Remove ads

For Lack of Honor (ASOIAF SI)

Reader mode
FractiousDay said:
That bit was fine, it's how they spoke then
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...

I know. That said, 'What think you', while being grammatically similar and archaic as 'What say you', is a fairly uncommon turn of phrase, whereas 'What say you' is still used in courts.

It made me re-read the sentence twice, and I actually knew it wasn't incorrect. That's fine if Odran doesn't change it, but it felt a bit incongruous, considering the SI rarely uses ye auld English, even if his phraseology is refined.
 
That was great and now we know that Ned/Bizuneh needs to do human sacrifice if he wishes to keep living. I think its an easy choice for Ned to make as he is looking out for Number One but at the same time it will become rather difficult hiding it forever and/or making his allies understand when/if they find out.
 
Always knew Odran needed human souls to stay alive, shame this one is too much of a pussy to do it himself. Why, years and we got was a measly eye gourging, for shame Odran, we expected more.

Loved the chapter, quite the original development, not making the character grind combat until his hands fall. Still want to see Dark Lord Ned making bitches fly. Great prose, it is a purple prose, but done right like Robert E. Howard. Conan more ruthless and cunning stories would be a nice model for young Bizuned. I am a Conan fanboy though, so...

I have to say, I disliked the Rowena PoVs, not that they were bad, but she is much less interesting than the SI and I felt that like either what we discoveted from her was useless, uninteresting or just as easily could be discovered through other ways.
 
So I didn't finish reading the first chapter, but I honestly am kinda boggled by something.

Did the SI just soul-rape Ned Stark on purpose?
 
John At Dawn said:
The story of Danny Flint was when I started to hate Westeros.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...

Welcome to the North, where songs tend not to have a happy ending or rarely anything happy in them at all.

Also, right before I was to post the update, with the song in it, I searched, just in case, to see if someone had already made their version of the song, and they did: The Ballad of Danny Flint

Really haunting, beautiful and sad stuff there.

Jean Danjou said:
I have to say, I disliked the Rowena PoVs, not that they were bad, but she is much less interesting than the SI and I felt that like either what we discoveted from her was useless, uninteresting or just as easily could be discovered through other ways.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...

Those won't be coming up often, they were merely necessary to provide a bit of background that Ned simply couldn't discover on his own at the time and unveil to the readers. It would have been worse, IMO, if it was confided in him, so soon, by Rowena or someone else.

Lemniscate said:
Did the SI just soul-rape Ned Stark on purpose?
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...

What? No.

While what I did had killed him, displaced his soul and allowed me to take over his body and clam his memories as mine, there was no soul raping of any sort. I admit, the first draft of that was much more brutal, with me devouring his soul, but that changed. But I did deceive him on purpose, knowing that him agreeing to any sort of merging with me would lead to his death.
 
I just fucking realized everything is different...

He might not have a chance to become a lord paramount.

Maybe he could go varangian guard to the southron nobles.
 
XelianEmperor said:
I just fucking realized everything is different...
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...

Well, not everything, but enough to make life quite more interesting in Westeros than it was in canon.

XelianEmperor said:
He might not have a chance to become a lord paramount.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...

This isn't CK2 or Ned's quest for the high lordship. Gaining land or titles is a very, very far secondary issue.

And in the end, being Lord Paramount did little good for Ned Stark and his family.

XelianEmperor said:
Maybe he could go varangian guard to the southron nobles.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...

Let me put this way: fuck no.

Of the southrons he knows thus far, Jon Arryn, Denys Arryn, Horton Redfort and Robert Baratheon are the only he's fond of, and even so, he would not become any man's guard, because that would ultimately mean he was subject to another's orders. Now, don't misconstrue that into thinking that Ned's going to become some sort of Northern wandering warrior, or that he'll ignore commands from his father, should any be issued, but there's a difference between that and serving someone.
 
Last edited:
Swordplay and Statecraft are all well and good, but when the magic "comes back", Ned will need to be prepared with sorcery of his own!

As prophetic dreams are the norm, I highly recommend he keep a dream journal for the practical purpose of interpretation.

NED: Alright, the pack of lions clearly mean the Lannisters, and the great fat stag that they're eating is clearly Robert...so far, no surprises.
 
Last edited:
Remove ads
Chapter 3
  • Threadmarks
    • Winter had turned the old castle into a fortress of ice fit to frighten men and children alike.

    Here be giants, grumkins and snarks.

    Or so it seemed from the outside, as we waited for its gates to open and welcome us.

    In the yard, I had barely dismounted my horse when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

    It was Rickard and he looked most odd; his face, which I had last seen looking at me sternly, was showing signs of affection. It was there, in his faint smile, in the crease of his brow, and yes even in his touch. Had he been a different kind of man, he might've lowered himself and embraced me in his arms. But that was not his way and this alone was telling enough.

    "Father," I greeted the man, "I'm home."

    The others waited for us inside the Great Hall and so we entered the keep.

    Gods, how I had missed Winterfell's heated walls and warm hallways.

    Having no need for the heavy furs any more once we ventured inside, I gladly discarded the snow-laden clothes, leaving it to a servant to dry them out by a fire. Passing through its corridors, many a man and woman greeted me with a smile on their face.

    One step inside the Great Hall and I was toppled over, Benjen and Lyanna on top of me. Father and mother laughed, as did a number of others, at the sight, and I joined in their laughter, glad for the welcoming, glad that I had finally come back home.

    Once pried loose of my brother and sister, I was greeted by Brandon as well. He was here too! It would seem our parents had sent word to Barrow Hall that I was to arrive for a brief visit home and that they wished all their children gathered together.

    "Later, you'll show me if you learned anything down there south, but I somehow doubt it," taunted Brandon, with a crooked smile on his face. "Bet they made you wear fine silks and dress up for all their courtly ladies! Bet they put flower scents on you!"

    We both gave as good as we got, as it turned out, having improved with our respective weapons, he with a sword and I with a mace. Naturally we did that before an audience in the hall, rather than have at it in the yard where it snowed and cold bit at the bones.

    I was seated at the table with Lyanna on one side and Lyarra on the other, while Benjen kept firing off one question after another about the Vale and my time spent there. For the sake of polite conversation, I gave them all an edited version, though judging by the look Rickard sent my way, he was seemingly aware of what had truly been going on. Suppose I'll find out about that later in private.

    Lyarra's fingers trailed down the length of my nose. "You've had it broken. How?"

    Doing my best to seem nonchalant, I replied, "A friendly brawl, with Robert Baratheon. Long past us now, we've become fast friends."

    She clucked her tongue at me and muttered something about the idiocy of boys and children in general.

    When Benjen finally tired of asking me questions and started busying himself with the food in front of him, Lyanna took his place as chief interrogator, paying no heed to the fact that I was yet to taste one bit of the warm meal in front of me.

    "What was the Eyrie like?"

    "Strange, but beautiful. Smaller than Winterfell, but at the same time you can't imagine anything bigger on a mountain peak."

    Barely finished with answering that question, Lyanna asked another. "Did you fight any of the Mountain Clans?"

    I'd have sooner expected this sort of thing from Benjen or Brandon, not Lyanna. "No, and thank the gods for that."

    She frowned, as if disappointed with my reply. "What about shadowcats? Did you hunt any down? Did Lord Arryn?"

    "What? No. Who's been putting these things in your head?" I mock scolded her. "You're being awfully nosy here."

    A light punch to my shoulder and Lyanna sticking out her tongue at me was her response. "You try sitting cooped up inside all the time, without even being able to ride horse or do anything outside." Her annoyed expression was swept away quickly and concern replaced it. "Mother and father had word there were storms when you'd just barely left White Harbor. Did you make it alright?"

    I didn't delay in assuring her that it went all right. "We'd avoided the worst of it with refuge at one of Lord Arryn's bannermen, whose island was near enough for us. Made some friends while we were there. Met the lord's children and his youngest daughter reminded me of you."

    "How so? Does she like riding?" Her eyes widened and she asked, in a low voice, "You didn't practice with her too, did you?"

    Lyarra, who'd clearly heard us, just rolled her eyes in amusement. Well, I suppose we weren't all that clever in sneaking about Winterfell.

    "Of course not, do you think I'd do that for just anyone? Only for the brattiest of girls, I solemnly promise."

    This time it was a kick to the shins under the table, or rather an attempt at that. Lyanna nearly fell off her seat when she over-swung and missed, but I caught her by the arm and pulled her back up. Chancing a glance at Rickard, I saw that his eyes weren't on us. Last thing I needed was for a fresh scolding regarding table manners from the man just as our relationship was thawing.

    When she straightened out her dress and looked around to see if any noticed our messing about, Lyanna looked quite silly. Like pretending to be a lady, when she was anything but. I assume Lyarra had a hand in that, if anyone did.

    Her next question, and the tone she voiced it in, came as a surprise to me, truly. "What of Lady Arryn? Is she beautiful?"

    With a shrug, I replied "She's pretty, I guess." I pushed aside her hair, to reveal her face. "She has nothing on you, dearest sister."

    No one at Winterfell called her Lyanna Horseface, not like they've done to Arya, but she had the long face of Starks, a touch too strong of a jaw and a nose that she'd grow into as she matured. She'd have suitors going after her for more than the prospect of marrying a Lord Paramount's daughter. I just hope she'd be wise enough to see right through them, and if not... well, what were older brothers for?

    A faint blush had shown itself on her pale cheeks, but to Lyanna's credit she didn't avert her eyes from mine or stutter when she asked her next question. "What about tourneys? Have you seen any yet? Have you competed? Oh I just know you'd be good, no one's as good on a horse as you, Ned." Her words were quickly followed by a cocky grin. "Well, except me, of course."

    Shaking my head, I said, "No, I've not seen any yet. And to compete? Lyanna, I'm barely nine years old, I don't think they'd let me."

    But that only encouraged her imagination. "You could go in as a mystery knight! No one would know it was you until you won!"

