The Song is sung and the Dawn is won, but the victory is bittersweet and the cost is too high. Yet there is little that could not be done with magic if you were willing to pay the price. Dues are paid, fates are changed, and even destiny itself is covered with a shroud
Shrouded Destiny (ASOIAF AU/Time-travel)
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Prologue
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the ASOIAF universe. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of GRRM; I make no claim to ownership.
Author's Note: I never thought I'd actually post Dragonwolf, let alone finish it when I started writing. There are quite a few things I could have done better, but I believe I learned a lot of things on the way.
So, here we are, at the start of canon, and things are already tumbling to the side. Buckle up for a wild ride, folks!
Oh, and I probably have to state it, but this fic will not contain any pairing under the form of Jon/Daenerys, Jon/Margaery, or Jon/Arianne.
Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki. Cheers to Bub3loka, my beta-reader, who helped me immensely.
Year 3XX After Aegon's Conquest
The sun had not risen in months, and the only lights were the flickering flames of the torches and the soft glow of the waning moon. Unfortunately, Jon had no time to enjoy the view, no matter how magnificent. A cold wind was blowing, cutting as sharp as a knife through even the thickest of furs, and the screams of men dying echoed across the field. The air was filled with the stench of rot and decay.
Jon swiftly yet precisely brandished Longclaw in his right hand while holding a torch in his left. He could not allow himself to lose too much strength while killing wights. But they could not be ignored - there were thousands of them, a veritable tide of rot and death like usual. He cut through the undead like a hot knife through butter, but as soon as one foe was down, another would take its place. He could not avoid the clawing hands and hits piled on his armour. It was holding up nicely, but he could feel bruises slowly forming underneath.
Minutes turned into hours, and time lost meaning as Longclaw danced through the air. Eventually, the wave of corpses started waning. Just when Jon thought it was over, five ethereal figures riding horrifying icy spiders finally appeared and effortlessly ploughed through the thinning ranks of his men.
His lungs were burning, eager for breath, but each gulp of air was cold enough to rake through his throat. His body felt numb–they had been fighting for hours now. But the deep bone weariness and the cold were nothing new; the Cold Ones always came after waves of wights had softened the living.
"Bowmen, aim for the spiders!" a cry tore from his chapped lips, hoping that some of the marksmen still lived and had heard him. Each archer had but a single dragonglass arrow; there were simply not enough of them to go around. He himself only had two in his possession.
A thin volley of fire and dragonglass arrows fell over the Cold Ones. The fiery arrows felled the giant spiders, but most of the fire and obsidian bounced away harmlessly from the milky crystal armour of the Others. One of the Walkers was struck by the black glass-tipped shaft over its exposed blue face and shattered with a soft tinkling sound. The other four rushed into the line of men. People desperately tried to stop them but died by the dozen; the tired fighters couldn't put up proper resistance. The pale crystal swords were reaping lives effortlessly, and within a handful of seconds, the rest of the men did not dare to face the White Walkers and broke down. The Cold Ones decided to chase after the retreating humans.
Jon dropped his torch, sheathed Longclaw on his hip and quickly strung up his yew longbow. He nocked one of his two dragonglass arrows, drew to the limit, and aimed carefully at one of his icy foes. For a short second, it felt like time had slowed down. With each breath that he took, half a dozen men were dying. With a twang, the arrow flew true, hit an icy blue eye, and shattered one of the Walkers just as he was about to slay yet another man.
The last three pale fiends immediately looked his way with their unnatural cold, burning eyes. He quickly let loose the last dragonglass arrow, but a crystal blade deflected it with a tinkling sound. Jon threw his longbow away and unsheathed Longclaw once again. Gathering his strength, he lunged at the one on the left with all his speed, barely avoiding the incoming strike from an icy blade, and ran Longclaw into an unprotected part of its face. A cracking sound was heard, and the pale Other shattered like glass. But Jon had no time to admire his handiwork, as his other opponents were already hacking at him. He dodged, but another blade still grazed him across his right leg.
He ignored his numerous wounds and bruises and pushed himself to the limit as he traded blows with the so-called Cold Gods. Jon could now easily match them in strength and speed and was even superior in skill. A bitter reward for the death of Ghost, yet he had grudgingly used it to the fullest. But even Longclaw could not cut through their crystalline armour, so Jon had to create an opening and strike in the gaps or unprotected parts. Jon's scale armour, however, did little to resist the crystal swords in their hands. Their icy edges would cut through it as if it were silk, so he had to either dodge, parry, or deflect every one of their attacks. And he was already tired and wounded from hours of fighting. If he were rested, he would be able to slay both of them down with ease.
Slowly but surely, Jon started to tire even further. Every parry rattled his bones, and the sweeping cuts were harder and harder to avoid. Soon, he would be too slow to fight two of them at once. Perhaps this was where he finally died?
Jon was already tired of the endless struggle and cared little for life and death anymore. But he was not going down just like that - he might as well take the thrice-damned Cold Ones down with him. He gritted his teeth and jerked to the side, barely avoiding one crystalline sword, and stabbed Longclaw's tip in the face of its owner, killing him. However, the second pale sword impaled him through the torso. The Other cackled triumphantly and tried twisting the blade, but it would not move. Jon had grasped the icy sword hand in an iron grip of his own, and gathering the last vestiges of his waning strength, Longclaw tore through the air one last time, striking the unprotected pale neck. The cackling head fell off the corpse; then both parts shattered like ice.
The crystalline blade buried in his gut pulsed with a terrifying cold, which spread rapidly with every weakening heartbeat.
Jon knew he was finished for good this time.
A heavy metallic taste filled his mouth. The surroundings grew hazy, and his limbs were heavy. He took a few weak steps to lean on the nearby tree. A feeble tug barely pulled out the icy blade, which fell with a sharp, ringing sound. Then, Jon Snow collapsed with a weary sigh at the base of the tree, painting the bone-white bark with his dark red blood.
From the east, for the first time in moons, the rays of the sun peaked over the horizon.
Brandon Stark
Tears streaked across his cheeks as he watched in sorrow through the weirwood tree as the events played out.
"The second battle for the Dawn is finally won," an old, raspy voice next to him uttered. "My time here is finally at an end. I can finally rest."
"Why?" Bran croaked out weakly after removing his hand from the nearby milky white root.
"Why what, boy? Be more specific!"
"Why did everyone have to die?" he spat bitterly and glared. "My father, mother, brothers and sisters are all dead! Only I am left now, and I will never leave this cave!"
"Stop wallowing in self-pity, boy. You agreed to leave your family name behind when apprenticing under me. The world does not revolve around your former House. And you know that Jon was not truly your brother. The Starks might be dead, but millions of others live!" Brynden's raspy voice grated in his ears.
Everything felt meaningless to Bran, and even the air tasted bitter upon his tongue. The sun rose from the east, but there was only darkness left in his life. The price was too high, too heavy.
His father, killed for trying to do the right thing. His mother and Robb, betrayed and butchered by scheming bannermen at the Red Wedding. Sweet Sansa, poisoned at her own wedding by the vengeful queen. Rickon drowned in a cruel autumn storm in the Bay of Seals. Arya, killed by the faceless men for trying to leave and return to Westeros. And now, Jon was dead after almost single-handedly destroying the Others and ending the Second Long Night. It was only Bran left now, but he was nought but a spectre himself, bound in this ancient cave until death decided to take him.
"There is no way you did not foresee this already. After all, you were powerful and experienced enough to glimpse into the future! Why did they all have to die?! It's not fair!"
"The world isn't fair. I warned you, boy! I warned you when you agreed to become my apprentice that you would watch how your loved ones die as you're stuck here!" The Three-eyed crow glared at him with a single eerie red eye. "And yes, I can glimpse into the future. But time is like a raging river. Do not think for a moment that I arranged for the deaths of your kin. For dozens of years, I looked and looked for a way forward but only saw an icy death. Thousands of possible futures, and this was the only light in the future darkness!"
Bran recoiled on his chair as if struck. House Stark had eight thousand years of glorious history. Was this how it all ended? With him slowly wasting away in a quiet cave beyond the Wall, full of sorrow and regrets? Disappearing into the annals of history with nigh but a sigh. Was their existence always meant to end like this? He was powerful now. Not as a lord or a knight as he wanted before, but as a greenseer and a skinchanger. Could he truly not do anything, even with all his magical prowess? A wild idea formed in his mind.
"No! I refuse!" Bran uttered through his now clenched teeth. Brynden looked at him as if he was a fool. "I refuse to give up on my family!"
"There's nothing you can do, boy," Brynden's hoarse voice sounded mocking to his ears. "Even if you could go back in time, this is the only way the Others could be defeated. You are but a cripple that cannot lead, govern, or fight, and none would ever listen to the ramblings of a child. At best, you'd only make things worse than they already were."
Bran suppressed his boiling anger while looking at his mentor's ghastly face. The old man was right; he had no talents for any of those.
A daring idea formed within his mind, one that simply would not go away.
"Yes, I would not be able to do much for true," he admitted slowly, but he found his face twisting in a feral grin. "But Jon, on the other hand, could. He's the one who rallied the shattered remains of North, the Night's Watch, and the Free folk against the gathering darkness. He's the one who could best the Others in a fight and live! He is the one who brought the Dawn!"
"And how would you return him, my young and green apprentice? He is already dead and does not have the greensight. And suppose you somehow succeed, you would change things irrevocably. 'Tis not a guarantee that your cousin could win again or that any of your family would live," his mentor's voice was nary a whisper now, but something unknown flashed in his red eye.
"My brother died with his lifeblood colouring a heart tree's roots red; he's still within my reach. Even now, his corpse is still warm. I will drag his mind into the weirwood and cast it back in the river of time!"
"Simply trying to glimpse through time is already incredibly dangerous. Meddling with the turbulent rivers of time will drown your mind both in the past and the present. You change one thing, and the ripples can spread far and wide," Brynden warned him quietly, but his apprentice's eyes were still full of conviction. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Bran knew he was not meant for glorious deeds. He knew that ever since he woke up with his legs crippled. He knew that he had made many mistakes. But now he could make everything right again.
Bran nodded and no longer paid attention to his mentor. His hand weakly lifted Dark Sister from the nearby wall and ran the cold, rippling blade through his palm. He then grasped the thickest of the bone-white roots with his bleeding hand and pushed all of himself into the weirwood.
Finding Jon's mind was easy. Even after his brother had died, his soul still shone with power like a beacon in the surrounding darkness, slow to disperse. Bran touched it with his magic and tried pulling it. It felt both freezing cold and searing hot to the touch and as heavy as a mountain. It barely budged. He pulled with all his strength, hoping to drag it into the weirwoods, but it was too heavy. Bran, however, did not give up and continued stubbornly.
In the cave, Brynden Rivers watched as his apprentice began to bleed from every orifice. The foolish boy was truly attempting it and was killing himself in the process. But Bran was not strong enough, his mind not sturdy enough, and his powers not polished enough to succeed. At least not alone.
Brynden was already lingering for too long and had no desire to wait for decades until he managed to find another apprentice. He remembered his sweet niece, Melantha Blackwood, who married Willam Stark. All of the Starks were his kin too, in a manner of speaking...
Did he want things to truly end like this? His kin were dead. The Blackwoods, the Targaryens, the Starks, and even the Baratheons were all gone now. At this moment, he felt every single year of his cursed existence weighing upon his bony shoulders. Duty had always been heavy, but as he got older and older, it grew into a crushing mountain upon his shoulders. Could he cast an already-won victory back into uncertainty because of a youthful folly just for a slight chance of things being better for some of his wayward kin? Was it worth it to completely sever the line of the three-eyed greenseers, surviving all the way from the Pact? Could Jon Snow, his great-grandnephew from both sides, succeed again if given a second chance?
Yes, he could!
The boy had been as brittle as cast iron when leaving Winterfell. But the cruel world had hammered him repeatedly, and he did not break but instead turned into pure Valyrian steel. The age of the greenseers had been long over. Brynden was the last remnant of once mighty, yet now forgotten powers, better left little more than a distant memory. Mayhaps it was for the best if it ended with him and Brandon.
Bloodraven slipped into the weirwoods and pulled on Jon Snow's mind, together with his apprentice. Bran's senses flared in surprise, and his efforts stumbled for a moment, but he quickly regained his bearings. They managed to drag it into the weirwood network and began to push against the river of time together. In the cave, thick black blood began oozing from his orifices, too. It took half a minute of heavy exertion, yet Bran started to weaken rapidly. Their bodies grew thinner and thinner.
Pushing such a magically heavy mind was supposed to be nearly impossible. Yet the strongest greenseers in eight thousand years working together could accomplish it, albeit at the cost of their existence. With a final effort, they mustered all their strength and managed to hurl Jon Snow's essence across the turbulent stream of time. The moment they succeeded, the waters began to boil and churn, and the river roared with rage, drowning Bran and Brynden. With the final embers of life and magic left within him, Bloodraven sent Jon Snow one final gift before his essence was crushed by the furious waters.
In the cave lay two corpses. An old man with bloodstained, parchment-like skin lay entangled within a twisted throne of weirwood roots, and a smaller boy stuck on a chair-like contraption. Instead of eyes, on their faces lay empty sockets filled with blood. Both corpses were only loosely hanging skin and brittle bones, but a grotesque smile sat on their faces. And so, the ancient cave beyond the Wall became the final resting place of the greatest Greenseers of this Age, where their remains lay forgotten together with the bones of the Children and the Giants.
Winterfell, 2nd Day of the 3d Moon, Year 298 after Aegon's Conquest
Eddard Stark
Lord Stark,
Deepwood Motte has officially finished construction.
Galbart Glover
Short and to the point, as always. He sighed and placed the letter in the drawer. Galbart had killed Maron Greyjoy at the siege of Pyke and later expressed heavy concerns about retaliation upon Deepwood Motte in the future, especially since it was quite close to the sea. Ned hoped there would be no more fighting within his lifetime, but he knew all too well that one rarely got what he wished for, so he gave Glover his blessing and permission to crenellate and relocate towards a favourable hill overlooking the Bay of Ice, giving the man permission for a small port town in the future–and potentially providing better protection to the nearby shores.
The castle was neither deep in the woods nor a motte and bailey, but Glover insisted on keeping the old name. On the one hand, Ned could understand the tediousness of going through the records to change the castle's name, first with Winterfell, then the Citadel, then King's Landing, not to mention the new ravens that would need to be commissioned for the new location. Glover keeping the old name was hardly the queerest thing a lord had done.
On the other hand, merchants and sailors were likely to make uncountable jests at the castle as they docked at that new port Glover hoped to build.
Galbart had quickly started negotiations with the Wulls for granite from their quarry. The old Wull Chieftain only agreed after Glover took his youngest daughter for a wife, much to Ned's chagrin. Now, eight years later, the new seat of House Glover was complete.
Ned had even visited it in person with Robb and Jon two years ago. The new castle was built out of stone; ironwood was used for support beams, and it looked impressive even when half-finished. The curtain walls were in two rings. An outer ring that was thirty-five feet tall and twelve feet thick stone walls, with a proper moat outside, and the inner wall was forty feet tall and fifteen feet wide. And all of it was built on a hill overlooking the Bay of Ice, less than a mile away, with its own spring inside to feed the moat. It was not a large holdfast, but not a small one either.
He could envision a port town sprouting around the natural harbour, with ships from all over Westeros docking and bringing trade and wealth to Galbart and the North. Ned would allow the Glovers a couple more years before he raised the topic of taxation–perhaps next spring.
All of this was only possible because of the bountiful and long summer, and even then, the Glovers would still have to tighten their belts for the next handful of years, though Ned was sure their old castle with its lands would still provide them with enough wealth to recover swiftly.
Now, with a hundred bowmen, Deepwood Motte could hold off thousands of attackers, and Galbart could hopefully sleep easily at night. Hopefully, Balon Greyjoy would avoid any foolish moves as long as Theon was sitting here in Winterfell. But Ned knew that the Lord Reaper of Pyke was not known for his wits and had not written to his last son a single time in nearly ten years. A pity his advice to send the man to the Wall was left unheeded. The Lord of Winterfell wouldn't be surprised if Balon bided his time to strike again when Westeros seemed weak.
After receiving Galbart's letter, Ned was curious enough to send a team of stonemasons and architects to survey Moat Cailin. He knew that his father had the desire to rebuild the entrance to the North during his childhood but had never gotten around to doing it. The reason became apparent as soon as the survey team returned. The price of restoring Moat Cailin would eat away all their saved-up coin and still beggar House Stark for a generation. Comparing the ancient fortress with Glover's new castle was like comparing Winterfell to Tumbledown Tower; Moat Cailin required far more resources to be rebuilt than any castle in the North, nay, all of Westeros.
While they were not poor by any measure, the closest stone quarry was hundreds of miles away, and the price of transporting the required stone over such a massive distance was unfeasible. The troubles did not even end here. The swampy ground surrounding most of the moat was not very suitable for crops, and the upkeep of the Moat would have to come purely from Winterfell's coffers. Worse, the amount of work it would take to drain the surrounding swamp in order to dig for new foundations for the curtain walls was tremendous.
It was simply not worth it, especially since there were no enemies to the South. While only three towers remained of the Moat's original twenty, they were more than enough to repel invasions from the Neck with the assistance of the crannogmen. Ned couldn't help but wonder if every new Lord of Winterfell dreamed of restoring the Moat to its former glory, only for the idea to be quickly squashed by reality.
His mind slowly wandered to more immediate issues. Ned grimaced at the thought that the whole southern court was coming to Winterfell because his foster father was dead. That had caught him completely off-guard, and he had no idea what to do. The South rarely boded well for House Stark. At least it would be some time before they arrived. If they were coming by land, it could take them up to half a year to arrive. After all, the royal entourage would only travel as fast as its slowest member.
After a few moments, Ned shook his head and banished those thoughts completely; they only made his head hurt. A mournful howl that chilled his spine was heard in the distance, making him grimace. He'd deal with things as they come. He stood up, grabbed Ice, left the solar, and headed towards the serene godswood, for he needed to clear his head.
Walder hastily intercepted him in one of the hallways, gasping for air. The face of the gigantic guardsman that loomed more than a head over him was heavy with worry and distress.
"My Lord," he took a deep breath and continued grimly, "Bran has fallen."
Everything froze, and Ned felt as if he had dived into the icy waters of the White Knife during the onset of winter. Fallen…?
"Lead the way," he managed to eke out after gathering himself. "Is my son…?"
He was afraid to voice the word lest it became real. Ned vividly remembered the day when the news of his father and brother's death arrived, along with Aerys' demand for his head. Everything felt surreal then, and it took him days to fully believe he was not dreaming.
"I don't know, Lord Stark. I was sent here to fetch you immediately."
Eddard forced himself to calm down and quickly followed after Walder. His mind refused to work, feeling sluggish as if drowning in a swamp.
As soon as they entered the courtyard, the only sound that could be heard was a heartwrenching wail. The wail of his wife, Catelyn. His blood ran cold now, and he numbly approached where all the guardsmen had clustered together.
He found the weary face of Rodrik Cassel, who shook his head grimly when he saw him. The ring of men-at-arms opened to let Ned through, and he finally saw.
