were the Others, but he could do nothing about them. Bloodraven promised to monitor them as best he could but warned that his powers were not infallible.
Jeor glanced again at Jon Snow; the lad would be crucial for his plan. "Here's what we will do…"
The Sea God
Poseidon sat at a table on a beautiful beach as he gazed at the calm sea beyond. It was a picturesque expanse of white sand that sparkled like crushed pearls. The gentle lapping of the waves against the shore was a rhythmic lullaby, unlike the turbulent waters in his son's mind.
Heh, since when did he become so poetic? The last time he had tried poetry was when he was courting Amphitrite. Ah, those were some interesting times. He chuckled as he recalled his failure to woo the beautiful Nereid and then sulked in his empty palace like a child whose parents refused to give him a treat. Then, Delphin pulled him from his slump, gave him dating advice, and Poseidon successfully wooed Amphitrite. He was glad his son would not need to go through such drama to get married.
"But, My Lord. Such drama is what makes life worthwhile, is it not?"
Poseidon turned to his companion as she stirred a dollop of honey in her teacup. "Listening in again, my dear? Do you not know it is rude to eavesdrop on one's thoughts?"
"I beg your forgiveness, but I could not help myself." The woman smiled innocently, yet there was no shred of remorse in her apology. "It's not every day I get to speak to a sentient god. One who had walked the Earth and sired kings upon humans."
"Even if I am but a fragment of such a being and foreign to boot?"
"Especially so!" The Maiden, still taking the form of that lass Calypso, sipped her tea and hummed appreciatively, licking her full lips suggestively. "I would not dare to meet and speak to such an august presence if he was at full power. Why, I might accidentally provoke you, and judging from your youthful encounters, we would most likely be having a much different conversation."
"…I was young and foolish." A purring sound grabbed Poseidon's attention to the golden cat sleeping on the chair beside him - he smiled sadly as he patted her head. "There is no need to fear me."
"Mayhaps so, yet forewarned is forearmed." The Maiden shrugged, allowing her brown tresses to shake along with a few other things - Poseidon groaned inwardly at such a childish attempt at seduction, she truly was more innocent than she pretended to be. "Regardless, how may I serve, My Lord?"
"You were the one who brought me here."
"Indeed, yet you and your son caused quite the commotion after connecting with the Weirwoods. My, so audacious! Claiming every Weirwood in the region for yourself?" The woman hid a titter behind her long sleeves. "Makes me wonder what you are planning with it."
"Now, I only claimed what was already abandoned, and we're not planning anything malevolent here. Or at least, nothing that the overseers of the network, or as you call them, the Old Gods, would not approve of. Besides, they were the ones who invited us for a meet and greet, so to speak."
Poseidon shivered involuntarily as he recalled the truly eldritch monstrosities that were the overseers - protecting Percy's mind from them had taken a great toll on him. Gods… no, they were something completely different from gods. Thankfully, they were…well, not benign, but truly neutral and fair in their dealings.
"They did accept us into their pantheon, so to speak. It helps that the Merlin King's position had been vacant ever since he had been betrayed by his lieutenant who in turn was banished to the west."
"Ah, such unpleasantness. I was but a newborn at the time. Or, newly released from the network."
Poseidon hummed noncommittally as he stroked the cat's mane. According to the Maiden, the Weirwood Network, as it was called in these lands, housed all the souls of the deceased from around the world, but they were not limited to weirwoods alone. The trees connected any mortal who died in Westeros to the network, where they could be…properly registered, for lack of a better term, in the hive mind that was the network.
Nevertheless, once in the Network, the soul would become an echo as it entered a period of hibernation, occasionally awakening when a Greenseer, traditionally a power exclusive to the dryads known as the Earth Singers but had become more common among humans, attempted to commune with them. In time, they would fully awaken and strive for a chance to reincarnate. There was also a system of judgement in place here; good deeds shall earn you a better chance to incarnate into a good life and guarantee a peaceful slumber. Bad deeds could have a former prince incarnate into a dung farmer, all the while suffering for potentially an eternity.
On very rare occasions, a powerful soul who had done great deeds in life and was still remembered could be released from the network as a god.
The Seven were such people, though the mortals, as usual, had vastly misunderstood their origin. An unbidden chuckle came to him as he recalled some of the ways the mortals attributed him as a Chthonic God back in the day when he merely acted as a guide for souls lost at sea. Poseidon had a lot of fun ribbing Hades on that.
Still, those gods were far more limited than him in what they could do and how they could affect the world. As the Maiden said, Poseidon was a novelty in that he was capable of walking the Earth and directly influencing the fates of men.
At least that was the case until his son's arrival and accidentally giving the network the equivalent of a steroid shot causing the world's magic to go into overdrive. The gods suddenly had more access to the mortal realm and could influence humans and other creatures more directly.
They still could not walk the Earth, however. Not yet, at least.
"She's growing, nearly the size of a lion cub, now." The Maiden nodded towards Myrcella on the chair beside him.
"Indeed, she is." He still did not know why the girl constantly appeared to him in dreams, most likely a prank by one of the overseers, but he did not mind; he had always been a cat person from when his mother would let him play with her pet lions. "Now, we have yet to discuss what you aim to gain from attaching yourself to my son's soon-to-be wife."
"Oh, come now, I am the goddess of maidens. Of course, I would be interested in the girl. Did you not have a similar goddess back home?"
"That one made sure all maidens remained just that - Maidens." He deadpanned at her, enjoying the woman's grimace, yet she still pursed her lips, causing him to sigh and gaze at her seriously. "Fine, keep your secrets, but take this piece of advice from a more experienced deity. Do not play with the fate of mortals. There lies the stuff of madness."
"Oh, don't worry–"
"Especially," Poseidon continued, adding a steely edge to his tone. "Mortals that are demigods and have their godly parent actively watching over them."
He did not need to spell out the threat, and the Maiden nodded seriously. "Fret not. I care deeply about her and all maidens. Considering her love and care for Percy, I shall naturally not cause any trouble with him."
Poseidon nodded and continued stroking the cat, finding solace in the soothing act as he contemplated the dark future ahead of him and Percy.
He had met with many of Westeros's scattered and mind-addled deities in the Weirwoods. Hardly any of them were coherent, and the ones who were tended to be reclusive, like those nature gods that the dryads worshiped. Their scatterbrained methods had unintentionally caused the dryads to enter into a decline, and Poseidon did not like it. He had hoped to poach those dryads to care for the Weirwoods he would be claiming.
No matter how long he stayed in this world or how strong he could potentially grow, he would never achieve the same amount of power he had back home - this world was simply too different. He needed lieutenants, priests, and other minions to help him solidify his power. Percy would naturally be his champion, but Poseidon did not want to burden his son even more than necessary. Let the lad enjoy his married life and have plenty of kids.
