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Northern Renaissance

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Just blitzed through this story, I love the mixed style you're using for the time skips here and think you've done a good job of balancing the butterflies with the net.

Really excited to see where things go from here now that things are going to begin diverging even more narratively as we go along.
 
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Robert's Rebellion - Decisive Actions
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    • …The Northern Army's arrival in the Riverlands spelled doom for the Loyalist forces in the kingdom, especially after the Twins and Seagard, which had remained neutral up to this point, joined the Rebels in exchange for a sizeable share of the loot seized in any action their forces take part in for the Freys and several trade agreements for the Mallisters. Over the course of the next several months, as Lord Baratheon rampaged in the south after the battles at Summerhall, every loyalist force and keep west of Darry and east of the Westerlands fell to the combined might of the North and Riverlands.

    Extensive use of wargs to scout and infiltrate allowed the North's forces to defeat the Loyalists in detail with ruthless efficiency, often with ambushes at night with the wargs' bonded animals slaughtering guards, and opening gates, allowing the army to take their foes while they slept, and due to the scattered nature of the Loyalists in the Riverlands those that fell were unable to warn their fellows. While effective in keeping the North's casualties down – crucial given that they could only get small numbers of reinforcements intermittently from the supply chain stretching from Seagard to Dragon Harbor – it greatly disquieted the Riverlanders fighting with them, both the "dishonorable" tactics and, for those that held to the Seven, the extensive use of magic…

    …Contrary to the fears of the North's Admiralty, the fleets of Dorne and the Westerlands remained firmly in port, allowing the North uncontested dominance over the sea north of the Feastfires in the west and Crackclaw Point in the east. Having lost his arm in the Battle of Claw Isle Lord Velaryon had no interest in engaging the Northern fleet in another decisive action, even after the remnants of the Stormland's fleet joined the Royal Fleet, which would lead to him being stripped of his titles and exiled with John Connington by King Aerys.

    This was a boon for the North, as it allowed them to get enough ships that had been damaged in battle back into service that when Lord Bywater, whose abilities lay in political intrigue not military matters, took the Royal Fleet out he was pincered in the Battle of Crackclaw Bay, destroying the Loyalist fleet as a fighting force. Had Lord Velaryon decided to attack with the Royal and Stormland fleets he likely would have sighted White Harbor before both fleets were ground to nothing, due to his greater numbers and the latest generation of warships to leave the Royal slipways proving themselves equal to older Northern built ships as the Southern shipwrights had finally discovered the techniques that had allowed the North unquestioned superiority on the seas for a hundred and fifty years.

    And yet the North's victory was pyrrhic. After Crackclaw Point only one in four ships were listed as combat capable compared to their pre-war numbers, all damaged, and three in five were either sunk or constructive losses. In truth, the number was likely closer to one in eight and two in three, something that kept many a captain and admiral up at night as many believed that King Aerys would be able to force the Martells to join him due to Elia Martell being a hostage in the Red Keep. And the ravaged fleet would not survive that.

    A crash building program was authorized, but it would be a year before the first light galleons hit the water, five for full galleons, and any not yet laid down would be cancelled with the end of the Rebellion. Considering most drydocks were occupied repairing damaged ships the total number of new ships produced wasn't that many all told. By the time of this writing, 288AC, the eastern fleet is only at two-thirds its pre-rebellion strength…

    …After the Battles of Summerhall Robert Baratheon solidified his control over the Stormlands, the remaining Loyalists joining the remnants of the Stormlands fleet in fleeing to the Crownlands. He then gambled that Lord Tyrell would be sending most of his men north towards the Riverlands, an understandable assumption given the long enmity between the devout Reach and the Old Gods.

    Unfortunately, this assumption was in error, for Mace Tyrell had decided to secure his flank first, and the full might of the Reach bore down on the Stormlands. Lord Baratheon discovered this at the Battle of Ashford, and while he was able to retreat in good order when he received word of the impending arrival, and size of, the Reach's main force, he did so in the knowledge that the Stormlands were effectively lost.

    In light of that, Lord Baratheon split his force in two. Half headed back to the Stormlands with orders to make the Reach's inevitable conquest as long and painful as possible. The other half accompanied the Lord of the Stormlands as he hurried north, desperate to link up with Lords Stark and Tully. That this involved crossing through the entirety of the Crownlands, which was staunchly Loyalist, reportedly didn't even faze him.

    By any reasonable metric, the decision was madness. While not as densely populated as the Reach, the Crownlands was still one of the most populated regions in Westeros. This meant that there were countless castles, holdfasts, towns, and other settlements and fortifications that Lord Baratheon would have to bypass or conquer in the roughly four-hundred miles separating him from friendly lines, and that was ignoring the very real possibility of interception by the Royal Army.

    And yet, impossibly, Lord Baratheon managed to do just that, reaching Stony Sept with six-thousand exhausted and half-starved men, a mere quarter of the number he had taken into battle at Ashford. The only reason he succeeded was that the Royal Army, under Lord Jon Connington, had thought that Lord Baratheon was trying to steal a march on King's Landing and deployed to intercept him at Raven's Rest, a small town on the Rose Road south of Tumbletown. Lord Connington realized Lord Baratheon's real destination quickly, but by that point the Royal Army was out of position to intercept him.

    Lord Tyrell also decided to split his army. Thirty thousand under Lord Tarly proceeded into the Stormlands, eventually putting Storm's End under siege though lacking the manpower to storm it after pacifying all of the other castles on the way and dealing with the constant skirmishing from the remnants of the Stormland's army. The other fifty-thousand joined up with the Royal Army's forty-thousand at Bitterbridge, and then the entire ninety-thousand strong force ponderously marched north, Lord Tyrell pulling rank as a Lord Paramount to be placed in overall command.

    At the same time the North and Riverland armies were regrouping at High Heart, initially in preparation for a push against Darry, but upon receiving a raven from Lord Baratheon the force made its way to the Stony Sept…

    -Robert's Rebellion, by Historian Rickard Mullen, 288AC



    …The Battle of the Bells they called it. The largest battle since… well, before Valeria's fall. Neither the Conquest nor the Dance had so many men involved in a single battle.

    Fifty-thousand Reachers and forty-thousand Crownlanders met eight-and-twenty-thousand Northmen, Six-thousand Stormlanders, and eight-and-ten-thousand Riverlanders.

    Ninety-thousand against two-and-fifty-thousand sounds like a foregone conclusion, doesn't it?

    Thing was, of that ninety-thousand about fifty-thousand were unblooded levies, most equipped with just a short spear and large shield, though I saw some with farming tools instead of spears and some of the shields looked like someone had repurposed the side of a wagon.

    In comparison we only had ten-thousand levies, all from the Riverlands, and they were well blooded. Many had looted so many arms and armor from previous battles that it could be difficult to tell the difference between one of our veteran levies and a poor man-at-arms.

    They outnumbered us heavily in cavalry too, two-and-ten thousand to our seven, but no one was particularly concerned about that.

    We had direwolves after all. Just writing that makes me grin in schadenfreude all over again. Anyone who had ever witnessed a horse meeting a direwolf for the first time could predict what was going to happen….

    …The Loyalists reached the Stony Sept first, only a few days ahead of us, and put it under siege. I, and the other wargs and skinchangers with bird familiars, had them under constant surveillance ever since we got within three day's march of the town.

    That gave us plenty of time to come up with a plan. See, we had a bunch of Seven worshipers in the Riverlands contingent, and they knew what the Reach's Septons like to portray the North as: a land of heathens, barbarians, and monsters, and guess what we had with us? Giants, direwolves, shadowcats, even a few Singers, and more. A lot of planning was put into figuring out how to maximize that psychological shock, only possible thanks to extensive reconnaissance by my flock and several greenseers investigating the past and parsing future possibilities.

    Supposedly there's countermeasures to block them from looking through time to see what you're doing, but either the Seven don't know them or can't cast them without mage-priests of their own, though those with magic in our blood can definitely feel when a bunch of them are observing us from the past or future.

    They also aren't omniscient in spite of their temporal abilities, as when I brought word that Loyalist sympathizers or infiltrators managed to open the Stony Septs' west gate so that the Loyalist army could storm in when we were just a few hours away they were caught completely off guard.

    I am still baffled as to why they did that. They had to know we were coming. Mace Tyrell is no great thinker, to put it politely, but he isn't that stupid. The only rationalization that makes sense to me is that they thought we were farther away than we were, and could eliminate then-Lord Baratheon and his remaining Stormlanders before we could arrive.

    Whatever their reasoning, their actions surprised us, and we had to quickly adjust our plans.

    There was concern that Lord Baratheon would be overwhelmed before we could arrive, but thankfully there was only so many men that could be shoved through a gatehouse at a time. The Stormlanders were slowing being pushed back towards the small holdfast at the center of the town, but when one of my fellow wargs sent her eagle to Lord Baratheon with a message he confirmed that they would hold long enough for us to arrive.