His boy, oh his young boy! Bran, the cheerful, full of hope son, lay deathly still on the cold ground, head cracked open, blood everywhere... Catelyn had crumpled over his body, weeping with sorrow.
Robert Baratheon, the Crownlands
He had dreamt of fighting at the Trident again, and the sound of Rhaegar's breastplate caving in under his warhammer still echoed in his ears, sweeter than the song of the finest singing girls from Lys. He had begun dreaming of it less and less as of late. But while his dreams were joyful, the waking world oft fell short.
"What is it this time?" He asked, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.
"The Queen's wheelhouse has broken down again, Your Grace," the blond ponce squeaked. Were they going to wait half a day until that thrice-cursed monstrosity on wheels was repaired again?!
Gods, he was surrounded by blond cunts everywhere. The boy looked thin and soft, like a woman, and almost as pretty, and the only thing missing was a cunt and a pair of teats. He struggled to remember why he had taken those two ponces as squires. A few moments later, he scowled when it came to him. His goddamn harpy of a wife wouldn't shut up about it, so he had agreed to silence her incessant screeching. At least now, on the road, he did not have to deal with her while she was stuck in the blasted monstrosity she called a wheelhouse.
Damn it all! At least he was going to visit Ned now! The thought alone lit a fire inside him and brought a smile to his face.
He drank in the surrounding sights, the rolling green hills and fields full of wheat. And most importantly, the fresh, warm breeze that gently blew by. The only time he managed to get away from the stinking pile of shit called King's Landing was when he went out on a hunt. Maybe a royal progress was in order? It would be good for his subjects to see their king. And the fact that he'd be away from the stench of King's Landing and its vipers for a long time definitely did not have anything to do with it. Not one bit!
But first, he had to get Ned to be his Hand. They would be together again, just like in the good old days!
"Wine!" He ordered, and the blond twat passed him the skin of wine, and he took a heavy swig. Ah, Arbor Gold was the good stuff, albeit a bit too sweet. Those flowers were shit at fighting, but at least they made decent wine, but it was not bitter enough for his taste. "When did we leave King's Landing?"
"A sennight ago, your grace!" the golden-haired shit replied with trepidation, making him frown.
Gods, they had passed through Hayford yesterday, and the keep was scarcely a day's ride away from King's Landing. At this pace, they would get to Winterfell next year!
This just wouldn't do. He turned to look at the blond twat he had regretfully taken in as a squire. What was his name again? Lanot? Lannet? Bah, did it even matter?!
"Boy, tell everyone to get ready; we'll continue on horse!" Robert ordered.
"The whole retinue?" The blond shit asked weakly. "B-but what of the Queen's wheelhouse and the servants?"
"Yes, the whole retinue! Their King commands it! And Others take the blasted wheelhouse. If Cersei can't ride a horse, she's welcome to return to King's Landing, but all my children stay with me. Anyone else who is too slow to follow can stay behind!" He declared and grimaced, trying to ignore the coming headache. Just imagining his harpy of a wife's screeching made his head swell. Would it kill Tywin's thrice-cursed daughter to keep her mouth shut for once in her life?!
High Heart
"What is this? Things have changed!" A raspy cry tore through the air. "Ah, ah ah, the gods have gone silent…The Song?! I cannot see! There is only an endless shroud of snow and blood!"
A pale old woman no taller than three feet hobbled weakly among the weirwood stumps, barely standing upright with the help of her small gnarled cane.
Dragonstone
Melisandre recoiled as her flames raged, tearing her vision to shreds. It took her a few heartbeats to calm down, and she continued gazing at the twirling fire.
She stood still, looking and looking as time flew by. Outside, the sun slowly hid behind the horizon to the west when she finally stirred again. No matter how she looked now, no visions came from the angry flames. Why did R'hllor punish her so?!
Or maybe the Lord of the Light wanted to tell her something. The last of her visions was about the lands of cold and ice, something that could only be beyond the Great Wall.
Melisandre shuffled uneasily in realisation.
Was R'hllor displeased with her for dallying here and trying to push her own goals?!
She hastily gathered her small travel bag, threw her scarlet cloak over her shoulders, and rushed towards the docks, paying no heed of anything in her way.
Patchface watched as the Red Witch glided like a spectre in the hallway and cackled with glee while scuttling sideways like a crab.
"In the dark, the dead are dancing, and the shadows come tagging, tagging!" His face, painted in motley, twisted in terror, and his joy was replaced with horror. "The Song is drowning! Oh, oh, oh!"
Author's Endnote:
The Game is on again! The river of time has been muddied, and ripples are already showing!
You can find me on my discord,
Author's Note: I never thought I'd actually post Dragonwolf, let alone finish it when I started writing. There are quite a few things I could have done better, but I believe I learned a lot of things on the way.
So, here we are, at the start of canon, and things are already tumbling to the side. Buckle up for a wild ride, folks!
Oh, and I probably have to state it, but this fic will not contain any pairing under the form of Jon/Daenerys, Jon/Margaery, or Jon/Arianne.
Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki. Cheers to Bub3loka, my beta-reader, who helped me immensely.
Year 3XX After Aegon's Conquest
The sun had not risen in months, and the only lights were the flickering flames of the torches and the soft glow of the waning moon. Unfortunately, Jon had no time to enjoy the view, no matter how magnificent. A cold wind was blowing, cutting as sharp as a knife through even the thickest of furs, and the screams of men dying echoed across the field. The air was filled with the stench of rot and decay.
Jon swiftly yet precisely brandished Longclaw in his right hand while holding a torch in his left. He could not allow himself to lose too much strength while killing wights. But they could not be ignored - there were thousands of them, a veritable tide of rot and death like usual. He cut through the undead like a hot knife through butter, but as soon as one foe was down, another would take its place. He could not avoid the clawing hands and hits piled on his armour. It was holding up nicely, but he could feel bruises slowly forming underneath.
Minutes turned into hours, and time lost meaning as Longclaw danced through the air. Eventually, the wave of corpses started waning. Just when Jon thought it was over, five ethereal figures riding horrifying icy spiders finally appeared and effortlessly ploughed through the thinning ranks of his men.
His lungs were burning, eager for breath, but each gulp of air was cold enough to rake through his throat. His body felt numb–they had been fighting for hours now. But the deep bone weariness and the cold were nothing new; the Cold Ones always came after waves of wights had softened the living.
"Bowmen, aim for the spiders!" a cry tore from his chapped lips, hoping that some of the marksmen still lived and had heard him. Each archer had but a single dragonglass arrow; there were simply not enough of them to go around. He himself only had two in his possession.
A thin volley of fire and dragonglass arrows fell over the Cold Ones. The fiery arrows felled the giant spiders, but most of the fire and obsidian bounced away harmlessly from the milky crystal armour of the Others. One of the Walkers was struck by the black glass-tipped shaft over its exposed blue face and shattered with a soft tinkling sound. The other four rushed into the line of men. People desperately tried to stop them but died by the dozen; the tired fighters couldn't put up proper resistance. The pale crystal swords were reaping lives effortlessly, and within a handful of seconds, the rest of the men did not dare to face the White Walkers and broke down. The Cold Ones decided to chase after the retreating humans.
Jon dropped his torch, sheathed Longclaw on his hip and quickly strung up his yew longbow. He nocked one of his two dragonglass arrows, drew to the limit, and aimed carefully at one of his icy foes. For a short second, it felt like time had slowed down. With each breath that he took, half a dozen men were dying. With a twang, the arrow flew true, hit an icy blue eye, and shattered one of the Walkers just as he was about to slay yet another man.
The last three pale fiends immediately looked his way with their unnatural cold, burning eyes. He quickly let loose the last dragonglass arrow, but a crystal blade deflected it with a tinkling sound. Jon threw his longbow away and unsheathed Longclaw once again. Gathering his strength, he lunged at the one on the left with all his speed, barely avoiding the incoming strike from an icy blade, and ran Longclaw into an unprotected part of its face. A cracking sound was heard, and the pale Other shattered like glass. But Jon had no time to admire his handiwork, as his other opponents were already hacking at him. He dodged, but another blade still grazed him across his right leg.
He ignored his numerous wounds and bruises and pushed himself to the limit as he traded blows with the so-called Cold Gods. Jon could now easily match them in strength and speed and was even superior in skill. A bitter reward for the death of Ghost, yet he had grudgingly used it to the fullest. But even Longclaw could not cut through their crystalline armour, so Jon had to create an opening and strike in the gaps or unprotected parts. Jon's scale armour, however, did little to resist the crystal swords in their hands. Their icy edges would cut through it as if it were silk, so he had to either dodge, parry, or deflect every one of their attacks. And he was already tired and wounded from hours of fighting. If he were rested, he would be able to slay both of them down with ease.
Slowly but surely, Jon started to tire even further. Every parry rattled his bones, and the sweeping cuts were harder and harder to avoid. Soon, he would be too slow to fight two of them at once. Perhaps this was where he finally died?
Jon was already tired of the endless struggle and cared little for life and death anymore. But he was not going down just like that - he might as well take the thrice-damned Cold Ones down with him. He gritted his teeth and jerked to the side, barely avoiding one crystalline sword, and stabbed Longclaw's tip in the face of its owner, killing him. However, the second pale sword impaled him through the torso. The Other cackled triumphantly and tried twisting the blade, but it would not move. Jon had grasped the icy sword hand in an iron grip of his own, and gathering the last vestiges of his waning strength, Longclaw tore through the air one last time, striking the unprotected pale neck. The cackling head fell off the corpse; then both parts shattered like ice.
The crystalline blade buried in his gut pulsed with a terrifying cold, which spread rapidly with every weakening heartbeat.
Jon knew he was finished for good this time.
A heavy metallic taste filled his mouth. The surroundings grew hazy, and his limbs were heavy. He took a few weak steps to lean on the nearby tree. A feeble tug barely pulled out the icy blade, which fell with a sharp, ringing sound. Then, Jon Snow collapsed with a weary sigh at the base of the tree, painting the bone-white bark with his dark red blood.
From the east, for the first time in moons, the rays of the sun peaked over the horizon.
Brandon Stark
Tears streaked across his cheeks as he watched in sorrow through the weirwood tree as the events played out.
"The second battle for the Dawn is finally won," an old, raspy voice next to him uttered. "My time here is finally at an end. I can finally rest."
"Why?" Bran croaked out weakly after removing his hand from the nearby milky white root.
"Why what, boy? Be more specific!"
"Why did everyone have to die?" he spat bitterly and glared. "My father, mother, brothers and sisters are all dead! Only I am left now, and I will never leave this cave!"
"Stop wallowing in self-pity, boy. You agreed to leave your family name behind when apprenticing under me. The world does not revolve around your former House. And you know that Jon was not truly your brother. The Starks might be dead, but millions of others live!" Brynden's raspy voice grated in his ears.
Everything felt meaningless to Bran, and even the air tasted bitter upon his tongue. The sun rose from the east, but there was only darkness left in his life. The price was too high, too heavy.
His father, killed for trying to do the right thing. His mother and Robb, betrayed and butchered by scheming bannermen at the Red Wedding. Sweet Sansa, poisoned at her own wedding by the vengeful queen. Rickon drowned in a cruel autumn storm in the Bay of Seals. Arya, killed by the faceless men for trying to leave and return to Westeros. And now, Jon was dead after almost single-handedly destroying the Others and ending the Second Long Night. It was only Bran left now, but he was nought but a spectre himself, bound in this ancient cave until death decided to take him.
"There is no way you did not foresee this already. After all, you were powerful and experienced enough to glimpse into the future! Why did they all have to die?! It's not fair!"
"The world isn't fair. I warned you, boy! I warned you when you agreed to become my apprentice that you would watch how your loved ones die as you're stuck here!" The Three-eyed crow glared at him with a single eerie red eye. "And yes, I can glimpse into the future. But time is like a raging river. Do not think for a moment that I arranged for the deaths of your kin. For dozens of years, I looked and looked for a way forward but only saw an icy death. Thousands of possible futures, and this was the only light in the future darkness!"
Bran recoiled on his chair as if struck. House Stark had eight thousand years of glorious history. Was this how it all ended? With him slowly wasting away in a quiet cave beyond the Wall, full of sorrow and regrets? Disappearing into the annals of history with nigh but a sigh. Was their existence always meant to end like this? He was powerful now. Not as a lord or a knight as he wanted before, but as a greenseer and a skinchanger. Could he truly not do anything, even with all his magical prowess? A wild idea formed in his mind.
"No! I refuse!" Bran uttered through his now clenched teeth. Brynden looked at him as if he was a fool. "I refuse to give up on my family!"
"There's nothing you can do, boy," Brynden's hoarse voice sounded mocking to his ears. "Even if you could go back in time, this is the only way the Others could be defeated. You are but a cripple that cannot lead, govern, or fight, and none would ever listen to the ramblings of a child. At best, you'd only make things worse than they already were."
Bran suppressed his boiling anger while looking at his mentor's ghastly face. The old man was right; he had no talents for any of those.
A daring idea formed within his mind, one that simply would not go away.
"Yes, I would not be able to do much for true," he admitted slowly, but he found his face twisting in a feral grin. "But Jon, on the other hand, could. He's the one who rallied the shattered remains of North, the Night's Watch, and the Free folk against the gathering darkness. He's the one who could best the Others in a fight and live! He is the one who brought the Dawn!"
"And how would you return him, my young and green apprentice? He is already dead and does not have the greensight. And suppose you somehow succeed, you would change things irrevocably. 'Tis not a guarantee that your cousin could win again or that any of your family would live," his mentor's voice was nary a whisper now, but something unknown flashed in his red eye.
"My brother died with his lifeblood colouring a heart tree's roots red; he's still within my reach. Even now, his corpse is still warm. I will drag his mind into the weirwood and cast it back in the river of time!"
"Simply trying to glimpse through time is already incredibly dangerous. Meddling with the turbulent rivers of time will drown your mind both in the past and the present. You change one thing, and the ripples can spread far and wide," Brynden warned him quietly, but his apprentice's eyes were still full of conviction. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Bran knew he was not meant for glorious deeds. He knew that ever since he woke up with his legs crippled. He knew that he had made many mistakes. But now he could make everything right again.
Bran nodded and no longer paid attention to his mentor. His hand weakly lifted Dark Sister from the nearby wall and ran the cold, rippling blade through his palm. He then grasped the thickest of the bone-white roots with his bleeding hand and pushed all of himself into the weirwood.
Finding Jon's mind was easy. Even after his brother had died, his soul still shone with power like a beacon in the surrounding darkness, slow to disperse. Bran touched it with his magic and tried pulling it. It felt both freezing cold and searing hot to the touch and as heavy as a mountain. It barely budged. He pulled with all his strength, hoping to drag it into the weirwoods, but it was too heavy. Bran, however, did not give up and continued stubbornly.
In the cave, Brynden Rivers watched as his apprentice began to bleed from every orifice. The foolish boy was truly attempting it and was killing himself in the process. But Bran was not strong enough, his mind not sturdy enough, and his powers not polished enough to succeed. At least not alone.
Brynden was already lingering for too long and had no desire to wait for decades until he managed to find another apprentice. He remembered his sweet niece, Melantha Blackwood, who married Willam Stark. All of the Starks were his kin too, in a manner of speaking...
Did he want things to truly end like this? His kin were dead. The Blackwoods, the Targaryens, the Starks, and even the Baratheons were all gone now. At this moment, he felt every single year of his cursed existence weighing upon his bony shoulders. Duty had always been heavy, but as he got older and older, it grew into a crushing mountain upon his shoulders. Could he cast an already-won victory back into uncertainty because of a youthful folly just for a slight chance of things being better for some of his wayward kin? Was it worth it to completely sever the line of the three-eyed greenseers, surviving all the way from the Pact? Could Jon Snow, his great-grandnephew from both sides, succeed again if given a second chance?
Yes, he could!
The boy had been as brittle as cast iron when leaving Winterfell. But the cruel world had hammered him repeatedly, and he did not break but instead turned into pure Valyrian steel. The age of the greenseers had been long over. Brynden was the last remnant of once mighty, yet now forgotten powers, better left little more than a distant memory. Mayhaps it was for the best if it ended with him and Brandon.
Bloodraven slipped into the weirwoods and pulled on Jon Snow's mind, together with his apprentice. Bran's senses flared in surprise, and his efforts stumbled for a moment, but he quickly regained his bearings. They managed to drag it into the weirwood network and began to push against the river of time together. In the cave, thick black blood began oozing from his orifices, too. It took half a minute of heavy exertion, yet Bran started to weaken rapidly. Their bodies grew thinner and thinner.
Pushing such a magically heavy mind was supposed to be nearly impossible. Yet the strongest greenseers in eight thousand years working together could accomplish it, albeit at the cost of their existence. With a final effort, they mustered all their strength and managed to hurl Jon Snow's essence across the turbulent stream of time. The moment they succeeded, the waters began to boil and churn, and the river roared with rage, drowning Bran and Brynden. With the final embers of life and magic left within him, Bloodraven sent Jon Snow one final gift before his essence was crushed by the furious waters.
In the cave lay two corpses. An old man with bloodstained, parchment-like skin lay entangled within a twisted throne of weirwood roots, and a smaller boy stuck on a chair-like contraption. Instead of eyes, on their faces lay empty sockets filled with blood. Both corpses were only loosely hanging skin and brittle bones, but a grotesque smile sat on their faces. And so, the ancient cave beyond the Wall became the final resting place of the greatest Greenseers of this Age, where their remains lay forgotten together with the bones of the Children and the Giants.
Winterfell, 2nd Day of the 3d Moon, Year 298 after Aegon's Conquest
Eddard Stark
Lord Stark,
Deepwood Motte has officially finished construction.
Galbart Glover
Short and to the point, as always. He sighed and placed the letter in the drawer. Galbart had killed Maron Greyjoy at the siege of Pyke and later expressed heavy concerns about retaliation upon Deepwood Motte in the future, especially since it was quite close to the sea. Ned hoped there would be no more fighting within his lifetime, but he knew all too well that one rarely got what he wished for, so he gave Glover his blessing and permission to crenellate and relocate towards a favourable hill overlooking the Bay of Ice, giving the man permission for a small port town in the future–and potentially providing better protection to the nearby shores.
The castle was neither deep in the woods nor a motte and bailey, but Glover insisted on keeping the old name. On the one hand, Ned could understand the tediousness of going through the records to change the castle's name, first with Winterfell, then the Citadel, then King's Landing, not to mention the new ravens that would need to be commissioned for the new location. Glover keeping the old name was hardly the queerest thing a lord had done.
On the other hand, merchants and sailors were likely to make uncountable jests at the castle as they docked at that new port Glover hoped to build.
Galbart had quickly started negotiations with the Wulls for granite from their quarry. The old Wull Chieftain only agreed after Glover took his youngest daughter for a wife, much to Ned's chagrin. Now, eight years later, the new seat of House Glover was complete.
Ned had even visited it in person with Robb and Jon two years ago. The new castle was built out of stone; ironwood was used for support beams, and it looked impressive even when half-finished. The curtain walls were in two rings. An outer ring that was thirty-five feet tall and twelve feet thick stone walls, with a proper moat outside, and the inner wall was forty feet tall and fifteen feet wide. And all of it was built on a hill overlooking the Bay of Ice, less than a mile away, with its own spring inside to feed the moat. It was not a large holdfast, but not a small one either.