Back to the gods, some were genial enough, such as that half-naked man in wolf furs with the hammer who thanked him for watching over the Stark girl. Poseidon strongly believed that the man must have been a Stark in life. Ironic that he would be worshiped as a New God, considering his family's history.
But no, none mattered compared to the hostile and violent deities, and there were several.
The Storm God, previously the God of the Narrow Sea, who managed to usurp the skies and the aspect of the Warrior. The ornery god was foaming at the mouth and would have fought them right then and there during that divine banquet the overseers invited them to.
If not for Guest Rights.
Just thinking about the overseers declaring those two words made him shiver. There was truly only one thing the Old Gods cared about: absolute fairness and keeping your oaths. Guest Rights were but the tip of the iceberg of it. As for fairness…well, the overseers had their own interpretation of it.
"Usurper! You dare show your face?" The Storm God had been furious when his avatar found them in the network.
"Hey now, you're the fella who threw a tantrum when I woke up in that shithole." Percy gave the god that cocky grin that Sally always claimed he got from him - Poseidon resented that; his grin was suave, with nothing cocky about it. "I thought that storm you threw was your doing, but eh, you kinda missed us…by a hundred miles or so."
"Damn you, my champion shall–"
"Come on, man! Why the need to make that weird echo to your voice? I can hear you just fine here." Percy poked his pinky into his ear for emphasis. "Besides, you're calling me Usurper? Weren't you the one who took over that Storm dude's job?"
"He was weak! While I am–"
"Yeah, yeah, you're strong, you got thousands of supplicants, you've beaten countless enemies, probably have some monstrous pet in your backyard, yaddi yaddi yadda, heard it all a thousand times." His son ran his hand over his messy hair before glaring at the cloud-clad god, forced by the laws of the overseers to keep to the size of a human - yet he still towered over them both at ten feet. "I have lost count of how many overconfident fools I had to take down a peg or two for such nonsense. You want a fight? I'll give you one."
Suffice it to say, Poseidon did not doubt that his son would face a lot of strife with that stormy god. The rest of the awakened gods in the Network had witnessed the face-off, and no self-respecting god would accept such insults, especially from an upstart mortal.
Poseidon had never felt more proud of his son. Troublemaker that he was, he still lived and breathed the aspect of the Sea. They hated to be constrained, and not even another sea deity could dare threaten them.
Yet, the Storm God was not the only one to be feared, for there was another monstrosity hated universally by all, even the overseers. The Drowned God. It was not merely a sea god, yet it had much power over it. Poseidon did not get to meet it for obvious reasons, but he had been warned not to underestimate it.
From his understanding, it was a former overseer, a former Old God, who had gone rogue. The aforementioned lieutenant of the Merlin King had joined its forces as it attempted to usurp the network and take hold of the mortal souls sleeping in it. Poseidon compared it to an unholy mix of Tartarus and Pentos, with a smattering of Kronos' malice. A true annoyance to deal with.
Thankfully, it did not appear to have a champion. Only unhinged zealots. It's lieutenant, on the other hand…
There were other gods to the east, hundreds of them in fact, but only one of them did Poseidon think warranted some scrutiny at the moment. The fiery one, R'hllor, who seemed entirely occupied feuding with his own nemesis, was also absent from the gathering. In fact, only the gods residing in Westeros seem to be present, and none of them were fond of any outsiders.
It further confused Poseidon on why he was accepted so easily then.
And then, there was R'hllor's nemesis, the so-called Great Other… Yet he also seemed to be absent. Strangely, none seemed to have a strong opinion of him, or her, for none know what the being looked alike, aside from giving them the creeps. Only the Builder (or was it the Smith?) seemed eager to speak of it to him. The being was worshiped by what Poseidon understood to be some sort of ice elves. He had not dealt with elves much, only when he had to deal with the Norse gods.
The Great Other was also worshiped as the Stranger by followers of the Seven, ironically giving the god knowledge of the realm through that act, and begrudgingly accepted as part of the pantheon of Westerosi gods.
Poseidon likened him to Hades, not popular nor welcome on Olympus, yet still accepted as one of them. He wondered about the rest of the Seven, for he had not met the Father, Mother, or the Crone. They could only stay in the network for so long before Percy's mind would suffer, and the Old Gods did not seem to be the type to host a gathering on a whim.
Perhaps they may yet meet them later on.
Movement from his lap had him look down - when did she climb onto his lap? - as the cat stretched lazily and opened her green eyes to stare curiously at them.
"About time for you to wake up, Myrcella. Today is Sansa's wedding, and she gave you the honor to be her handmaiden."
The lion cub's eyes widened as she looked at them both before blinking out of existence, causing him to chuckle deeply.
We get a look at what's happening beyond the Wall. To summarize, Bloodraven tried to tempt Jon into becoming his disciple, but dutiful Jon would not have it. A lot of arguing unfolded, with a lot of things spoken off-screen that I will expand upon later, and Jon eventually convinced Bloodraven to work with the Night's Watch.
Mance Rayder having his entire army of Wildlings camping in the utterly barren Frostfangs was a recipe for disaster. GRRM strikes again with his lack of logistical knowledge. How would such an army feed itself? Jeor had a very good answer to that.
They don't.
I was tempted to write an entire chapter about Percy and Poseidon larping about in the Weirwood Network, but decided against it. I think I left enough hints so readers can understand what happened, but feel free to leave me comments for clarification or, better yet, hit me up on Discord.
Suffice it to say, the gods are a messy topic. Makes me glad for our monotheistic religions. Praise be! Jesus is King! Allah Akbar! So much more simple.
If you would like to read four chapters ahead, or simply support me, look me up on Patr(eo)n under the same pen name.
Fist of the First Men
Lord Commander Jeor Mormont
"Hold the line! Hold the fucking line, damn you!" Jeor grabbed Fornio as he stumbled out of the line and shoved him back with a new torch in hand. "Don't use your swords, you fools! Burn them, burn them all!"
His men roared in defiance as they brandished their torches and obsidian weapons at the enemy. Wights burned as if they were soaked in oil, and Tumberjon kicked a burning corpse down the hill, setting its fellows on fire. Simply stabbing them with obsidian was not enough, but it helped keep them in place long enough for a brother to set them on fire.
Whatever foul magic caused the dead to rise and walk seemed to conflict with the dragonglass, rendering any wight stabbed with them inert. However, when the men withdrew the obsidian, the wights would stand back up and continue shambling towards them.
Cutting them to pieces was even worse, as they would have to stab each separate piece and burn it.
If only they had more than two Valyrian Steel weapons.