    Still, we had to rethink our plan. Them being up against the Stony Sept's walls left them with limited ability to maneuver, and it would be easy for us to pin them against it.

    Which was the one thing we absolutely could not afford to do. If we cornered them, they'd fight to the death like cornered rats. And there was ninety-thousand of them.

    Our plan hinged on shock causing a significant portion of the army to break and run. If they didn't… well, the war would have gone on for a lot longer.

    When we arrived Lord Tyrell had gotten fed up with trickling men in for Lord Baratheon to smash with his hammer and sent his cavalry under Lord Connington to circle around and take the Sept's northern gatehouse.

    A word about the terrain around the Stony Sept for those who have never been there. The town is located in a valley with large hills to the north and west and one of the Blackwater Rush's tributaries to the south. The tributary was a ways from the town with a fair amount of farmland between it and the Sept's walls, and would play no part in the battle other than historians using it to mark the southern edge of the battlefield, but the hills were rather close, just a few hundred yards from the walls and completely blocked line of sight for anyone who wasn't in one of the Sept's corner towers, and that was the direction we came from.

    Now, the Loyalists weren't incompetent. They had posted scouts in the hills to warn of anyone approaching from that way, but one of our druids temporally "sat in" on that meeting, so we knew where they were. And our outriders had gotten     very good at eliminating enemy pickets when we mopped up the Riverlands. None got a warning out.

    So the Loyalists had no idea we were there until we effectively ambushed them. And, thanks to a hell of a lot of stressful work, we got our timings near perfect.

    First the direwolves under the command of Lord Stark crested the northern hill and immediately charged at the Loyalist cavalry, howling the whole way in terrifying synchronicity. The result was predictable.

    Horses are herd animals. If part of the herd panics and bolts, the rest will follow. And that's exactly what happened, undoubtedly with several shinchangers and greenseers helping the panic propagate through the cavalry.

    We later estimated about a third of the enemy knights were unhorsed and trampled to death in the stampede, though a few hundred managed to maintain control of their mounts and not join in. Unfortunately, their reward for such an impressive display of horsemanship was to be flattened by the charging direwolf cavalry as they pursued the fleeing Loyalist cavalry.

    The thing about direwolves is that like mundane wolves they are endurance focused pursuit hunters, meaning they pursue their prey until it drops from exhaustion.

    And horses are natural prey for direwolves.

    This had been intellectually known for over a century by this point, but this was the first time that fact would be applied at scale. By the time the sun set and the pursuit was called off, less than a third of the loyalist cavalry managed to escape, and many lost their mounts to exhaustion or laming during the night.

    Only one in ten would make their way back to friendly line with their mounts still combat capable, though a great many more would join the ranks of the infantry.

    We later discovered that Jon Connington was in command of the cavalry, and though he lost his horse he managed to escape and make his way back to King's Landing, much to his regret.

    The main army had just enough time to witness their prized heavy cavalry be effortlessly routed by howling men riding giant armored howling wolves when our main force crested the western hills behind them, with giants and the Umbers leading the charge.

    Now, Lord Tyrell was sending his men-at-arms into the Sept, correctly reasoning that his peasant levies, while expendable, would be unable to make or maintain a beachhead against the Stormlanders. But this meant that all of his professional soldiers were clustered against the walls, so when our army slammed into his rear we were met with nothing but peasant levies.

    The giants hit the line first. With steel protecting their lower halves and hands, and triple thickness gambesons elsewhere for arrow protection, they were functionally immune to the short spears and mid-power crossbows the levies used, and their war clubs sent men flying with each hit. And I do mean     flying, as they went over the heads of those behind them before crashing into those in the rear ranks.

    Greatjon Umber led the North's elite heavy infantry into the chaos the giants had opened, and while they didn't send men flying the Umbers, and those descended from them, were more than large and strong enough to reliably kill foes in even the heaviest armor with a single hit from their beak-hammers. Against the levies each swing downed multiple men, the one hit with the hammer and several men behind him who his body crashed into.

    The few officers in the levies' ranks tried to organize a coherent defense, mainly by organizing the levy archers and crossbowmen into a single unit to fire on the giants, but that just made them sitting targets for our longbowmen and long-draw crossbowmen, thanks to my Silverwing providing accurate direction and range to them.

    The first volley fell a bit short, but the next three were on target. The poor sods didn't even have gambesons to protect them. They broke after the fourth volley, leaving a third of their number dead or dying.

    The archers opened up on the rear ranks of the levy infantry at the same time our artillery began to fire at the men-at-arms by the wall, and those of us bonded to larger birds began to drop incendiary grenades – little clay pots filled with pitch, tar, or oil and a lit slow-burning wick – on anyone who tried to rally the wavering lines.

    Our horse cavalry, under Lord Tully, slamming into their northern flank was the final blow, and the Loyalists shattered. The levies broke and ran almost as one, and they took a sizeable number of the men-at-arms with them.

    In the space of about half-an-hour, a ninety-thousand strong army was reduced to under twenty-thousand, and most of the remainder was desperately trying to get the Stony Sept's walls between us and them.

    'Course, we didn't exactly have our full strength either. Lord Baratheon was down to about four-thousand men by this point, and all of our cavalry and a sizable portion of our infantry was occupied with ensuring the routing Loyalists continued to route and didn't rally to hit     us in the rear.

    But thirty-thousand was more than enough to deal with the remainder, and we had control of the Sept's three other gates.

    It took four hours before the last of the Loyalists surrendered. There weren't any fancy tactics here, just a long, brutal, grinding, slog of a city fight. The Loyalists weren't able to hide from us in the sky, but that didn't make running them down any easier, and the septons continued to ring those damned bells the whole time…

    …We captured a lot of nobles from the Crownlands and the Reach, but the prize was undoubtedly Mace Tyrell himself…

    …If only the Battle of Brindlewood went as well. But Prince Rhegar proved more than capable of learning from this disastrous defeat, and had developed counters…

    -By Raven's Sight, A Chronicle of Robert's Rebellion, by Skinchanger Vallerie Blackbird, 284AC



    …The Battle of the Bells was an unmitigated disaster for the Loyalists. It took Prince Rhegar three months to rally the scattered survivors of the host to Tumbletown, and he had barely thirty-thousand men by the end of it.

    But the consequences were far more severe than mere casualties. Darry, which had been put under siege by the Vale army, decided to negotiate a surrender when word of the battle reached them, along with all the remaining loyalist holdouts in the Vale and Riverlands.

    In addition, Lord Lannister began to quietly sound out the Rebels, and Lord Martell also sent a raven stating that if the Rebels could get Elia Martell and her children out of the Red Keep and safely to Sunspear Dorne would side with them, though these only came out after the rebellion was over.

    Jon Connington, as the sole surviving commander of the force, was brought before the Mad King in chains, and while he was able to deflect enough blame onto Lord Tyrell to walk out with his head still attached, it wasn't enough to save his titles and he was attainted and banished.

    That said, not everything went the Rebels' way. They lost eight-thousand men to death or permanent injury, and those losses could not be replaced. In addition Lord Arryn was only able to contribute two-and-ten thousand, having taken heavy casualties reunifying his kingdom, which did not have a particularly large population to call upon in the first place…

    …With the Loyalist threat temporally neutralized it was decided that now was the best time for the marriages of the Tully daughters to Lords Stark and Arryn to go ahead, as there were still many loyalist castles between the rebel lines and King's Landing that needed to be sieged down, and that would take months even without the rebels choosing to starve them out. They also needed to spend several weeks integrating the Valemen into their order of battle, their horse in particular needed to be acclimatized to the presence of direwolves….

    …Four months after the Battle of the Bells, Prince Rhegar had formed a new army from the remnants of the Reach and Crownlands, ten-thousand men from Dorne – consisting of those Lord Martell believed would side with the Targaryens no matter what and those who were a regular thorn in his side – the garrisons of every castle in the Crownlands that wasn't in the path of the Rebel advance, the Royal Marines from the remnants of the fleet, and tens of thousands of more levies. All told, about nine-and-sixty thousand men, of which seven-and-thirty were levies and three were cavalry.

    Prince Rhegar also sacrificed numerous castles and land to the rebels in exchange for time, constantly drilling and training his men in the hope that he could avoid the fate of the Loyalists at the Stony Sept, though it has to be said that the Prince was not optimistic about his chances in the upcoming battle, as he had little faith that the levies would hold and he could find no more men-at-arms or knights.

    Eventually the rebels began to get too close to the capital for his comfort and he faced them just outside of Brindlewood…

    -Robert's Rebellion, by Historian Rickard Mullen, 288AC



    AN: The main limitation of greenseers is that they still have to know where AND when to look, and looking through time isn't a free action. A minute spent in the past or future is also a minute spent in the present, and it's also draining to anyone without the raw power of Bloodraven or Brandon Stark, so there's a limit to how long they can look too.

    So, I originally thought that I could cover the Rebellion in a single chapter, which quickly ballooned to two, and is now stretching to three.