He could envision a port town sprouting around the natural harbour, with ships from all over Westeros docking and bringing trade and wealth to Galbart and the North. Ned would allow the Glovers a couple more years before he raised the topic of taxation–perhaps next spring.
All of this was only possible because of the bountiful and long summer, and even then, the Glovers would still have to tighten their belts for the next handful of years, though Ned was sure their old castle with its lands would still provide them with enough wealth to recover swiftly.
Now, with a hundred bowmen, Deepwood Motte could hold off thousands of attackers, and Galbart could hopefully sleep easily at night. Hopefully, Balon Greyjoy would avoid any foolish moves as long as Theon was sitting here in Winterfell. But Ned knew that the Lord Reaper of Pyke was not known for his wits and had not written to his last son a single time in nearly ten years. A pity his advice to send the man to the Wall was left unheeded. The Lord of Winterfell wouldn't be surprised if Balon bided his time to strike again when Westeros seemed weak.
After receiving Galbart's letter, Ned was curious enough to send a team of stonemasons and architects to survey Moat Cailin. He knew that his father had the desire to rebuild the entrance to the North during his childhood but had never gotten around to doing it. The reason became apparent as soon as the survey team returned. The price of restoring Moat Cailin would eat away all their saved-up coin and still beggar House Stark for a generation. Comparing the ancient fortress with Glover's new castle was like comparing Winterfell to Tumbledown Tower; Moat Cailin required far more resources to be rebuilt than any castle in the North, nay, all of Westeros.
While they were not poor by any measure, the closest stone quarry was hundreds of miles away, and the price of transporting the required stone over such a massive distance was unfeasible. The troubles did not even end here. The swampy ground surrounding most of the moat was not very suitable for crops, and the upkeep of the Moat would have to come purely from Winterfell's coffers. Worse, the amount of work it would take to drain the surrounding swamp in order to dig for new foundations for the curtain walls was tremendous.
It was simply not worth it, especially since there were no enemies to the South. While only three towers remained of the Moat's original twenty, they were more than enough to repel invasions from the Neck with the assistance of the crannogmen. Ned couldn't help but wonder if every new Lord of Winterfell dreamed of restoring the Moat to its former glory, only for the idea to be quickly squashed by reality.
His mind slowly wandered to more immediate issues. Ned grimaced at the thought that the whole southern court was coming to Winterfell because his foster father was dead. That had caught him completely off-guard, and he had no idea what to do. The South rarely boded well for House Stark. At least it would be some time before they arrived. If they were coming by land, it could take them up to half a year to arrive. After all, the royal entourage would only travel as fast as its slowest member.
After a few moments, Ned shook his head and banished those thoughts completely; they only made his head hurt. A mournful howl that chilled his spine was heard in the distance, making him grimace. He'd deal with things as they come. He stood up, grabbed Ice, left the solar, and headed towards the serene godswood, for he needed to clear his head.
Walder hastily intercepted him in one of the hallways, gasping for air. The face of the gigantic guardsman that loomed more than a head over him was heavy with worry and distress.
"My Lord," he took a deep breath and continued grimly, "Bran has fallen."
Everything froze, and Ned felt as if he had dived into the icy waters of the White Knife during the onset of winter. Fallen…?
"Lead the way," he managed to eke out after gathering himself. "Is my son…?"
He was afraid to voice the word lest it became real. Ned vividly remembered the day when the news of his father and brother's death arrived, along with Aerys' demand for his head. Everything felt surreal then, and it took him days to fully believe he was not dreaming.
"I don't know, Lord Stark. I was sent here to fetch you immediately."
Eddard forced himself to calm down and quickly followed after Walder. His mind refused to work, feeling sluggish as if drowning in a swamp.
As soon as they entered the courtyard, the only sound that could be heard was a heartwrenching wail. The wail of his wife, Catelyn. His blood ran cold now, and he numbly approached where all the guardsmen had clustered together.
He found the weary face of Rodrik Cassel, who shook his head grimly when he saw him. The ring of men-at-arms opened to let Ned through, and he finally saw.
His boy, oh his young boy! Bran, the cheerful, full of hope son, lay deathly still on the cold ground, head cracked open, blood everywhere... Catelyn had crumpled over his body, weeping with sorrow.
Robert Baratheon, the Crownlands
He had dreamt of fighting at the Trident again, and the sound of Rhaegar's breastplate caving in under his warhammer still echoed in his ears, sweeter than the song of the finest singing girls from Lys. He had begun dreaming of it less and less as of late. But while his dreams were joyful, the waking world oft fell short.
"What is it this time?" He asked, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.
"The Queen's wheelhouse has broken down again, Your Grace," the blond ponce squeaked. Were they going to wait half a day until that thrice-cursed monstrosity on wheels was repaired again?!
Gods, he was surrounded by blond cunts everywhere. The boy looked thin and soft, like a woman, and almost as pretty, and the only thing missing was a cunt and a pair of teats. He struggled to remember why he had taken those two ponces as squires. A few moments later, he scowled when it came to him. His goddamn harpy of a wife wouldn't shut up about it, so he had agreed to silence her incessant screeching. At least now, on the road, he did not have to deal with her while she was stuck in the blasted monstrosity she called a wheelhouse.
Damn it all! At least he was going to visit Ned now! The thought alone lit a fire inside him and brought a smile to his face.
He drank in the surrounding sights, the rolling green hills and fields full of wheat. And most importantly, the fresh, warm breeze that gently blew by. The only time he managed to get away from the stinking pile of shit called King's Landing was when he went out on a hunt. Maybe a royal progress was in order? It would be good for his subjects to see their king. And the fact that he'd be away from the stench of King's Landing and its vipers for a long time definitely did not have anything to do with it. Not one bit!
But first, he had to get Ned to be his Hand. They would be together again, just like in the good old days!
"Wine!" He ordered, and the blond twat passed him the skin of wine, and he took a heavy swig. Ah, Arbor Gold was the good stuff, albeit a bit too sweet. Those flowers were shit at fighting, but at least they made decent wine, but it was not bitter enough for his taste. "When did we leave King's Landing?"
"A sennight ago, your grace!" the golden-haired shit replied with trepidation, making him frown.
Gods, they had passed through Hayford yesterday, and the keep was scarcely a day's ride away from King's Landing. At this pace, they would get to Winterfell next year!
This just wouldn't do. He turned to look at the blond twat he had regretfully taken in as a squire. What was his name again? Lanot? Lannet? Bah, did it even matter?!
"Boy, tell everyone to get ready; we'll continue on horse!" Robert ordered.
"The whole retinue?" The blond shit asked weakly. "B-but what of the Queen's wheelhouse and the servants?"
"Yes, the whole retinue! Their King commands it! And Others take the blasted wheelhouse. If Cersei can't ride a horse, she's welcome to return to King's Landing, but all my children stay with me. Anyone else who is too slow to follow can stay behind!" He declared and grimaced, trying to ignore the coming headache. Just imagining his harpy of a wife's screeching made his head swell. Would it kill Tywin's thrice-cursed daughter to keep her mouth shut for once in her life?!
High Heart
"What is this? Things have changed!" A raspy cry tore through the air. "Ah, ah ah, the gods have gone silent…The Song?! I cannot see! There is only an endless shroud of snow and blood!"
A pale old woman no taller than three feet hobbled weakly among the weirwood stumps, barely standing upright with the help of her small gnarled cane.
Dragonstone
Melisandre recoiled as her flames raged, tearing her vision to shreds. It took her a few heartbeats to calm down, and she continued gazing at the twirling fire.
She stood still, looking and looking as time flew by. Outside, the sun slowly hid behind the horizon to the west when she finally stirred again. No matter how she looked now, no visions came from the angry flames. Why did R'hllor punish her so?!
Or maybe the Lord of the Light wanted to tell her something. The last of her visions was about the lands of cold and ice, something that could only be beyond the Great Wall.
Melisandre shuffled uneasily in realisation.
Was R'hllor displeased with her for dallying here and trying to push her own goals?!
She hastily gathered her small travel bag, threw her scarlet cloak over her shoulders, and rushed towards the docks, paying no heed of anything in her way.
Patchface watched as the Red Witch glided like a spectre in the hallway and cackled with glee while scuttling sideways like a crab.
"In the dark, the dead are dancing, and the shadows come tagging, tagging!" His face, painted in motley, twisted in terror, and his joy was replaced with horror. "The Song is drowning! Oh, oh, oh!"
Author's Endnote:
The Game is on again! The river of time has been muddied, and ripples are already showing!
You can find me on my discord,
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01-Fickle Blessings
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the ASOIAF universe. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of GRRM; I make no claim to ownership.
Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki. Cheers to Bub3loka, my beta reader, who helped me immensely.
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Robb Stark
Something was wrong. Ever since Grey Wind howled a few minutes ago, he was whining restlessly and nudging at his feet.
"Your new dog is going to deafen us, Stark," Theon groaned. "Mayhaps you should return it to the kennels for now?"
"It's a direwolf, not a dog," Robb replied without bothering to hide his annoyance. "Mayhaps we should find you a squid to keep you busy?"
"It's a kraken," his friend scowled, "and I'm plenty busy already."
With his whores and flirting around with every maiden that caught his eye in Winter Town, no doubt.
"If you say so," he nodded with a chuckle and picked up Grey Wind. The pup finally relaxed when he was scratched behind his ears. Gods, the direwolf was so adorable when he lolled his tongue!
Theon was just about to try and give a not-so-witty comeback when Desmond came running.
"Lord Robb, Lord Stark has called for you in the courtyard," the guard urged grimly.
"What happened?" Robb asked as they followed the man back towards the gatehouse, a small grey direwolf trotting behind them.
"Lord Bran... fell."
"What do you mean by fell?!"
The heir of Winterfell stopped dead in his tracks and looked at the sombre man.
"Lord Bran fell while climbing one of the curtain walls," Desmond tensely explained, waving them over to continue moving.
"Is my brother... well?"
Robb felt foolish as soon as the words left his mouth. If Bran were well, his father wouldn't have sent a guard to fetch him. His insides began to twist into painful knots, imagining what had happened to his brother.
Desmond just shook his head sadly and continued.
Winterfell's courtyard was deathly quiet, and Robb choked and felt like something punched him in the gut when he saw a small body carefully being carried out in a black shroud by servants with their faces covered by grey cowls. Robb's eyes found his mother, who, with puffy eyes, trailed after the black shroud, sobbing quietly. Next to him, Theon stood frozen, unsure of what to do.
If there was any doubt in his mind, it was gone now. He could feel it in his bones; Bran was dead.
His father was standing in the middle of the courtyard, face carved from ice and harshly barking out orders as the gathered guardsmen quickly dispersed.
As Robb approached, he saw that his father's soft grey eyes had hardened into two chips of slated stone as he listened to Rodrik Cassel.
"Robb, Theon," Eddard Stark nodded in acknowledgement, and Robb could see that the rim around his eyes had reddened slightly.
"Father… how?" he eked out weakly.
"One of the servants saw the whole thing," his father's voice was cold and stern but cracked slightly at the end. "Bran's hand slipped when he tried to lift himself up on one of the protrusions, and he simply fell and hit his head a few times on the way to the ground. By the time the servant ran over, he was already gone,"
"But Bran never falls," the words slipped out of his mouth, and his father's eyes bore into him.
"Remember this, Robb," a tinge of grief leaked through Eddard Stark's stern words. "Remember this. There's always a first time. A time to fail where you previously always had succeeded. Where expectations are betrayed, and some blows come from where you least expect them."
Everything became a numb blur for Robb. Two guards escorted a disbelieving Sansa and a shaken Arya, and he watched how their expressions crumbled as their father explained the situation. His sisters cried and cried, and he wanted to join them, perceptions be damned, but he couldn't.
Robb just felt... numb, angry, and helpless for the first time in his life. How could Bran be gone just like that?! He had seen his brother running around and laughing happily in the morning just a scant few hours ago...
The heir of Winterfell wanted to scream and shout and just... hit something. But looking at his distraught sisters, Robb slowly began to calm down. Something nudged his leg, and he saw Grey Wind look at him with sharp yellow eyes. Robb picked the pup again with a sigh and ran his fingers through his fluffy fur, and the tension slowly fled his body.
"From now on, every single one of you is to have a minder," his father's steely eyes bore at the now defiant Arya, who looked like she was about to protest. "And if you try to evade or escape your minder, you will be confined in your room for a moon, where only the Septa will be allowed to visit."
That seemed to finally cow his younger sister... for now, at least. Robb also had to hide a grimace at the prospect of being constantly babied by one of the guardsmen.
At that moment, Harwin ran over, face dripping with sweat.
"My Lord, we cannot find Jon," the guardsman reported after wiping the beads of sweat from his brow.
His father closed his eyes for a few heartbeats, and his face somehow became grimmer.
"Jon usually goes towards the Godswood after the morning training," Robb hesitantly said. "But I am unsure if he would be there now."
The Crypts and the Godswood were the only two places where only members of House Stark were allowed, and anyone else required special permission from Lord Stark to enter, guardsmen included. His brother oft stayed there, choosing to brood away in peace. Robb had oft found him lounging at the hot springs when not praying at the Heart Tree.
"Let us go fetch your brother, then," Eddard Stark finally spoke and turned to Sansa and Arya. "You two return to your quarters for now."
Arya had the sense not to protest this time, and his sisters headed back to the Great Keep while Robb and his father strode towards one of the wooden inner gates, which led to the Godswood, accompanied by Rodrik, Harwin, and Theon.
The usually tranquil canopy of trees felt solemn and dark as they quietly trudged through the soft, mossy ground.
The hot springs were empty, so they headed towards the Heart Tree. Robb couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding as they approached the thick, bone-white trunk of the ancient weirwood.
"JON!"
Robb froze when he saw his brother, spasming amidst the pale roots of the tree, skin blue with frost and face covered with blood. No, not blood. His spine crawled, and blood ran cold when he realised that the carved face above was weeping tears of crimson sap on top of Jon's brow.
Selyse Baratheon
The sun was slowly setting in the west, and it was time for the evening prayer, but Melisandre was gone. The guardsmen had reported the priestess boarding a vessel headed North earlier today. And while her Lord Husband thought nothing of the 'red woman' as he called it, she did not doubt it was only a matter of time until Stannis could be converted. But alas...
Had Selyse done something to insult the Lord of the Light?!
She had fervently prayed every day and every night, but R'hllor's priestess abandoned her anyway. She began restlessly pacing along the wooden floorboards of her chamber.
But... mayhaps one did not need a priest to pray to the Lord of the Light, just like one could pray to the Seven without a septon!
Selyse racked her mind to remember the exact words as she called for one of the servants to pour her a glass of spiced honey wine from Lannisport.
She dismissed the servant and slowly began taking sips from the cup as she stared at the flickering fire in the hearth.
Ah yes! Melisandre oft gazed upon the flames to divine R'hllor's will.
The Lord of the Light speaks through the fires, but one must sacrifice first to receive in return.
R'hllor permitted his most faithful servants to glimpse the future from the fire! And there was none as faithful as Selyse was.
The hearth would not do. It was too small, too flimsy, to let her see the one true god's will. Selyse quickly placed one of those annoying gaudy tapered chairs carved with draconic motifs in the middle of the room and piled a few useless pieces of cloth. A few pieces of firewood were added for good measure. But no, his was not a good enough sacrifice. She tossed in her fox-shaped pin and her favourite silken bodice and poured the spiced honey wine on top.
Deep in the back of her mind, a weak voice told Selyse she was doing something incredibly foolish. Yet Selyse ignored it with a snort; the Lord of the Light would guide her!
With some struggle, she managed to get a glowing ember from the hearth with a fire poker and toss it on the pile she had gathered.
Selyse Baratheon watched with fascination as a furious fire combusted and quickly began to rage, bathing her face in searing heat.
"Lead me from the darkness, O my Lord! Fill my heart with fire so that I might find my path!"
She gazed into the angry flames, and she saw.
The fire danced and danced, and she could finally see.
Herself, being skinned alive by an ugly looking lowborn in a field of snow?!
The flames twisted-
Her daughter, burning on a pyre, and Selyse jumping in to join her...
-and spun-
Her daughter, now a young woman, lost amidst a vast field of snow...
-again-
Her daughter, with grey scarring gone, exchanging wedding vows with a northern savage... before an old, gnarly heart tree!?
-and again-
Her daughter, a woman grown and beautiful, bronze crown atop her brow, surrounded by a host of happy children.
-and-
Her innocent daughter, riding a naked man in her maiden day suit as one would ride a horse?!
A pair of angry purple eyes gazed at her and-
Selyse staggered back as if something had crashed into her, mind muddled. She coughed and touched the wetness on her cheeks. She gasped as her fingers were covered by blood, but everything felt unbearably hot at that moment. Selyse looked around and let out a raspy gasp; the room was filled with black plumes of smoke, and the fire was slowly spreading through the varnished planks on the floor.
At that moment, her gown caught fire; she opened her mouth to yell but only managed to inhale a mouthful of black smog, heave over, and cough even harder.
Eddard Stark
Ned hated it, feeling powerless. It was a bitter lesson, learned long ago, but he did not think he would have to taste grief and despair again so soon...
He had been blessed, and all his children were born healthy. Many tales of miscarriages, stillbirths, and sickly babes not surviving to see a full year haunted him every time Catelyn got pregnant. But the gods had proven generous, and no such thing happened. And yet here he was, with one son to bury and another one on the way.
But it was not the gods at fault, only himself. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. He was supposed to rule and defend a whole kingdom, yet he could not protect his own son from himself. A boy of scarcely nine with a deadly penchant for climbing. Had he been more strict and more careful... this could have been avoided.
And now, a vigil awaited him after Bran's body was embalmed.
But first, he had to know if he was going to lose a second son today. One not of his loins but a son in all the ways that mattered. It was first about family and his promise to Lyanna. But as the years passed, he came to love the boy as his own.
Yet now, the gods had proven cruel. The weirwood sap had done something to his son, and he had been so cold to the touch that it burned. So unnaturally cold that Jon should have died. No normal man could be so cold and live, but his boy proved otherwise. Was it an ember from the fickle blood of the dragon furiously resisting the chill? Or mayhaps something long forgotten from the ancient, brutal history of House Stark, where they took the daughters of every king, sorcerous or otherwise, they vanquished as brides?
He stood in the dim hallway and waited on the opposite side of the wooden door. Robb had wanted to wait here with him, but Ned had sent his heir away.
It had been hours since then, and Luwin was yet to leave Jon's room, so he held onto a small spark of hope.
The door suddenly opened, and searing heat struck Ned square in the face, making him sweat. Luwin tiredly walked out, his grey robes damp as if he had taken a soak in the hot springs with them.
"Will Jon live?"
The short, old maester tugged at the chain around his neck and sighed.
"I don't know, my Lord," he confessed with worry in his eyes and used his damp sleeve to wipe his face futilely, as it remained just as sweaty as before.
"What do you mean you don't know?!"