Whatever magick the Valyrians had imbued in their blades permanently severed the connection of the Others with their wights, unlike obsidian. A single slice or stab was enough to drop the wights like mummer's dolls with their strings cut. The men would quickly set them on fire in case the Cold Shadows reformed the connection.
Jeor glanced at his steward as he performed a deadly dance with the gifted Longclaw, sending limbs and heads flying everywhere. Jon Snow kept an entire flank of the monsters at bay, showing his fortitude. Jeor had given him twenty men to command, and Snow silenced any grumbling from the older rangers by proving his mettle and skill with the sword.
At seven and ten, Jon Snow had a good head on his shoulder, sharp wits to go with it, and a very stable sword hand. Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, had proven his skill in teaching once more, building a good foundation in yet another pupil. Just like his uncle, Benjen Stark, Jon Snow was a diamond in the rough, an able warrior who only lacked experience, and if he lived long enough to gain it, he would be nigh unstoppable.
Or that was what Jeor had thought until things changed drastically over a moon prior.
Every morning, since that fated day, there was a newfound confidence in Jon Snow, both in his actions and stride. The Lord Commander observed how, with every new dawn, the boy practiced harder, and that awkwardness that clung to youth quickly melted away like summer snow under the sun. It reminded Jeor Mormont of how a fresh squire or son acted after their first battle. However, it was as if Jon Snow was fighting a bloody war every time he went to sleep, and he woke up a bloodied and more experienced veteran the next day.
All that experience that the young Snow lacked was appearing faster than Jeor could comprehend. Watching Stark's natural-born son dispose of the shambling corpses with well-practiced finesse and experience was a sobering experience. Each strike was precise, sharp yet fluid, and judging by the ease with which Longclaw bit into bone, bronze, and fur - strong. As an old man with his prime long gone, Jeor could admit, he would not be the boy's match even at his peak.
In fact, the only two in the Night's Watch that could hold against the current Jon Snow would be Qhorin Halfhand and Benjen Stark if he were found alive. And gods save him, Jeor would place all his coin on Snow in another sennight if he continued his current rate of growth.
His choice for steward was beginning to pay even more dividends because it was one thing for the men to follow some highlord's bastard and yet another thing entirely to follow another legend in the making. Any doubt in Jeor's mind about the boy's mother evaporated. This could only be that legendary Dayne talent mixing with the blood of the Kings of Winter.
And gods, the rumors of Eddard Stark raising him as a spare were indeed proven true. Tactics, command, leadership, knowledge, heraldry, history–Jon Snow was trained in it all.
Jeor could still remember their talk on that fated day a moon ago.
They had just left Craster's keep and were a sennight away from the wretch's home when they camped for the night near a spring. Jeor was speaking to his commanders in his tent when a disturbed Jon approached them.
The lad insisted he speak to him privately, but Thoren Smallwood had bristled at the impudence. The look in Jon Snow's haunted eyes and his direwolf's massive, looming form as it poked its head inside the tent convinced Jeor to give him a chance. There was something uncanny about the Weirwood colors of the Direwolf. Touched by the gods, some of the older rangers claimed when they saw Ghost the first time.
Jeor bid Jon enter, where the lad spoke to them about impossible things.
Lord Commander Brynden Bloodraven being alive; a greenseer who can see through the weirwoods the past and present, the return of the Others, Craster colluding with them… so many mad things that Jeor had immediately refused to believe. Jarman Buckwell even rebuked the young Snow for wasting their time with children's tales while Thoren's face increasingly turned red, muttering about heathen devilry as the young Snow spoke.
Then, Jon declared he had proof and brought them outside to show them. Despite Jeor's hesitance, Mallador Locke, who had remained silent throughout, followed the lad, causing Jeor and the others to hurry after them. At the edge of the camp, they found flocks of ravens on the trees, Jeor's own large raven screeching SNOW and flying to join them.
The bushes moved, showing figures with short statures and bright eyes. Jeor was a Northman and had been a member of the Night's Watch for many years. He had his fair share of dealings with wildlings and their foul magics. Skinchangers and wargs were rare but not unheard of, along with whatever charlatans pretending to be woods witches existed in these parts. However, that was the extent of the so-called magic that the lands beyond the Wall offered.
And yet, even he could not deny the existence of the Children of the Forest when they stared at him from the bushes.
Thoren Smallwood had unsheathed his blade and nearly ran one of them through if not for Locke grabbing his hand. The Riverlander had wide, bloodshot eyes and was frothing in the mouth about devils, but a command from Jeor had him stand down.
Only one of the Children could speak the common tongue; Leaf was her name. "We are Those-Who-Sing-The-Song-Of-The-Earth," she introduced them, the Children being a name they loathed for some reason, but Jon called them Earth Singers for short. Jeor felt like he was in a dream as all the fables of the North came alive in front of him.
Leaf, the Earth Singer, claimed the Last Greenseer, Brynden Rivers, was on their side and would be helping them through Jon Snow. Jeor did not know why it had to be Jon Snow in particular, but Jon confessed to him later that Bloodraven was not keen on approaching the Watch. It was only due to Jon's stubborn insistence that he acquiesced and sent the Earth Singers along with something else.
As a sign of goodwill, they gifted him a Valyrian Steel sword.
"Wait, this looks like the description of Dark fucking Sister," Jarman Buckwell gasped in shock as he picked up the sword.
Any doubts about the authenticity of the claims were washed away then, for everyone knew the blade was with Bloodraven during his final, ill-fated ranging.
Bloodraven even spoke to them through one of the ravens. Poor Thoren nearly got a stroke from the shock and had to lay down. The ancient ranger provided them important information about what was happening in these savage lands.
The Others were stirring once more. They were never gone, merely hidden to the far north and west beyond the Frostfangs, in lands neither the Watch nor anyone had ever charted. Jeor did not disbelieve him, for he had seen the corpses of Jaffer Flowers and Othor rise from the dead. His commanders were skeptical, but the existence of the Children rendered any of their suspicions moot.
"I spent decades trying to gleam into the Cold Ones," the murder of ravens crowed out in a small chorus. "Past, present, future. But to my greatest surprise, the Others were not one folk or group. It reminded me of wildlings, coming and going in tribes and clans, with their customs and languages."
And what united them? Apparently, their hatred of warmbloods. Humans. In simple terms, they were like the Essosi scum to the East. They desired more slaves to do their bidding, and they did so either by raising the dead or by creating Ice Dolls with the use of human babies.
Jeor now knew what Craster did with his sons, and he had half a mind to turn back to gut the heathen scum on a Weirwood.
"What changed, then?" The Lord Commander asked grimly. "Why would they unite now, after so many millennia?"
"I know no more than you do," came the bleak response. "But does it matter?"
It didn't matter, of course. The Others were driving the wildlings towards the Wall out of desperation, and they were hunting the rangers. Whatever the cause, it was an act of war.