    Also Connington isn't the Hand in this timeline... due to author screw up. I'll have to think about who is.
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • Robert's Rebellion - Battle of Brindlewood
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    • Ned stared across the fallow farmland outside Brindlewood at the Loyalist army, the last obstacle before King's Landing. Specifically, at Prince Rhaegar standing ahead of the army under a flag of parley, comfortably out of bowshot from either side, Ser Barristan and Ser Darry of the Kingsguard standing beside him, the latter holding the flag.

    "He can't possibly think that we will turn aside now," Jon said incredulously, "We've come too far and spilled too much blood to just turn around."

    "Aye," Robert agreed, "This war won't end until we have his father's and his heads on a spike, and if he thinks otherwise he's an idiot."

    "Given we're still waiting for the Freys to catch up with us we lose nothing talking with him," Ned pointed out.

    Robert grunted.

    "They were supposed to be back two days ago." He scowled, "If he's late because he decided to keep looting I'm going to be pissed at him."

    "I don't like how we're outnumbered by half again," Lord Tully said.

    It was a valid worry. Between casualties and having to dispatch forces to secure their flanks the Rebel army had been reduced to about four-and-forty thousand, less if you didn't count the currently absent five-and-ten hundred Frey men that were supposed to be with the army.

    Robert scoffed.

    "We were outnumbered two-to-one at Stony Sept too," he dismissed, "And we won that handily."

    "We won't be able to repeat that here," Jon countered, "It's all flat farmland. There's no cover."

    "Their levies will route like the last time."

    "Rhaegar is not Tyrell," Ned responded, "He's spent the last several months training and equipping his levies, and has made them into a decent pike phalanx. No one wants to charge into a pike wall, no matter if the pikes are held by peasants or not."

    Robert gave a grudging nod at that.

    After a long moment of silence, Jon sighed.

    "Well, let's see what the Prince wants."


    "Lord Stark, Lord Baratheon, Lord Arryn, Lord Tully," Prince Rhaegar greeted with tired solemnity as they dismounted their horses and Grey Frost and approached on foot.

    "Prince Rhaegar," Ned responded with the rest.

    The prince sighed.

    "Let's… not mince words. My father is insane, and deserves to die in a manner every bit as horrible as the deaths he has inflicted. He… must die. For his crimes and the good of the realm. I would like to hear your terms."

    "After all we have done," Robert growled, "All we have been through, you seriously think we would surrender to you?"

    "No! No, my apologies, I phrased that poorly. I meant your terms to support me against my Father. House Targaryen has wronged you severely, and upon taking the throne I will see you restituted for those wrongs. Lord Arryn, Lord Baratheon, I offer wergild, favorable and exclusive trading rights, greater autonomy, even Royal marriages, all details negotiable.

    "Lord Stark, House Targaryen has dealt you an unforgivable wrong with the murder of your father and brother. Name your price. I will accept anything, up to… and including complete independence from the Iron Throne."

    Rhaegar looked pained as he finished speaking. Silence hung heavily over the group. Ned struggled to keep his shock to raised eyebrows, because this… Prince Rhaegar was willingly crippling not only his own authority should he become king, but that of any king that would succeed him. And he knew it.

    The urge to ask why was almost overwhelming, but Ned couldn't get the words out, couldn't muster the will to break the silence.

    "…You… have a way with words," Robert slowly said, "And you must be truly desperate to offer such. But there's just one problem."

    Rhaegar motioned for Robert to continue.

    "How can we trust you to uphold your word?" The Stormlord demanded, "You forsook your wedding vows to kidnap Ned's sister and force her into a sham marriage, starting this whole mess!"

    "I did no such thing!" Rhaegar angrily retorted, "Elia cannot survive another pregnancy! Yes, legally I could keep impregnating her until she died from a miscarriage and then take another wife, but I do not want that! The entire meeting between me, Elia, Lord Martell, Lyanna, and Lord Stark at Harrenhall was about this, and I had everyone's approval to set her aside and take Lyanna as my wife. Elia would be given the position of Royal Mother and placed in charge of childrearing for all royal children."

    "So you claim," Robert said skeptical derisiveness, "Yet there are none who can verify that. Rickard Stark is dead by your father's hand and Lord Martell's sister is being held hostage in the Red Keep. He'll say whatever you want him to."

    When the prince turned hopeful eyes to him Ned said "All Father told me was that it was a trade deal. Nothing more."

    Life seemed to leave Rhaegar at that.

    "Do you have any proof?" Jon asked.

    "None with me. All the documents are with Lyanna."

    "How convenient," Robert snorted.

    "Where is Lyanna?" Ned demanded, "Where is my sister?"

    "Safe," Rhaegar replied, "She has my kingsguard with her. Few know where she is and obscurity is her best defense. Ser Hightower may be more loyal to my father than me but between him, Ser Whent, and Ser Dayne no harm will come to her or…" He trailed off before visibly deciding to not finish whatever he'd been about to say, "She'll be safe."

    Ned had a sinking suspicion about what the prince had been about to say, and judging by the ugly look on Robert's face so did he.

    "Where is she?"

    "Safe. Is there nothing I can do to convince you to help me take the throne?"

    "No," Jon and Robert answered.

    Rhaegar sighed and turned to leave before pausing.

    "Lord Stark, find me after the battle and I'll send you to her, win or lose. And please stay alive, I don't want to tell Lyanna that her brother died fighting me."

    Ned nodded, and everyone turned to head back to their armies.


    …The battle opened up with an artillery duel. Despite the wargs providing perfect range and distance, the ballista were not accurate enough to reliably score hits at range, and often a single hit wasn't enough to destroy a ballista. It took three hours for the Loyalist artillery to be satisfactorily silenced and the Rebels began to close.

    Prince Rhaegar placed his pike levies in the center of the army, keeping his crossbowmen and archers behind them in an attempt to turn them into a deadly combination where the pikemen pinned the rebels in place even as they got pounded by the skirmishers behind them. It would also prevent a repeat of when the North's giants smashed the levy lines at the Stony Sept, as any attempt would see the giants downed by a withering barrage of arrowfire and skewered on the pikes. With the Rebel infantry pinned in place by the pikes, he would then leverage his superior numbers to wrap around the Rebel flanks with his men-at-arms while his few cavalry remained in reserve with ten-thousand men-at-arms to plug any holes that would open in the lines.

    It was a good plan. It would have worked too, had the levies been better equipped. Their arms were paid for by Prince Rhaegar, but while the Prince's coffers were deep, they were not bottomless. With King Aerys denying him access to the Royal Treasury, the Prince had to choose between providing good quality arms or good quality armor for almost forty thousand men. He chose the former, under the almost certainly correct belief that better armor would not be able to bridge the gulf of experience between the loyalist levies and rebel men-at-arms like a pike-and-shot wall would.

    As such, while the officers had metal breastplates in addition to the metal nasal helms that were issued to all of the levies, most only had gambeson to protect themselves….

    -Robert's Rebellion, by Historian Rickard Mullen, 288AC


    …Morris Coke did not rise when I entered his home, understandable given the twisted ruin of his legs, apparent even through his trousers.

    "I heard you wanted to hear of my role in the Battle of Brindlewood," he said without preamble, scowling.

    I nodded and explained that I was collecting tales of what happened during the Rebellion, not from the great lords, who I admittedly did not have access to, but from the men who marched through the mud and stood in the lines.

    Morris was still reluctant to speak to me, but relented after I offered him a silver stag for his time.

    "Fine," he grumbled, "I'll tell you what I did.

    "I wasn't part of the first round of drafts, so I wasn't at the Battle of the Bells, and thank the Seven for that. It was four months after that when the Prince's men came here and conscripted me. I don't think anyone would be surprised to know that my initial thoughts were that I was going to be killed the moment we encountered Rebels.

    "I remain so thankful that the Prince didn't throw us away like chaff like so many other lords would have. None of us would have lived if he did that. Still, it was quite the surprise to be handed a pike, gambeson, and a nasal helm before being drilled by knights. It wasn't anything complex, just how to march, how to hold the pike, how to remain in formation, maintain your equipment, things like that. We didn't have time to learn anything truly advanced.

    "When we weren't drilling on in the yards or fields, we were having hammered into our heads that if we broke and ran, we were dead men. Not because the Loyalists would kill us, but because the Rebels would. They pointed out, with practical demonstrations, how keeping the pike wall up and intact was our best hope to survive. No one wanted to charge into a hedge of pikes if there was any other option. So when we marched onto the fields outside Brindlewood, we knew that the line had to hold, or we'd all die…

    "…I was on the left flank in the rearmost line. Didn't have much to do at the start of the battle other than watch, though I couldn't see the rebels over the heads of everyone in front of me. When the Rebel artillery finished shooting up ours, they switched targets to the cavalry reserve where the Prince was, forcing him to scatter his forces so they wouldn't be shredded. When our crossbowmen, stationed about, oh, fifty feet or so behind our center began to fire I remember hearing someone from the front ranks say that our bolts were bouncing off the rebel's armor plates. 'Course several sergeants promptly yelled at him to shut up so he would stop hurting morale.