Luwin took a staggered step back, and Ned realised that he had finally lost his composure and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. The maester had no fault here, and yelling would accomplish little.
"I have never seen or heard about something like... this before. It should not be possible!" Luwin worriedly tugged at his chain again. "When Jon arrived, he was so cold that his clothes had frozen stiff, and I had to slice them open. It should have killed him, yet he showed no signs of frostbite. Then, he suddenly became feverish, and his skin became reddish hot as a heated metal in the forge. I barely managed to stop the seizures, but Jon kept alternating between searing hot and freezing cold. He should have been dead long before he got to me, yet he still lingers!"
"How?"
The maester grimaced heavily.
"Magic. This can only be magic," Luwin explained grimly. "I thought... that it was a force long gone from the world, at least here, in Westeros, but alas, the gods laugh at mortal men like us."
"You have the Valyrian Steel link, you studied the higher mysteries, surely there is something you can do?" Ned asked, not daring hope leak into his voice.
"I've done all I could, my Lord. We don't study the practice of higher mysteries in the Citadel, but its history, lore, and limits," the maester shook his head. "There's very little on the properties of weirwood sap, and what is known is vastly different from Jon's situation. I will write to the Archmaester of Magic, Marwyn, to see if he could provide guidance, but Oldtown is on the other end of Westeros. It will be at least a fortnight before a raven returns with a reply, and by that time, it might be too late..."
Ned's knees lost strength, and it was only by sheer will that he remained standing. And maybe some help from the granite wall at his back. The thought of burying a second son pressed down on him like a gigantic boulder. But no, his boy was still alive, still fighting; he would not hand him over to the gods just yet. But what could he do?!
"Is there anything else that can be done?"
"I will peruse the olden tomes in Winterfell's library," Luwin worriedly fiddled with his chain's rippled, smoky steel link. "But I can barely read Old Tongue, and they might not have anything on the subject. I would not lose hope just yet, my Lord. Despite all of this, Jon does not seem to be waning; only time will tell whether he will make it or not."
The maester's words made him feel a bit lighter, if nothing else. Ned knew Jon was stubborn, and would not give up, so there was yet some hope left. He dismissed Luwin and headed towards where Bran's remains were. The thought of standing vigil over his young boy made his insides twist into knots again.
"My Lord! There's a fire in the Sea Dragon Tower!"
Stannis forced his tired eyes to open and quickly stood up from his bed. Two panicked guardsmen were standing at his door.
"Explain!" He curtly ordered as he quickly donned his grey woollen tunic and leather breeches.
"The Lady Baratheon's apartments were aflame a few minutes ago, and Ser Lothor Hardy has raised the alarm and sent us to notify you," Varly hastily explained.
It took a few heartbeats for his mind to finally shake off the drowsiness.
"My daughter?!" Stannis demanded.
"She is... at her quarters," Gared, the other guardsman, said with a gulp. "The master-at-arms has already sent men to fetch water from the well!"
As soon as his leather belt was strapped to his waist and worn boots were on his feet, Stannis grabbed his cloak and dashed out of the room. The bells began to ring.
The only thought in his head while he was rushing down a flight of stairs was Shireen. Stannis never considered himself a good father or husband, but he kept to his wedding vows. There might have never been much affection between him and his wife, but he loved his daughter, even if he was unsure how to truly show it.
The Lord of Dragonstone cursed his indecisiveness. His wife had insisted that Shireen stay with her all the way in another tower instead of in the family quarters in the Stone Drum Keep, where he resided. Unwilling to fight Selyse on this, he had let the matter go.
Guardsmen were scuttling about chaotically, but he paid them no heed as he ran through the gallery leading to a visibly burning tower. Red flames were hungrily licking just below the neck of the dragon-like structure, exactly where his wife's apartments were.
Stannis' breathing quickly became ragged, and he once again cursed himself for neglecting his time in the yard. Had he let himself go, just like Robert did?!
He ignored the burning pain in his lungs and immediately began climbing up the Sea Dragon Tower's narrow and twisting steps, passing over guardsmen carrying buckets of water.
A minute later, he finally stopped when faced with a dozen guardsmen blocking the flight of stairs from where searing heat and smoke were coming. More and more men were streaming in, forming a living line to pass on the water from the well, but their efforts were little better than pissing in the inferno and hoping it would die out.
"My Lord," Ser Hardy dipped his head as two guardsmen with a bucket full of water caught up and futilely tossed it into the roaring fire above.
"Shireen?!" Stannis demanded as he was heavily gasping for breath.
"I've sent a man to try and fetch her and Lady Baratheon four minutes ago, but he hasn't returned," the master-at-arms reported grimly. "You should get out of here, my Lord, the top of the tower can collapse on us at any moment!"
The Lord of Dragonstone gritted his teeth as he stood still in a fleeting heartbeat of hesitation. Before Ser Hardy could object, Stannis took a deep breath and ran up into the searing heat.
The smoke stung his eyes, the hot flames licked his clothes painfully, and every mouthful of air seared his innards. The wooden panes and flooring decorating the hallway's walls were all feeding the fires, but he had no time to look at any of them. He found a body on the ground, burning, and leapt over it. He ignored the entrance to his wife's chambers and continued deeper into the fiery hallway. It took him less than a dozen heartbeats to arrive at Shireen's door, which was also aflame. His boots were now on fire, and every step was more painful than the previous one.
He didn't stop for a moment and hurled forward with all his strength, ramming his shoulder into the door and smashing it open. His sleeve caught fire, but he ignored it as his gaze was immediately on his daughter, cowering in the corner, small face filled with fear and terror. He hastily ran over to her, unlatched his cloak and covered Shireen with it before hauling her up in his embrace and running back out.
His lungs were demanding more and more air, but he had none to give. Not only his feet but his whole body began screaming in pain. He felt like roast beef as his vision began to swim, his head got dizzy, and moving became harder and more agonising with every passing second.
Stannis, teeth gritted, did not falter and kept his daughter securely wrapped in his cloak above the flames.
Lothor Hardy saw his liege Lord leap out of the roaring fire, gently place a squirming cloak on the stairs and collapse onto the ground, half his clothes aflame.
Out of the heavily singed cloak rolled out a coughing Shireen Baratheon.
5th Day of the 3rd Moon, Winterfell
Sansa Stark
The small burial ceremony ended as a granite lid closed Bran's tomb. Sansa felt like crying again, but her red eyes had no more tears to give. She had prayed to the Seven and even to the Heart Tree to give her younger brother back, but alas. Despite her ardent desires, what was dead stayed dead. In the end, she prayed to the Stranger to lead Bran into the afterlife and protect him.
Sansa hated it; everything was wrong now. Father was no longer warm and kind but stern and cold. There was still a sliver of warmth underneath, but it was rare to see. Her mother now spoke curtly and was clouded by a veil of sadness around her. She scarcely attended meals anymore, and the rest of her time was spent in the small sept, praying in vain. Robb… was angry and grim. Sansa had no idea what her elder brother was angry at, but she suspected he didn't know either. All of his free time was spent either in the yard, furiously swinging a sword until he could no more, or with Grey Wind.
Rickon was the same as always. A bit too young to realise what was truly happening, but even he could see that something was wrong. One time he had asked for 'Bran', and Catelyn had burst into tears, making him cry in return. However, Arya had become quiet and glum and no longer fought with her. Usually, Sansa would celebrate, but she did not feel like it.
Now with Bran gone, the smiles of House Stark seemed to be buried with him.
If that was all, things would not be as grim. Yet, her half-brother, Jon, was also lingering near death. Maester Luwin had no idea what was wrong with him, but from what she had heard, it was a miracle that he had survived so far. Sansa drifted away from Jon as she grew up, and now she regretted it. Bastard or not, she did not want to lose another brother! Despite his sullen nature, he had always been kind to her.
After the funeral was done, she wandered aimlessly around the many courtyards of Winterfell, shadowed by her minder, Porther. There were no lessons today, and Sansa did not feel like talking or playing with Jeyne or Beth either.
Her feet unknowingly led her to the kennels. Thinking of her own direwolf, she made to turn back to her chambers; it would be time to feed Lady with warm milk soon. Their Lord father had decreed that all the direwolves were to be taken care of by their hand only, without any help from the servants.
Sansa froze before she even made a dozen steps. If Bran was dead, and Jon was on the sickbed, who was taking care of their pups?! She spun, pulled up the hemline of her gown a bit, and quickly ran over to the kennels.
A storm of loud barking greeted her, along with the smell of privy, and it took a few moments for the Kennelmaster to quiet down the hounds.
"Lady Sansa, what brings ye here?" The stout man asked curiously after bowing his head.
"Farlen, do you know what happened to Bran's and Jon's direwolves?"
"Aye, Lady Arya came and picked them up that day," he explained gruffly.
"Thank you, Farlen," Sansa nodded gratefully and left.
After procuring a small wineskin of warm milk from the kitchen, she quickly headed towards her rooms in the Great Keep.
Her minder remained at the entrance. Thankfully, her father had agreed to allow her and all her siblings' unsupervised movement around the Great Keep.
As Sansa climbed the stairs to the family wing, she almost crashed into her sister, who was rushing downwards. The eldest daughter of Eddard Stark stilled at the three extra pairs of small eyes looking at her from below. Golden, yellow, and red.
"Arya, where are you going with all the direwolves?"
Her sister hesitated for a few moments but eventually replied. "To keep Jon some company."
"I'll come with you," Sansa's words rolled out of her mouth before she even realised.
"Why?" Suspicion dripped from Arya's voice.
"Can't I see him as well?"
She could see indignation in those grey eyes.
"You've never cared for Jon before, why would you do so now?"
Anger bubbled within her gut, and Sansa had to swallow back the biting remark on the tip of her tongue. She didn't want to fight with her sister, not today. And Arya was right; she did avoid Jon before, if only because of the urgings of Septa Mordane and her mother.
"I don't want to lose another brother," she quietly admitted, and her sister's glare softened.
"Fine, let's go," Arya finally relented.
They slowly made their way to Jon's chambers so the young pups could keep pace with them.
"Have you fed them yet?" Sansa asked while eying the fluffy trio trotting behind them curiously.
"Only twice today," her sister admitted. "Was going to the kitchens to fetch some milk for them after visiting Jon."
They were at Jon's door now, and Arya nodded to Fat Tom, who pulled on his ginger whiskers and let them in with a nod.
A wave of heat struck Sansa when she entered the room as if she was in the hot springs.
Arya ran over to the shutter and opened it, letting in a cool summer breeze. Sansa's gaze, however, was stuck on the bed where Jon lay, skin with a slightly reddish hue, covered in sweat. She hesitantly walked over to one of the chairs near him and sat down. Her brother's face was oddly serene and peaceful, yet he seemed feverish.
"What's wrong with him? Can't Luwin treat him?"
"Nobody would tell me anything." Her sister's eyes became downcast, and she sighed sadly.
At that moment, the two grey direwolf pups curiously trotted around the small room, but the white one silently went near the bed, rose on its hind legs and tried to go climb up, but it was too small.
Sansa gently picked it up, and it started squirming in her grasp without letting out a sound.
"What's his name?" she inquired before letting the small direwolf on top of Jon's covers.
"Ghost," Arya absentmindedly provided as she watched the two grey direwolves chasing each other on the floor.
A soft tussle from the bed drew Sansa's attention, and she let out a soft gasp as Jon slowly began to stir.
Author's Endnote:
Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki. Cheers to Bub3loka, my beta reader, who helped me immensely.
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Robb Stark
Something was wrong. Ever since Grey Wind howled a few minutes ago, he was whining restlessly and nudging at his feet.
"Your new dog is going to deafen us, Stark," Theon groaned. "Mayhaps you should return it to the kennels for now?"
"It's a direwolf, not a dog," Robb replied without bothering to hide his annoyance. "Mayhaps we should find you a squid to keep you busy?"
"It's a kraken," his friend scowled, "and I'm plenty busy already."
With his whores and flirting around with every maiden that caught his eye in Winter Town, no doubt.
"If you say so," he nodded with a chuckle and picked up Grey Wind. The pup finally relaxed when he was scratched behind his ears. Gods, the direwolf was so adorable when he lolled his tongue!
Theon was just about to try and give a not-so-witty comeback when Desmond came running.
"Lord Robb, Lord Stark has called for you in the courtyard," the guard urged grimly.
"What happened?" Robb asked as they followed the man back towards the gatehouse, a small grey direwolf trotting behind them.
"Lord Bran... fell."
"What do you mean by fell?!"
The heir of Winterfell stopped dead in his tracks and looked at the sombre man.
"Lord Bran fell while climbing one of the curtain walls," Desmond tensely explained, waving them over to continue moving.
"Is my brother... well?"
Robb felt foolish as soon as the words left his mouth. If Bran were well, his father wouldn't have sent a guard to fetch him. His insides began to twist into painful knots, imagining what had happened to his brother.
Desmond just shook his head sadly and continued.
Winterfell's courtyard was deathly quiet, and Robb choked and felt like something punched him in the gut when he saw a small body carefully being carried out in a black shroud by servants with their faces covered by grey cowls. Robb's eyes found his mother, who, with puffy eyes, trailed after the black shroud, sobbing quietly. Next to him, Theon stood frozen, unsure of what to do.
If there was any doubt in his mind, it was gone now. He could feel it in his bones; Bran was dead.
His father was standing in the middle of the courtyard, face carved from ice and harshly barking out orders as the gathered guardsmen quickly dispersed.
As Robb approached, he saw that his father's soft grey eyes had hardened into two chips of slated stone as he listened to Rodrik Cassel.
"Robb, Theon," Eddard Stark nodded in acknowledgement, and Robb could see that the rim around his eyes had reddened slightly.
"Father… how?" he eked out weakly.
"One of the servants saw the whole thing," his father's voice was cold and stern but cracked slightly at the end. "Bran's hand slipped when he tried to lift himself up on one of the protrusions, and he simply fell and hit his head a few times on the way to the ground. By the time the servant ran over, he was already gone,"
"But Bran never falls," the words slipped out of his mouth, and his father's eyes bore into him.
"Remember this, Robb," a tinge of grief leaked through Eddard Stark's stern words. "Remember this. There's always a first time. A time to fail where you previously always had succeeded. Where expectations are betrayed, and some blows come from where you least expect them."
Everything became a numb blur for Robb. Two guards escorted a disbelieving Sansa and a shaken Arya, and he watched how their expressions crumbled as their father explained the situation. His sisters cried and cried, and he wanted to join them, perceptions be damned, but he couldn't.
Robb just felt... numb, angry, and helpless for the first time in his life. How could Bran be gone just like that?! He had seen his brother running around and laughing happily in the morning just a scant few hours ago...
The heir of Winterfell wanted to scream and shout and just... hit something. But looking at his distraught sisters, Robb slowly began to calm down. Something nudged his leg, and he saw Grey Wind look at him with sharp yellow eyes. Robb picked the pup again with a sigh and ran his fingers through his fluffy fur, and the tension slowly fled his body.
"From now on, every single one of you is to have a minder," his father's steely eyes bore at the now defiant Arya, who looked like she was about to protest. "And if you try to evade or escape your minder, you will be confined in your room for a moon, where only the Septa will be allowed to visit."
That seemed to finally cow his younger sister... for now, at least. Robb also had to hide a grimace at the prospect of being constantly babied by one of the guardsmen.
At that moment, Harwin ran over, face dripping with sweat.
"My Lord, we cannot find Jon," the guardsman reported after wiping the beads of sweat from his brow.
His father closed his eyes for a few heartbeats, and his face somehow became grimmer.
"Jon usually goes towards the Godswood after the morning training," Robb hesitantly said. "But I am unsure if he would be there now."
The Crypts and the Godswood were the only two places where only members of House Stark were allowed, and anyone else required special permission from Lord Stark to enter, guardsmen included. His brother oft stayed there, choosing to brood away in peace. Robb had oft found him lounging at the hot springs when not praying at the Heart Tree.
"Let us go fetch your brother, then," Eddard Stark finally spoke and turned to Sansa and Arya. "You two return to your quarters for now."
Arya had the sense not to protest this time, and his sisters headed back to the Great Keep while Robb and his father strode towards one of the wooden inner gates, which led to the Godswood, accompanied by Rodrik, Harwin, and Theon.
The usually tranquil canopy of trees felt solemn and dark as they quietly trudged through the soft, mossy ground.
The hot springs were empty, so they headed towards the Heart Tree. Robb couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding as they approached the thick, bone-white trunk of the ancient weirwood.
"JON!"
Robb froze when he saw his brother, spasming amidst the pale roots of the tree, skin blue with frost and face covered with blood. No, not blood. His spine crawled, and blood ran cold when he realised that the carved face above was weeping tears of crimson sap on top of Jon's brow.
Selyse Baratheon
The sun was slowly setting in the west, and it was time for the evening prayer, but Melisandre was gone. The guardsmen had reported the priestess boarding a vessel headed North earlier today. And while her Lord Husband thought nothing of the 'red woman' as he called it, she did not doubt it was only a matter of time until Stannis could be converted. But alas...
Had Selyse done something to insult the Lord of the Light?!
She had fervently prayed every day and every night, but R'hllor's priestess abandoned her anyway. She began restlessly pacing along the wooden floorboards of her chamber.
But... mayhaps one did not need a priest to pray to the Lord of the Light, just like one could pray to the Seven without a septon!
Selyse racked her mind to remember the exact words as she called for one of the servants to pour her a glass of spiced honey wine from Lannisport.
She dismissed the servant and slowly began taking sips from the cup as she stared at the flickering fire in the hearth.
Ah yes! Melisandre oft gazed upon the flames to divine R'hllor's will.
The Lord of the Light speaks through the fires, but one must sacrifice first to receive in return.
R'hllor permitted his most faithful servants to glimpse the future from the fire! And there was none as faithful as Selyse was.
The hearth would not do. It was too small, too flimsy, to let her see the one true god's will. Selyse quickly placed one of those annoying gaudy tapered chairs carved with draconic motifs in the middle of the room and piled a few useless pieces of cloth. A few pieces of firewood were added for good measure. But no, his was not a good enough sacrifice. She tossed in her fox-shaped pin and her favourite silken bodice and poured the spiced honey wine on top.
Deep in the back of her mind, a weak voice told Selyse she was doing something incredibly foolish. Yet Selyse ignored it with a snort; the Lord of the Light would guide her!
With some struggle, she managed to get a glowing ember from the hearth with a fire poker and toss it on the pile she had gathered.
Selyse Baratheon watched with fascination as a furious fire combusted and quickly began to rage, bathing her face in searing heat.
"Lead me from the darkness, O my Lord! Fill my heart with fire so that I might find my path!"
She gazed into the angry flames, and she saw.
The fire danced and danced, and she could finally see.
Herself, being skinned alive by an ugly looking lowborn in a field of snow?!
The flames twisted-
Her daughter, burning on a pyre, and Selyse jumping in to join her...
-and spun-
Her daughter, now a young woman, lost amidst a vast field of snow...
-again-
Her daughter, with grey scarring gone, exchanging wedding vows with a northern savage... before an old, gnarly heart tree!?