"And how can we defeat those foul fiends?" Ser Mallador Locke, a senior ranger and commander of the scouts, asked impetuously. "Surely, there is a way?"
"There is," Leaf's voice was laced with sorrow, but then again, her speech sounded sad. "Wights take to fire like kindling, but it scarcely does anything to the Cold Ones. Obsidian or dragonsteel would shatter the frost dolls hewn from human babes. It's those hidden ones that are the most troublesome. They could control their dolls and dead thralls from afar."
"It's not going to be an easy fight," Brynden warned. "Or a short one. But you already suspected that. No, your immediate trouble will come from Mance Rayder and his army camped near the Frostfangs, west of the First of the First Men. The fool's searching for a magical horn that he believes could bring down the Wall. Pah, lackwits, and imbeciles, as if Brandon's Wall could be brought down by some pesky runic horn!"
The blatant derision in the raven's crowing had gotten a few chuckles from the rangers.
The corvids continued with their gargled cawing, "Of course, there are other, not-so-urgent matters. Magic seems to have awoken fully, and some things have changed."
Dread welled up in Jeor's chest. Magic was feared, and for good reason. But he asked anyway, "What things?"
"Dunno. I can feel the change, but how in the seven bloody hells would I know all of it? Some things that I never thought possible now easily happen. You might feel different or awaken some obscure talent or ability previously dormant in your lineage. Perhaps something entirely different. Or, well, you wouldn't notice a thing."
Jon Snow had stubbornly looked away as he patted his white direwolf, who happily wagged his shaggy tail like an obedient dog.
There was more information that Jeor found useful. Qhorin had left the Shadow Tower with one hundred men and was following the Milkwater's west bank towards the Fist. Bloodraven warns that if he continues on this path, he might stumble on Mance Rayder's wildling army. Jeor trusted Qhorin to have scouts on the field to avoid such a situation, yet he still decided to send Thoren and a score of men to better coordinate with the men from the Shadow Tower.
Finally, there were the whereabouts of his First Ranger. Bloodraven had watched from the Weirwoods as Benjen Stark fought valiantly against a group of the Ice Thralls but was ultimately captured. His whereabouts were still unknown, but it was worrying that the Others would want him alive. Regardless, they had learned valuable information from that confrontation.
Regular steel did nothing against the foe, but fisticuffs still worked - if you could overpower the mythical strength of the monsters and withstand their cold.
From there, the Earth Singers split into two groups. One of them, led by Leaf, would head north and west, beyond the Frostfangs, as they search for the base of the Others, where they believe they have Benjen Stark in captivity. Apparently, one of them was a skinchanger with an owl companion, making them excellent scouts, and they agreed that they would shadow Thoren's group as they meet with Qhorin and help them scout the wildlings.
His commander of the rangers was far too tired to object to it, thankfully.
A dozen of them remained, promising to act as forward scouts and supply them with obsidian. The Singers had pointed the Watchmen to vast deposits and caches that could be found… all over the place, really. Bloodraven also promised to translate for them through his ravens, although Jon Snow asked to be taught their tongue.
"No human had ever managed to fully learn it before. Even Brynden still has difficulty speaking it." Leaf had warned, "But I suppose it doesn't hurt to try."
And Jeor decided to keep his steward close.
Especially when it became clear the young man was a warg. Jeor had always suspected it with his uncanny control of Ghost, but his suspicions were confirmed when he saw him communing with ravens and reporting what they found. He did not care; considering their foes, a bit of magic on their side would not hurt.
Besides, it was not some wildling or a no-named peasant but the son of Ned Stark, a man who lived and breathed honor and duty. If any man could overcome whatever stigma or curse that came with using magic, it would be a Son of Winterfell.
Snow or not, it did not matter; the lad was raised there, and the blood of the Kings of Winter flowed thickly in his veins.
Jeor had, of course, ordered his commanders and the rest to keep mum about the Singers lest the men do something stupid. But word about the Others would be spread out, so the rangers were not unprepared when the black brothers faced them in battle.
The men were, predictably, distraught with the news about the Others. Many, led by Ottyn Wythers, had argued it would be best to return to the Wall now that they knew about the wildling army. If the Wall was impregnable, why should they risk their lives on the field?
"What happens if the coming winter proves cold enough to freeze the Bay of Ice or the Bay of Seals?" Jeor asked then. "It happened thirty years ago and twice more half a century prior."
That had silenced most complaints. The men grumbled, but that was something they always did.
"Besides, we still need to deal with the wildlings sooner or later," the Locke knight added. "What if the savage fucks decide to ally with the bloody Others like Craster?"
The rest of the commanders and senior rangers all agreed. And so, Jeor led the ranging towards the Fist. Ser Mallador was ordered to keep an eye on the troops in case the dissent spilled out of hand. Without his First Ranger, that duty would need to fall on a trusted ranger, and Mallador Locke was a Northman, a knight, and most importantly, one of the scant few who had taken the Black out of duty, not to avoid punishment.
Over the days and weeks, they trekked through the Haunted Forest, finding it to be eerily empty of any wildling. It was full of wild game, however, for the lack of human predators had allowed plenty of deer, elks, moose, boars, and other such animals to propagate.
The same could be said for the predators.
Jon Snow's direwolf prowled ahead daily, and returned with companions. It started slowly with a second direwolf, a she-wolf to be precise, then a couple of wolves, then more and more. Soon, Jeor suspected nearly a hundred bloody direwolves were just out of sight of the rangers. This was nearly five times the size of the biggest pack he had encountered prior - and that was regular wolves. Not even Jon Snow knew how many there were, as he claimed they followed Ghost. Even more grumblings sounded, particularly from the southerners and adherents of the Seven. The men had to waste time calming the horses while throwing dirty looks at his steward.
But one did not simply make problems for a man with a hundred direwolves at his beck and call. Jeor had seen a few shaggy beasts approach him late at night, rubbing playfully at the Stark bastard. Even two or three younger pups were always loitering around the young Snow.
It did not help that Jon Snow was in constant communication with Bloodraven. Jeor might have believed the ancient ranger's words but did not trust the old bastard himself. Who would not have his wits scrambled after living to such an old age?! Spending so many decades alone with nothing to do but spy on the realm… it would surely ruin the mind. He hoped young Jon would not take a similar path with how he used those ravens.
On the bright side, the hounds they brought were foisted on the young man to care for. What did it matter if he had a dozen more canines? Strangely, Chett, the kennel attendant, seemed upset about relinquishing control over the hounds and joining the front. Jeor recalled the leechman's son was an aid to Maester Aemon but was replaced by the literate Samwell Tarly.