    "And I suppose it wouldn't be suspicious at all that this mystery knight was so small and I was missing from Lord Arryn's presence?"

    Lyanna frowned and her shoulders slumped in disappointment. "I forgot about that."

    I put aside the cutlery and ceased any attempts at eating, clearly it would avail me naught. With one arm around her shoulders, I pulled Lyanna close to me and kissed the top of her head. She fought it at first, muttering something about not being a little girl — dear gods, I missed hearing that so much — but she eased up when she noticed I wasn't squeezing too hard and was allowing her the chance to flee.

    She stayed, and I told her, in a gentle, assuring voice, "One day, I will compete in tourneys, ride the lists and fight in the melees, and if there are to be any so grand as to have a Queen of Love and Beauty crowned, I promise, you will be mine."

    Lyanna was quiet and said nothing, just leaned further into me.

    I knew it before, as one knew of a vague thing, like the stars in the night-sky, but now it was a certainty, as part of me as my bones and skin: I would do murder and commit as many atrocities as necessary to keep the Starks safe. And if there were any gods that cared for Rhaegar Targaryen's well-being at all, they'd keep him away from my kin, make him overlook my sister, else I'd find myself with a dragon's hide.
    The first few days there were bliss. Then a familiar routine set in. Just because I was not a guest of Lord Arryn did not mean my education was to be halted, and Maester Walys was keen to test my knowledge, expand and improve it if found lacking.

    The meeting which I expected to have with Rickard on the day of my arrival didn't happen until I was less than a week from departing.

    I had gone to him to ask for permission to visit the glass gardens and pluck a single rose for Rowena Arryn.

    "Sit, Ned. You wished to talk?"

    "Father, I'd come to ask your permission regarding a gift."

    His bushy brows rose in question. "Oh? And what sort of gift is it, that you need ask my permission?"

    "Our glass garden, father, I would go to it and take one winter rose with me back to the Vale and gift it to Lady Arryn, who'd watched over me when I fell ill, and cared for me as if I were her own child and not merely a guest."

    He smiled at my words. "It is understandable you would want to express your gratitude to Jon's wife like so, but are you certain that a just a single rose would suffice for such kindness? Nay, my son, you shall not give her one, but a dozen instead. It is the least we can offer in return for her having taken care of you in your time of need."

    "Thank you, father."

    "Continue as you've done so far with Lord Arryn and that will suffice as thanks." His lighthearted mood quickly turned to solemn. "Now, about that Vale knight I've heard, Ser Cleyton. What happened between the two of you?"

    I had no wish to involve Rickard in whatever potential disputes there might be in the future, but I owed him the truth.

    "Troublesome. It was wise of Jon to send him away, before he overstepped again. I trust you will hold back from seeking him and his kin out?"

    "Of course, father. I gave my word to Lord Arryn and I intend to honor it."

    "Good, good," said Rickard, relieved. "Now, unless there is anything more, your mother would like to see you. Go to her chambers, and if she is not there, then look to the godswood, she has been spending much of her time there lately."

    I bowed to the Lord of Winterfell and left his solar.

    And it was as Rickard had said, I couldn't find Lyarra in her chambers and a nearby servant told me she was in the godswood.

    Having dressed myself warmly enough, I ventured outside the keep and passed under the main iron gate. Even from a distance, I could see steam rising from several of the pools and ponds, the warm springs from beneath the earth preventing the water from frosting over.

    I spotted Lyarra sitting by the heart tree, on a small log that had been recently cleared of snow.

    On seeing me, and hearing the snow crunched under my thick winter boots, Lyarra's previous contemplative face changed to a bright smile that instantly shifted her whole demeanor. With her hands she bid me come closer, as if that was not my intent from the start.

    "Mother," I greeted her and proceeded to clear a nearby stump of snow and sit down on it. "Father's told me you wished to see me."

    "Indeed, Ned."

    "Any particular reason? I've not misbehaved lately," or rather you had no proof I did, so long as Lyanna kept mum.

    "Mischievous child," she ruffled my hair, and I endured it. "Sometimes I wonder, who among you four will grieve us the most with your foolishness and children's play? Benjen continues his small pranks against the servants, Lyanna vanishes from the sight of her minders to look at pointy things in the armory and Brandon does as Brandon likes. And yet I would not wish it otherwise."

    "Mother," I gently reminded her, "was there something that needed to be addressed before my return to the Vale? You spoke of things in your letter that I needed to know of, but your words were vague. Is it an important matter?"

    At that, her smile dimmed by a little. "In a way, yes. It is something quite paramount for you to know. And understand, if possible."

    I did not like the change in her tone, the swirl in her mood that darkened it, made it more solemn and grave. "Mother?"

    "Do you remember your first bout of the winter fever?" she asked out of the blue.

    "Aye, I do," I replied with truth. Though the memories were not entirely mine to start with, they were now as such.

    Lyarra stretched out her arms and bid me come sit in her lap. For a moment I hesitated, thinking myself beyond that age, but in the end decided to indulge her. No harm could come of it, and I would give her some small comfort until my next visit to the North.

    Soon, her warmth started to seep through the clothes and combined with my own, as mine did with hers.

    "You were so weak, growing weaker by the day. Walys said there was nothing he could do, that you would either live or you would not. Weeks of despair followed, and the mood in our family turned darker. Everyone was jumping at each other's throats, as if that would help, but when one is powerless, they often lash out irrationally. Days gone by with only a few days left until the very end, or so Walys estimated. For all his learned ways, all his wisdom from parchments and texts and books hundreds of years old, he is not all-knowing. No man is, and to claim so is the ultimate ignorance. He couldn't know when you would die and I would not let it happen."

    Let it happen?

    "It was silly of me to even think of stories I heard told when I was but a young girl, younger than you even, and hope that they might prove true. They were silly and delusional so long as they remained but mere thoughts. But I was not content with that. I would not let my son go into the early night, when his time was not yet past. To never see you father your own children, to never see any grandchild with your long nose," she traced it with a finger, "or your strong chin. To never see you happy and in love and married, that I could not abide by, that I would see averted and undone. And so I turned thought into deed. I did what perhaps ought not to have been done, yet I would do it again without hesitation. In fact, I had done it again when you, my son, had dire need of me."

    Her embrace had turned harsher, more possessive than anything else, filled with a desperate sort of love. I turned my head to the side and looked up into her face. She kissed me on the brow, lips trembling. Something wet fell on my face. Tears, trickling from the grey.

    "Only life could pay for life."

    No. No. Tell me it was not so! Tell me you bargained not with devils and demons of the East to bring me here to this world!

    "There, what do you see?" asked Lyarra of me and pointed a finger at the heart-tree's carved face.

    Eyes and nose and an open mouth, with dried tree sap covering it. I said as much.

    "Not tree sap, my son. Blood. Blood of a man, guilty of a crime for which the Wall would be a mercy. What I gave him was not mercy. It took him a dozen hours or more to die, stomach cut wide, guts just barely held from spilling. His lifesblood watered the earth and fed the roots their most precious sustenance. Perhaps the Children, if they still lived, could have known of a different way of appeasing the Old Gods, but what I had were but words of my great-grandmother's great-grandmother passed down through the generations. It was never more than a mother's last hope, that I would see you hale and hearty once more. And then... I did. Your strength was returning, the fever banished by what many would call witchcraft and sorcery, but I considered a fair bargain struck."

    My mind was beset by chaos. I felt nauseous and exhilarated at the same time. No fickleness of the Red God, no scorching fire to keep my limbs in motion, no hellish flame to devour my memories. No, the darkness to which I woke in this world, the darkness that ever beckoned me was of the earth; the Old Gods calling me to their realm, their roots entwining themselves around my soul.

    I knew it, yet I could not say how. Darkness and cold were ever the domains of the North, and what was I if not one of its sons, in truth now? More than the former Ned Stark ever could have, I was to tie my fate to that of the Old Gods that I'd not worshiped, that I'd never spoken to. I'd have laughed, if I could have. Laughed and cried for the madness that would become central figure in the stage of my life.

    I mourned not for the life taken and given, for blood was shed and fed to the carved face of the gods so that I would live.

    "When a whole year had passed and you still remained healthy, I sighed with relief, for the bargain was kept. Then we sent you to the Vale, to foster with Jon Arryn, and all I ever thought of was you coming home back day, perhaps accompanied by a girl of your own, to give you sons and daughters, to make you happy." Her tears ran dry. "And then that blasted raven had come, bringing word of your illness come again. Nothing worked, as I knew it wouldn't. A letter a week, and all it kept bringing was more and more certainty that your end was near, that I was to lose a son. But as before, I would not allow it."

    "This time, it was a woman, who'd killed her babe in a fit of madness."

    Who would be next? Would there always be a need for one? A life of ritual sacrifices for another year or two of extension?

    "I fed her the milk of poppy and then bled her dry before the tree. She died and you lived."

    For all my supposed age, I curled against her, my mother, weak and afraid, wanting nothing more than darkness to take me again.

    It was summoned by her gentle and loving words, a Northern nursery rhyme that would stay with me for as long as I walked the earth.

    For a life, you spill a drop or three and feed the tree
    For life or death, ask the Gods not where it dwelt
    For life, when the flesh is cold, warmth must come and go
    For death, the flesh is stretched and torn and a river borne
    'tween leaves they wait, darkness the gate, dream the key
    Root and tree, life and me,
    Tree and root, for now and for good.
    Dark my dreams, dark my moods, but never when around family.

    Rickard knew. He had to. Men and women did not vanish from Winterfell's dungeons without him learning of it. They couldn't. He knew and... he loved me. Or the son that he thought I was, at least. He loved me enough that he'd given the two over to Lyarra, to murder in cold blood. After that day, in my eyes he was Rickard Stark no longer. My father had people murdered for me.

    How could I not love the man for that? How could I deny him and Lyarra their rightful claim any longer: mother and father.