    "Then the rebel archers fired back. Their accuracy…" he shook his head, "There was no fucking way they had line of sight. No way they could have known exactly where our crossbowmen were. Yet not one arrow landed more than five-and-twenty feet in front or behind our men     on their first volley regardless."

    "Wargs," I supplied, gesturing vaguely towards the sky, "one was watching you from a bird in the sky and relaying distance and direction."

    "Fucking magic," Morris spat, "were their fucking bows bespelled as well to be so accurate?"

    "No, that was high quality equipment combined with sheer skill."

    He sighed.

    "Our men didn't last long regardless. I'd say… six in ten arrows found their mark in that first volley. Seven or eight in the second volley that came half a minute later. They broke after the fourth." He shook his head. "I can't blame them. They left a quarter of their men dead or dying on the ground, and I'd say three-fifths of those who fled were too wounded to fight. Standard thickness gambesons, like the ones we had, could turn a fatal hit to a wounding one, but there's no way you're going to fight with an arrow imbedded in your chest, even if it hasn't pierced your lung or heart. If we had double or triple-thickness…" He shook his head again, "Wasn't to be. The Prince nearly bankrupted himself getting us what we had.

    "Unfortunately, seeing how quickly they routed, and how many casualties they took, gave the rebels an idea, and all of their skirmishers let loose on our center. I remember seeing a part of the sky turn dark from the arrows as they hammered our pike line with rapid fire volleys. Not one man fled in the face of that," Morris said proudly, with a hint of a smile, "Not one. They held the line." Melancholy filled him. "They died holding the line. None survived. Within the span of a few minutes our center was     gone, and now-King Baratheon immediately exploited it, leading his surviving Stormlanders into the gap, and the Prince committed our reserves in a counter charge that met him head-on.

    He sighed. "We know how that ended."

    I nodded. The Stag and the Dragon sought each other out, and Prince Rhaegar fell with his helm caved in from King Baratheon's warhammer.

    "And then came the flanking charge," I prompted.

    "And then came the flanking charge," he agreed, sighing, "I still don't know how the direwolves managed to get behind us, the men-at-arms were deployed at the ends of the pike line precisely to prevent that."

    "They were occupied dealing with the giants and the Umbers," I supplied, "Inflicted heavy casualties on them too." Mainly thanks to their local numerical superiority.

    "Ah. I'd wondered where those were. Anyways, I'd been watching the fighting in the center so the only warning I had was when the damned wolves howled as they began their charge. As I said, I wasn't expecting it, but we had drilled on what to do if this happened. I, and the rest of the back row, turned and presented our pikes. The rows behind us were supposed to do the same, but I don't think they had the time.

    "And yeah, I was terrified, but all I could think was 'get the pike in position to receive cavalry' as a fucking     wall of gleaming steel and fur came barreling down on me. In those last few seconds I noticed that the direwolf heading at me was wearing mail, not plate like all of the rest. John and Harry, who were standing on either side of me – they didn't survive by the way – noticed as well, I could see their pikes angling towards that wolf like I was.

    "We had no idea if our pikes would pierce plate barding, especially since the wolves were angling themselves so that the pikes would impact on the large and heavily angled plates protecting their shoulders and the back of the neck rather than rearing away like we were told cavalry would do when faced with a pike wall, but mail? We knew we could pierce mail. We'd been taught to aim for it.

    "I remember my pike's haft shattering in my hands as the head punched into the direwolf's shoulder, and then its body slammed into me, trapping me beneath it and shattering my legs. I don't know if it was the pain or the impact with the ground that knocked me out, but when I woke up the battle was over, and we had lost. If some Northerners hadn't come to collect the direwolf's body, I probably would have died there."

    "I'm surprised they let you live."

    "They did ask if I killed the wolf, but I lied. Said it was Harry. I was just unlucky enough to have the beast land on me."

    "Did any other direwolves die in the charge?"

    "Some. Not a lot. By the look of things most of the pikes had their shafts splinter like mine on contact with the armor, but some got through, either hitting a small gap between the plates or more often managing to hit a leg and bringing the wolf down that way.…"

    …As I was preparing to leave I had one last question that had been burning in my head ever since I heard the description of the direwolf Morris had taken down.

    "Do you know who it was you… unhorsed is obviously the wrong term. Unwolfed? Dismounted is probably the best."

    Morris shook his head.

    "He was wearing the Stark direwolf but other than that? No. Figured he was from one of the cadet branches, or was a mounted man-at-arms directly sworn to the house."

    "I'm pretty sure that was Lord Stark himself," I replied.

    "…Huh."

    Seeing that I would not get anything else from him, I left.

    -Tales from the Rebellion, by Samuel Puckett, 292AC


    Brindlewood surrendered after the Loyalist army broke and fled. Unsurprisingly, given that the Rebel army outnumbered their total population by an order of magnitude even with the heavy casualties they had taken. While the army had their victory feast where they were camped around the palisade walls, Ned was with the other high nobles in Brindlewood's market square, where large tables had been set up for their own feast.

    Ned sat at the table reserved for the Lord Paramounts, listlessly staring at nothing and ignoring the festive atmosphere of the other nobles.

    Grey Frost was dead. His soul-bonded companion, the symbol of his house, dead because Ned hadn't bothered to get him proper armor.

    And with Prince Rhaegar dead, he had no leads as to where his sister was. Ser Barristan, the sole surviving Kingsguard, hadn't been with Rhaegar when he absconded with her, and had no idea where she could be.

    He grunted as Robert greeted him by clapping on the shoulder.

    "Cheer up Ned," he said jovially, a goblet of wine already in hand, "The war's all but won, the Targs are finished!"

    Ned just gave a morose grunt in response, causing Robert to peer at him, slightly flushed.

    "Don't tell me you're still moping about that oversized dog of yours. You can easily get another."

    By the time the words penetrated Ned's brooding Robert was moving on, which meant he didn't see the incredulous look Ned gave his back. Did he not know just how callous – no, no he obviously didn't. To suggest that a warg just replace a soul-bonded companion like a cheap mule was an incredible insult, especially if the companion had just died. It wasn't on the level of telling a widower to remarry before their spouse was cremated or buried, but it was close.

    It was also something that southerners were chronically unaware of, given they didn't have wargs.

    Jon sat next to him a few minutes later.

    "How are you doing Ned?"

    "…We took a lot of casualties," he replied.

    "We did. I just got the most recent count."

    Ned looked at his foster father and gestured for him to continue.

    "Six thousand dead or expected to die, eight thousand too injured to fight again. Two-and-ten injured but expected to recover, with another seven thousand with minor injuries that won't prevent them from fighting."

    "If they throw another army at us we won't be able to do anything other than a fighting retreat until spring," Ned said.

    Jon nodded.

    "Aye. Thankfully they don't have another army, and the one we just fought is well and truly shattered. A few thousand are making their way back to King's Landing, but the rest have dispersed and won't rally. We have, effectively, won the war. Though that reminds me, we need to ask those druids of yours what Rhaegar did with his levies. The men-at-arms broke before they did."

    Ned nodded at that.

    "Aye. And many tried to retreat in good order even as the rest of the army broke and ran." A lot of those had chosen to surrender rather than run when it became clear they couldn't escape too. "Unfortunately the area he did most of his training is very sparse on weirwoods, so they can't give us more than they have. We'll have to figure it out from interrogating prisoners."

    "Aye…. I'm sorry about Grey Frost."

    "…Thank you," Ned said quietly, "I heard about Elbert and Denys."

    "Aye. Even two on one they couldn't take Ser Barristan…"

    "ATTENTION!" Robert bellowed from the middle of the square, waiting for everyone to quiet down and turn to him before continuing, "Before we begin our well-deserved feast, I have something to say. For almost three hundred years we have bent the knee to the Targaryens. Aye, they conquered us all through fire, blood, and the might of their dragons. But dragons have been dead for over a hundred years, and since then we have had bad king after bad king after bad king!

    "I say enough! Enough of these foreign kings from a dead land! Enough of these horrid Targaryen kings! I say it is time for a new dynasty to rule from the Iron Throne! Here and now, I submit that I, Robert Baratheon, should be our next king! What say you?"

    Almost as one, the lords turned to face Ned and Jon, waiting for their response. Ned realized that with Hoster already abed with a broken clavicle, he and Jon were the only other Lords Paramount present. If they both supported Robert's claim, then his ascension would be all but assured. Likewise, they were the only ones with the clout to possibly put forward a rival claim or claimant with any chance of success.

    As Ned looked at Jon, he realized that his foster father would never have the support to make his own claim to the Iron Throne as he was too old and had no heirs with the death of Elbert and Denys. Hoster meanwhile straight up did not have the political clout to put forward a successful candidacy – he was barely able to keep his own kingdom in line as it was!