Any of the men's worries and skepticism were squashed when they came upon the first group of shambling corpses. Jon's wolves sniffed them from miles away, and he, along with Jarman Buckwell, the second-best sword in the ranging after the young bastard, now wielding Dark Sister, led twenty men with obsidian and torches to clear them out. They lost no one, but they did not find the masters, only the thralls. There was no doubt it was a scouting party, and knowing the magic of the Others, they knew where they were.
At least the men grumbled less as they increased their pace to the Fist.
Jeor shook his head as he continued walking up and down the line, leaving Snow's position and barking orders at the men to hold their ground. Their foes did not tire nor retreat. They did not suffer from the cold, nor did they hunger. They surrounded them from all sides except the west, where the Milkwater acted as a moat for the fort, and the north, where the incline was too sharp for even the dead to attack from. The wights were slow and clumsy yet incredibly strong once they got a hold of you, as they discovered the hard way when one of the brothers was torn to pieces by a few of them.
Yet, as long as they knew their weaknesses, they were incredibly easy to defeat. Jeor worried more about their masters. His army had arrived at the Fist of the First Men two days ago, and the Singers reported Qhorin was still a few days away but had found the Wildling's camp, which meant his arrival could be delayed. The Halfhand would want to scout things properly, as he always did. Not that Jeor minded; knowing the position of your foes was essential in battle.
They had barely rested and started building fortifications when the Others struck late at night. Thankfully, Jon had warned them an hour ahead, and they had enough time to prepare torches and fashion whatever obsidian they found into weapons. They had been fighting for many hours now, yet the lack of sunlight hid the true numbers of the enemy.
Suddenly, a sudden cold snap tickled his spine, and Jeor turned towards where a screeching sound was heard. It was not a sound he had ever heard. It caused inexplicable fear to crawl up his back. The sound was like steel grinding on glass. The men were wavering, looking around wildly at where the sound came from, but he quickly asserted his presence.
"Focus on the dead! Forget the noise, burn those wretches, damn you!"
His commanders repeated his orders, though some needed more than a rap on the head to keep them fighting. On the southern part of the fort, a cowardly brother dropped his torch and pushed one of his fellow brothers at the advancing wights in an attempt to run towards the horses.
Before anyone could react, Mallador Locke stabbed the traitor from behind before beheading him. The Northern knight scowled as he dragged the corpse to one of the dismantlers to strip it of valuable clothes and armor before setting it on fire - then he turned to the rest of his troops, "You will fight, or you will fucking die. Better die doing your duty than be an oath-breaking scum!"
The men did not have time to think of retreating before the Wights increased their onslaught. But the clanging sound continued, followed by inhuman screeching. Jeor gathered his trusted reserves and hurried to the eastern side of the fort, where Jon Snow was stationed.
One man hurried to him as he approached, "Lord Commander! It's them, they're here!"
He did not need to guess who They were. Everyone was armed with dragonglass daggers and studded clubs, while Jarman Buckwell adjusted his grip on Dark Sister. They hurried to the eastern walls, finding many wounded and a couple of naked corpses set on fire, their garments set aside to be reused.
Jon Snow fiercely dueled three of the Cold Shadows, his blade a whirlwind of steel as he slashed, parried, deflected, stabbed, and fought like a bloody demon that belayed his young age of seven and ten. The clanging and screeching sound came from the Valyrian Steel clashing with the Other's Blade. His wolf pack had torn apart a giant spider and was in the process of tearing another, but many animal wights were attacking as well, yet the men peppered them with fire arrows.
The Others… were certainly a sight to behold, but now that he was forewarned by Bloodraven, he could tell that they were…lesser. Some imperfections like those he would find on the seams of a cheap cloak. Despite their ethereal beauty and the grace of their movements, they were too much like statues to believe them real.
They were Ice Dolls. Formerly human babes that were corrupted by whatever monstrous magic their masters used to become thralls. They lacked the skill to wield their blades as they threw wild swings at Jon Snow, which he expertly avoided, but they certainly did not lack strength, judging by the lad's grimace every time his blade met frost.
It only took Jeor a few heartbeats to inspect the scene before coming to a decision.
"Men, advance!"
.
.
.
For once, the sun shone brightly in this cold land, and Jeor could feel the exhaustion of his age. They had been fighting without respite for hours all through the night. More of the Ice Dolls appeared after slaying the three fighting Jon Snow, but dragonsteel and dragonglass, combined with valor and skill at arms, had beaten them back.
Their greatest adversaries were two dead giants and a mammoth. The mammoth was brought down by the direwolves while the giants struggled to climb up the hill, allowing them enough time to gather as many archers as possible and rain fire on them. Their furry hide set them ablaze.
By dawn, hardly any of the foes remained, and by sunrise, the scant few remaining had completely retreated. The men rejoiced, and Jeor allowed many to sleep while those awake to have a hearty breakfast, while he conversed with the Greenseer and the Singers. The conspicuous absence of the hidden masters of the Icy Constructs frustrated Bloodraven. The Others had once again proven elusive, somehow capable of hiding from his senses, though perhaps their magic was simply so strong that they could control their thralls from vast distances.
The smell of charred corpses still permeated the air as Brown Bernarr tended to his bleeding temple.
"It's just a scratch, Lord Commander. Normally, a poultice and clean bandages should have it healed within a sennight, but I'm not sure what manner of sorcery was in those blades."
"That will be all, Bernarr." He sent the squat ranger away with a wave of his hand and nodded to the tired Mallador Locke as he joined their campfire. "How many did we lose, Ser Mallador?"
"13 men dead and 19 wounded, all but two would recover after a few days rest. We must have slayed over a thousand wights and a dozen Others."
A low cheer sounded around the campfire, where most men were having breakfast or being treated for wounds. The casualties could have been far worse if not for Bloodraven's warnings. The wights were difficult to count because many burned to ashes, and more were animals instead of men.
"Seven fucking hells, those bastards used anything and everything to throw at us, even the bloody rabbits! Yet we still beat those bunnies!"
Another cheer resounded at one of the younger brothers' words, Pypar, he thought was his name. Jeor should work on remembering the names of his recruits.
"Jon the Slayer! Fucker slew three of those icy fucks. I swear on me mum, I saw it with me own eyes!" One of the younger brothers, Grenn, clapped Jon Snow's shoulder, causing the young man to grimace heavily; he had suffered a wound on his upper arm from the same blade that wounded Jeor.
Sam the Craven cautiously approached, and it seemed the fat lad had earned his moniker.
"How did you do it, Jon? I-I was so terrified, and I was tending to the ravens!"
"Let's hope you didn't eat any of them out of stress, Fat Sam."
"I-I did not!"
"Why so defensive, then? Ah, never mind. So, Jon," Pyper coughed as Snow kicked his legs, "We knew you were a fancy lord's son, but I swear I've never seen anyone swing a sword so damn fast in my life."