    Brought together by murder, twice sacrifice-bound, united by the Old Gods in purpose and ways I could not have even imagined.

    In snow, I buried my secrets. It would hold my love until spring skies came and I confessed it anew. It would hold my soul.

    To earth and rock and tree, I vowed, so the Old Gods would hear and witness.
    With this newfound knowledge, I began bringing my siblings to the godswood more often.

    Lyanna was the easiest to entice. I had asked her one day to join me in the godswood, in the morn, and though she had been grumbling at first when she saw me sitting before the heart tree, complaining about being roused so early in the day, once all notion of sleep was banished from her eyes, she shrieked with joy and tried her best to barrel me over into the snow.

    "Thank you, thank you," she kept saying in a rush, "thank you, thank you!"

    "I did say I would ask father about it, did I not?"

    Lyanna's grin could barely be restrained from splitting her face wide open. "I know, but I didn't expect he'd actually agree! Oh, Ned!"

    Strange, no? That a simple bow and arrow would give her so much joy.

    But no stranger than me being glad that my sister was happy.

    It had taken some doing, and I'd paid for it myself, rather than simply command the craftsman from the winter town. The material was supplied from one of the weirwood trees, and a bow was fashioned from one of its branches. It was a simple thing, with no decorations.

    But Lyanna loved it, and would cherish it for many years to come, and that was all that mattered.
    Brandon did not return to Winterfell alone. Ethan Glover, Kyle Royce and Willam Dustin were his companions.

    If I remembered correctly, Ethan and Kyle were nephews to the ruling lords of Deepwood Motte and Runestone. I had no way of knowing if their fostering was arranged in conjunction with father's plans, or whether their uncles sent them to Lord Dustin beforehand.

    We spoke little to each other save for daily greetings and such, as we had little in common, my brother aside.

    We did however get to test our mettle against each other.

    They'd watched the duel between Brandon and I in the Great Hall, along with everyone else present.

    Impressed as they were with our display, they were wary of likewise testing themselves, despite the desire plain on their faces.

    I was in the Great Hall one morn, breaking fast with my brother, when I asked if he knew anything about the cause of their caution.

    "You frighten them, little brother," said Brandon in between mouthfulls of salted pork.

    "What are you talking about?"

    Before answering, he drank deeply from the tankard of ale. "Ah, that hit the spot. What? Oh yes, you frighten them, Ned." Brandon chuckled. "How could you not when they've heard tale of my fierce brother fighting an older, stronger boy and blinding him?"

    My eyes widened by no small amount in surprise. "You tell people stories about me? About that Whitehill cunt? To this day?"

    "Hah, cunt he was, aye!" To my glare, he rebutted with, "Oh come now, Ned, don't tell me I ought've kept quiet. How could I? Who else has brothers barely past their seventh nameday that fought so hard and good against the odds and won?"

    "How do you even have the time, I wonder," shaking my head, I asked, "when you've got that girl — Bessa, was it — to keep you busy?"

    Brandon, being Brandon, was completely unfazed by this. "Aye, sweet Bessa is good for that. What of you, Ned? Found yourself a nice kitchen girl up there in the Eyrie? Trading kisses for sweets?" He grinned. "Or is it the other way around?"

    "What do you think is more likely of the two?" I asked him.

    My brother's grin was gone and he frowned. "Knowing you, you're stuck in whatever library they got in the Eyrie, or in the yard, training hard." He didn't pout, but he came close. "No fun, Ned, you just don't know how to have any fun."

    "I've plenty of fun," I rebelled against the accusations. "Not my fault you're a simpleton who's easily entertained by kissing girls."

    As punishment, he grabbed me in an arm-hold and ruffled at my hair, whilst I fought back. "Simpleton, am I? Oh do pray forgive me, your lordship of stuck-up-arse, for my insolent behavior. Please, do enlighten us misguided folk on how we ought to have fun."

    I managed to set myself free and challenged him. "Come to the godswood tonight then and I'll show you, if you're not scared, Brandon."

    After that, it was child's play.

    Much of Winterfell was abed, as we should have been, but instead we sneaked past the guards and past the guest house, our path illuminated by the moon's silver light, making our way through the snow on the ground, even as it continued to fall from the night sky above, knowing our tracks would be be covered by the next morn.

    Even in the dead of night, when it was coldest, the pools refused to freeze and steam rose up in the air.

    "Ned," whispered Brandon, "what are we doing here? I can hardly see how freezing our arses is any fun."

    "Hush, brother, less complaining back there. You'd think it wasn't me who fostered down south the way you whine about a bit of chill."

    "A bit?" Brandon snapped, though thankfully still in low voice. "A bit is when the first snows start and we make sport in it. This is right about when our piss turns solid and spears the ground. This is just when our balls turn to ice and drop like acorns from a tree."

    "All this talk of arses and balls, you'd think it was boys you spent your time kissing at Barrow Hall rather than girls."

    That distracted him well enough, I think. He tried to grab me and shove me down in the snow, but I laughed at him and taunted him to follow me further. It took a bit of doing, but we were finally there, before the heart tree of Winterfell.

    When I started undressing, Brandon looked at me as if I was mad. Chances are, he was right.

    "Have you completely lost it? Get those back on you, father will — actually, never mind what father will do to punish us, mother will peel our skin by the inches and hang us by the toes in pantry, like a pair of dried ribs, and by the time she's done, we'll call that a mercy."

    I won't lie and say that I felt no cold. I felt it to the bone. And just as quickly as it seeped into my body, so it was banished by the pool's underground springs. Keeping my head above the water, however, was an effort; I very much wished to just dive below and never come out for air again, as the warmth that the earth so generously provided was a magnificent sensation.

    "Oh come on, it's not like we've never done this before. It might even do you some good, put some hair on your chest!"

    He grumbled. He bitched and whined and muttered about the trouble that we'd would get into for such foolishness late at night. He still left his clothes and furs beneath the branches of the heart tree, teeth chattering, and joined me in the pool of black water.

    "G-gods, that feels so fucking good!" he stuttered and shook slightly at first, but gradually became accustomed.

    "Of course it does, did you think I'd lead you out here for something stupid? Who do you think I am, a Whitehill?"

    We both had a laugh at that, though we did our best to keep it quiet.

    An awkward silence followed, during which I took time to ponder my brother's relationships with his friends. It must have been easy for one such as him, to simply pull the others under his sway, to have them follow him wherever he went, even to the domain of a madman. A madman who sired an equally mad son, who would drag the Starks on the road to war and ruin, if given the chance.

    I would deny them that. I would deny Rickard's unjust and torturous execution. I would deny Brandon ever watching our father die. I would deny our mother mourning them both, I would deny Benjen the very idea of ever going to the Wall and becoming one of the brothers in black. And I would deny Lyanna even the hint of a chance to ever think good of Rhaegar and running away with him.

    That was poor of me, judging her for acts she might not even commit. Yet I did the same for everyone else, so why not her as well? Because she was my sister? Because I had grown to care for her? Love her even? Love blinds, love restricts, love is... foolish. But it can't be denied.

    "You're brooding, Ned," Brandon's voice reached me. "Don't tell me you dragged me out here to brood with you. My face's not so plain as yours and the womenfolk would notice if I'm not as handsome as I was before. Lines and frowns. We can't have that, now can we?"

    Cheeky cunt. "Not brooding, just... thinking, that's all." As if I was the only one enjoying the silence and peace of the night.

    He moved about in the pool, resting his back against one of its edges, while I did the same against another. "About?"

    "About home. About Winterfell. Mother and father. Lyanna and Benjen and, yes, even you, my oaf of a brother."

    "What of it?"

    "I've missed you all. I missed being here." I sighed. "The Eyrie's so small. I can't even go riding unless it's to run circles in one of its yards. There's no heart tree there, no godswood whatsoever, the only snows I see are on peaks of other mountains, it's —"

    "— not home," Brandon finished for me. He had a thoughtful look on his face. "Don't get me wrong, Ethan and the others can be great fun, but all they do is just wait for me to do something first. Even Willam is acting like I'm the lord of his father's lands, and that's just boring. When we take to the stables, we don't really ride, it's more.. more like what mother and father do when they go out together in spring-time. They don't run! They don't fight! Not like you and I do! Or did, at least, when we were all here."

    "Imagine what it's like for Lyanna and Benjen then without us to keep them on their toes."

    They clearly weren't all that often on his mind, and it was a guilt-ridden silence that he broke with, "Mother's not had any complaints?"

    "Doubtful, but even if she had, she likely overlooked them because we're all back where we belong."

    "There's that at least." He smiled in fond remembrance of days past. "We weren't all that bad, were we?"

    I snorted. "Not nearly as bad as we thought ourselves to be, but not nearly as good as we ought to have been."

    "Good! The way it should be then! Tell me about this friend of yours, Robert Baratheon, who broke your nose, how did that happen?"

    So I did and by the time I was done, Brandon tried his best, and failed, to contain his laughter.

    "Only you, Ned!" He shook his head. "My little brother, it seems you either make enemies or you make friends with those you fight."

    I allowed a single note of wistfulness to permeate my next few words. "Still haven't fought your friends."

    "True. But I could see something done about it. Mind, they'd probably be more comfortable if you promised not to maim them."

    Ignoring his taunting, I replied, "On the morrow?"
    "On the morrow, if you like. Now, I think it best we get out of the water, before we turn to prunes, and don our clothes quickly, if we don't want the guards to find a pair of snowmen here come the morn."

    "Alright, alright," I grumbled.

    Except neither of us was leaving the pool.

    We were still submerged below the neck in the water. We didn't quite fancy getting out barefoot and barearsed in the cold.

    "Right," said Brandon, just as he turned his back on me, "last one to the keep has to tell father who it was that left salt in the servant's wine."

    Oh you fucking —
    As it turned out, Brandon didn't do the whole contrition thing well enough, so he was assigned to helping out the folk in the winter town.

    His glares only amused me, and his friends' too.