    As for Ned himself… he just wanted to go home. Back to Winterfell with Benjen and Lyanna. To grieve in peace. Let someone else rule the realm, he did not want it.

    With Jon non-verbally signaling for Ned to go first the Lord of the North slowly stood.

    He took a deep breath, and spoke.

    "Hail, King Robert Baratheon."

    "Aye," Jon said, "Hail King Baratheon, first of his dynasty."

    "HAIL, KING BARATHEON!" The nobles collectively cheered, "LONG MAY HE REIGN!"

    As Ned sat back down, absently listening to the chatter starting back up and signaling a servant to bring him a glass of wine, he failed to notice that not a single noble of the North had joined in.


    AN: The reason for Rhaegar's generous terms? He didn't think he was going to win if he fought. And he was right. This was his last, desperate gambit, especially since he knew from studying the Conqueror's journals that the Second Long Night would arrive in his reign, and Westeros could not afford to be divided. Also Lywen Martell was in King's Landing because the remnants of the Stark guards Rickon and Brandon brought with them were causing problems.

    Aerys denied Rhaegar access to the Royal treasury because he believed that Rhaegar would overthrow him if he had the opportunity, such as having a well trained and equipped army. To be fair, he was right. For once.

    And once again I have completely underestimated the word count. FFS. I can't believe that I thought that I could wrap up the rebellion with a single chapter at one point…

    However, the next chapter is absolutely going to be the last of this arc, and I hope I wasn't too subtle about the foreshadowing I've sprinkled throughout the previous chapters…
     
  • Threadmarks
    • CenturionsofRome said:
    Ned sat at the table reserved for the Lord Paramounts,
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    CenturionsofRome said:
    he and Jon were the only other Lords Paramount present.
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    You need to be consistent with your phrasing. Now I don't know how GRRM would have phrased it, but my inclination is to use "Lords Paramount" after the examples of Inspectors General and Courts Martial. The phrasings are derived from terms used by the Napoleonic armies and sort of follow French grammar. I say "sort of" because the modifier follows the noun which is how it works in French but the modifiers don't have plural forms which isn't.
     
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    Old Gods and Divine Domains
  • Informational
    • This is in response to a question on Alt History, but I figured I should crosspost it here.

    The Old Gods possess a lot more soft power than the hard power of the Septons. By which I mean that there's no central organization for one to go to, meaning that if you need or want something from the gods you go to a heart tree and pray, but the gods are under no obligation to answer. Even if they do, they might not send a druid to explain things, rather taking subtle action which can be easily missed.

    That said, if the gods say "noble X has to go" everyone's going to jump to it. Because the Old Gods are the land itself, whose domains include land, sky, and nature, with everything that entails. If the Old Gods ever decide to take direct action against something or someone, you get things like supernaturally destructive storm, blights, droughts, all animals, domesticated and otherwise, either abandoning a region or unnaturally joining forces to attack a target. The reason the Old Gods really don't like to do that? All those things I just listed have minimum safe distances on them, and given those distances can be measured in dozens of miles a lot of innocent people would wind up suffering.

    Which is why the Old Gods prefer to do things through proxies and agents unless they need to make a dramatic statement, as those have a lot less risk of collateral damage.

    Now, the domain of nature is somewhat in opposition to the construction of advanced industry and civilization, given that it often results in the destruction of nature, but the Old Gods have another domain influencing them, one shared by all dieties: Civilization. As they come from mortals the wellbeing of their worshipers is something they constantly have in the back of their metaphysical minds.

    Balancing their nature domain with the needs and advancement of their civilization is, understandably, a tricky business, and they haven't always gotten it right. Focusing too much on nature resulted in the First Men being at a catastrophic disadvantage when the Andals invaded for instance, and focusing too much the other way would have equally disastrous consequences, such as the climate crisis we're facing now. Which is why they're keeping a close eye on the level of pollution the North's advanced industry is causing and cracking down hard on anyone who doesn't do their best to clean up after themselves. Though they are forgiving in regards to accidents or genuine ignorance, provided one took reasonable precautions beforehand.

    The other pantheons also have to balance their domains, but none of them have domains that conflict like the Old Gods'. The Seven, for instance, have Light, Justice, and Chivalry, while Rholl'r has Fire and Tyranny (he is a slaver god after all).
     
  • Informational
    • KaiserMoon said:
    Since Nature is a much broader and "more powerful" domain that something like fire or light, are the Old Gods stronger that Rholl'r or the Seven, and it's just the conflict between Nature and Civilization that forces them to use that power carefully in comparison to those other gods can?
    Click to expand...
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    Technically yes, but in the way the tides are stronger than a water cutter. Yes, the Old Gods are theoretically stronger than most other pantheons - assuming roughly equal levels of worship, but most other pantheons are much better at concentrating that force in a useful way. And it's not so much careful use of power so much as careful balancing of priorities. Civilization always damages nature to some extent, but more civilization means more worshipers, which means more raw power to throw around. It is possible to blend nature and civilization to an extent, but Westeros' tech level is insufficient for that to be a viable option.
     
    Robert's Rebellion - Fall of a Dynasty
  • Threadmarks
    • Ned had barely sat down behind the folding table in his tent, intent on finishing the last of the post-battle reports, when the high lords of the North (minus Manderly, Seastark, and Mormont, as they were still at sea with the fleets) stormed in.

    "Eddard Stark," Greatjon Umber rumbled dangerously, glaring, "What the fuck was that?"

    "I – I beg your pardon?" Ned asked, startled.

    "We went to war to avenge Rickard and Brandon," Lord Bolton said sharply, "Not to put Robert Baratheon on the Iron Throne!"

    "The only reason we haven't already called a Conclave and put your brother on your throne is because that would tear the rebellion apart," Lord Glover growled, "And depending on how you answer we might do that anyway."

    Ned slipped his hand below the table to comb his fingers through Grey Frost's fur, only to meet empty air. After a few moments of futile grasping he glanced over to see where his bonded companion was, before he remembered.

    Grey Frost was dead.

    As he looked at the empty floor by his leg where his direwolf usually lay Ned's hand and breath shook slightly.

    He took a deep breath and pushed aside the impending breakdown. It made him feel horrible and guilty, like he was just dismissing Frost's death, but he couldn't allow himself to be emotionally compromised. Not now, no matter how sacrilegious that felt.

    Refocusing on his lords he saw that they were either politely ignoring his slip or giving him looks of sympathy, but all were clearly waiting for his answer.

    "What about my sister?" Ned asked, mainly to buy himself some time to think.

    "What about her?" Lord Dustin asked, "She was safe with the Prince when this all kicked off. Though I know your father told them to hold off on finalizing the arraignment until after Princess Martell and her children were evacuated from the Red Keep so they couldn't be used as hostages against Dorne when we invoked the Contingency to remove Areys." He shook his head. "I'm not surprised that Lady Lyanna didn't listen, but Rheagar really should have known better."

    A pit of lead formed in Ned's stomach.

    "He was telling the truth?"

    "Who was?" Lord Glover asked.

    Ned explained what the Prince had told him at the pre-battle meeting.

    "That was the plan, though I know your father would have stressed holding off implementing it until after Elia and her children were evacuated from the Red Keep and Areys' grasp. Obviously they didn't listen," The Greatjon rumbled, scrutinizing him, "You didn't know?"

    "No," Ned said, "Father never told me."

    "Did he… not have the opportunity too?" Lord Glover asked delicately.

    Ned thought back to what he remembered of Harrenhall. He knew that the Spider had all the major lords under observation, a list that definitely included Father, Robert, and himself. Had Father not been able to slip the spies on them long enough to tell Ned what was going on with his sister… or had he not trusted Ned to keep his mouth shut?

    "I don't know," Ned answered.

    There was a grim silence at that.

    "We've strayed," Lord Bolton said, "Stark. Why are you supporting Baratheon's desire to overthrow the Targaryen dynasty, not just Areys? We'll need them for the Long Night."

    Ned gave him a confused look.

    "The Long Night ended thousands of years ago."

    "The Second Long Night," Lord Bolton said, tone clearly indicating he thought Ned was being deliberately obtuse and did not appreciate it.

    "That's just a story told to scare children," Ned dismissed.

    The way his lords froze and stared at him in shock made him add "Right?"

    "…No, Ned, it's not," Greatjon said heavily, "What do you know about the Black Books and Idgra's Prophecies?"

    "…Greatjon, I left for the Eyrie when I was nine."

    The lords grimly looked at each other and leaned together, muttering. Ned caught a few words.

    "Benjen would know-" "-he's rather young-" "-did he have lordly training?" "-issues with the South-"

    "My lords," Ned interrupted, causing them to look at him, "Please. I am willing to learn. Teach me what I need to know."

    The lords considered him for a long moment before looking at each other and, one my one, nodding.