-and again-
Her daughter, a woman grown and beautiful, bronze crown atop her brow, surrounded by a host of happy children.
-and-
Her innocent daughter, riding a naked man in her maiden day suit as one would ride a horse?!
A pair of angry purple eyes gazed at her and-
Selyse staggered back as if something had crashed into her, mind muddled. She coughed and touched the wetness on her cheeks. She gasped as her fingers were covered by blood, but everything felt unbearably hot at that moment. Selyse looked around and let out a raspy gasp; the room was filled with black plumes of smoke, and the fire was slowly spreading through the varnished planks on the floor.
At that moment, her gown caught fire; she opened her mouth to yell but only managed to inhale a mouthful of black smog, heave over, and cough even harder.
Eddard Stark
Ned hated it, feeling powerless. It was a bitter lesson, learned long ago, but he did not think he would have to taste grief and despair again so soon...
He had been blessed, and all his children were born healthy. Many tales of miscarriages, stillbirths, and sickly babes not surviving to see a full year haunted him every time Catelyn got pregnant. But the gods had proven generous, and no such thing happened. And yet here he was, with one son to bury and another one on the way.
But it was not the gods at fault, only himself. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. He was supposed to rule and defend a whole kingdom, yet he could not protect his own son from himself. A boy of scarcely nine with a deadly penchant for climbing. Had he been more strict and more careful... this could have been avoided.
And now, a vigil awaited him after Bran's body was embalmed.
But first, he had to know if he was going to lose a second son today. One not of his loins but a son in all the ways that mattered. It was first about family and his promise to Lyanna. But as the years passed, he came to love the boy as his own.
Yet now, the gods had proven cruel. The weirwood sap had done something to his son, and he had been so cold to the touch that it burned. So unnaturally cold that Jon should have died. No normal man could be so cold and live, but his boy proved otherwise. Was it an ember from the fickle blood of the dragon furiously resisting the chill? Or mayhaps something long forgotten from the ancient, brutal history of House Stark, where they took the daughters of every king, sorcerous or otherwise, they vanquished as brides?
He stood in the dim hallway and waited on the opposite side of the wooden door. Robb had wanted to wait here with him, but Ned had sent his heir away.
It had been hours since then, and Luwin was yet to leave Jon's room, so he held onto a small spark of hope.
The door suddenly opened, and searing heat struck Ned square in the face, making him sweat. Luwin tiredly walked out, his grey robes damp as if he had taken a soak in the hot springs with them.
"Will Jon live?"
The short, old maester tugged at the chain around his neck and sighed.
"I don't know, my Lord," he confessed with worry in his eyes and used his damp sleeve to wipe his face futilely, as it remained just as sweaty as before.
"What do you mean you don't know?!"
Luwin took a staggered step back, and Ned realised that he had finally lost his composure and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. The maester had no fault here, and yelling would accomplish little.
"I have never seen or heard about something like... this before. It should not be possible!" Luwin worriedly tugged at his chain again. "When Jon arrived, he was so cold that his clothes had frozen stiff, and I had to slice them open. It should have killed him, yet he showed no signs of frostbite. Then, he suddenly became feverish, and his skin became reddish hot as a heated metal in the forge. I barely managed to stop the seizures, but Jon kept alternating between searing hot and freezing cold. He should have been dead long before he got to me, yet he still lingers!"
"How?"
The maester grimaced heavily.
"Magic. This can only be magic," Luwin explained grimly. "I thought... that it was a force long gone from the world, at least here, in Westeros, but alas, the gods laugh at mortal men like us."
"You have the Valyrian Steel link, you studied the higher mysteries, surely there is something you can do?" Ned asked, not daring hope leak into his voice.
"I've done all I could, my Lord. We don't study the practice of higher mysteries in the Citadel, but its history, lore, and limits," the maester shook his head. "There's very little on the properties of weirwood sap, and what is known is vastly different from Jon's situation. I will write to the Archmaester of Magic, Marwyn, to see if he could provide guidance, but Oldtown is on the other end of Westeros. It will be at least a fortnight before a raven returns with a reply, and by that time, it might be too late..."
Ned's knees lost strength, and it was only by sheer will that he remained standing. And maybe some help from the granite wall at his back. The thought of burying a second son pressed down on him like a gigantic boulder. But no, his boy was still alive, still fighting; he would not hand him over to the gods just yet. But what could he do?!
"Is there anything else that can be done?"
"I will peruse the olden tomes in Winterfell's library," Luwin worriedly fiddled with his chain's rippled, smoky steel link. "But I can barely read Old Tongue, and they might not have anything on the subject. I would not lose hope just yet, my Lord. Despite all of this, Jon does not seem to be waning; only time will tell whether he will make it or not."
The maester's words made him feel a bit lighter, if nothing else. Ned knew Jon was stubborn, and would not give up, so there was yet some hope left. He dismissed Luwin and headed towards where Bran's remains were. The thought of standing vigil over his young boy made his insides twist into knots again.
"My Lord! There's a fire in the Sea Dragon Tower!"
Stannis forced his tired eyes to open and quickly stood up from his bed. Two panicked guardsmen were standing at his door.
"Explain!" He curtly ordered as he quickly donned his grey woollen tunic and leather breeches.
"The Lady Baratheon's apartments were aflame a few minutes ago, and Ser Lothor Hardy has raised the alarm and sent us to notify you," Varly hastily explained.
It took a few heartbeats for his mind to finally shake off the drowsiness.
"My daughter?!" Stannis demanded.
"She is... at her quarters," Gared, the other guardsman, said with a gulp. "The master-at-arms has already sent men to fetch water from the well!"
As soon as his leather belt was strapped to his waist and worn boots were on his feet, Stannis grabbed his cloak and dashed out of the room. The bells began to ring.
The only thought in his head while he was rushing down a flight of stairs was Shireen. Stannis never considered himself a good father or husband, but he kept to his wedding vows. There might have never been much affection between him and his wife, but he loved his daughter, even if he was unsure how to truly show it.
The Lord of Dragonstone cursed his indecisiveness. His wife had insisted that Shireen stay with her all the way in another tower instead of in the family quarters in the Stone Drum Keep, where he resided. Unwilling to fight Selyse on this, he had let the matter go.
Guardsmen were scuttling about chaotically, but he paid them no heed as he ran through the gallery leading to a visibly burning tower. Red flames were hungrily licking just below the neck of the dragon-like structure, exactly where his wife's apartments were.
Stannis' breathing quickly became ragged, and he once again cursed himself for neglecting his time in the yard. Had he let himself go, just like Robert did?!
He ignored the burning pain in his lungs and immediately began climbing up the Sea Dragon Tower's narrow and twisting steps, passing over guardsmen carrying buckets of water.
A minute later, he finally stopped when faced with a dozen guardsmen blocking the flight of stairs from where searing heat and smoke were coming. More and more men were streaming in, forming a living line to pass on the water from the well, but their efforts were little better than pissing in the inferno and hoping it would die out.
"My Lord," Ser Hardy dipped his head as two guardsmen with a bucket full of water caught up and futilely tossed it into the roaring fire above.
"Shireen?!" Stannis demanded as he was heavily gasping for breath.
"I've sent a man to try and fetch her and Lady Baratheon four minutes ago, but he hasn't returned," the master-at-arms reported grimly. "You should get out of here, my Lord, the top of the tower can collapse on us at any moment!"
The Lord of Dragonstone gritted his teeth as he stood still in a fleeting heartbeat of hesitation. Before Ser Hardy could object, Stannis took a deep breath and ran up into the searing heat.
The smoke stung his eyes, the hot flames licked his clothes painfully, and every mouthful of air seared his innards. The wooden panes and flooring decorating the hallway's walls were all feeding the fires, but he had no time to look at any of them. He found a body on the ground, burning, and leapt over it. He ignored the entrance to his wife's chambers and continued deeper into the fiery hallway. It took him less than a dozen heartbeats to arrive at Shireen's door, which was also aflame. His boots were now on fire, and every step was more painful than the previous one.
He didn't stop for a moment and hurled forward with all his strength, ramming his shoulder into the door and smashing it open. His sleeve caught fire, but he ignored it as his gaze was immediately on his daughter, cowering in the corner, small face filled with fear and terror. He hastily ran over to her, unlatched his cloak and covered Shireen with it before hauling her up in his embrace and running back out.
His lungs were demanding more and more air, but he had none to give. Not only his feet but his whole body began screaming in pain. He felt like roast beef as his vision began to swim, his head got dizzy, and moving became harder and more agonising with every passing second.
Stannis, teeth gritted, did not falter and kept his daughter securely wrapped in his cloak above the flames.
Lothor Hardy saw his liege Lord leap out of the roaring fire, gently place a squirming cloak on the stairs and collapse onto the ground, half his clothes aflame.
Out of the heavily singed cloak rolled out a coughing Shireen Baratheon.
5th Day of the 3rd Moon, Winterfell
Sansa Stark
The small burial ceremony ended as a granite lid closed Bran's tomb. Sansa felt like crying again, but her red eyes had no more tears to give. She had prayed to the Seven and even to the Heart Tree to give her younger brother back, but alas. Despite her ardent desires, what was dead stayed dead. In the end, she prayed to the Stranger to lead Bran into the afterlife and protect him.
Sansa hated it; everything was wrong now. Father was no longer warm and kind but stern and cold. There was still a sliver of warmth underneath, but it was rare to see. Her mother now spoke curtly and was clouded by a veil of sadness around her. She scarcely attended meals anymore, and the rest of her time was spent in the small sept, praying in vain. Robb… was angry and grim. Sansa had no idea what her elder brother was angry at, but she suspected he didn't know either. All of his free time was spent either in the yard, furiously swinging a sword until he could no more, or with Grey Wind.
Rickon was the same as always. A bit too young to realise what was truly happening, but even he could see that something was wrong. One time he had asked for 'Bran', and Catelyn had burst into tears, making him cry in return. However, Arya had become quiet and glum and no longer fought with her. Usually, Sansa would celebrate, but she did not feel like it.
Now with Bran gone, the smiles of House Stark seemed to be buried with him.
If that was all, things would not be as grim. Yet, her half-brother, Jon, was also lingering near death. Maester Luwin had no idea what was wrong with him, but from what she had heard, it was a miracle that he had survived so far. Sansa drifted away from Jon as she grew up, and now she regretted it. Bastard or not, she did not want to lose another brother! Despite his sullen nature, he had always been kind to her.
After the funeral was done, she wandered aimlessly around the many courtyards of Winterfell, shadowed by her minder, Porther. There were no lessons today, and Sansa did not feel like talking or playing with Jeyne or Beth either.
Her feet unknowingly led her to the kennels. Thinking of her own direwolf, she made to turn back to her chambers; it would be time to feed Lady with warm milk soon. Their Lord father had decreed that all the direwolves were to be taken care of by their hand only, without any help from the servants.
Sansa froze before she even made a dozen steps. If Bran was dead, and Jon was on the sickbed, who was taking care of their pups?! She spun, pulled up the hemline of her gown a bit, and quickly ran over to the kennels.
A storm of loud barking greeted her, along with the smell of privy, and it took a few moments for the Kennelmaster to quiet down the hounds.
"Lady Sansa, what brings ye here?" The stout man asked curiously after bowing his head.
"Farlen, do you know what happened to Bran's and Jon's direwolves?"
"Aye, Lady Arya came and picked them up that day," he explained gruffly.
"Thank you, Farlen," Sansa nodded gratefully and left.
After procuring a small wineskin of warm milk from the kitchen, she quickly headed towards her rooms in the Great Keep.
Her minder remained at the entrance. Thankfully, her father had agreed to allow her and all her siblings' unsupervised movement around the Great Keep.
As Sansa climbed the stairs to the family wing, she almost crashed into her sister, who was rushing downwards. The eldest daughter of Eddard Stark stilled at the three extra pairs of small eyes looking at her from below. Golden, yellow, and red.
"Arya, where are you going with all the direwolves?"
Her sister hesitated for a few moments but eventually replied. "To keep Jon some company."
"I'll come with you," Sansa's words rolled out of her mouth before she even realised.
"Why?" Suspicion dripped from Arya's voice.
"Can't I see him as well?"
She could see indignation in those grey eyes.
"You've never cared for Jon before, why would you do so now?"
Anger bubbled within her gut, and Sansa had to swallow back the biting remark on the tip of her tongue. She didn't want to fight with her sister, not today. And Arya was right; she did avoid Jon before, if only because of the urgings of Septa Mordane and her mother.
"I don't want to lose another brother," she quietly admitted, and her sister's glare softened.
"Fine, let's go," Arya finally relented.
They slowly made their way to Jon's chambers so the young pups could keep pace with them.
"Have you fed them yet?" Sansa asked while eying the fluffy trio trotting behind them curiously.
"Only twice today," her sister admitted. "Was going to the kitchens to fetch some milk for them after visiting Jon."
They were at Jon's door now, and Arya nodded to Fat Tom, who pulled on his ginger whiskers and let them in with a nod.
A wave of heat struck Sansa when she entered the room as if she was in the hot springs.
Arya ran over to the shutter and opened it, letting in a cool summer breeze. Sansa's gaze, however, was stuck on the bed where Jon lay, skin with a slightly reddish hue, covered in sweat. She hesitantly walked over to one of the chairs near him and sat down. Her brother's face was oddly serene and peaceful, yet he seemed feverish.
"What's wrong with him? Can't Luwin treat him?"
"Nobody would tell me anything." Her sister's eyes became downcast, and she sighed sadly.
At that moment, the two grey direwolf pups curiously trotted around the small room, but the white one silently went near the bed, rose on its hind legs and tried to go climb up, but it was too small.
Sansa gently picked it up, and it started squirming in her grasp without letting out a sound.
"What's his name?" she inquired before letting the small direwolf on top of Jon's covers.
"Ghost," Arya absentmindedly provided as she watched the two grey direwolves chasing each other on the floor.
A soft tussle from the bed drew Sansa's attention, and she let out a soft gasp as Jon slowly began to stir.
Author's Endnote:
House Stark is visited by loss early.
Maybe I wrote this a bit too angsty… but they never truly experienced such a sudden loss, with nothing else to distract them.
Some might notice that Bran was nine instead of seven. I guess I might clear that up now; as part of the ripples of sending Jon back in time, things changed. Harrenhal's Tourney came two years earlier than the book canon, along with the rebellion, with all sorts of consequences that will be seen later on. Don't expect a simple+2 years for everyone, though.
Things happen on Dragonstone. And no, Selyse doesn't see the future; she sees 'a future' of another world/worlds because the sight is so messed up right now.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance(in this case, two chapters ahead in 'Shrouded Destiny'.
You can also expect the next chapter of Convergence of Fates this Thursday!
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
Maybe I wrote this a bit too angsty… but they never truly experienced such a sudden loss, with nothing else to distract them.
Some might notice that Bran was nine instead of seven. I guess I might clear that up now; as part of the ripples of sending Jon back in time, things changed. Harrenhal's Tourney came two years earlier than the book canon, along with the rebellion, with all sorts of consequences that will be seen later on. Don't expect a simple+2 years for everyone, though.
Things happen on Dragonstone. And no, Selyse doesn't see the future; she sees 'a future' of another world/worlds because the sight is so messed up right now.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance(in this case, two chapters ahead in 'Shrouded Destiny'.
You can also expect the next chapter of Convergence of Fates this Thursday!
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
02-Addled Wits and Weary Minds
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the ASOIAF universe. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of GRRM; I make no claim to ownership.
Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Old Man of the Mountain. Cheers to Bub3loka, my beta reader, who helped me immensely.
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Ned Stark
After three gloomy days of grief and mourning, the news that Jon was waking was like a ray of sunlight tearing through the stormy sky. When he lost his father and brother, he had to deal with that loss alone, and even then, there was not much time for grief, as he had to fight for his life and his vengeance.
Now, there was no war to fight to distract him, and his family was far bigger. The last three days had been dark and gloomy, and everything felt... empty after Bran's funeral. Catelyn was inconsolable; his wife blamed herself and spent almost all her time either in the Sept or the cold crypts in front of Bran's tomb. Ned feared she might fall sick, especially since she scarcely touched any food unless he brought it himself.
Robb was angry, but spending some more time in the yard was never remiss. Rodrik had ensured that his heir was not mindlessly looking to swing his sword and still learned things in the process. The others were... sad, for lack of a better word.
As he entered the hallway, Ned saw his daughters restlessly waiting in front of Jon's room, three direwolf pups spinning around their feet. The elder one was dressed in a graceful gown as usual, and the younger one was in breeches again, making him sigh.
"Did Jon really wake?" he asked directly as soon as he approached.
"Yes, father," Sansa nodded shyly, looking rather skittish as if she wanted to run away.
He was surprised yet glad to see her in front of her 'half-brother's' room. Catelyn had easily convinced her to stay away from Jon as soon as his balls dropped and his voice began to crack. His wife was simply set in her southron ways, and Ned didn't interfere when Sansa slowly drifted away from her half-brother. Not that his boy would do anything; Jon had not given Ned any reason to have doubts either.
'Tongues will wag, Ned! It can ruin her marriage prospects in the future!'
He shook his head, snorting inwardly, and focused on his girls again.
"And did he say anything? Like what happened at the Heart Tree?"
"Jon just silently... stared at the ceiling, father," Arya pouted and ducked down to play with the direwolves, who were quickly on her like a heap of grey and white fur.
"Maester Luwin is with him now," Sansa supplied helpfully as she tried to stand straight, but to Ned's amusement, she kept fidgeting slightly, and her gaze wandered towards her sister and the pups.
Ned expectantly looked at Fat Tom, who lazily watched from next to the door with a smile.
"Lord Stark," the guardsman quickly coughed. "The Maester said not to be disturbed until he finishes his examination."
The Lord of Winterfell nodded and leaned on the warm granite wall, content to watch his daughters while waiting. Eventually, to Ned's amusement, Sansa let go of her propriety, ducked, and scratched Jon's direwolf behind the ears. The white pup melted in her arms, and Arya was busy playing with the other two. He did not remember any of the direwolf names since the last few days had been too much, but he was almost certain that the second grey direwolf was male and thus not Sansa's; otherwise, his eldest daughter wouldn't be playing with the white one. Which meant that it was... Bran's. Ned banished a tinge of guilt for not remembering the direwolf; he had attempted to busy himself in the ceremonies and duties in his grief and worry. Thankfully, unlike him, his younger daughter had not forgotten about the pup.
For a moment, he imagined Arya as a woman grown, even wilder than she was right now, with two direwolves as large as horses trailing after her, causing all sorts of mischief. The thought made him wince.
"This one is Brandon's, right?"
"Yes, father," Arya's shoulders sagged as she stood up. "I've been feeding the pup in his stead!"
"Does it have a name?" He gently asked.
"Bran never gave him one," she explained mournfully.
Ned squatted down and gently picked up the unnamed grey furball, who squirmed to turn around and look at him with its yellow eyes. A wet tongue was already upon Eddard Stark's face a heartbeat later, and a chuckle rang from the side.
"His name will be... Winter!" The Lord of Winterfell proclaimed, and he let go of the direwolf pup, who now decided to lie down on his right boot. "I'll be taking care of him now."