    None of the three were as inept as Brandon described them to be. Perhaps in fear of wounding our father's heir they held back with him? It hardly mattered where our own spars were concerned, for we all gave the best that we could. Of the three, Kyle Royce was the one that vexed me the most with his morningstar. Equal in reach with weapons, aye, and its spikes were dulled enough that no perforation would happen, but it still hurt like a bitch when it crashed against my shield.

    But I wager it hurt no more than when the mace connected to his exposed wrist and made him drop the weapon.

    They were good sports about it and though we'd not become friends, they were no longer as restrained in my presence.

    "Hah, you bested them!" Brandon cheered that day. "Now, if we could only find you a girl of your own..."

    My entreaties for help from mother fell on deaf ears. The woman took delight in my brother trying to pair me off with girls.
    It was no easy thing for me when the time came, and if I clung more tightly than ever before to mother and father, who could blame me?

    There is nothing sweet about parting, only sorrow. Even though I knew I'd see them again, I loathed leaving my home.

    And so I departed from Winterfell once more, uncertain of my future, uncertain of what awaited, uncertain of so many, many things.

    With me I carried nothing save a wooden box, where frost-kissed roses were kept pristine, and a leather pouch with thirteen seeds.
    The sea was a cruel mistress, yet not so wicked as a woman might be. The waves tested us, battering the ship's hull, while their brothers, winds of south and east, howled their outrage at us. And in between, I heard the voices of the Lady and her Lord, making merry, whilst we almost drowned. Such fierce children they must have conceived with offerings so freely given in men's lives.

    Some thought me mad to stay up on deck, watching the lashing of the sea, the bitch's taming, the pleasure of a goddess.

    Perhaps they were right and I was insane. What did any of it matter? I was of the North and the North was strong in me.

    None of the men of Winterfell said a thing, though their minds must have questioned and doubted my sanity. Well, all barring Wallace, who stood by me, in silence, and watched the grand coupling of sea and sky, retreating below deck only when I did.

    Fourteen days, that was all it took to reach Gulltown this time around and men kissed the cold ground of the harbor when we docked.

    As usual we were offered the customary lodgings beneath Marq Grafton's roof and took them. A bit of sleep where the beds didn't sway about would do the men some good and I could perhaps eat something and manage to keep it in my belly for longer than an hour.

    We were given twenty men this time, as Grafton forces were stretched thin in keeping other parts of his lands secure from raids.

    Would that he had given us thrice as much, for there came a day on the road that their swords and arms would be much needed.

    Our camp was set amidst one of the Vale's smaller gorges - three or four hours away, at a steady horse's pace, from Redfort - a good spot for defense against any attack that came from the front or back. The cliffs were fortunately too rough and uneven for any man to stand on them and try pelting us with arrows or rocks from above. But that didn't mean that we were safe.

    It was Wallace who approached me, though in truth I intended to go to the man myself. I've seen him arguing something with one of the Grafton men, each of them eager to bellow and shout, bodies tense with promise of violence, but keeping their voices down.

    "Milord."

    "Wallace, am I going to have to ask you what that was about or will you tell me on your own?"

    "A disagreement. In addition to another matter, the lad thought you ought not to be told, but I am of a different mind."

    Well now, this didn't sound ominous at all. "Told what?"

    Even though only our own men watched us, Wallace looked to the distance first before replying, in a low voice, "Clansmen. They've been following us for the past three days, but as they were in lower numbers than our company, we thought that them no threat."

    I ventured a guess. "And now, those numbers have increased?"

    Wallace nodded. "Aye, milord. By a great many. They'll attack, mayhaps on the morrow, mayhaps within the hour. Who could say what goes on in their heads? We clearly carry no significant supplies for them to steal. All we've got are our horses and weapons."

    Silently, I cursed whomever it was that ordained highborns announce their passage with banners. It was an unlikely chance, but some of them could have known to whom the direwolf belonged, and there it stood, planted in the middle of our camp, fluttering in the wind.

    Why bother bloodying themselves against well-guarded caravans when a highborn hostage could fetch them just as much, if not more?

    "Doesn't matter," I told Wallace, "they'll attack and that's that. Would the men stand and fight or would they run?"

    Looking bolder, more sure than ever before, Wallace said, "We will stand and fight and die, if that is to be how the day ends." Then his righteous glare shifted to something different. "But you, milord, should leave. The dispute you saw me having with Roderick, 'twas about you. I asked which among our horses was the fastest, and which man the lightest, to send you two together on its back. We could not make it as we are to Lord Redfort's keep, but you might. Roderick disagreed and said that would trigger the attack the moment the clansmen saw us preparing you and the horse to ride forth."

    For all that he addressed me like a grown man, he still looked at my flesh and saw a child. I couldn't blame him for that.

    "I'm afraid Roderick has the right of it, Wallace." Before he could express his dislike, I sped on ahead, "But your thought was not without merit. Instead of two, we ought to send just one, one that could ride as fast as the wind, or faster if need be, for Redfort and ask for aid."

    "They'd still attack us the moment they saw the horse sprinting, it would change nothing, milord! At least this way —"

    I brought my hand up. "Peace, Wallace. I did not intend to have the man ride out in plain sight and light of day, but rather, if we are fortunate enough that they do not go against us today, we send the man out tonight, when all is dark, to carefully lead his horse away from camp, reins in hand, and once sufficiently far away jump on it and run for Redfort with all haste."

    He tried arguing, but it did him no good, for it was the best plan we could have come up with and suffer minimum casualties.

    I'm no fool to think of dying in battle, facing savages in a last stand. I do this out of self-preservation, for to mount a horse and try to run away would have been folly, it'd have made me a more tempting mark for any clansmen with a bow or a throwing axe that most certainly lurked on the other side of the gorge, undoubtedly having gotten there previously by way of a goat trail. They probably did not possess large numbers, but they needn't have, only enough to harass and slow us down if all of us tried to run.

    As covertly as possible, matters were being arranged and Hobb was the man chosen for the duty to ride to Redfort, but not before he asked for a brief note written by myself, to warrant his safety should we all fall in battle and if any sought to call him craven for running.

    The whole camp was ill at ease and all anyone did was make themselves ready to do battle at a moment's notice.

    Hours passed at a snail's pace, the sun's setting only placing us further on edge.

    Wallace and Roderick planned the best way to fight in the gorge, using its narrow points to form a bottleneck if need be. Other men argued that all horses ought to be mounted and they should give charge into the clansmen horde, but that was chosen only as a last resort.

    Strange as it may sound, I slept like a babe in the night.

    They came at us with first light, thinking they'd catch most of the men unaware and have only guards to kill as the rest of the camp roused from slumber in fear and terror. But that was not what happened. Save for myself and two more men, all else were awake long before the clansmen's battle cries resounded across the length of the gorge.

    Ten men, Vale and North mixed together, stood at the choke-hold, swords and shields in hand, with another five behind them with what few spears we had to probe in the holes between the men, and two more wielding the bows that the men brought along.

    The rest were mounted a small distance away, waiting for a time when their aid would be needed.

    I was sitting on my horse even further away, palm pressed against the beast's head, as if to calm him; the jape was on me, for it was I that trembled in the saddle and my steed, bred for bloodshed and battle, who stood calm, only his nostrils flaring at the smells that reached him. Around me were five of Winterfell men, Wallace included, to guard me with their bodies.

    I saw an axe sail over the heads of the men on foot as it struck one of the mounted ones, right on the shoulder. Such was the force of it that he fell from the saddle and down on the ground. Several others near him jumped down to help him back up, even as the blood flowed freely from the wound and distressed his horse.

    Again and again, they clansmen clashed against the men in the front. Each renewed attack saw at least one of ours wounded or dead.

    We numbered less and less every time they charged forth.

    Short of breath, heart pounding in my chest, my fingers tightening against the reins, I turned to Wallace.

    "We ride. We ride with the others and kill them. We ride and we may live yet, we stay here and we die when they come for us."

    On his face I saw common sense and duty warring with each other.

    "Milord —"

    "Ride or die, Wallace."

    Ride we did, bellowing at the enemy.

    The men took up their swords and axes and I took up my mace in one arm, shield strapped and tied to the other.

    "Winterfell!" I feebly cried and charged.

    Others took up my battle-cry. "WINTERFELL! STARK AND THE NORTH! WINTERFELL!"

    The men in front made a gap for us ten-and-seven astride our steeds and mares to pass, to do battle.

    Seventeen against... I could not tell how much, save that they were many times our numbers.

    Sixteen men and a single boy.

    Spittle flew from our mouths and we drenched ourselves in their blood, halting their incursion.

    Two clansmen died beneath the hooves of my steed, necks and faces broken by their iron.

    My first? I barely saw him, but I felt his face, keenly, when it smashed against my mace.

    Blood and brains I spilled as my elbow bucked when we hit them head on. Chancing a brief glance back, I saw a corpse stumble and fall to the ground, his shoddy, bronze sword slipping from hand. I turned to face front again when I felt hands grab at my legs and horse, but then saw those same grubby hands parted from their arms with a single blow from Wallace's sword.

    "Winterfell!" he yelled, cutting another's life short before he moved onto the next. "The blood of winter! WINTERFELL!"

    Lost to the call of blood, but he still kept near to safeguard me from any that sought me harm.

    Good men died so that I lived. Good men died and I was weak with shock when rage took hold of me.

    Swinging almost heedlessly I bashed my mace against their faces, against their arms and necks. I killed and I killed and I killed.

    Still they came, with axes and swords seeking to rend our flesh apart.

    There was no end to them and the rush was all too soon gone from me, taking my strength along with it.

    More of them came. More of them swarming forward, like a tide of vermin that sought to devour everything in its path.

    And they might have yet done that to us, were it not for the aid that came to us.

    We saw them not approaching, for we could not afford to look back when there were yet foes to be killed in the front, but we heard them crying out to the heavens, to the gods, and us, heard the trampling of hundreds of pairs of hooves against the ground.