    "Very well," Lord Glover said, "But you have until we return to the North after the war's end to prove to us that you are worthy for the Lordship you hold. Even if you do, you will still be on notice. Another screw up, and we will call a Conclave to put your brother on your seat."

    "I understand, my lord," Ned said solemnly, "and my first question: why are the Targaryens so important to the North."

    "We will need them when the Second Long Night arrives," Greatjon said, "Them and their dragons."

    "Dragons are extinct," Ned pointed out.

    Lord Glover leaned over the table till his mouth was next to Ned's ear.

    "Not on Skagos," he whispered.

    Ned stared as the Deepwood Lord retook his position, stunned. Dragons. In the North. And no one south of the Neck had any idea. Aerys definitely didn't know. If he had, he would have spent his rule currying favor with the North. Or moved against them far sooner. The thought of that madman with a dragon made Ned shudder.

    "I… see. I see. Do we…. Are there any clues as to when the Long Night will start?"

    "Lady Idgra was quite specific on that," Lord Bolton said, "300AC, give or take a few years depending on how much of a fight the Thenn, Wildings, and FreeFolk settlements put up against the Others and their wights."

    Ned felt another pit open up under him, and had to stop himself from instinctively reaching for Frost to steady himself.

    "That's seven-and-ten years from now!"

    "Aye, seven-and-ten years," Lord Dustin said severely, "You understand why we're pissed about Baratheon? And why your father arraigned for Brandon to marry a Tully, sent you to foster under Lord Arryn alongside the Lord of the Stormlands, married your sister to the Crown Prince, and was considering marrying Benjen to a Lannister?"

    "Aye. Though that last one is news to me."

    "That I'm not surprised by. He decided to start sounding out the Lannisters just before Harrenhall."

    Ned took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

    "Okay. If we want… to see if the Targaryens can be… pyromancers by the time the Long Night starts we need to send the Targaryen children to Skagos now. I'm sure I can convince Robert that we'd be exiling them to 'a cold, bleak, wasteland of an island that is nigh impossible to get to by boat and I can easily keep an eye on them'."

    That got a few brief smirks and Ned continued

    "First thing we do once we breach the Red Keep is kill Aerys – we cannot afford to allow him to be a dagger in our collective backs – but then we need to get Elia, Rhaella, and the children out lest they suffer an 'accident'. Greatjon, can you…"

    "Aye," he rumbled, "I'll get them to Skagos."

    "Thank you. Hopefully one of the servants will know where Lyanna is."

    "Given how long Rheagar spent with her she's almost certainly with child," Lord Ryswell said, which was something Ned had been trying not to think about, "What are you going to do if Baratheon demands that she become his wife?"

    Ned thought about it. He thought about how Robert remained ignorant of nearly all Northern customs and culture despite growing up with him. He thought about the whores constantly traipsing in and out of Robert's tent even as he proclaimed his love for Lyanna. He thought about the bastards he knew Robert had sired, and how the Lord hadn't seemed to care a whit about them.

    He thought about Lyanna's fiery and impulsive spirit, able and willing to go toe-to-toe and blow for blow with anyone who looked down on her.

    "If Robert thinks he can bed an unwilling Lyanna we'd better have another candidate for the throne waiting."

    That caused a few chuckles and Ned briefly grinned as well before sobering.

    "More seriously can I refuse the King? I know the North's relationship with the Iron Throne is complicated because while Torrhen bent the knee, it was a conditional surrender, but I'm not sure what that means in practice beyond greater autonomy for the North."

    "Aye, the King can't demand the hand of a Stark for marriage without the approval of Lord Stark," Lord Ryswell said, "Admittedly that wouldn't prevent the Iron Throne from making things difficult for the North, but the law's on our side here."

    Ned nodded.

    "If Lyanna says no, then Robert has his answer."

    The lords gave him approving looks.

    "Keep that up, and you might just make it as Lord Stark," Greatjon said.


    Ned led the North's forces he as rode through the northern gates of King's Landing, fuming as he sat uncomfortably astride a horse, guilt at taking another mount – no matter that he had no intention to bond with it – so soon after losing Frost looming in the back of his mind. It had taken a month for the army to recover enough to march on the capital, which was fortunate because it had allowed them to strike a secret deal with Lord Lannister where he would open the city gates for them.

    Sacking the city was not part of the plan.

    Passing through the inner gates Ned and the vanguard – consisting of the major lords and their retinues – came to an abrupt stop in surprise as the men waiting for him were not wearing the Lannister Lion as expected.

    They were wearing the Stark Direwolf.

    Their armor and clothing battered, tattered, and stained with dirt and blood, but it was clearly the Stark Direwolf over Northern-style travel plate.

    One of the men, tall enough for one to suspect Umber ancestry and with an unkempt beard and mane, stepped forward.

    "Good to see you, Lord Stark. I'm Sargent Hernin, the senior-most surviving member of your father's guard."

    "I wasn't aware any of you survived," Ned said, surprised.

    The sergeant grinned.

    "Officially, we're 'unaffiliated' rebels taking advantage of the chaos according to the Mad King. Can't go admitting that while he got most of us, he didn't get us all. Even if we have decimated the goldcloaks and especially that we managed to get into the Red Keep several times."

    "You managed to get into the Red Keep?"

    "Aye, through the hidden tunnels. Varys put a stop to that after we managed to turn Kingsguard Martell, but," he carelessly gestured towards the pillars of smoke and sounds of the ongoing sacking, "I think he's a bit preoccupied right now."

    "You managed to turn Prince Lewyn Martell?" Greatjon asked as the group moved out of the way of the rest of the army entering the city.

    "Aye, though Varys put a stop to it when he tattled to Aerys. You can guess his response."

    "How?"

    "Rather easily once we made contact. We both wanted to get Elia and her children out of heer and to Dorne. Unfortunately we haven't been able to find any passages that lead to Maegor's Holdfast, just to the servants' section in the keep proper." He paused and eyed them. "You want me to lead you there?"

    Ned dismounted and drew Ice.

    "Yes. Lead on Sargent."


    Jamie Lannister lounged on the Iron Throne, his exhausted gaze flickering between the corpses of Aerys and Rossart and the gibbet where Lewyn's charred corpse hung. It had been hours since he had broken his oaths and killed his king, and he was a bit confused as to why his father hadn't come yet. The sacking had begun hours ago.

    He was pretty sure word of what he had done had gotten out by now, several guards and servants had entered the throne room, seen the dead king and him on the throne, and promptly fled while he waited.

    At least Princess Elia, Queen Rheana, and the children were safe. The Queen and Viserys had left for Dragonstone yesterday, and Father had sent an advance guard, which included the Mountain, with his message that he had arrived to secure the city – and Jamie only now realized the message had neglected to say who Father was securing the city for – to secure the Martell Princess and her children. Aerys hadn't let them into the Red Keep, but by now they should have managed to make their way through the secret passages Father knew about from his time as Hand into the Holdfast, and while the remaining Targaryen guards might delay them, they wouldn't be able to stop the Mountain. So at least they were safe. They were valuable hostages after all.

    Finally he heard armored footsteps approaching from the open door leading to the servant's quarters and, after a second's thought, he slouched until he was sprawled across the throne, knowing it would irritate his father. It also wasn't something he would do if he wasn't wearing armor, otherwise the throne's blades would have torn him up like they did to the now late King Scab.

    Absently staring at the ceiling he waited for the footsteps to come to a halt before speaking.

    "You took your sweet time, didn't you?" He drawled.

    When there was no response he lazily glanced down.

    It was not his father that had come through the doorway.

    Lord Stark, flanked by a dozen of his men-at-arms, all clad in full painted plate with their visors raised, glared at him.

    "At least we know where your loyalties lie," the Lord of the North said derisively, "Kingslayer."

    Jamie sat up straight and barely refrained from glaring back.

    "Get off the throne."

    "Do you want my sword too?" he asked, bitter sharpness leaking through as he complied.

    The Wolf Lord considered it for a second.

    "No. Where's my sister?"

    "I don't know. I haven't left the capital since Aerys went to Harrenhall. Varys would know."

    "And where's Varys?"

    "If he's not in his office then he's made a run for it."

    Lord Stark looked at two of his retinue, one in painted gold-green and the other orange-blue, and they nod back.

    "Where is his office?" one asks.

    Jamie explained but rather than leave like he expected the pair sat at the base of the throne's dais, two other members of Lord Stark's men standing guard over them.

    Then their eyes rolled into the backs of their heads and their bodies went limp against the side of the throne.

    Jamie froze, hand clenched tight over the hilt of his sword, but he retained enough presence of mind not to draw it even as goosebumps went up and down his arms.

    He'd heard of wargs. Until that moment, he'd believed the Maesters and Septons that insisted that they weren't real. That magic wasn't real.

    Clearly, they were wrong.

    He watched in morbid fascination for several minutes until the one on the left abruptly stirred.

    "He's running, but we have his scent."

    Jamie watched for a few minutes longer before he decided to seclude himself in a corner as Lord Stark wandered the throne room, inspecting anything that took his fancy.