Everyone stared at the young Snow in a mix of curiosity and respect. Jeor also looked on from across the campfire. He had fought alongside the young man and saw him holding his own and ultimately defeating those three monsters when his best men floundered against them.
It was now clear that Jon Snow had awoken something, something other than skinchanging or the like. And Jeor felt pained to imagine how this ranging would have ended if they had gone in blind without the knowledge provided by his young steward. Or without his increasingly lethal sword skill.
"I just…trusted in my training," Jon Snow lowered his head. The boy was too humble for his own good; many others in his shoes would be boasting for the world to hear until their throat went sore. "The cold didn't bother me much. All I felt was my heart beating like a drum and my blood singing for battle."
He then rubbed his right hand over that icy bracer he wore on his left - his eyes glazed over and a queer smile blooming on his face. "It was like…like I needed to show those things not to underestimate me. I needed to kill them, no, to assert my power and dominance…"
A strange silence fell over them before Pypar alleviated it with more jests. Jeor glanced at his commanders, Ser Jarman and Ser Mallador, who shrugged. Ser Jarman had also slayed one of the Cold Shadows after a brutal duel while the rest were driven back by a hail of obsidian-tipped arrows.
Ned Stark must have trained his son very well indeed. Snow's wounded arm was bare, as if the cold did not bother him, and the linen wrapped around the cut had dried blood as if the wound was already closed. Strangely, he seemed to be recovering fine. Jon Snow had recovered a bracer from that icy material the Other wore. Any who touched it was burned by the cold, yet Snow felt nothing and wore it on his left arm.
Starks were built different, he supposed.
After the tiring night, nobody questioned Jon Snow anymore. Even now, Jeor could see he had won the grudging respect of all rangers, new, old, veteran, from the North or the South.
"Any word on Qhorin?"
The question was directed to Jon Snow, who was inspecting a sack of some sort that his snowy direwolf dug up. He stared into space for a heartbeat. "He's an hour away with Thoren Smallwood. They seem to have taken some wildlings captive."
He nodded, even as he ignored the queer looks thrown by his men at Snow. He might have proven himself formidable in battle, yet it was still hard to let go of the fears the men grew up with. Wargs, skinchangers, sorcerers…what was the world coming to when that was becoming normal?
Snow returned to the sack in hand, where he uncovered more dragonglass, which he quickly distributed. Before Jeor could grow more curious, Ser Locke signaled for him to speak in private. The Lord Commander tiredly stood and joined him a short-distance away where the man's squire, Donnel Hill, was waiting.
"Well, Mallador? What is it?"
"The traitor who tried to desert, and I beheaded. He was our former houndsman."
"What about him?"
"I had Donnel befriend him and keep an eye for any mischief. Donnel?"
"Aye, Chett had planned to have you and many of the higher-ranked brothers killed, Milord." Donnel Hill had an uneasy smile as he reported. "Tried to recruit many of us in some mad scheme to have Ottyn Wythers be commander, whom they hoped would then return to the Wall."
Jeor wanted to groan; mutiny so deep into the cold wilderness? Madness!
He once again lamented his order's lack of proper men of honor. There were enough in the higher ranks, but the common foot soldiers were scum who chose the Black over the noose.
He turned to the nervous squire only for his master to speak on his behalf, "Donnel agreed to join in the plot under my orders. We needed to root out such corruption among the ranks, and this was the best method."
Leave it to the most Southerly placed House in the North to have enough cunning to plan for such a ruse. Jeor was not made for such games; give him an ax in hand and a target, and he would gladly split an enemy's head. "Aye, if you vouch for him. But the coward is dead, so why bother with this now?"
"Chett was but the ringleader. There were other conspirators, milord." Donnel Hill glanced around warily as if worried they would be overheard. "They planned to kill Tarly to prevent ravens from making it to the Wall. I know they tried to recruit Small Paul, but he stuck close to Snow after receiving a raven chick as a pet from the warg."
Jeor rubbed his brow as Donnel reported on all the conspirators who would most likely follow through with the plot, even with their ringleader dead.
"Any of the conspirators die in the fighting?"
"Aside from Chett? Sadly, no." Locke answered him before glancing to the south. "I can see Qhorin's group."
Jeor turned to where over a hundred men and their animals stopped by the edge of the forest, most likely gawking at the burning corpses. They still needed to trek up the hill to their camp, so they got some time.
"Keep an eye on those men. The moment they so much as whisper any treason, you let us know."
Donnel nodded and left, while Mallador gazed at him. "You intend to pick them out one by one?"
"Aye, I can't afford morale to drop now, not after a victory and with Qhorin's group arriving. Better to have them get into accidents or sent on suicide missions."
The knight nodded, and they left to rouse the men and gather by the fort's entrance, where Qhorin arrived. Greetings were made, prisoners were placed in stockades, and the rest of the men were assigned bunks in the ring fort. The wildlings would naturally be put to work rebuilding the fort, but that could wait.
Meanwhile, Jeor and his commanders discussed their next step in his tent. Qhorin gazed strangely at Jon Snow's presence but shrugged it off.
"Eighty thousand?!"
"Aye, give or take five thousand, I say, though there were many more in the hills or on patrols. And that's aside from the giants. As many as two thousand we managed to count before the fuckers started scouting with their animals. We would have been caught if not for the Earth Singers," Thoren grumbled, but Qhorin's voice was full of awe as he spoke of the Earth Singers and, dare he say, worship. "Even the Thenns were there, and they were all digging for something."
"That's good. They can keep digging and waste their supplies all they want. The Frostfangs are as inhospitable as they come."
"Aye, I can't see them staying for another moon or two before they either find what they're looking for or decide to move on or risk starving." Qhorin stared at a rough map they made of the region. "So what's the plan, Jeor?"
"You already know about the Others and Bloodraven's message?"
Qhorin glanced at Jon again, specifically his icy bracer, before nodding, "Aye, Smallwood talked my ear off about heathen sorcery and devilry." His commander of the Rangers scowled but wisely remained silent. "Leaf also explained her side of the tale before she moved on with her own mission." Again, his voice was full of respect compared to his fellow brother. "I've also seen the corpses outside. Spiders the size of horses, the lad's bracer, and the queer chill in the air. Aye, I believe it even more after seeing all of that with my eyes."
"Good, then we shall not waste time." Jeor turned to Jon, who stood even straighter at his gaze before turning to his remaining commanders. "This is an opportunity. The savages might be humans like us and are escaping from the Others. However, we cannot allow them to pass through the Wall, no matter what. At least not on their terms, and only with the grace of the Lord of Winterfell."