The idea came on a whim, but it felt just right now that it was voiced out loud.
"But father- "
"No buts, Arya. You already have a direwolf. It would not be fair to your siblings if you had two," he attempted to placate.
Arya did not seem truly appeased by the looks of her mutinous face, so he strictly looked at her with his lordly gaze, and her protest died out before leaving her lips.
"Fine," she eventually mumbled under his stern gaze.
Gods, what would he do with her when she grew up? She was wilder than both Brandon and Lyanna combined at only eleven. At least she seemed to get along with Sansa... for now. Ned had hoped that his youngest would begin to grow out of this rebellious phase, but alas.
A few minutes later, Sansa stood up, face filled with worry.
"I'm going back to my chambers," she declared and all but rushed towards the stairway.
Arya grew bored soon after and left as well, with two tired pups in her arms.
"Tom, guard by the stairway for now," Ned ordered the plump guardsman, who promptly moved away.
The Lord of Winterfell stood still, watching the little direwolf lazily snooze on his boot.
Time tickled by, and he grew worried as Luwin had not left the chambers yet. He trusted the old maester, and there was nothing he could do but stay and wait.
A pair of strong footsteps grabbed his attention, and he looked up to see Robb, dressed in a fine black doublet and cotton breeches, slowly walking this way.
"Arya told me Jon has awakened," his eldest explained quietly as he curiously eyed the grey furball at Ned's boot.
"Luwin is inside now, tending to him," Ned provided with a sigh. "Why's your hair wet?"
"Took a quick dip in the pools to cleanse the dirt and sweat from training," Robb admitted with a sigh. "How do you deal with... all of this?"
"Grieving or waiting?"
His son tiredly ran a hand through his auburn hair and closed his eyes.
"Both?"
Ned hummed thoughtfully as the only audible sound in the hallway was Robb's choppy breath.
"For waiting, you will have to learn patience one way or another," he finally said with a soft chuckle. "Although you can always busy yourself with some work. Being a Lord is an endless string of duty and obligations, and you might as well deal with some sooner rather than later."
"And how do you deal with the sorrow, father?"
"There's no easy way to deal with it, son," Ned provided with a forlorn sigh and placed a hand on Robb's shoulder. "But you must not let it consume you. Death is just another part of life. Everyone dies sooner or later."
"Bran was too young, it's not fair-"
"The world isn't fair, Robb!" Ned interrupted and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Acceptance... takes time. I know it hurts, but there's nothing we can do but learn from our mistakes where we can and move forward. Take some time alone in the Godswood and grieve, but keep walking forward."
At that moment, the door finally opened, and a tired Luwin walked out of the room.
"How's Jon?" his son impatiently prodded.
"Well, he's better than before, Lord Robb," the maester said with a cough. "I couldn't find anything wrong with him at all, and he's in perfect health aside from the fever, which is finally beginning to break."
"And did he truly wake?"
"Yes, my Lord," the old man slowly confirmed. "He keeps alternating between falling asleep and waking up, but for some reason, he refused even to acknowledge my presence in the room, let alone speak with me. Mayhaps he would be amenable to speak with his father instead."
"Go get some rest, Luwin," Ned waved the maester away.
"His mind might be still addled by the fever," Luwin warned as he trudged away.
The Lord of Winterfell entered the chamber with trepidation, followed by Robb.
The room was warm, or at least warmer than usual in the Great Keep, and the scent of herbs and poultices was still heavy in the air. It was rather plain, with a single bed, two chairs, a cloak hanger, and a trunk to the side. On the bed, Jon lay deathly still.
Ned sat on one of the chairs, and Robb joined him on the other.
Jon lay still, eyes looking at the ceiling. Ned would have thought him dead if not for the occasional blink or two and the fact that his eyes were chaotically darting around the room as if expecting an attack.
"Jon?" he gently urged. "Speak to me, son. Tell me what happened."
Lyanna's son sharply twisted his neck, and his grey eyes widened. A moment later, a raspy, tired laugh tore out of Jon's lips. It was a jarring, harsh sound, and the Lord of Winterfell couldn't help but see one not the innocent eyes of youth but the hardened gaze of a veteran. Jon's eyes were weary and had hollowness to them as if they had seen too much blood spilt and lives taken, many by his own hand too. Like a veteran of many a battle, if not more. What if his son had gone mad, just like his sire and grandsire? Worry flooded Ned like a river, but it quickly abated, remembering Luwin's warning.
"We were worried for you, Jon," Robb added quietly.
Jon finally stopped with his raspy laugh, his face grew weary, and his eyes skittishly looked around the room, looking for an unseen enemy.
"I died," he finally spoke with a low, hoarse voice.
"What do you mean you died?" Ned carefully inquired, trying to hide his unease.
"Finally got killed, sword in the belly at the weirwood," his son coughed out.
"But you're alive, brother," Robb cried out. "There were no wounds on your body at all!"
"If I were alive, why would you be here?" Jon's face twisted in a sad smile.
"We're alive too, Jon," Ned carefully reminded, wondering what all this was about. Has his son's mind truly gone addled? He knew the Old Gods were harsh and cruel, like the Northern wilderness, but they were not ones to give poisoned gifts like this!
"But you're not!" his son coughed out with such a conviction that Ned's blood froze. "You died! You all died, and I was the last to perish!"
"What do you mean? We're alive and standing right before you. You say we died, then how, Jon?" Robb asked, face now pale.
The boy's eyes widened, and his wild eyes finally stopped wandering and looked straight at them with a scary intensity.
"Lord Stark got executed in King's Landing by the King," his son croaked out miserably. "Arya and Sansa died there too."
Eddard Stark froze, and chills crawled up his spine. Did he get found out?!
"Why would Robert execute me, Jon?" The Lord of Winterfell finally found his voice. "And why would my daughters die there too?"
"The next one, not Robert. Don't kno' why, wasn't there. Treason, they said. Neither Arya n' Sansa survived either," Jon kept recounting hoarsely, each word slurring more and more and becoming harsher and harsher. "Robb went south to avenge you n' died at a wedding, with L'dy Stark, killed by Boltons n' Freys. Bran n' Rickon got killed by the Turncloak at Winterfell."
"Turncloak?"
"Greyjoy."
His son uttered the name with such venom that if words could kill, the Greyjoy in question would have been dead thrice over. And there was only one Greyjoy that could be turncloak in Winterfell…
"Bran's already dead, Jon. Enough of this, you need some rest," Ned decided, and he stood up, unwilling to listen to this tale any longer. Jon sagged on the bed, defeated, and closed his eyes. "Hopefully, some sleep will do your mind good. Call for me when you decide to tell me what happened at the weirwood."
The Lord of Winterfell dragged his paling heir out of the room and slammed the door shut.
"My brother has gone mad," Robb lamented, worry marring his face. "Theon would never betray us, and nobody would dare to break Guest Right at a wedding."
"Luwin warned us his mind could be addled," Ned sighed heavily. "There was some strange magick involved here, and he's still feverish too. We can only hope Jon will return to normal with enough rest."
Davos Seaworth, Dragonstone
All the guardsmen looked alert and armed to the teeth. They let Davos enter the keep easily enough, but Dale was stuck at the gates for now. Two men-at-arms led him towards Ser Lothor Hardy, Dragonstone's master-at-arms. He all but rushed down the hallway, trying to follow their quick pace.
Soon, they were in front of a thick oaken door. He was ushered inside while a pair of guardsmen stood guard in the hallway.
The room was not too large, and a plain oaken table sat at the centre. Old Maester Cressen sat on a chair near the hearth, and Ser Hardy paced around the room.
"Ser Davos!" The Claw knight stopped in his stride and greeted him far more enthusiastically than before.
"What happened to the Sea Dragon Tower, is Lady Shireen fine?" He blurted out.
"Lady Shireen is fine," Cressen supplied as he sighed. "But someone set the tower on fire."
"Who?"
"We're trying to find out," the knight sighed from the side and scratched his auburn beard. "I've checked all the servants or guardsmen, and they know nothing and saw nothing. We only know Lord Stannis had little friends, we were hoping to tell us if he had any enemies."
Davos couldn't help but tense. Something was very wrong, the prince should have been here.
"What happened to Lord Stannis?"
The old man's face twisted into a grimace, and he sighed.
"The Lord is heavily wounded, Ser Davos," Cressen finally explained. "When the tower started to burn, he rushed inside the fire to save his daughter. Sadly, Lady Selyse perished in the flames."
Neither of the men looked particularly saddened about the death of Stannis' wife, and Davos couldn't blame them. Selyse Florent was an unpleasant woman. Aside from her… plain looks, she was haughty and even sterner than her husband.
"Do you know who could have orchestrated such a travesty?" The master-at-arms prodded again.
"Stannis oft said the court was full of lickspittles that would smile in your face and stab you in the back. It could be anyone in King's Landing," the onion knight wearily provided. "His only friend there was Lord Arryn, and even then, it was more an alliance of convenience."
"And Lord Arryn is dead now," Ser Hardy murmured, and the room became deathly quiet.
"What happens now, will Stannis live?" Davos queried.
"The Lord's condition is severe," the Maester sighed and rubbed his wizened chin. "His burns are bad and might yet fester, his lungs inhaled too much smoke, and his fever is too strong. But he still fights."
The onion knight let out a sigh of relief. Stannis was not one to give up, and as long as he lived, he'd not give up!
"We've locked down all ways out of the fortress," the master-at-arms continued. "Nobody can come in or leave, lest they make an attempt on Stannis directly now. No word of the Lord's condition will leave outside the walls without my permission. Whoever orchestrated this attack will not be able to attempt again!"
6th Day of the 3rd Moon, Winterfell
Jon Snow
Even in death, he did not get to rest. Did he not earn it?! Leading and fighting for years and years, not giving up no matter the odds! Every inch of his body was in pain, and visions of family, ice and death, and the old Winterfell continued playing out in his mind, whether he closed his eyes or not. Why did the gods have to torment him with visions of his father, brother, sisters, and even Ghost?! But wait, wasn't Eddard Stark his uncle?
Or was he?
Things like that had long stopped mattering…
11th Day of the 3rd Moon
A cruel jape by the gods.
It took him some time to realise, but he was not dreaming and was not dead either. He was back at the beginning, with endless war and struggle on the dark horizon. But things were slightly different, Bran was already dead, everyone looked a tad older, and his hands did not seem to belong to a boy of four and ten.
"Your fever is fully gone," Luwin carefully explained after placing an old, calloused hand on Jon's brow. The maester then placed a finger on his wrist. "I think you're fully healed now, Jon. A few more days of rest might do you good, though."
Jon silently watched as the maester left his room.
He had so many things to say, so many things to explain, but he didn't know where to begin. And worse, they all thought him mad and treated him as if he was fragile glass that would shatter into pieces at any moment. Only his uncle visited him once more, and Jon could see fear and wariness in his eyes. It hurt, it hurt so badly, just as much as the icy blade that twisted in his belly and took his life. He wanted to say a thousand things, yet his mouth remained shut.
Maybe, just maybe, he was really mad and had imagined everything from before.
Or worse, he was not mad, and soon, enemies would descend on House Stark like vultures from every direction, and death was stirring from the Lands of Always Winter once more for the first time in eight millennia.
Why him? Why always him!? What did he do to earn this punishment?!
Why couldn't he just… stay dead after he got killed.
He was tired. So very tired, and all he wanted to do was rest.
Jon Snow wearily closed his eyes and dreamt of ice and death again.
14th Day of the 3rd Moon
He could feel wetness on his chin and wearily opened his eyes. White fur and red eyes greeted him, and a small chuckle involuntarily escaped his lips.
"Ghost! How did you get in here?"
The direwolf didn't answer him, but suddenly Jon had a vague vision of stealthily sneaking in as the servant opened the door to bring food. Hells, was he seeing Ghost's memory?
He could physically feel the worry in Ghost as he nudged him with his tiny snout. Jon stood up, gently picked up his companion, and scratched him behind the ears.
Maybe living was not so bad after all, especially since he had his trusty direwolf with him again!
But things were different once more. Looking at his red eyes, he could feel his connection with the direwolf far better than before. Instead of a faint sense of something he couldn't even feel, it was there, in the back of his mind, glaring solid like a part of him. Even before, Ghost always obeyed his orders almost unconditionally before getting killed by the Red Witch.
He nudged at the connection, and the world shifted.
In front of him sat a young man with splattered hair, tired grey eyes, and a familiar long face. He was looking at himself. Jon quickly attempted to pull away -
-and he was looking at his direwolf again.
Gods, was he a skinchanger, just like Six-skins had told him? Jon could acutely feel Ghost's presence in his mind, even without looking at him. He could also feel the direwolf's mood and feelings, and sometimes even peak through his eyes!
He mentally nudged Ghost to get off his lap, and the direwolf pup jumped down on the floor, spun around and looked up at him, tail wagging fiercely. Well, scarcely a pup anymore, he was already nearly twice as big as he was a few days ago!
That settled it; for good or for bad, he was most certainly a skinchanger. It was so easy, and his connection with Ghost felt just right! It felt just as natural as… walking.
Was it the wierwood sap? Or maybe something else? He shook his head; he had no way of knowing.
Jon stood up, carefully walked to the shutter, and opened it, letting warm yet fresh air flow inside his small room. Or, well, at least it felt warm compared to the usual cold.
He carefully glanced at his limbs in wonder and waved his hand around. The numbness was gone. Ever since his first resurrection, his senses had sharpened, yet the world had become dim, and everything felt numb as if covered by a layer of cloth.
The only problem was that his body felt weak. Jon walked to his bed and attempted to lift it up. It was harder than expected, yet easier than it should have been. His monstrous strength and speed were not… gone, but it seemed his body could no longer keep up.
Jon looked at the table, where a platter with some ale and a generous serving of venison and cheese sat. He sat there and quickly began wolfing it down, slipping pieces of meat to Ghost, who hungrily devoured them.
He wondered what to do now. He could always return to his bed and sleep, pretending everything was not going to go to shit. But no, he had wasted more than enough time skulking for now. And now he felt restless, and as he ate more and more of the food, his body felt less and less stiff and weary, and soon it was brimming with power instead.
No, he was done moping! But what could he do?
He could go to his uncle and warn him of the coming threats.
Jon grimaced at the thought; he would probably be laughed at or considered mad. Seven bloody hells, they even considered him mad already for his feverish blubbering. Nobody would heed his warnings. Even if he was not mad, he had no proof for any of it. Jon was not privy to the Southron plots that killed his kin; things reached the Wall very slowly and with little detail.
For any of this, he would need more than his word, and he had only that. And, who would believe a no-name young bastard? The Night's Watch was slow to believe him with ample proof even when he was their Lord Commander, tried and tested in battle. The North was even slower to believe him, even when the broken pieces of his uncle's kingdom uneasily united behind the last one with Stark blood.
And the South? They never cared and kept squabbling for that shitty iron chair.
'Why would you care about the North and House Stark?' An insidious voice whispered in his head. 'You've given more than enough, you owe them nothing! You could leave all of this mess behind and go to the warm and peaceful Summer Isles!'
Jon bristled and angrily banished the voice from his head. He was not going to leave his family to the vultures! But the voice was right. This was going to be one giant bloody mess, and there was not much he could do. With every moment he remained here, more and more free folk were slain, and more wights were raised by the Others beyond the Wall. The Night's Watch would not move their sorry arses until it was too late, if at all, and the wildlings would not listen to reason before they were beaten bloody into submission first. The Northern Lords would baulk at accepting the savages from beyond the Wall that raided their lands for years. The Watch itself was filled with the scum of the Seven Kingdoms and was prone to insubordination and mutiny. There were honourable men that joined the ancient order out of duty, but they were few and between.
Maybe, just maybe, there was a peaceful way that this all could be resolved. But Jon didn't know it. It would take one insult, one person with a fiery temper, for everything to devolve into a bloodbath again.
He was finally faced with an empty platter, yet his stomach still rumbled softly in hunger. He stood up and began pacing.
What could he do? Was there even anything he could do? The Southern kingdoms were one enormous mess that had pulled in House Stark like a treacherous bog. But he couldn't just leave his uncle, brothers, and sisters to die!
What to do, what to do?
Things could scarcely be worse than the last time!
Staying here would accomplish nothing, and chaining himself to the Night's Watch would do just as little. Going south would probably get him killed, as he did not know how their silly games were played. Could he find a way to warn his uncle of events he knew little about without sounding utterly mad? Hells, could he face his uncle and his family without breaking down and crying like a little babe?
He suddenly stilled in his step. A wild, wild idea began forming in his head. It would be incredibly hard and fraught with danger. But that was already the story of his life; mortal peril and bitter struggle were already commonplace for him.
It was incredibly bold, and mayhaps many would call it foolish. He would likely die long before he could succeed, but he would rather do something than stay here and wait for others to make the first move. A pity he could not be in two places at the same time.
A grim smile formed on Jon's lips as a daring plan began to form in his mind.
16th Day of the 3rd Moon, Crownlands
Robert Baratheon
"This is too slow," Robert grunted.
"We're moving nearly thrice as fast as before, Your Grace," Selmy provided unhelpfully.
And they just passed Brindlewood a few hours ago. Nearly twenty days now and scarcely half the way out of the Crownlands.
"And we're still crawling like a fucking turtle! Wine!"
One of the blond shits handed him a wineskin, and he took a generous swig. Thirteen miles yesterday! At this pace, it would still take nearly half a year to get to Winterfell. He didn't fancy spending so much time on the saddle, listening to the whinging of his harpy wife and looking at the blonde ponces every evening. A pity she did not give up and return to King's Landing.
Fuck it, did he have to actually resort to this now? But the other option was equally unappealing. He fucking hated ships! This once, just this once, he'd do it.
But only once.
"We switch course to Maidenpool," he declared after taking another generous gulp of wine.
"This might delay our journey by a moon, Your Grace," the old knight cautioned.
"Nay, send a quick rider to King's Landing to order the Lady Lyanna and a good escort to sail up the Bay of Crabs. We'll visit that coward Mooton and his pool before sailing up to White Harbour," Robert explained, not bothering to hide his distaste. He still remembered the sweet crunch as his hammer met the head of Rhaegar's Mooton squire at the Stoney Sept. At least Myles Mooton was not a coward like his soft lordly brother.
A pity Cersei had not given up, and he had to endure her insufferable presence more oft without the wheelhouse. But the image of his wife puking her guts out on the sea made him smile.
Author's Endnote:
Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Old Man of the Mountain. Cheers to Bub3loka, my beta reader, who helped me immensely.
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Ned Stark
After three gloomy days of grief and mourning, the news that Jon was waking was like a ray of sunlight tearing through the stormy sky. When he lost his father and brother, he had to deal with that loss alone, and even then, there was not much time for grief, as he had to fight for his life and his vengeance.
Now, there was no war to fight to distract him, and his family was far bigger. The last three days had been dark and gloomy, and everything felt... empty after Bran's funeral. Catelyn was inconsolable; his wife blamed herself and spent almost all her time either in the Sept or the cold crypts in front of Bran's tomb. Ned feared she might fall sick, especially since she scarcely touched any food unless he brought it himself.