    "REDFORT! REDFORT! FOR LORD AND LAND OF RED STONE!"

    It was hideous. Death and ruin all around us, spilled blood singing to all our hearts. It was beautiful.

    In the end, the day was won by the men of North and Vale. The day was ours, as were their deaths.

    Hundreds of blades stained red, the earth drunk on lifesblood, entrails and brains scattered in the snow.

    I never felt more alive.
    It was not just the men of Redfort who came to our aid, but Lord Horton himself, wielding a sword, commanding a hundred of his finest men as they rode down the savages. By the end of it, his sword had bathed in a river of blood. During the battle itself, we could not count the clansmen's numbers, but when it was finished and a count was taken, there were more than two hundred of their corpses.

    Being the enemy that they were to the Valesmen, they received no proper burial, only a bonfire so the stench didn't attract wild beasts.

    We feasted in Horton's halls for a night and a day. We mourned our lost - eight of Gulltown, three of Winterfell and ten of Redfort.

    The call of blood was strong and I vowed vengeance for lives they took from me.

    I wept, like an old woman mourning her grandsons dying before their time; too young, too young.

    Edwyn deserved more than to die of a festering wound gained in battle. Bowen would never see his child again and by all that was holy and unholy, I would see to it that the boy enjoyed a good and long life for the one that his father gave in my service. And Beor? He had no one. No kin or lover. Alone in the world. I mourned him the most, for who else would take note of his passing and regard it as more than just one life lost?

    I wept and I grieved and celebrated that I was alive and that the enemy was not.

    But it was not enough. It would never be enough for the likes of me.

    This I vowed. This I swore. The earth would cry out in anguish and vomit before my bloodlust was sated.

    "It is always a terrible thing, to see men you know die. If they're young, you mourn for they have not yet lived. If they are of age, you wish to praise the lives they led, yet joy turns to ash in mouth and wine tastes as the worst swill possible. No amount of spirits will drown your rage, boy, no amount of blood will sate it. Grab hold of it, grab it by the horns, and leash it for your own purpose!"

    Lord Horton rambled in his half-drunken state, oft switching from one approach to the next, praising me for my lack of shock, for not faltering in the midst of battle, praising my strong arm for felling a number few boys of nine could boast of, even though of the seven dead attributed to me, two were trampled by my mount and two I could not have killed without the aid of the now late Beor.

    By the time I had come awake, I regretted the wine I'd drunk on the previous night. My bladder was full and my head pounding.

    It was kind of Lord Redfort to give us the time to recuperate from both battle and feasting. The men needed the rest, sorely, and while they rested I went amongst them, finding out the names of those who had died in defense of me: Pate, Criston, Kyle, Jonos, Adrian, Symond, Wyl, Eustace, Jon, Hugh, Morgan, Gareth, Morton, Harlan, Gerold, Bryen and Gawen.

    I would not forget what they had done for me.

    From there I went to see the wounded, clasping them by the arm and hand, poorly trying to express the gratitude owed.

    I found Hobb among the wounded as well. He'd been been the target of a loosed arrow from somewhere in the darkness surrounding the camp, just as he mounted his horse to run for aid. When Lord Redfort rode out, he commanded Hobb stay behind and get treatment for his wound. The shaft of the arrow was removed since then and his leg was bandaged, laid up on the bed.

    "Milord," said Hobb, trying to right himself up from the bed. Given the way he winced when he moved his leg, the injury still hurt.

    I put a stop to that notion and pressed him on the shoulder, gently easing him down against the pillow. "No 'milords' now, Hobb. Not when you more than earned the right for us to dispense with such trivialities. Eddard will suffice, if you please."

    "M—," he tongue tied himself, having obviously not expected neither a visit nor such familiarity from a highborn boy. "Milord," he pressed on, "wouldn't be right to call you that, just not proper."

    When I laughed, he frowned. "Oh Hobb, what care I for what is proper when presented with a man who saved our lives. No, I won't have that between us, Hobb. You saved your fellow Valemen, and us Northmen too, when you rode on despite the wound in your leg and sent Lord Redfort with his men to aid us. We'd not be alive were it not for you."

    "If you say so, milord."

    His persistence with that was annoying and I sighed in surrender. "Very well, I see I'll not change your mind on this then. But at least, there's other ways I can see you repaid for your service to me."

    Blinking in confusion, it was clear that to this man little of any such notion, of a reward given, had passed through his mind.

    "Milord?"

    "You are a man of Gulltown, aye? Live there, raising a family perhaps?"

    Nodding, he replied, "Aye, Gulltown born and raised, milord. No family yet, just me and the wife."

    "Good, good. Then I'm sure you won't mind this," I reached for a little bearhide pouch that I brought with me beforehand, "little contribution to your household." I did not wait for him to ask what it was that I took from it, but pressed it into his hand.

    When he saw what I placed in his palm, his eyes widened. "Milord, 'tis too much! I only did my duty, no more!"

    "Duty well done, duty well rewarded," I intoned one of the many sayings of Westeros. "You've earned that, it's yours, Hobb."

    The man was speechless, for a gold dragon was no small thing to any of the commonfolk.

    In truth, it was not mine, for I had only a little more than a hundred silver stags from the monthly allowances I've saved up so far. I'd gone and asked Lord Horton for a loan, promising to see it repaid as soon as possible. When he asked why I had need of a gold dragon and I elaborated, the man was quick to give me the coin as a gift, rather than a loan, no matter what I said.

    There were more debts to be repaid, to Grafton and Redfort men, and I would see to it in the coming years.

    For now, I committed faces and names to memory. That would have to suffice for the time being. I could do no more.

    Lord Horton and I exchanged oaths of friendships between us, strengthening the bond between Redfort and Winterfell.

    "You have my gratitude, and that of my father's men, Lord Redfort. If you ever have need of me, give word and I will come."

    "Why, I believe you would indeed! Have no fear, my young lord, if I ever call upon you, it shall only be as a friend. I do beg apology for Jasper not being here to give proper farewell, the boy is helping his mother with an upset stomach, even though she had little to drink."

    "None needed, Lord Redfort. Your family has been more than kind these past few days and I owe you much."

    He looked at me appraisingly for a few moments. "I see in you the Stark blood of old come again. Woe to those that become your foes, naught but death and ruin awaits them. But many and merry shall your friends be, I think, if you continue to act as you have thus far."

    I bowed my head, once more suffused by sincere gratitude and respect for the Vale lord.

    "Kind words, Lord Redfort, that I've yet to truly earn, but I thank you for them."

    Horton Redfort waved it off. "Bah, they are but words, and you shall yet prove me true, I've no concern in that. Fortunate then, that we are friends, Eddard, and friends I hope your house and mine shall remain even when both of us are gone one day."

    "Friends," I replied with a grateful smile. "Aye, my lord. Friends for as long as our bloodlines endure."

    He clasped me by the arm and wished us farewell.

    We left his halls with no less than two hundred fresh men, ready to do battle should we be challenged on our way to the Gates.
    We were not. All signs of life were gone from the road. Our arrival to the Bloody Gate was uneventful and very solemn. A time for introspection, I imagine, for many of the men. I knew father would send more to replace the three that had died in my service, but that would not happen any time soon, not before this winter's end certainly.

    I did not look to the Knight of the Gate, nor recognized who it was, as they let us pass quickly and without issue. If some of the men stationed there gave me dark looks for displacement of their former commander, I noticed none of it.

    The weather had made many of us tetchy and of clamped mouth.

    No tongues wagged on the road, no songs were sung around campfires.

    The arrival at the Gates of the Moon had coincided with daybreak, so none besides the guards standing watch were awake. When we were met with Keeper Royce, I asked him not to rouse any of the highborn household from their slumber, and he acquiesced.

    I had failed to notice it then, but the way Nestor Royce looked at me was different. Had it changed back when Ser Cleyton was discharged or had word of our battle with the clansmen reached them here already? I did not know nor did I care to find out.

    Our horses were stabled in closed, warm quarters where the animals could get some rest of their own and feel blood flow through their limbs without the chill biting at them. Bred though they were for these mountainous areas, that didn't mean the poor beasts had to be ridden to the point of exhaustion or death. I'd taken care of providing my steed, a dark haired stallion, with the occasional apple a day, poor repayment though it was for his deeds in battle. Would that you could satisfy a man blooded as easily as that.

    Still in my furs as I dined in the hall for highborn guests, I hadn't expected company lest Wallace finally accepted my invitation and joined me on the bench, and yet company I found. Robert's eyes widened at the sight of me. No need to inquire whether he heard of the battle, as he started tongue tying himself when he couldn't figure out which question he wanted to ask first.

    "Robert, leave the boy be." a voice echoed through the hall.

    I rose from the bench to show my respect to Lord Arryn, but he bade me stay put and clasped me by the shoulder.

    "Truly, yours is an interesting life, young Eddard. Barely back in the Vale and already doing battle with the Mountain Clans."

    "My lord, I was but one of many who fought, and my part in battle pales in comparison to the sacrifices that others made."

    "There's being humble and then there's self-depreciating. You would do well to steer yourself towards the former rather than the latter. Lord Redfort praised you mightily, as did several men of Gulltown that traveled and fought by your side. Not many might have proven themselves stout and steady when battle ensued, certainly not many boys of such young age."

    "I would've!" Robert was quick to add.

    Jon only smiled fondly at the boy. "Yes, I've no doubt you would, Robert, but I'd much prefer you stayed behind these walls than let you roam outside them, in this weather, while on hunt for clansmen that no doubt have retreated further up into the mountains."

    Robert pouted most childishly at that and the sight was comforting for some reason. He quickly recuperated and launched a new barrage of questions at me, but thankfully Lord Arryn was there to save me. "Peace, boy, let him breathe. Do you think yourself the only who would hear him speak of this? Allow the others to join us for the first meal of the day on this morn, so as to not make Eddard repeat himself too often in the coming days." At this, he directed a faint smile at me. "I'm afraid that your tale shall be the subject of many, many suppers yet to come, as nothing happened in the Gates of the Moon, or near, to occupy folks' minds."