    "Kingslayer."

    Jamie looked over. Lord Stark pointed at the gibbet.

    "Who's this?"

    "Lewyn Martell. Formerly of the Kingsguard. Aerys had him killed after he started conspiring with the remaining guards your father brought." And that he and the Goldcloaks had failed to kill.

    Lord Stark grunted and moved on.

    A while later Jamie startled when one of the servant's entrances was abruptly shouldered open by a gold-green armored direwolf, the great beast filling the entire doorway until it barely fit through, followed by Varys, who was doing that no-expression-watch-the-doorways thing he did when he got really nervous. The Spider paused in the doorway, spying Lord Stark waiting for him, then staggered into the room when the orange-blue armored direwolf behind him shoved him forwards with its' head.

    "Ah, Varys," Lord Stark said with fake cheerfulness that didn't hide the menace in his words, "So good of you to join us. I've got a question for you." He dropped the cheerfulness. "Where. Is. My. Sister?"

    "…Tower of Joy, my lord," the overweight man admitted.

    "And where is that?"

    Varys gestured to a map of Westeros that was hanging from a nearby wall.

    "I can show you, my lord."

    Jamie tuned them out, giving a longing look to the throne room's still sealed main doors. What was taking Father so long? His time in the Kingsguard had made him good at being able to stand around with nothing to occupy his mind, but even he had his limits. Especially when he had had less than six hours of sleep in the past two days.

    Lord Stark had progressed to interrogating Varys about some house in the Reach a good hour later when the main doors slammed open and now-King Baratheon strode in, his plate armor splattered with blood (which made Jamie realize the Stark men's armor was still immaculate), and Father striding in beside him.

    Figures. Of course Father would prioritize ingratiating himself with the new king rather than check on his eldest son.

    King Baratheon laughed at the sighed of Aerys' corpse still sprawled on the floor in front of the throne.

    "And so the Mad King dines in the hells where he belongs!" He crowed, "Who was it that struck the blow Ned?"

    "Jamie Lannister is the Kingslayer," Lord Stark said, pointing at him, "On the orders of his father no doubt."

    It took a lot for Jamie to refrain from glaring. Father hadn't given him such orders, but he knew that was because Father lacked the means to slip him said orders without Varys finding out rather than being unwilling to do so.

    "Indeed," Father said, "I am pleased that he was able to accomplish it without issue."

    Jamie clenched his jaw tightly to refrain from saying anything. There was no arguing with Father. Even when he took credit for things he had no right to.

    King Baratheon laughed.

    "Well, Kingslayer, I dare say you've earned a royal boon. What do you wish?"

    He could feel his Father's gaze boring a hole in the side of his head. He knew what he wanted, for his Golden Heir to be released from the Kingsguard oaths so that he could eventually take the mantel of Lord Lannister.

    Well fuck him, Jamie thought with a surge of spite, stepping forward to kneel in front of the new king.

    "Your Grace, my wish is to join your Kingsguard, so that I may serve a king worthy of the title."

    The king laughed, and effortlessly hauled him to his feet.

    "Then a member of my Kingsguard you shall be."

    Jamie looked at his Father, who was turning an alarming shade of red, but before he could say anything everyone was distracted by the squealing of a stuck pig. At least everyone thought it was a stuck pig until the squealing morphed into begging before descending back into squealing. The orange armored direwolf moved to sniff at the door the sounds were coming from.

    "Lord Stark," the orange direwolf knight called, "The Greatjon's approaching."

    "Shit," Lord Stark said, looking worried.

    "Problem?" King Baratheon asked, stepping to stand next to his friend, hand dropping to the head of his warhammer that was sheathed on his belt, Jamie shadowing him.

    "I sent Greatjon to secure the Holdfast. If he's here something's gone badly wrong."

    It didn't take long for the Giant of the North to arrive. The man had to stoop to fit through the doorframe but when he straightened Jamie found himself looking up and up and up. The Mountain that Rides was almost unnaturally large. The Greatjon had almost two feet on him, and was half a foot wider in the shoulders.

    Jamie fancied he could feel the vibrations of the giant's footsteps though the flagstones of the room, and wasn't entirely sure that was his imagination.

    Then he noticed that the squealing was coming from a somewhat small blood-soaked Lannister man-at-arms whose helmetless head was almost buried beneath Greatjon's massive paw, and the Northern Lord's other hand was dragging an unconscious Mountain by the foot.

    And following them were Northern knights carrying three bodies wrapped in bloodstained Targaryen banners.

    Two were far too small to be adults.

    Jamie's heart dropped to his boots as he listened to Greatjon Umber explain what had happened. How they had found the Lannister man repeatedly stabbing the corpse of Princess Rhaenys, how the Mountain smashed the head of little Prince Aegon, then killed his mother even as he raped her, and was found still defiling her corpse.

    He listened absently, numb to the world, as Lord Stark immediately began to demand that the Lannister man – Ser Armory Loch apparently – and Ser Clegane face some sort of punishment for their actions. Father immediately objected of course. They were his men, supposedly acting on his orders.

    He was brought back to the world when King Baratheon began to laugh.

    "Don't you see Ned? This is justice! The Targaryens took your father, brother, and sister, and now they have reaped what they have sown! Once the ex-queen and her spawn are dealt with, our vengeance will be complete."

    "Rhaenys, Aegon, and Viserys are children Robert! They don't deserve this!"

    "All I see are Dragonspawn."

    Dead silence, so complete not even the flames in the torches seemed to make a sound. It was as though the world itself was holding its breath.

    Then the room seemed to darken, winds from the lowest hells stirred, gathering around the Heir to the Kings of Winter, who was so far past enraged that, even through his gleaming plate, he seemed…. Not. Quite. Human.

    Jamie swallowed nervously as the direwolf crammed into human form turned a baleful gaze onto the king.

    And the Quiet Wolf bared his fangs at the newly Crowned Stag.


    …The argument – though calling it a mere argument greatly downplays it – between Lord Stark and King Baratheon at the end of the Sack after the latter's infamous and callous statement – "All I see are Dragonspawn" – in response to being presented the bodies of the Targaryen children was legendary. None who were there have spoken of just what was said between the two beyond the most general of terms, lest they anger either the Crown or the Lord of the North.

    But the brotherhood between Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon was shattered that day, and any loyalty Dorne or the North may have had towards the Stormlord on the Iron Throne died with Princess Elia Martell, Princess Rhaenys, and Prince Aegon when their murderers went free without even a slap on the wrist.

    Officially, according to Royal Proclamation, the ones responsible were never identified and remain unknown, and Lords Lannister and Arryn would very much like to keep it that way…

    …While the Rebel army, newly reinforced with Lannister men, marched south to relieve the Stormlands, which held the last Loyalist army under Lord Tarly – who would eventually surrender without a fight – Lord Stark took his personal guard and struck out for the Tower of Joy to retrieve his sister…

    -     Robert's Rebellion, by Historian Rickard Mullen, 288AC


    Even in the depths of winter, the Dornish Marches and Prince's Pass were hot enough that the Northmen had to travel by night to prevent the direwolves and Ned's Northern-breed warhorse, natives of the frozen north, from collapsing from heat exhaustion. They'd also switched to partial plate for the same reason.

    It was just before dawn when they reached the Tower of Joy, a solitary tower that was once the center of an outpost Dorne had used to monitor the pass before being converted into a retreat by the late Prince Rheagar. Firelight flickering through the arrowslits of the tower revealed that someone was awake.

    The two horses stabled in front of the door began to panic at the sight and smell of the direwolves as they rode up. Cover blown the group leapt off their mounts and rushed the door, Ned in the lead with Ice in hand.

    The door opened and Ser Oswell Whent stepped out, clad in only light mail over light clothing in deference to the local climate.

    "'Bout time you got back Art-"

    Light-blinded from going from a lit room into the dark night, it took the kingsguard a moment too long to realize the man charging at him was not his fellow knight. He only had time to grab the hilt of his sheathed sword before Ice's crossguard cracked into his head.

    Ned ignored the knight as he fell, trusting one of his guard to secure him before he recovered, and sprinted through the door, almost sliding on the stone floor as he abruptly changed direction towards the stairs. As his foot landed on the first stair, he noticed several things. First was the smell of putrefaction. Someone had a wound that had gone septic. The second was of a man shouting.

    "Damn it woman! What did you do with him!"

    Ned was halfway up the stairs to the third floor when he heard the sound of flesh on flesh as someone was slapped. He'd set foot on the stairs to the fourth, and top, floor when the now panicking man bellowed.

    "ANSWER ME!"

    Noticing that the door at the top of the stairs was unlatched Ned slammed into it shoulder first, causing it to explode open, already winding up for a massive strike as Ice cleared the doorway. Ser Gerold Hightower startled upright from where he had been looming over the occupied bed that dominated the middle of the room, hand immediately going to his sword, but between the bed, the curved walls of the tower, and the clutter in the room he was unable to dodge Ned's swing for there was nowhere for him to dodge to.