Robb was angry, but spending some more time in the yard was never remiss. Rodrik had ensured that his heir was not mindlessly looking to swing his sword and still learned things in the process. The others were... sad, for lack of a better word.
As he entered the hallway, Ned saw his daughters restlessly waiting in front of Jon's room, three direwolf pups spinning around their feet. The elder one was dressed in a graceful gown as usual, and the younger one was in breeches again, making him sigh.
"Did Jon really wake?" he asked directly as soon as he approached.
"Yes, father," Sansa nodded shyly, looking rather skittish as if she wanted to run away.
He was surprised yet glad to see her in front of her 'half-brother's' room. Catelyn had easily convinced her to stay away from Jon as soon as his balls dropped and his voice began to crack. His wife was simply set in her southron ways, and Ned didn't interfere when Sansa slowly drifted away from her half-brother. Not that his boy would do anything; Jon had not given Ned any reason to have doubts either.
'Tongues will wag, Ned! It can ruin her marriage prospects in the future!'
He shook his head, snorting inwardly, and focused on his girls again.
"And did he say anything? Like what happened at the Heart Tree?"
"Jon just silently... stared at the ceiling, father," Arya pouted and ducked down to play with the direwolves, who were quickly on her like a heap of grey and white fur.
"Maester Luwin is with him now," Sansa supplied helpfully as she tried to stand straight, but to Ned's amusement, she kept fidgeting slightly, and her gaze wandered towards her sister and the pups.
Ned expectantly looked at Fat Tom, who lazily watched from next to the door with a smile.
"Lord Stark," the guardsman quickly coughed. "The Maester said not to be disturbed until he finishes his examination."
The Lord of Winterfell nodded and leaned on the warm granite wall, content to watch his daughters while waiting. Eventually, to Ned's amusement, Sansa let go of her propriety, ducked, and scratched Jon's direwolf behind the ears. The white pup melted in her arms, and Arya was busy playing with the other two. He did not remember any of the direwolf names since the last few days had been too much, but he was almost certain that the second grey direwolf was male and thus not Sansa's; otherwise, his eldest daughter wouldn't be playing with the white one. Which meant that it was... Bran's. Ned banished a tinge of guilt for not remembering the direwolf; he had attempted to busy himself in the ceremonies and duties in his grief and worry. Thankfully, unlike him, his younger daughter had not forgotten about the pup.
For a moment, he imagined Arya as a woman grown, even wilder than she was right now, with two direwolves as large as horses trailing after her, causing all sorts of mischief. The thought made him wince.
"This one is Brandon's, right?"
"Yes, father," Arya's shoulders sagged as she stood up. "I've been feeding the pup in his stead!"
"Does it have a name?" He gently asked.
"Bran never gave him one," she explained mournfully.
Ned squatted down and gently picked up the unnamed grey furball, who squirmed to turn around and look at him with its yellow eyes. A wet tongue was already upon Eddard Stark's face a heartbeat later, and a chuckle rang from the side.
"His name will be... Winter!" The Lord of Winterfell proclaimed, and he let go of the direwolf pup, who now decided to lie down on his right boot. "I'll be taking care of him now."
The idea came on a whim, but it felt just right now that it was voiced out loud.
"But father- "
"No buts, Arya. You already have a direwolf. It would not be fair to your siblings if you had two," he attempted to placate.
Arya did not seem truly appeased by the looks of her mutinous face, so he strictly looked at her with his lordly gaze, and her protest died out before leaving her lips.
"Fine," she eventually mumbled under his stern gaze.
Gods, what would he do with her when she grew up? She was wilder than both Brandon and Lyanna combined at only eleven. At least she seemed to get along with Sansa... for now. Ned had hoped that his youngest would begin to grow out of this rebellious phase, but alas.
A few minutes later, Sansa stood up, face filled with worry.
"I'm going back to my chambers," she declared and all but rushed towards the stairway.
Arya grew bored soon after and left as well, with two tired pups in her arms.
"Tom, guard by the stairway for now," Ned ordered the plump guardsman, who promptly moved away.
The Lord of Winterfell stood still, watching the little direwolf lazily snooze on his boot.
Time tickled by, and he grew worried as Luwin had not left the chambers yet. He trusted the old maester, and there was nothing he could do but stay and wait.
A pair of strong footsteps grabbed his attention, and he looked up to see Robb, dressed in a fine black doublet and cotton breeches, slowly walking this way.
"Arya told me Jon has awakened," his eldest explained quietly as he curiously eyed the grey furball at Ned's boot.
"Luwin is inside now, tending to him," Ned provided with a sigh. "Why's your hair wet?"
"Took a quick dip in the pools to cleanse the dirt and sweat from training," Robb admitted with a sigh. "How do you deal with... all of this?"
"Grieving or waiting?"
His son tiredly ran a hand through his auburn hair and closed his eyes.
"Both?"
Ned hummed thoughtfully as the only audible sound in the hallway was Robb's choppy breath.
"For waiting, you will have to learn patience one way or another," he finally said with a soft chuckle. "Although you can always busy yourself with some work. Being a Lord is an endless string of duty and obligations, and you might as well deal with some sooner rather than later."
"And how do you deal with the sorrow, father?"
"There's no easy way to deal with it, son," Ned provided with a forlorn sigh and placed a hand on Robb's shoulder. "But you must not let it consume you. Death is just another part of life. Everyone dies sooner or later."
"Bran was too young, it's not fair-"
"The world isn't fair, Robb!" Ned interrupted and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Acceptance... takes time. I know it hurts, but there's nothing we can do but learn from our mistakes where we can and move forward. Take some time alone in the Godswood and grieve, but keep walking forward."
At that moment, the door finally opened, and a tired Luwin walked out of the room.
"How's Jon?" his son impatiently prodded.
"Well, he's better than before, Lord Robb," the maester said with a cough. "I couldn't find anything wrong with him at all, and he's in perfect health aside from the fever, which is finally beginning to break."
"And did he truly wake?"
"Yes, my Lord," the old man slowly confirmed. "He keeps alternating between falling asleep and waking up, but for some reason, he refused even to acknowledge my presence in the room, let alone speak with me. Mayhaps he would be amenable to speak with his father instead."
"Go get some rest, Luwin," Ned waved the maester away.
"His mind might be still addled by the fever," Luwin warned as he trudged away.
The Lord of Winterfell entered the chamber with trepidation, followed by Robb.
The room was warm, or at least warmer than usual in the Great Keep, and the scent of herbs and poultices was still heavy in the air. It was rather plain, with a single bed, two chairs, a cloak hanger, and a trunk to the side. On the bed, Jon lay deathly still.
Ned sat on one of the chairs, and Robb joined him on the other.
Jon lay still, eyes looking at the ceiling. Ned would have thought him dead if not for the occasional blink or two and the fact that his eyes were chaotically darting around the room as if expecting an attack.
"Jon?" he gently urged. "Speak to me, son. Tell me what happened."
Lyanna's son sharply twisted his neck, and his grey eyes widened. A moment later, a raspy, tired laugh tore out of Jon's lips. It was a jarring, harsh sound, and the Lord of Winterfell couldn't help but see one not the innocent eyes of youth but the hardened gaze of a veteran. Jon's eyes were weary and had hollowness to them as if they had seen too much blood spilt and lives taken, many by his own hand too. Like a veteran of many a battle, if not more. What if his son had gone mad, just like his sire and grandsire? Worry flooded Ned like a river, but it quickly abated, remembering Luwin's warning.
"We were worried for you, Jon," Robb added quietly.
Jon finally stopped with his raspy laugh, his face grew weary, and his eyes skittishly looked around the room, looking for an unseen enemy.
"I died," he finally spoke with a low, hoarse voice.
"What do you mean you died?" Ned carefully inquired, trying to hide his unease.
"Finally got killed, sword in the belly at the weirwood," his son coughed out.
"But you're alive, brother," Robb cried out. "There were no wounds on your body at all!"
"If I were alive, why would you be here?" Jon's face twisted in a sad smile.
"We're alive too, Jon," Ned carefully reminded, wondering what all this was about. Has his son's mind truly gone addled? He knew the Old Gods were harsh and cruel, like the Northern wilderness, but they were not ones to give poisoned gifts like this!
"But you're not!" his son coughed out with such a conviction that Ned's blood froze. "You died! You all died, and I was the last to perish!"
"What do you mean? We're alive and standing right before you. You say we died, then how, Jon?" Robb asked, face now pale.
The boy's eyes widened, and his wild eyes finally stopped wandering and looked straight at them with a scary intensity.
"Lord Stark got executed in King's Landing by the King," his son croaked out miserably. "Arya and Sansa died there too."
Eddard Stark froze, and chills crawled up his spine. Did he get found out?!
"Why would Robert execute me, Jon?" The Lord of Winterfell finally found his voice. "And why would my daughters die there too?"
"The next one, not Robert. Don't kno' why, wasn't there. Treason, they said. Neither Arya n' Sansa survived either," Jon kept recounting hoarsely, each word slurring more and more and becoming harsher and harsher. "Robb went south to avenge you n' died at a wedding, with L'dy Stark, killed by Boltons n' Freys. Bran n' Rickon got killed by the Turncloak at Winterfell."
"Turncloak?"
"Greyjoy."
His son uttered the name with such venom that if words could kill, the Greyjoy in question would have been dead thrice over. And there was only one Greyjoy that could be turncloak in Winterfell…
"Bran's already dead, Jon. Enough of this, you need some rest," Ned decided, and he stood up, unwilling to listen to this tale any longer. Jon sagged on the bed, defeated, and closed his eyes. "Hopefully, some sleep will do your mind good. Call for me when you decide to tell me what happened at the weirwood."
The Lord of Winterfell dragged his paling heir out of the room and slammed the door shut.
"My brother has gone mad," Robb lamented, worry marring his face. "Theon would never betray us, and nobody would dare to break Guest Right at a wedding."
"Luwin warned us his mind could be addled," Ned sighed heavily. "There was some strange magick involved here, and he's still feverish too. We can only hope Jon will return to normal with enough rest."
Davos Seaworth, Dragonstone
All the guardsmen looked alert and armed to the teeth. They let Davos enter the keep easily enough, but Dale was stuck at the gates for now. Two men-at-arms led him towards Ser Lothor Hardy, Dragonstone's master-at-arms. He all but rushed down the hallway, trying to follow their quick pace.
Soon, they were in front of a thick oaken door. He was ushered inside while a pair of guardsmen stood guard in the hallway.
The room was not too large, and a plain oaken table sat at the centre. Old Maester Cressen sat on a chair near the hearth, and Ser Hardy paced around the room.
"Ser Davos!" The Claw knight stopped in his stride and greeted him far more enthusiastically than before.
"What happened to the Sea Dragon Tower, is Lady Shireen fine?" He blurted out.
"Lady Shireen is fine," Cressen supplied as he sighed. "But someone set the tower on fire."
"Who?"
"We're trying to find out," the knight sighed from the side and scratched his auburn beard. "I've checked all the servants or guardsmen, and they know nothing and saw nothing. We only know Lord Stannis had little friends, we were hoping to tell us if he had any enemies."
Davos couldn't help but tense. Something was very wrong, the prince should have been here.
"What happened to Lord Stannis?"
The old man's face twisted into a grimace, and he sighed.
"The Lord is heavily wounded, Ser Davos," Cressen finally explained. "When the tower started to burn, he rushed inside the fire to save his daughter. Sadly, Lady Selyse perished in the flames."
Neither of the men looked particularly saddened about the death of Stannis' wife, and Davos couldn't blame them. Selyse Florent was an unpleasant woman. Aside from her… plain looks, she was haughty and even sterner than her husband.
"Do you know who could have orchestrated such a travesty?" The master-at-arms prodded again.
"Stannis oft said the court was full of lickspittles that would smile in your face and stab you in the back. It could be anyone in King's Landing," the onion knight wearily provided. "His only friend there was Lord Arryn, and even then, it was more an alliance of convenience."
"And Lord Arryn is dead now," Ser Hardy murmured, and the room became deathly quiet.
"What happens now, will Stannis live?" Davos queried.
"The Lord's condition is severe," the Maester sighed and rubbed his wizened chin. "His burns are bad and might yet fester, his lungs inhaled too much smoke, and his fever is too strong. But he still fights."
The onion knight let out a sigh of relief. Stannis was not one to give up, and as long as he lived, he'd not give up!
"We've locked down all ways out of the fortress," the master-at-arms continued. "Nobody can come in or leave, lest they make an attempt on Stannis directly now. No word of the Lord's condition will leave outside the walls without my permission. Whoever orchestrated this attack will not be able to attempt again!"
6th Day of the 3rd Moon, Winterfell
Jon Snow
Even in death, he did not get to rest. Did he not earn it?! Leading and fighting for years and years, not giving up no matter the odds! Every inch of his body was in pain, and visions of family, ice and death, and the old Winterfell continued playing out in his mind, whether he closed his eyes or not. Why did the gods have to torment him with visions of his father, brother, sisters, and even Ghost?! But wait, wasn't Eddard Stark his uncle?
Or was he?
Things like that had long stopped mattering…
11th Day of the 3rd Moon
A cruel jape by the gods.
It took him some time to realise, but he was not dreaming and was not dead either. He was back at the beginning, with endless war and struggle on the dark horizon. But things were slightly different, Bran was already dead, everyone looked a tad older, and his hands did not seem to belong to a boy of four and ten.
"Your fever is fully gone," Luwin carefully explained after placing an old, calloused hand on Jon's brow. The maester then placed a finger on his wrist. "I think you're fully healed now, Jon. A few more days of rest might do you good, though."
Jon silently watched as the maester left his room.
He had so many things to say, so many things to explain, but he didn't know where to begin. And worse, they all thought him mad and treated him as if he was fragile glass that would shatter into pieces at any moment. Only his uncle visited him once more, and Jon could see fear and wariness in his eyes. It hurt, it hurt so badly, just as much as the icy blade that twisted in his belly and took his life. He wanted to say a thousand things, yet his mouth remained shut.
Maybe, just maybe, he was really mad and had imagined everything from before.
Or worse, he was not mad, and soon, enemies would descend on House Stark like vultures from every direction, and death was stirring from the Lands of Always Winter once more for the first time in eight millennia.
Why him? Why always him!? What did he do to earn this punishment?!
Why couldn't he just… stay dead after he got killed.
He was tired. So very tired, and all he wanted to do was rest.
Jon Snow wearily closed his eyes and dreamt of ice and death again.
14th Day of the 3rd Moon
He could feel wetness on his chin and wearily opened his eyes. White fur and red eyes greeted him, and a small chuckle involuntarily escaped his lips.
"Ghost! How did you get in here?"
The direwolf didn't answer him, but suddenly Jon had a vague vision of stealthily sneaking in as the servant opened the door to bring food. Hells, was he seeing Ghost's memory?
He could physically feel the worry in Ghost as he nudged him with his tiny snout. Jon stood up, gently picked up his companion, and scratched him behind the ears.
Maybe living was not so bad after all, especially since he had his trusty direwolf with him again!
But things were different once more. Looking at his red eyes, he could feel his connection with the direwolf far better than before. Instead of a faint sense of something he couldn't even feel, it was there, in the back of his mind, glaring solid like a part of him. Even before, Ghost always obeyed his orders almost unconditionally before getting killed by the Red Witch.
He nudged at the connection, and the world shifted.
In front of him sat a young man with splattered hair, tired grey eyes, and a familiar long face. He was looking at himself. Jon quickly attempted to pull away -
-and he was looking at his direwolf again.
Gods, was he a skinchanger, just like Six-skins had told him? Jon could acutely feel Ghost's presence in his mind, even without looking at him. He could also feel the direwolf's mood and feelings, and sometimes even peak through his eyes!
He mentally nudged Ghost to get off his lap, and the direwolf pup jumped down on the floor, spun around and looked up at him, tail wagging fiercely. Well, scarcely a pup anymore, he was already nearly twice as big as he was a few days ago!
That settled it; for good or for bad, he was most certainly a skinchanger. It was so easy, and his connection with Ghost felt just right! It felt just as natural as… walking.
Was it the wierwood sap? Or maybe something else? He shook his head; he had no way of knowing.
Jon stood up, carefully walked to the shutter, and opened it, letting warm yet fresh air flow inside his small room. Or, well, at least it felt warm compared to the usual cold.
He carefully glanced at his limbs in wonder and waved his hand around. The numbness was gone. Ever since his first resurrection, his senses had sharpened, yet the world had become dim, and everything felt numb as if covered by a layer of cloth.
The only problem was that his body felt weak. Jon walked to his bed and attempted to lift it up. It was harder than expected, yet easier than it should have been. His monstrous strength and speed were not… gone, but it seemed his body could no longer keep up.
Jon looked at the table, where a platter with some ale and a generous serving of venison and cheese sat. He sat there and quickly began wolfing it down, slipping pieces of meat to Ghost, who hungrily devoured them.
He wondered what to do now. He could always return to his bed and sleep, pretending everything was not going to go to shit. But no, he had wasted more than enough time skulking for now. And now he felt restless, and as he ate more and more of the food, his body felt less and less stiff and weary, and soon it was brimming with power instead.
No, he was done moping! But what could he do?
He could go to his uncle and warn him of the coming threats.
Jon grimaced at the thought; he would probably be laughed at or considered mad. Seven bloody hells, they even considered him mad already for his feverish blubbering. Nobody would heed his warnings. Even if he was not mad, he had no proof for any of it. Jon was not privy to the Southron plots that killed his kin; things reached the Wall very slowly and with little detail.
For any of this, he would need more than his word, and he had only that. And, who would believe a no-name young bastard? The Night's Watch was slow to believe him with ample proof even when he was their Lord Commander, tried and tested in battle. The North was even slower to believe him, even when the broken pieces of his uncle's kingdom uneasily united behind the last one with Stark blood.
And the South? They never cared and kept squabbling for that shitty iron chair.
'Why would you care about the North and House Stark?' An insidious voice whispered in his head. 'You've given more than enough, you owe them nothing! You could leave all of this mess behind and go to the warm and peaceful Summer Isles!'
Jon bristled and angrily banished the voice from his head. He was not going to leave his family to the vultures! But the voice was right. This was going to be one giant bloody mess, and there was not much he could do. With every moment he remained here, more and more free folk were slain, and more wights were raised by the Others beyond the Wall. The Night's Watch would not move their sorry arses until it was too late, if at all, and the wildlings would not listen to reason before they were beaten bloody into submission first. The Northern Lords would baulk at accepting the savages from beyond the Wall that raided their lands for years. The Watch itself was filled with the scum of the Seven Kingdoms and was prone to insubordination and mutiny. There were honourable men that joined the ancient order out of duty, but they were few and between.
Maybe, just maybe, there was a peaceful way that this all could be resolved. But Jon didn't know it. It would take one insult, one person with a fiery temper, for everything to devolve into a bloodbath again.
He was finally faced with an empty platter, yet his stomach still rumbled softly in hunger. He stood up and began pacing.
What could he do? Was there even anything he could do? The Southern kingdoms were one enormous mess that had pulled in House Stark like a treacherous bog. But he couldn't just leave his uncle, brothers, and sisters to die!
What to do, what to do?
Things could scarcely be worse than the last time!