    "You have my gratitude, Lord Arryn." Then I remembered something. "If you don't mind me asking, has Lady Arryn woken up as well?"

    A shadow passed over his face at the mention of his lady wife. Robert lost much of his cheer too.

    "She is awake, but I'm afraid that she'll not be joining us for meals any time soon. My lady wife is ill for the time being, but Osric says she'll be fit enough to take her food in the main hall in a few weeks, if not sooner."

    Nothing more was said, nor did it need to be. I would find out the reason another time.

    As more and more arrived to break their fast, so too did I feel the number of eyes on me increase.

    When the time had come to tell the tale, I had been forced to repeat myself more times that I'd liked to count, smiling all the while. All the men there were battle-tested and they asked sound tactical questions, to which I sadly lacked the answers as I was neither in the position to observe such things clearly nor I was apt in such matters to begin with. The womenfolk on the other hand... they bored me. They ooh'd and ah'd at certain points when I told and retold of the fight, as though it was all a mummer's play. Occasionally, I allowed a grimace to cross my face when I wished a certain line of inquiry avoided. An insipid Waynwood girl was particularly irritating.

    Later, in private, I would receive commendation and words of praise from Jon Arryn himself, and when I went to the inner yard for my weapons practice to resume, Master Narbert gave rare praise too. It seemed such an odd thing, the less I talked of my own part in the battle, which was truthfully miniscule to start with, the more they talked of it, as if I was the one who won the day and not the men.

    While there was still some daylight, I penned a letter for my mother and father, back in Winterfell. I spoke of what happened, of the men that were lost and the men that lived. Each and every one of our original company I commended to father, and asked, when this winter ended, to grant me funds, if possible, or ask Lord Arryn to provide them instead so I could reward those that kept me alive. I told him of Wallace in great detail, how he defended me, kept me out of the hands of the savages who seemed intent on taking me hostage.

    I hoped he was agreeable in terms of gifts I asked for our own guards. They certainly earned more than mere words of praise.
    By accident or design, I do not remember which, I ended up sharing most of my thoughts with Robert that night.

    He was quiet and focused when I told the story to him again, sans the prettied up parts.

    I told him about the gore lodged in between the mace's flanges that I had to dig out with my fingers, the blood washed from my steed's coat of hair, my own leathers and my face too. I told him about the sheer horror in Beor's eyes at the moment of his violent demise.

    I told him about my rage; a never-ending font of hatred that now flourished within me for all the clans that had attacked us: Howlers, Milk Snakes and Redsmiths. I remembered the markings on their faces and skin before they burned. I remembered the way they dressed themselves, the piles of broken weapons of bronze that Lord Redfort had ground into fine dust before scattering it to the four winds.

    I remembered it all so I could one day put a final note on their existence and repay the deaths of men that sacrificed themselves for me.

    As we passed the sack of wine around, my thirst for it stronger than before, I saw sympathy aplenty on Robert's face, but also a hunger.

    Hunger for blood, hunger for battle. A terrifying thing to witness in candlelight. I imagine he saw much the same on mine.

    "When you go out riding for them, I will come too." It was no request, but a statement. "And then we'll kill them, we'll kill them all."

    "Aye," I tiredly agreed with him, "we will."

    My dreams that night were of darkness and winter.
    We spent the next sixteen turns of the moon at the Gates, before a raven from the Citadel arrived to tell us of winter's end.

    Though larger than the Eyrie itself, it was not quite fit for one who would rule the Vale. I could understand why the Arryns of old wished for a proper seat for the King of Mountain and Vale that they made themselves into.

    I still cursed the cunt that didn't think of a better way to reach it.

    In the time we spent there, several things had happened.

    Foremost of all, I found out the cause of Lady Arryn's bout of weakness: a failed pregnancy.

    She had been three months heavy with child when she woke one morn and found the bed sheets soaked in blood between her legs. This caused a panic, and while Maester Osric had certainly done a miracle in assuring Rowena Arryn lived, her child did not. It was more sickness of the mind than the body, I think, that kept her confined to a bed. Many times I had seen a despondent Jon Arryn when I roamed the Gates and came across him by accident. All those times I stayed silent on the matter, for I knew not how to help. Lord Arryn had already buried a daughter and a wife before. What could I possibly offer or say to try and heal such a terrible wound?

    I was told that Rowena smiled when she opened the wooden box in her room and found Winterfell's roses within.

    It was the first time I'd seen her ever since I'd arrived back to the Vale, when she came to thank me. Sad to say, but she looked terrible, having lost much of her beauty with the way how gaunt her face had become and how sickly and fragile she generally appeared. But month after month saw her health improve and the broody moods that plagued the Lord of the Eyrie subsequently dissipated.

    I could not be credited with the lady's improving health, but Jon still saw my gift as a turning point and thanked me effusively.

    As far as the regular routine of the day was concerned, they were spent either in lessons for the mind or the honing of my body.

    In the former, I delved deeper into recent history of Westeros, discovering more discrepancies along the way, one of which was Robert's own family, fairly larger than what I was expecting it to be. I admit, I was a fool for not asking him before anything about it, but it didn't cross my mind that there would be more than one or two divergences I'd already encountered. One such concerning the Baratheons was that they had seven children; the eldest, the third-born and the youngest being daughters with the rest being sons.

    Of Shireen, the eldest, Robert talked plenty. Despite the two years of difference, Robert was close to his sister in all the ways he was not to Stannis, who appeared to be very much the same boy that I've once read about. Still, here remained a chance for that stubborn, hard-headed streak of his to be mellowed, as Steffon and Cassana Baratheon still lived and would live for many, many years to come. With Rhaegar's betrothal to his sister, there was no need for Aerys to send his cousin on a foolish quest for a bride of Valyrian blood.

    Then again, who knew what the whims of a madman were capable, more so when one such was called king by a whole continent?

    Argella, Robert had little to speak of, the girl spending much of her time with other highborn girls for companionship and Robert simply disliked that sort of company. Understandable, really. He mentioned Renly occasionally, but again, it was clear he gave him little thought, if any. Durran was born shortly after Robert had left Storm's End and Elenei had been born just one moon into the year 274 AC, so Robert had nothing to say as he knew very little about either of them, and all of it through what his mother told him in her letters.

    I could not even begin the imagine the sheer chaos this alteration to the Baratheon family could cause to the events as I knew them.

    Yet numerous as they were, they were not the only altered factor in the grand equation that was the Seven Kingdoms.

    Another family of a Lord Paramount had also experienced a divergence. Whereas the Doran Martell I knew of had only Oberyn and Elia for siblings, this one had a brother older than either of the two, but younger than himself: Mors Martell. Whereas Oberyn kept to his ways of siring bastards left and right, bedding Edgar Yronwood's paramour, fighting the man with poison that saw him eventually dead, Mors Martell seemed to be the sword-arm of his elder brother, oft out on the sea, fighting pirates that dared tread Dornish waters.

    The Tullys too had benefited from the world's path shifting ever so innocuously. Where before there were only three, now there were six. Lucas Tully was the same age as the Crown Prince, with his younger brother, Axel, born just two years after. After them followed the already known to me births of Catelyn, Lysa and Edmure Tully, in 264, 266 and 269 AC respectively, with one more child being born, another boy, by the name of Nathaniel, whose birth saw to Minisa Whent's demise in the year 273 AC. At least, this time, Hoster had heirs aplenty.

    Some things had stayed the same, however. Word had come to the Gates of the Moon that Tywin Lannister's wife had died in childbirth and that his second son was born a dwarf, malformed and ugly, with one eye as black as night and the other emerald green. At the time, he still had the twins, Cersei and Jaime, with which to try and maintain some semblance of a legacy. Sadly, he knew not what a fierce opponent Cersei's cunt would be to all his ambitions, making a mockery of things as she pulled her brother further into degeneracy.

    Going by the latest rumors, Tywin Lannister was firmly set never to remarry. Typical, the man did not practice what he preached.

    Meanwhile, there had been two more royal births: a Prince, born in 272, named Jaehaerys and two years later followed by the birth of Princess Elaena. Of all the families in Westeros to become abundantly fertile, why the Targaryens? This did not bode well.

    But sadly, there were none with whom I could share my concerns, as they'd be seen paranoid at best, treasonous at worst.

    What a world.

    Still, I could spend only so much time in Maester Osric's presence before my ever-ongoing quest to improve my weapon skills reared its ugly head. By the time my eleventh nameday had passed, I still wielded the mace best of all, followed by the bow and horse-riding. Swords I could now handle properly, but my aptitude was nowhere near the height of my skill with aforementioned crushing weapon.

    And when Robert had finally discovered warhammers, Master Narbert despaired.

    It was no use trying to convince Robert to opt for another kind of weapon, no matter what sorts of arguments the master-of-arms presented, no matter how sane or sound they were. Robert wanted a warhammer and he got one. In an attempt to discourage the youth from trying to limit himself to such a specialized weapon, Narbert had ordered a two-handed warhammer to be crafted for Robert, never knowing, nor understanding, that challenges was what Robert lived for. That he couldn't lift the damn thing with both arms at first was not an impediment in his eyes, but rather an obstacle to be overcome. Even as a boy, Robert's appetite was monstrous, but at the time being, most of that mass was being burned away by every day exercises and slowly refined to pure muscle.

    Would that I could have grown at his rate, might have made things easier on me. But that was not to be my fate, I would ever be the lean fighter, moving fast, aiming to strike faster than the eye could see, despite the fact that my weapon of choice was a flanged mace.

    And after a while, I admitted to myself that I felt a small amount of envy at how easily Robert finished his tasks, with nothing but sheer strength. Even at the age of two-and-ten, he possessed quite a lot of it and was not shy about putting it to good use.