Jeor's gaze lingered on every one of his commanders, and they all mirrored his resolve. Others or not, the Wildlings were still uncivilized savages, and allowing them past the Wall in large numbers would be a catastrophe. While Jeor, the Lord of Bear Island, could have thought differently about the matter, he did not have the authority to negotiate with Mance Rayder aside from his position of Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Only the King or the Warden of the North could have the authority for such negotiations.
Besides, what was a deserting oathbreaker's word worth?
The Night's Watch would also be unable to fight them on the open field. Even the best equipped and trained brother would fall against such numbers, even if less than half of the Wildlings could fight. No, the path for them was clear. Delay them as much as possible while preparing the Wall for a siege. Send word to Winterfell and the Northern Houses for men. Keep the Wildlings on the west bank of the Milkwater, destroy all possible crossings, and force them to attack the Bridge of Skulls.
Hopefully, the North would have enough men to provide them with aid. The only true problem here were the Others, but he could do nothing about them. Bloodraven promised to monitor them as best he could but warned that his powers were not infallible.
Jeor glanced again at Jon Snow; the lad would be crucial for his plan. "Here's what we will do…"
A*H*M
The Sea God
Poseidon sat at a table on a beautiful beach as he gazed at the calm sea beyond. It was a picturesque expanse of white sand that sparkled like crushed pearls. The gentle lapping of the waves against the shore was a rhythmic lullaby, unlike the turbulent waters in his son's mind.
Heh, since when did he become so poetic? The last time he had tried poetry was when he was courting Amphitrite. Ah, those were some interesting times. He chuckled as he recalled his failure to woo the beautiful Nereid and then sulked in his empty palace like a child whose parents refused to give him a treat. Then, Delphin pulled him from his slump, gave him dating advice, and Poseidon successfully wooed Amphitrite. He was glad his son would not need to go through such drama to get married.
"But, My Lord. Such drama is what makes life worthwhile, is it not?"
Poseidon turned to his companion as she stirred a dollop of honey in her teacup. "Listening in again, my dear? Do you not know it is rude to eavesdrop on one's thoughts?"
"I beg your forgiveness, but I could not help myself." The woman smiled innocently, yet there was no shred of remorse in her apology. "It's not every day I get to speak to a sentient god. One who had walked the Earth and sired kings upon humans."
"Even if I am but a fragment of such a being and foreign to boot?"
"Especially so!" The Maiden, still taking the form of that lass Calypso, sipped her tea and hummed appreciatively, licking her full lips suggestively. "I would not dare to meet and speak to such an august presence if he was at full power. Why, I might accidentally provoke you, and judging from your youthful encounters, we would most likely be having a much different conversation."
"…I was young and foolish." A purring sound grabbed Poseidon's attention to the golden cat sleeping on the chair beside him - he smiled sadly as he patted her head. "There is no need to fear me."
"Mayhaps so, yet forewarned is forearmed." The Maiden shrugged, allowing her brown tresses to shake along with a few other things - Poseidon groaned inwardly at such a childish attempt at seduction, she truly was more innocent than she pretended to be. "Regardless, how may I serve, My Lord?"
"You were the one who brought me here."
"Indeed, yet you and your son caused quite the commotion after connecting with the Weirwoods. My, so audacious! Claiming every Weirwood in the region for yourself?" The woman hid a titter behind her long sleeves. "Makes me wonder what you are planning with it."
"Now, I only claimed what was already abandoned, and we're not planning anything malevolent here. Or at least, nothing that the overseers of the network, or as you call them, the Old Gods, would not approve of. Besides, they were the ones who invited us for a meet and greet, so to speak."
Poseidon shivered involuntarily as he recalled the truly eldritch monstrosities that were the overseers - protecting Percy's mind from them had taken a great toll on him. Gods… no, they were something completely different from gods. Thankfully, they were…well, not benign, but truly neutral and fair in their dealings.
"They did accept us into their pantheon, so to speak. It helps that the Merlin King's position had been vacant ever since he had been betrayed by his lieutenant who in turn was banished to the west."
"Ah, such unpleasantness. I was but a newborn at the time. Or, newly released from the network."
Poseidon hummed noncommittally as he stroked the cat's mane. According to the Maiden, the Weirwood Network, as it was called in these lands, housed all the souls of the deceased from around the world, but they were not limited to weirwoods alone. The trees connected any mortal who died in Westeros to the network, where they could be…properly registered, for lack of a better term, in the hive mind that was the network.
Nevertheless, once in the Network, the soul would become an echo as it entered a period of hibernation, occasionally awakening when a Greenseer, traditionally a power exclusive to the dryads known as the Earth Singers but had become more common among humans, attempted to commune with them. In time, they would fully awaken and strive for a chance to reincarnate. There was also a system of judgement in place here; good deeds shall earn you a better chance to incarnate into a good life and guarantee a peaceful slumber. Bad deeds could have a former prince incarnate into a dung farmer, all the while suffering for potentially an eternity.
On very rare occasions, a powerful soul who had done great deeds in life and was still remembered could be released from the network as a god.
The Seven were such people, though the mortals, as usual, had vastly misunderstood their origin. An unbidden chuckle came to him as he recalled some of the ways the mortals attributed him as a Chthonic God back in the day when he merely acted as a guide for souls lost at sea. Poseidon had a lot of fun ribbing Hades on that.
Still, those gods were far more limited than him in what they could do and how they could affect the world. As the Maiden said, Poseidon was a novelty in that he was capable of walking the Earth and directly influencing the fates of men.
At least that was the case until his son's arrival and accidentally giving the network the equivalent of a steroid shot causing the world's magic to go into overdrive. The gods suddenly had more access to the mortal realm and could influence humans and other creatures more directly.
They still could not walk the Earth, however. Not yet, at least.
"She's growing, nearly the size of a lion cub, now." The Maiden nodded towards Myrcella on the chair beside him.
"Indeed, she is." He still did not know why the girl constantly appeared to him in dreams, most likely a prank by one of the overseers, but he did not mind; he had always been a cat person from when his mother would let him play with her pet lions. "Now, we have yet to discuss what you aim to gain from attaching yourself to my son's soon-to-be wife."
"Oh, come now, I am the goddess of maidens. Of course, I would be interested in the girl. Did you not have a similar goddess back home?"
"That one made sure all maidens remained just that - Maidens." He deadpanned at her, enjoying the woman's grimace, yet she still pursed her lips, causing him to sigh and gaze at her seriously. "Fine, keep your secrets, but take this piece of advice from a more experienced deity. Do not play with the fate of mortals. There lies the stuff of madness."
"Oh, don't worry–"
"Especially," Poseidon continued, adding a steely edge to his tone. "Mortals that are demigods and have their godly parent actively watching over them."