    Ice slammed into Ser Hightower's side and while his mail held, his chest did not. The knight crunched against the tower wall and fell, blood falling from his mouth as his lungs collapsed. Ned spun his ancestral blade and sliced the tip through the downed kingsguard's neck in a mercy stroke.

    Then he looked at the bed. Lyanna lay on her back, a light blanket covering her torso and legs, face and arms swollen and discolored. A hand print marred her cheek. Ned rested Ice against the bed and dropped to his knees and took her cold, clammy hand in his own.

    "Lyanna?"

    She stirred, feverish, glassy eyes turning towards him.

    "Ned?" Her voice was rasping and weak.

    "I'm here Lyanna."

    "Ned! Did you find him?"

    "Him who?"

    This was apparently the wrong thing to say as Lyanna started to panic.

    "You have to find him! He'll kill him! Please, you have find him, have to protect him!"

    "Him, who? Lyanna, please…"

    "He is…. He is…." Lyanna's face went slack for a long, terrifying moment before she stirred again. "Ned, is that you?"

    Ned kept the horror creeping down his spine off his face as he realized just how far gone his sister was.

    "Yes, Lyanna, I'm here."

    "Did you find him?"

    "Not yet, but I will."

    "Please Ned, promise me that you'll find him, that you'll protect him."

    "I promise Lyanna." It was the only thing he could say.

    "Thank… you…" Her eyes went white as she warged, and bereft of a mind to drive it onward, her body died.

    "…Though I don't know who 'he' is…" Ned said quietly, sadly.

    A hand on his shoulder caused him to look up. Ser Cassel looked back at him solemnly.

    "There's a crib over there," the knight said, pointing.

    Ned looked. There was. Decorated with carvings of dragons and direwolves playing. Lifting the sheet he discovered that his sister was nude under it, allowing him to easily locate the festering wounds that had claimed her life, located in a very intimate place.

    "I have a nephew," Ned realized as he tucked the sheet around the body of his sister to preserve her modesty.

    "There's no sign of an infant anywhere else in the tower," the head of his personal guard said, "and Ser Dayne is also missing. Judging from his quarters he left in a hurry."

    Ned stood as he considered that.

    "Either Ser Dayne went to fetch a maester for her," he said, "or Lyanna told him to take the babe and run. They must have heard what happened to his half-siblings."

    "Or Lady Lyanna gave him to someone else and Ser Dayne is in pursuit."

    "We'll have to interview Ser Oswell when he wakes up."

    Ser Cassel grimaced.

    "About that. You hit him a bit too hard and cracked his skull open. He's dead."

    "Shit," Ned sighed as he starred out a nearby arrowslit into the pass.

    After a long moment he sighed, feeling horribly guilty at the realization he came to.

    "There's no way we can find them with Ser Whent and Ser Hightower dead. We don't know where they went, how long ago, where they want to go, anything. They'll have to find us." He rubbed his forehead and looked back at Ser Cassel. "Let's see if there's enough wood for a pyre. And we need to dig two graves."


    …After retrieving his sister's bones Lord Stark rejoined the Northern Army as it made its way back north. He has never spoken about what he found in the Tower of Joy, save that Lady Lyanna had died of an infection because the kingsguard assigned to her never sent for a maester….

    …Almost four months after the crowning of King Baratheon, and nearly two years from the start of the Rebellion, Lord Stark arrived at Winterfell. And at the feast to celebrate his return and the end of the Robert's Rebellion, with Lords Karstark and Umber deciding to attend before proceeding onwards to their holds, the last, surprising act of the Rebellion played out…

    - Robert's Rebellion, by Historian Rickard Mullen, 288AC


    Ned sat at the head of Winterfell's high table in the castle's great hall, nursing a glass of wine, letting the happy cacophony of the pre-feast wash over him, but not partaking. Catilyn sat to his right, his newborn son, Robb, in her lap, watching the rowdy room with wide eyes. Benjen sat to his left, deep in conversation with Lord Karstark on his other side. He knew this should be a happy time, but right now all he could think of was what he had lost.

    Father. Brandon. Lyanna. Frost. His unnamed nephew.

    Catching the signal from the head cook that the feast was ready to be served he stood and rang his glass. He waited for the room to quiet, but before he could start his pre-feast speech the main doors opened, letting in several snow flurries from a late winter snowfall, a light brown – almost tawny – direwolf in a battered and filthy travel harness, and several guards escorting the 'wolf.

    "Lord Stark, Seraphina has returned," one of the guards announced.

    "Sera…?" Benjen asked in a strangled voice.

    Ned didn't say anything, instead putting down his glass and hurrying around the table with unseemly haste. Seraphina was Lyanna's direwolf, and Ned now knew where Lyanna's consciousness went when she warged just before she died. Nothing could support two minds long term, but it had only been a few months. Lyanna and Seraphina wouldn't have fully merged yet.

    Lyanna might yet live, in a fashion.

    Blackwind reached their sister first, going in for one of his signature tackle-hugs, only to slide to a stop in an uncoordinated heap when she gave him a warning growl. Ned wasn't far behind, and he slipped around his brother's playfully whining direwolf to stand in front of the she-wolf.

    "Sister?" he whispered.

    Seraphina met his gaze, and gently headbutted his chest. Ned wrapped his arms around as much of her as he could reach and lowered his face into fur as her tail wagged rapidly.

    "You're home," he whispered, trying not to cry, "you're home."

    In the near silence of the hall, he heard an infant gurgle. Blinking in confusion he raised his head and leaned over to look at her mid-section. Attached to Seraphina's tattered harness was a large blanket that stretched under her belly, so filthy and travel stained it was impossible to tell what it had been originally, and there was a lump in it that faintly moved.

    She didn't.

    Ned met the direwolf's knowing gaze.

    She did.

    "May I?"

    Seraphina nodded.

    Ned carefully stepped around to her flank and, with another glance at the direwolf who had turned her head to watch him, reached into the blanket, past milk-filled teats, and brought out the infant that she had borne from the Sands of Dorne to the Heart of the North.

    The child let out a surprised squeal, and instinctively fisted one hand in Ned's clothing as he brought the babe to his chest, Lyanna's son looking around the room curiously as the whispers started. Seraphina leaned in so that the infant could place his other hand against her snout. Blackwind stretched his neck across his sister's back to eagerly sniff the boy, and a quick glance at the head table revealed that Benjen had decided to ride along in his direwolf's mind rather than crowd them in person. That said Greatjon was approaching with surprising quietness.

    The giant of a man dropped down to one knee when he reached them so that he wasn't towering over them.

    "So, Ned," he whispered, which was still loud enough for the hall to hear him, as he looked at the babe in Ned's arms, "what's his name?"

    Ned and Seraphina looked at each other.

    "Jon?" he offered.

    She considered that for a moment before slowly nodding. He turned back to the Greatjon.

    "His name is Jon Targaryen."


    AN: The Conclave is the method the lords of the North can invoke to remove a Stark that is unfit to rule, and was established by Torrhen Stark on the advice of Idgra.

    A direct result of the expeditions north of the wall was that the Free Folk split into two factions. The Wildlings continued their nomadic lifestyle of barbarism, happily living down to the stereotypes about them, while the Free Folk gathered into permanent city-state settlements that elect their leaders democratically, though the exact method varies from settlement to settlement. Hardhome was resettled, and is the largest settlement North of the Wall.

    Ned was pissy with Jamie because A) he was already in a foul mood, B) he /really/ wanted to kill Aerys himself, and C) from the outside it certainly looks like Jamie betrayed his oaths the moment his father told him to.

    Lord Arryn backing Tywin in suppressing the knowledge of who killed Elia and her children is a case of realpolitik.

    Hightower was panicking because he knew Lyanna had hours left to live, and had /no idea/ what she had done with Jon. He'd woken up one morning to find Jon and Seraphina gone. What happened with Arthur Dayne will be revealed next chapter.

    And that's one hell of an origin story for Jon isn't it? You can bet that the bards are going to come up with song after song about how a brave she-wolf managed to cross an entire continent to bring her fallen bonded companion's child to the safety of Winterfell.

    EDIT 2/27/24: Changed the Tower scene and dropped "Stark" from Jon's name.
     
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    • To be honest I have been disappointed by the fact Robert's Rebellion happened again despite such changes to the North. It comes off as railroading, it's understandable, you wanted to play with the Canon characters and the rebellion is the best way to get everyone where you want them, but I drew no joy from the last few chapters as I knew the outcome.
     
    Based on the feedback I've gotten I've changed the Tower scene and dropped "Stark" from Jon's name.

    And for those wondering why the major lords of the North know about Skagos? A dragon can get anywhere in the North in about a week. They kind of need to know in case one escapes from Skagos and winds up on their lands, which has happened a few times. The lords under them, however, don't know about Skagos save for those that border the Bay of Seals.
     
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