    Or showing off. That worked too.

    It worried me, for when fully grown, I feared his carnal hungers would dim his mind and make him unbearable to be around with.

    While in the Eyrie we never had companions close to our age and rank, it seemed as if the Gates of the Moon housed at least one of every great noble house of the Vale. At first, they were friendly, but me being the moody cunt that I could be at times they were put off by my self-imposed bouts of solitude, and saw it as a rejection, rather than just a quirk of my personality. Another problem was that there were far more highborn, unbetrothed, girls than I had expected. They were on the prowl and boys were their choice of prey.

    Luckily, my status as a second-born son meant I was overlooked by them, which suited me just fine. Despite my brief fame after the fight with the clansmen, they were quick to tire of me and move onto more juicier prospects, namely Robert or one of the other heirs. I laughed at their misery and more than once I made my way to the inner yard for practice while my friend was otherwise occupied.

    But not all was laughter and joy in the Vale.

    Roughly a year since my second departure from Winterfell, while winter still reigned, I had felt a wave of weakness overcome me. Knowing what was to come next, I set out for my chambers to pen a brief letter and send it home, as quickly as possible. To avoid attention and anyone noticing my temporary frailty, I feigned another burst of interest for books and so neglected my physical training.

    Robert could be fooled for only so long.

    "It seems as if each year, you fall sick. Is it the fever again?"

    "No, Robert," I reassured my friend, "it's nothing. A cold or something like it, but no fever. Should pass soon enough, I think."

    When next week I woke to fleeting memories of darkness and strength renewed, I knew my mother and father had done their part.

    Yet I would see this burden removed from them and so I searched for anything that could help.

    However, I could do nothing before winter ended and Lord Arryn ordered a return to the Eyrie.

    When the raven finally arrived and told us of winter's end, the whole of the Gates was set into motion. As they did every time with the changing of the seasons, they were preparing for the trip back to the Eyrie. Like so many others I did not look forward to the climb.

    The snows had not yet melted and peaks of mountains would be covered in white for months and months to come, but there was a noticeable, gradual, shift in the weather. The cold was slowly ebbing away, and while we still had to dress warmly, we no longer wrapped ourselves in bundles of clothes nor were the fires stoked so high by the servants.

    For our journey we were joined by one more Arryn. Elbert had come to petition his uncle regarding something in his lands. What it might have been, none of us were privy to. What quickly became commonly known was that his wife was pregnant yet again. Perhaps, the servants whispered amongst themselves, this time it would be a boy. Matters of succession were a rather serious issue, after all.

    I had hoped to see Denys Arryn visit too, if only to have the opportunity to ask his help for learning the lance. Instead, the Gates received a raven by him, informing Jon Arryn of his niece giving birth to a healthy baby boy, named Rolland after an ancestor of theirs.

    That helped put a smile on the Lord of the Eyrie's face, and though Rowena smiled as well, her eyes were bereft of the sentiment.

    In response to Denys' letter, Jon Arryn sent back a standing invitation to the Eyrie, for when Janyce and the babe were fit to travel.

    And then, we were off.
    Clearing out the snow was not the issue, breaking apart the icicles that formed along the castle's ledges and corners was.

    What skills I had with a bow, I put to use, along with dozens and dozens of Eyrie men, in clipping short the ones placed too high for any hand or spear to reach. Robert was there too, but his enthusiasm quickly waned when he realized how much work there actually was.

    It took two weeks of steadily chipping away at the remnants of winter to make the castle safe to walk around.

    A moonlit night was what I waited for, day after day, until the phases turned and shifted, and finally my path easier to take to.

    It was the hour of the wolf, when most of the Eyrie was abed, and I battled the ever alluring call of dreams lest I lost my chance.

    Child I might have been, but that made me more easily known, should my form be seen by any eyes in the night. Tip toeing through corridors, holding my breath while my lungs ached for air, and teeth chattering from cold, I made it. Any who looked downwards from high above in one of the towers might see a figure moving about on the grounds, but like as not, I was too far for them to know it was I.

    Four white walls surrounded the enclosure and all was still. Not a sound was heard, not even a single creak from the wind.

    Kings of Mountain and Vale had intended it to be an olive branch to the First Men among their newly conquered vassals.

    It was a branch that never came into bloom, never bore the fruit it was always meant to.

    Trees common, aye, those sprouted plenty from the stony soil, a canopy beneath which to hide should any look downward.

    But no weirwood or heart tree did I see with my eyes, no carved face of the Old Gods to watch over this once domain of First Men.

    Only oak, pine, hawthorn and a statue of a woman weeping standing in the very center of it.

    The ground had not fully thawed from winter's embrace and to my fear I thought I might have to wait for spring to come in full strength.

    But that might mean another man or woman given to the roots, another year of dependency on sacrifice and I would not allow my parents to risk so much, when there might yet still be a better way. It was a fool's hope, but then so was my mother's when she called me from darkness the very first time around. It was a fool's hope, yet it was all I had to go by. I would not suffer any weakness.

    I nearly bloodied my hands that night before realizing my efforts were for nothing. So I returned to my chambers and brooded and slept.

    Over the coming days and weeks, I went more and more to the enclosure, working at the ground with tools no one might miss.

    If only I could have lit a fire there and made the task easier, but that would have undone my attempts in avoiding detection.

    Soon enough, dark circles started appearing under my eyes. I thought none would pay heed too much, but instead I was brought to the solar of Jon Arryn and instructed to not linger so much in my chambers awake, up with one book or another, when sleep was what my body wanted and needed. I might've laughed off his concern, but he had a look in his eyes and I dared not say anything back.

    Relying on nothing more than a feeling, I decided to stay in my chambers, abed, for the following few nights.

    When my doors opened at odd hours, when all else should have been asleep, it confirmed what I suspected and expected of Jon Arryn.

    In the dim lighting of sputtering torches, I saw Marya's wrinkled face and the softening of her mouth when she assured I was in my bed.

    So I spent the following two weeks, before losing all signs of a lack of sleep and with it gone, so too was the nightly checkup.

    Once returned to the task at hand, at digging through the earth, I only went there every third night, lest I incurred another round of watching. And in that time, the ground had thawed, though it being stony meant I had to go slow about it, lest too much noise was made and then promptly investigated if someone were to wander near the area. No need for additional risks on my part.
    In the meantime, things had gone on, more or less, as usual. One thing that I did get to skip out on, but Robert couldn't, were visits from the Eyrie's septon. Even before the revelations from my mother I felt no inclination to pay obeisance to any gods, and now that I knew my continued survival depended on forces that many of the Seven's followers cared not for or would oppose and burn out if they could, I stayed clear of grounds they deemed holy. For all I knew, the Old Gods had no thoughts on the matter, but why risk it?

    Besides, the septon, an elderly, highly devout man, was a bore and removing myself from his presence was a bonus.

    Jon Arryn was not surprised with my decision to not attend the lessons from Septon Ben and respected it.

    Robert was not so accommodating. He thought I should suffer the man's sermons as he did.

    "You could always convert to the Old Gods, no lessons to attend there."

    He was confused at that. "How do you call it a faith, or believe, when you have no one to preach it?"

    "They are the gods and that is all you need to know. They command no man to spread belief in them or wage wars in their name."

    Years later, upon visiting my home, he would remark, with bellowing laughter, "I know now why all attempts at conversion failed. They've buggered off south when their cocks turned to icicles and dropped off!"

    But at that time and day, he had no such reply, only complaints about Septon Ben and his breath that stank of foul things.
    Maester. Mace. Bow. Horse. Maester. Jon. Robert. Rowena. Letters.

    An apt summation, I think, of how most of my days at the Eyrie were spent.

    It was four months since we had moved back that I finally made some significant progress in the enclosure.

    Yet the seeds remained in my pouch as I thought on these things. I couldn't help but recall my mother's voice.

    Only life can pay for life.

    Why else had a proper godswood not been raised in this place? For the weather here was far more temperate than the North, where many godswoods flourished and kept strong, for thousands and thousands of years. In the brief visit to Winterfell, and after the words shared between mother and myself, I'd plundered our library for all its worth and taken with me any texts that might provide some clue to the ways of old. Among them was a rare text penned by a Maester Yorick, who spoke of blood sacrifices to the Old Gods.

    I knew what some would think of me if they knew why I researched such things.

    Savage, they would name me, for worshiping trees they deemed foul.

    Heathen, as if my skin ought to burn upon entering Andal lands and their septries.

    Madman, for daring to think of the old and ways to bring it back anew.

    Sorcerer, witch and unholy demon, they would accuse if they had the slightest inkling of what I'd do.

    Not skin-changer, sadly enough. Not unless we count my arrival as such and I didn't.

    And so I pondered and waited and pondered some more, before I realized too much thinking was doing me no good.

    It was past time for merely entertaining the thoughts, it was long past since I ought to have turned them to deeds.

    Another three months would pass, worry gnawing at me from the inside, before an opportunity presented itself.
    The Eyrie was not a place where one usually held prisoners, not unless you cared not for whether they died by your hand or their own.

    Having been to the Sky Cells a few times in passing, I could see why so many of them jumped, for whether they received judgment from the Lord of the Eyrie or not, they'd fly into the blue all the same, be it through the Moon Door or from their cells.

    Even from the other side, with the iron doors to the cells locked, I could still feel it pulling at me, calling me to embrace it.

    How was I even supposed to handle it then to acquire myself a sacrifice from there?

    The logistics of dragging a man or woman to the enclosure, undetected, were troubling enough.

    It couldn't be done at any other time than night, of course, but still... gods, I fucking hated heights. I hated them so much.

    I do not recall what day it was, nor the food or drink I tasted that day. Having been accustomed to lying to people, feigning my moods was easily done, so while I might have been considering all possible complications on the inside, on the outside I was nothing but my usual self. Which is not saying much, I grant you that. But I think Jon Arryn thought me merely distracted by the first execution Robert and I had seen ever since arriving to his ancestral castle. Like all men, this one too was offered death or the Wall. For a moment, it seemed as if he might try his luck at the Wall, but then something changed his mind and he chose death.