He did not need to spell out the threat, and the Maiden nodded seriously. "Fret not. I care deeply about her and all maidens. Considering her love and care for Percy, I shall naturally not cause any trouble with him."
Poseidon nodded and continued stroking the cat, finding solace in the soothing act as he contemplated the dark future ahead of him and Percy.
He had met with many of Westeros's scattered and mind-addled deities in the Weirwoods. Hardly any of them were coherent, and the ones who were tended to be reclusive, like those nature gods that the dryads worshiped. Their scatterbrained methods had unintentionally caused the dryads to enter into a decline, and Poseidon did not like it. He had hoped to poach those dryads to care for the Weirwoods he would be claiming.
No matter how long he stayed in this world or how strong he could potentially grow, he would never achieve the same amount of power he had back home - this world was simply too different. He needed lieutenants, priests, and other minions to help him solidify his power. Percy would naturally be his champion, but Poseidon did not want to burden his son even more than necessary. Let the lad enjoy his married life and have plenty of kids.
Back to the gods, some were genial enough, such as that half-naked man in wolf furs with the hammer who thanked him for watching over the Stark girl. Poseidon strongly believed that the man must have been a Stark in life. Ironic that he would be worshiped as a New God, considering his family's history.
But no, none mattered compared to the hostile and violent deities, and there were several.
The Storm God, previously the God of the Narrow Sea, who managed to usurp the skies and the aspect of the Warrior. The ornery god was foaming at the mouth and would have fought them right then and there during that divine banquet the overseers invited them to.
If not for Guest Rights.
Just thinking about the overseers declaring those two words made him shiver. There was truly only one thing the Old Gods cared about: absolute fairness and keeping your oaths. Guest Rights were but the tip of the iceberg of it. As for fairness…well, the overseers had their own interpretation of it.
"Usurper! You dare show your face?" The Storm God had been furious when his avatar found them in the network.
"Hey now, you're the fella who threw a tantrum when I woke up in that shithole." Percy gave the god that cocky grin that Sally always claimed he got from him - Poseidon resented that; his grin was suave, with nothing cocky about it. "I thought that storm you threw was your doing, but eh, you kinda missed us…by a hundred miles or so."
"Damn you, my champion shall–"
"Come on, man! Why the need to make that weird echo to your voice? I can hear you just fine here." Percy poked his pinky into his ear for emphasis. "Besides, you're calling me Usurper? Weren't you the one who took over that Storm dude's job?"
"He was weak! While I am–"
"Yeah, yeah, you're strong, you got thousands of supplicants, you've beaten countless enemies, probably have some monstrous pet in your backyard, yaddi yaddi yadda, heard it all a thousand times." His son ran his hand over his messy hair before glaring at the cloud-clad god, forced by the laws of the overseers to keep to the size of a human - yet he still towered over them both at ten feet. "I have lost count of how many overconfident fools I had to take down a peg or two for such nonsense. You want a fight? I'll give you one."
Suffice it to say, Poseidon did not doubt that his son would face a lot of strife with that stormy god. The rest of the awakened gods in the Network had witnessed the face-off, and no self-respecting god would accept such insults, especially from an upstart mortal.
Poseidon had never felt more proud of his son. Troublemaker that he was, he still lived and breathed the aspect of the Sea. They hated to be constrained, and not even another sea deity could dare threaten them.
Yet, the Storm God was not the only one to be feared, for there was another monstrosity hated universally by all, even the overseers. The Drowned God. It was not merely a sea god, yet it had much power over it. Poseidon did not get to meet it for obvious reasons, but he had been warned not to underestimate it.
From his understanding, it was a former overseer, a former Old God, who had gone rogue. The aforementioned lieutenant of the Merlin King had joined its forces as it attempted to usurp the network and take hold of the mortal souls sleeping in it. Poseidon compared it to an unholy mix of Tartarus and Pentos, with a smattering of Kronos' malice. A true annoyance to deal with.
Thankfully, it did not appear to have a champion. Only unhinged zealots. It's lieutenant, on the other hand…
There were other gods to the east, hundreds of them in fact, but only one of them did Poseidon think warranted some scrutiny at the moment. The fiery one, R'hllor, who seemed entirely occupied feuding with his own nemesis, was also absent from the gathering. In fact, only the gods residing in Westeros seem to be present, and none of them were fond of any outsiders.
It further confused Poseidon on why he was accepted so easily then.
And then, there was R'hllor's nemesis, the so-called Great Other… Yet he also seemed to be absent. Strangely, none seemed to have a strong opinion of him, or her, for none know what the being looked alike, aside from giving them the creeps. Only the Builder (or was it the Smith?) seemed eager to speak of it to him. The being was worshiped by what Poseidon understood to be some sort of ice elves. He had not dealt with elves much, only when he had to deal with the Norse gods.
The Great Other was also worshiped as the Stranger by followers of the Seven, ironically giving the god knowledge of the realm through that act, and begrudgingly accepted as part of the pantheon of Westerosi gods.
Poseidon likened him to Hades, not popular nor welcome on Olympus, yet still accepted as one of them. He wondered about the rest of the Seven, for he had not met the Father, Mother, or the Crone. They could only stay in the network for so long before Percy's mind would suffer, and the Old Gods did not seem to be the type to host a gathering on a whim.
Perhaps they may yet meet them later on.
Movement from his lap had him look down - when did she climb onto his lap? - as the cat stretched lazily and opened her green eyes to stare curiously at them.
"About time for you to wake up, Myrcella. Today is Sansa's wedding, and she gave you the honor to be her handmaiden."
The lion cub's eyes widened as she looked at them both before blinking out of existence, causing him to chuckle deeply.
We get a look at what's happening beyond the Wall. To summarize, Bloodraven tried to tempt Jon into becoming his disciple, but dutiful Jon would not have it. A lot of arguing unfolded, with a lot of things spoken off-screen that I will expand upon later, and Jon eventually convinced Bloodraven to work with the Night's Watch.
Mance Rayder having his entire army of Wildlings camping in the utterly barren Frostfangs was a recipe for disaster. GRRM strikes again with his lack of logistical knowledge. How would such an army feed itself? Jeor had a very good answer to that.
They don't.
I was tempted to write an entire chapter about Percy and Poseidon larping about in the Weirwood Network, but decided against it. I think I left enough hints so readers can understand what happened, but feel free to leave me comments for clarification or, better yet, hit me up on Discord.
Suffice it to say, the gods are a messy topic. Makes me glad for our monotheistic religions. Praise be! Jesus is King! Allah Akbar! So much more simple.
If you would like to read four chapters ahead, or simply support me, look me up on Patr(eo)n under the same pen name.
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Describing something as "rare" implies that it is uncommon unless it's undercooked. I suspect that what you were trying to say is "not unheard of."