    Death by being tossed through the Moon Door.

    Oh how he howled on his way down. Or was that just the wind, welcoming him?

    His crime, you ask? I cannot recall. Murder or treason of some sort, no doubt.

    The crime of the one whom I took from the Sky Cells? Yes, I remember that one. I think I always will.

    It was the dead of night, the hour of the wolf having already passed, when I stole the keys from the jailor's cot. The man had gotten stinking drunk on wine I procured for him earlier and was now thoroughly knocked out, snoring and drooling.

    I had to be careful and quiet, for my mark was not alone in the cells, though two of them had gone slightly mad and their words could not be trusted about what they saw. Still, no reason to chance it, they were fed the milk of the poppy. Acquiring so much of it had been a task unto itself. I could only ask so often for it to be sent to my chambers, lest they thought I was addicted to it. Once every month, no more, and only enough for a child to fall asleep that claimed sleep would not come to him naturally. The effects would not last long.

    Though I'd much improved my strength and endurance since the first day I arrived, it was still a heavy burden for me. The pace by which I moved displeased me mightily, yet I could not afford to try and rush ahead, lest someone came across me.

    Dawn was perhaps only an hour or two away when I reached the enclosure.

    And the effects of the drug were wearing off, I could see her lids fluttering, eyes slowly turning open.

    A shame that, she might have grown up to be a pretty girl, found herself a minor noble to wed and be happy with, yet that was not to be for Sharra Osgund. Daughter of minor nobles herself, she had been found smothering her baby brother in his crib, for one reason or another. They'd arrived just in time to see the child's eyes close for one final time. Sent by her parents to the Lord of the Eyrie for judgment, for they could not bear to see justice done by their own hands, she was far from sight, far from heart, day after day passing with her sitting in the Sky Cells. Jon Arryn thought it best to allow the girl to live a bit longer before sending her to the Silent Sisters, if she survived the blue.

    Come the morning, they'd find her cell empty, the jailor's keys returned to his cot, think she passed judgment on herself and forget her.

    But I would not. How could I? Though I blooded myself with the clansmen, she was the first child I killed, after all.

    The seeds were already in place, blanketed by the earth when I slit her throat open and held her head above them to water the ground.

    It takes less time than one would think, and more than you'd want to wait out, for someone to die by loss of blood from the neck.

    Once she was limbless in my arms, I pushed back the dirt atop the thirteen mounds and made it look like nothing was out of place.

    In the end, she really did embrace the blue, even if it was with some assistance from myself.

    Couldn't risk a body to be found by anyone and when she hit the ground there'd be no way to determine how she truly died.

    The night was over, but I was not done yet.

    Going off on nothing more than a gut feeling, I went back to the enclosure and lightly cut myself on the palm of my left hand.

    Clenched into fist, I made sure the blood dripped on the same spots where the girl's lifesblood and the seeds mingled.

    And that was that.

    Or it would have been had I not turned around and saw Rowena Arryn standing behind me.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • this is not gonna end well.

    yah know i do have to say, i like the length of the posts. there is always enough to really sink ones teeth into
     
    Last edited:
    You always leave me wanting more with these. Eagerly anticipating the next one. Can't wait to see how you try to talk yourself out of this.

    I half expect her to say "carry on".
     
    Bizuneh said:
    After that day, in my eyes he was Rickard Stark no longer. My father had people murdered for me.

    How could I not love the man for that? How could I deny him and Lyarra their rightful claim any longer: mother and father.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Only you.

    Bizuneh said:
    The woman took delight in my brother trying to pair me off with girls.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Is Lyarra suddenly a Jewish mother?

    Bizuneh said:
    The call of blood was strong and I vowed vengeance for lives they took from me.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Bizuneh said:
    This I vowed. This I swore. The earth would cry out in anguish and vomit before my bloodlust was sated.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Bizuneh said:
    "When you go out riding for them, I will come too." It was no request, but a statement. "And then we'll kill them, we'll kill them all."

    "Aye," I tiredly agreed with him, "we will."
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    I smell some genocide.

    Bizuneh said:
    Roughly a year since my second departure from Winterfell, while winter still reigned, I had felt a wave of weakness overcome me.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Damn those chronic diseases.

    Bizuneh said:
    Or it would have been had I not turned around and saw Rowena Arryn standing behind me.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Shiet.
     
    Bizuneh said:
    Sadly, he knew not what a fierce opponent Cersei's cunt would be
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Excellent. :rofl:

    Bizuneh said:
    This is right about when our piss turns solid and spears the the ground.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    One 'the' too many

    Bizuneh said:
    No amount of spirits will drown your rage, boy, no amount of of blood will sate it.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    no amount of blood

    Bizuneh said:
    I wept, like an old woman mourning her grandsons dying before their time; too young, too young.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Poetic, but a tad too dramatic, considering your characterization.

    Bizuneh said:
    I mourned him the most, for someone had to, someone had to give a damn.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Nitpicky, but 'giving a damn' feels vaguely anachronistic. I understand that the SI comes from our time, but the paragraph prior is distinctively coherent with the ASOIAF parlance.

    Bizuneh said:
    The man was speechless, for a gold dragon was no small thing to any of the commonfolk.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Well, you know how to lead men, at least. Rewarding loyal soldiers and punishing those who prove lacking is how you get an army with high morale. :)

    Bizuneh said:
    Then again, who knew what the whims of a madman were capable, more so when one such was called king by a whole continent?
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Would his madness be apparent already? IIRC, it was the succession of Rhaella's failed pregnancies that triggered his more irrational side. Then Duskendale happened, and after that, it was a game of 'here be insanity'.

    Bizuneh said:
    The Tullys too
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    What the fuck lol, are the women of ASOIAF all taking Clomiphene and hCG? :V

    Bizuneh said:
    Or it would have been had I not turned around and saw Rowena Arryn standing behind me.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Given Rowena's desperation to conceive, and how prayers to the Seven have been useless so far, I expect a 'My turn.' :whistle:
     
    Last edited:
    Hachichiyyin said:
    Poetic, but a tad too dramatic, considering your characterization.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Blame the drink, blame the post-battle melancholy. I thought it fitting.

    Hachichiyyin said:
    Nitpicky, but 'giving a damn' feels vaguely anachronistic. I understand that the SI comes from our time, but the paragraph prior is distinctively coherent with the ASOIAF parlance.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Duly noted and changed. Thanks.

    Hachichiyyin said:
    Would his madness be apparent already? IIRC, it was the succession of Rhaella's failed pregnancies that triggered his more irrational side. Then Duskendale happened, and after that, it was a game of 'here be insanity'.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    This is OOC knowledge, one I've shared before in the rolz room for ADOTN, so I don't mind bringing it up here.

    Aerys' madness is still very much present, if manifested in a different way, and not so obvious.

    Where before he and Rhaella had all those stillbirths and miscarriages instead of healthy babes, here he has sons and daughters aplenty. Where before he looked to one of his oldest friends with envy and spite, bitterness stewing inside him all the time, here he looks to Tywin with a different perspective, but no less insulting than it was before.

    After all, wouldn't being pitied, mockingly pitied at that and perhaps even taunted by some, be potentially much much worse than simple hatred for Tywin, rather than being envied by the king for his beautiful son and daughter? And then think of this world, where Aerys has plenty children, all with striking, recognizable Targaryen features, princes and princesses to charm the realm with, if need be, but Tywin has not lost only the one woman he loved, he's also received a misshapen child in exchange?

    So yes, Aerys' madness is there. Ever lurking beneath the surface. Quite easy to spot if you're near, but those outside of King's Landing and the royal court can't really say much of it because it doesn't reach them, because he's not so obsessed with attaining some vague form of greatness with which to best those he once deemed friends, he's done it by showing how his and Rhaella's marriage produced more than enough children necessary for a stable reign.

    Naturally, just because there's plenty of children around running around the Red Keep doesn't mean theirs is a happy marriage.

    As far as Duskendale is concerned, that was indeed the turning point, the true turning point, the one spot where you can say "Oh shit, it's happening!" but it wasn't the sole contributor, just the tipping point, dire though it was.

    In a way, this is much, much worse.

    I mean, even if you look at this from just the pure political standpoint, a rebellion of any sort might be doomed before it could even begin to happen. If Aerys chooses to do so, he could bind all the great houses of Westeros to his family through marriage alone, and by doing so, he would also effectively pit them against one another to vie for royal favor and the chance to advance their families' causes through the king.

    But it's not just politics, because Aerys is so much more dangerous. Before, his madness was plain to see, you could point to him doing all those burnings, of smallfolk and highborn alike, and say "Look, a madman, not fit for the throne!" or you could point to Rhaegar and proclaim "Look, he kidnaps the betrothed of others/elopes with other men's women!" he's no good either.

    Here? Here the situation is starkly different.

    If Tywin is greedy and amoral as we know him to be in canon, then he could very well just marry off Cersei to one of the other sons that Aerys had, rather than bemoan that fate has given Aerys a daughter to which he betrothed Rhaegar, and have the others killed in a series of unfortunate accidents, until Cersei's husband is the one left standing, so he could sit on the Iron Throne. Or if you want to go darker, if Tywin could arrange a marriage to one of Aerys' daughters, then he kills off every single other Targaryen in some far-reaching scheme that would never in hundred years come close to showing his hand in it.

    Of course, this is just my mind wandering here and there, entertaining possibilities, thinking of all the changes that those butterfly wings set aflutter.

    Hachichiyyin said:
    What the fuck lol, are the women of ASOIAF all taking Clomiphene and hCG? :V
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    I've not even brought up Doran's children yet nor Oberyn's bastards :whistle:

    It's gonna be a bumpy ride, buckle up.
     
    Reader mode
    You must login or register to reply here.
    Remove ads
    Back
    Top