Staying here would accomplish nothing, and chaining himself to the Night's Watch would do just as little. Going south would probably get him killed, as he did not know how their silly games were played. Could he find a way to warn his uncle of events he knew little about without sounding utterly mad? Hells, could he face his uncle and his family without breaking down and crying like a little babe?
He suddenly stilled in his step. A wild, wild idea began forming in his head. It would be incredibly hard and fraught with danger. But that was already the story of his life; mortal peril and bitter struggle were already commonplace for him.
It was incredibly bold, and mayhaps many would call it foolish. He would likely die long before he could succeed, but he would rather do something than stay here and wait for others to make the first move. A pity he could not be in two places at the same time.
A grim smile formed on Jon's lips as a daring plan began to form in his mind.
16th Day of the 3rd Moon, Crownlands
Robert Baratheon
"This is too slow," Robert grunted.
"We're moving nearly thrice as fast as before, Your Grace," Selmy provided unhelpfully.
And they just passed Brindlewood a few hours ago. Nearly twenty days now and scarcely half the way out of the Crownlands.
"And we're still crawling like a fucking turtle! Wine!"
One of the blond shits handed him a wineskin, and he took a generous swig. Thirteen miles yesterday! At this pace, it would still take nearly half a year to get to Winterfell. He didn't fancy spending so much time on the saddle, listening to the whinging of his harpy wife and looking at the blonde ponces every evening. A pity she did not give up and return to King's Landing.
Fuck it, did he have to actually resort to this now? But the other option was equally unappealing. He fucking hated ships! This once, just this once, he'd do it.
But only once.
"We switch course to Maidenpool," he declared after taking another generous gulp of wine.
"This might delay our journey by a moon, Your Grace," the old knight cautioned.
"Nay, send a quick rider to King's Landing to order the Lady Lyanna and a good escort to sail up the Bay of Crabs. We'll visit that coward Mooton and his pool before sailing up to White Harbour," Robert explained, not bothering to hide his distaste. He still remembered the sweet crunch as his hammer met the head of Rhaegar's Mooton squire at the Stoney Sept. At least Myles Mooton was not a coward like his soft lordly brother.
A pity Cersei had not given up, and he had to endure her insufferable presence more oft without the wheelhouse. But the image of his wife puking her guts out on the sea made him smile.
Author's Endnote:
Jon says some unbelievable things in his fever and is considered mad.
Obligatory moping ensues. I decided to spare myself writing too much needless angst; thus the small time skip. It takes him some time, but with some moral support from Ghost, Jon gathers his wits and has a wild plan.
But isn't Joffrey etc, incest spawn? Maybe, he wasn't there and did not have proof. The only person who is adamant about this is Stannis, who provided no proof, and was the primary beneficiary of Cersei's children being bastards. Why didn't he say anything when Robert was alive? Why did he hide on Dragonstone?
And here's the thing, Jon knows only what vaguely reached him, and all of it is second/third/fifth-hand information, almost all of it conflicting.
In case you missed the hint at the prologue, Jon never met any of his siblings/cousins after leaving for the Wall. Sansa, Arya, and Robb all died before setting foot in the North. Bran was stuck in the cave for life, and Rickon died in a storm on his way back to Skaagos. Jon has no idea what they have gone through, only that they are all dead.
Obviously, more details will be unveiled as we go.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
Obligatory moping ensues. I decided to spare myself writing too much needless angst; thus the small time skip. It takes him some time, but with some moral support from Ghost, Jon gathers his wits and has a wild plan.
But isn't Joffrey etc, incest spawn? Maybe, he wasn't there and did not have proof. The only person who is adamant about this is Stannis, who provided no proof, and was the primary beneficiary of Cersei's children being bastards. Why didn't he say anything when Robert was alive? Why did he hide on Dragonstone?
And here's the thing, Jon knows only what vaguely reached him, and all of it is second/third/fifth-hand information, almost all of it conflicting.
In case you missed the hint at the prologue, Jon never met any of his siblings/cousins after leaving for the Wall. Sansa, Arya, and Robb all died before setting foot in the North. Bran was stuck in the cave for life, and Rickon died in a storm on his way back to Skaagos. Jon has no idea what they have gone through, only that they are all dead.
Obviously, more details will be unveiled as we go.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
Last edited:
03-The Hunter and the Prey
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.
Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Also, warning, there are some rather graphic scenes(not for the faint of heart), yet nothing explicit.
17th Day of the 3rd Moon
Lord Eddard Stark
Eddard tiredly rubbed his brow as the raindrops relentlessly pattered his shutter. It would snow during the night, but the days were too warm and turned the snow into rain. He collapsed on the Lord's chair behind the desk and sighed. The waiting had become unbearable, and all he could do was worry while his mind conjured worse and worse scenarios. It didn't help that the king's arrival loomed in the distance. Ned hated dealing with the Southron court and had no desire to see any of it, doubly more so now when he was grieving.
Now with the latest rain erasing the tracks, if his men had not found traces of Jon, then there was nothing that could be done. And worst of all, only so much time and resources could be spent without beginning to gather far too much unhealthy attention. His last hope was to have some of his principal bannermen spot Jon and return him to Winterfell, but the chances were slim.
Jory finally entered the solar, looking tired and sat on one of the chairs.
"Anything?"
"No, Lord Stark," his captain of the guard replied with a grimace.
"You're telling me that a sick boy of six and ten escaped his room, direwolf in tow, bypassing the guard at his door, the guard at the entrance of the Great Keep, the guardsmen at the armoury, the kitchen, and those at the gates and walls and left Winterfell unnoticed with the finest garron in my stables, and you have no idea how he did it?!"
"Yes, Lord Stark," Jory admitted, and his shoulders sagged.
Ned could feel his head beginning to throb painfully. In moments like these, he wished he was a landless second son with no duties and responsibilities.
"Did you find out what he took from the armoury?"
"A brigandine, arming doublet, chainmail sleeves, greaves, a shield, two quivers full of arrows and a yew longbow, two bastard swords, three daggers, a hunting axe, two hunting spears, our finest tent, and my camping supplies. All of the finest quality," the captain finished and looked down, face laden with guilt.
Gods, had Jon taken his favourite fur-inlaid tent with the Myrish silk cot? Ned groaned and tiredly rubbed his brow again. Coupled with all the travelling food missing from the kitchens, it was as if his son was preparing for war.
What had happened at the heart tree?
Why did Jon speak of things that had never happened in his fever?
Why did his boy run away? Jon had never wanted for anything in Winterfell!
How did he manage to sneak away unnoticed while looting the armoury? Jon could have just asked, and Ned would have let him take his pick anyway, just not his favourite tent...
The Lord of Winterfell had so many questions and no answers at all.
"All the guardsmen on duty that night will assist the gong workers with clearing the cisterns and drains for a fortnight," he ordered. Ned could not leave the failure of duty unpunished, but he did not want to flog anyone either. Jon had sneaked around with an uncanny amount of skill without anyone noticing at all, and he'd rather consider it his son's ability than his guardsmen's failure. But still, more steps would have to be taken. "Double the guardsmen on watch, start recruiting more men, and report to Rodrik to intensify the training for everyone."
"It will be done, my Lord," Jory promised and quickly ran off.
Ned's own desire to lift his sword and strike people bubbled angrily in his gut.
It had been a while since he regularly trained in the yard, and mayhaps it was time to take it up again. His odd training once or twice a fortnight would no longer cut it. And since he had ordered his guards to train more rigorously, it would be good to join them and lead by example. Robb seemed to have calmed greatly with the help of all the time spent in the yard.
He poured himself a small cup of ale and downed it in one go.
If nothing else, Ned could take solace that Jon had left well-prepared. His boy was an able hunter and a fighter, and with a direwolf in tow, albeit an adolescent one, little could endanger him in the Seven Kingdoms as long as he used his head wisely. But the most worrying part was that Ned had no idea if his son still had his wits about him!
At that moment, the guardsman outside the door announced Rodrik Cassel and the weary master-at-arms entered his solar. The old knight shed his wet cloak and placed it on the hanger before silently sitting on the chair.
"Nothing," Rodrik glumly reported. "No traces from our trackers and hunters; the wolfhounds found no leads at all."
And now, with the heavy rain, any trail would be lost. Ned found his hand had balled in a fist and took a deep breath.
"A green boy of six and ten avoids my best guards, sneaks out of my keep, makes a fool of the North's finest, and we have no idea how or why?" The Lord of Winterfell slumped on his chair again, feeling defeated. He was not sure if he should feel proud of his boy or furious.
"None of this were the actions of a green boy," Cassel hesitantly countered. "Pardon me, my Lord, but only a cunning and seasoned veteran could pull this off. While Jon himself is cleverer than he shows and is intimately familiar with every nook and cranny of Winterfell, I wouldn't expect it from him. But I think I know how he managed to run away."
"And why did you not say anything about it so far?!"
"It's all a conjecture, and I have no proof," the old knight supplied with a grimace.
"Well, it's better than what we got so far, so spill," The Lord of Winterfell urged with a sigh.
"I think the boy climbed down the shutter of his room," Rodrik began slowly. "The window is large enough and was left open. It would be close enough to the ground floor, so it's not impossible. Jon could have sneaked into the armoury while the guardsmen changed shifts during the night. It's also possible that they were asleep on duty. Mayhaps one or two, but not all of them."
"Indeed," Ned acquiesced with a grimace. "But he never showed a penchant for climbing before. That didn't explain how he managed to sneak past the walls with a horse."
"Jon's always been a resourceful and observant lad, and he did climb all over the trees in the Godswood as a child," Cassel countered as he pulled on his grey whisker. "He could have worn a direwolf livery and simply ridden out before dawn when the guardsmen are laxest. The main gate always stays open in peacetime, and the men guarding it are far more stringent on who enters than who leaves. But as I said, this is only a conjecture of mine."
Ned's mind came to a grinding halt for a short moment. His boy might have played his guardsmen for fools, but Ned knew Jon very well; his son did not have a malicious bone in his body. But the possibility alone sent cold shivers down his back, and his mind began conjuring worse and worse images again. If it was not Jon but someone hostile and experienced enough, his whole family could have had their throats slit during the night. Someone familiar with Winterfell's layout could do much harm if they put their mind to it.
"It seems that I've grown too lax. This cannot continue," Ned murmured to himself before raising his voice. "From now on, every soul entering and leaving Winterfell will be carefully checked. I've ordered Jory to double the guard and recruit more men-at-arms. You're to increase the training of everyone in Winterfell. Wait for me in the yard in an hour, I require some sparring myself."
The master-at-arms nodded and quickly headed out of the solar, leaving Ned Stark alone with his thoughts.
He sighed and forced himself to stand up and head to his chamber to change into something more suitable than silks for the yard.
Just as he was putting on his training tunic, Winter paddled over to him, scroll too large for his small frame comically clasped in his jaw.
"Where did you find that, boy?"
The direwolf didn't answer but insistently butted his leg with his tiny grey head. Ned chuckled softly, petted the eager furball, and picked up the scroll. The Lord of Winterfell slowly unfurled it, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of dread. A single glance almost made him drop it; the letters were written not in ink but in blood.
Dear uncle,
Mayhaps I am truly mad, and I hope that I am, but I feel that I must give you a warning. I beg of you to read it till the end, no matter how fantastical it sounds-
Ned paled, and his heart began to hammer like a drum; how did Jon find out!? Ned had been cautious not to mention anything. And only Howland knew, but his friend had never left Greywater Watch since the Rebellion. He fought off the urge to quickly toss it into the crackling hearth with gritted teeth and forced himself to continue reading.
I hope I am mad, and it's all something conjured by my addled mind, but just in case it's not, I'm writing this letter. I'd rather this all be a bad dream and be your bastard son instead of Rhaegar's, but one rarely gets what one wishes for. Some things have changed, but most seem to have remained the same. Beware...
23nd Day of the 3rd Moon
Jon Snow
Jon fed a piece of dried jerky to Ghost, who happily devoured it in one bite. Nearby, Shadow, the newly-named pitch-black garron, grazed a few tufts of grass sticking out of the snow-covered ground. Being in the wilderness seemed to agree with his companion, as he looked far happier and had grown half the way to his knees now. At the start, Jon had hunted some smaller game like hares, squirrels, and the such, nothing that be considered poaching and catch the attention of the local outrider patrols.
Now, Ghost had started hunting on his own, and quite successfully at that, if the connection in his mind was to judge. He now always knew what his direwolf was doing or where Ghost was. A shroud of snow had covered the land last night, making Ghost incredibly hard to spot, especially with his silent steps. He had to make do without any fire when he approached the Bolton lands, lest it attracted undue attention, but the weather felt warm compared to the freezing cold that he had grown used to.
Ghost quietly darted into the snowy forest to scout ahead, leaving a thoughtful Jon alone. He could slip into his companion's mind, but the direwolf was smart enough to deal with things on his own. Over the years, Jon had become an able ranger and tracker, but he still struggled to compete with Ghost in the forest. His thoughts slowly drifted towards certain decisions of his. Gods, now that the numbness was gone, he felt like a child again, plagued by indecision and all sorts of pesky feelings. Feelings that were very pleasantly muted after Melisandre's cruel resurrection were now back with a vengeance.
A fortnight later and he still felt craven for avoiding his family. Were they even his family anymore? Gone were his brothers and sisters, and cousins had taken their place. Alas, Winterfell was a place of ghosts for him. Deep down, he had wanted to become the Lord of Winterfell, and when his darkest desire came true, it tasted like ash on his tongue. His kin slain, and the North itself was torn apart, facing enemies from within and without. He had yearned dearly to reunite with his siblings, and now that they were here and alive, not only had they turned out to be cousins instead, but Jon found himself with nothing to say. They were the children of summer, young and joyful, but he was no longer the same innocent boy of four and ten, but a weary, battered, and broken shell of a man, kept together only by duty and vengeance. And now both the duty and vengeance were gone, vows or oaths no longer bound him, yet he found himself walking down a similar road again.
Everything else felt meaningless as long as the darkness gathered and the white winds began to blow.
The endless struggle amidst the snow was the only thing he knew now.
As for why he left so quickly?
Jon knew that a letter written in blood from a missing son would be far more striking than the mad ramblings of a bastard with addled wits. Or worse, Eddard Stark would believe him and keep him confined to his rooms. And Jon did not think he could set his eyes on Greyjoy without gutting the traitorous cunt open, which would create a myriad of problems. Last but not least, it was necessary to leave because nobody else could deal with the Others as well as he could. Nobody else knew how!
But no matter how much he repeated that in his head, it didn't make the bitter feeling disappear.
Hopefully, Bran's direwolf would follow his instructions. He did not expect to be able to connect to its mind almost as easily as he could with Ghosts'. Jon also knew that the Lord of Winterfell's hands were tied without proof, and he wondered if Lord Stark would listen and follow his ideas. The North, the Watch, and the Free Folk were all as stubborn as they came; despite their differences, words would do little to convince them. Even after all three were bent and broken into pieces, on the verge of death and with a common enemy, Jon had struggled greatly to bind them to work together, and even then, there were a lot of problems.
Having the Night's Watch, the North, and the Fre Folk work together without being broken first was nothing but a pipe dream.
Words were wind. There was only a single way any of them would listen and work together.
Violence.
Jon shook his head with a sigh; he prayed his uncle would at least heed his warnings.
Not that Jon knew exactly what had gone wrong in the South. But at least he knew the broad strokes of it.
Nobody in the South is to be trusted. There were no friends there, only plotters and schemers that would stab you in the back at the first opportunity.
Mayhaps he was wrong, but all his efforts to squeeze out some help from below the Neck had been in vain. Vague promises of future aid that would never come to pass in return for the North's thinning number of swords and obeisance. As if he would bow to those who beheaded his father or break bread on a table with those who plotted his kin's demise. Most would see him killed just for being the 'son' of Eddard Stark. He had suppressed his burning desire to tear into the South, killing everyone that wronged his family, as they were far too numerous and the North's strength had waned greatly, and he was far too busy battling the Others.
But the South was not his concern now, no matter how dangerous it seemed. He was just a bastard again, and the North was ruled by the Lord of Winterfell, not Jon Snow. He had aided his uncle in every way he could, and now it was out of his hands. No, the bigger threat lay to the far north.
But first, he had to deal with one final pesky problem before heading beyond the Wall.
A small smile appeared on his lips as he felt Ghost nudge him through the link. The gods were smiling upon him today, he had expected to wait and stalk here for nearly a moon, yet it was scarcely the second day. He slipped his mind into the direwolf, only to be greeted by a gruesome sight. At a small clearing in the distance stood two ugly, cruel-looking men wearing the Flayed Man heraldry, surrounded by a handful of hounds.
The familiar one, with blotchy pink skin, wormy-looking lips, and pale, soulless eyes, was forcing himself upon a bruised and naked maiden while the second, all sorts of blisters and spots covering his skin, watched from the side with delight. Jon broke his connection, quickly strung his yew longbow and followed his companion's direction, trying his hardest not to produce a sound while stepping only on rocks and roots. He could recognise the repulsive face of the bastard of Dreadfort anywhere; although he was not sure who the other man was, it mattered little. He, too, would not see another sunrise. Thankfully, the snow was thin and soft enough not to crunch with every step. The moment the sun peaked over the clouds, it would melt the snow away.
It took him nearly half an hour, but he finally reached where Ghost stood as still as a statue amidst the snow. Jon looked at the clearing and felt his guts clench at the sight. The maiden now lay unmoving on the ground amidst a pool of blood; chunks of flesh were missing from her body, and he could see some blood dripping from some of the dogs' snouts. That was far from the worst he had seen, but the loathsome sight made his stomach churn. Gods, he felt like a green boy again! He shook his head and cleared his mind.
The uglier man that looked like he belonged in a pigsty was forcing himself upon the cold corpse while Ramsay watched from the side, fleshy face twisted grotesquely from sadistic glee.
He carefully measured the distance and thanked the gods again. The wind was blowing towards him, so the hounds had not yet smelled him nor Ghost. But a hundred yards was too far; Jon was unsure he could strike true at this distance. If he missed here, things could get ugly.
Jon slowly crept forward, praying for the beast of a man not to finish his vile deed just yet. Two painful minutes later, he was little less than sixty yards away, and the raper was still rutting the cold corpse.
An arrow was quietly notched, and he drew the yew bow and aimed towards Ramsay.
The arrow flew, and before it found its mark, Jon quickly drew a second one from the quiver and instantly let it loose towards the second man. The first one struck true and buried itself straight into Ramsay's eye, making him collapse like a sack of rocks. Sadly, the bastard's companion twisted and tried to see what was happened and was only struck in the shoulder.
Jon cursed while the man cried in pain and turned to run and quickly let loose a third and a fourth arrow. The third and fourth ones impaled his back, and he tumbled on the ground. The uneasy hounds seemed to have pinpointed Jon's location and mindlessly rushed his way, barking furiously. He barely managed to order the reluctant Ghost away; his direwolf was too young and small and would be easily killed by the bigger savage dogs. Arrows flew from his bow one after another, but he only downed two of them by the time they approached. When they were ten yards away, he tossed the bow away and quickly unsheathed his bastard sword in his right hand and a dagger in his left.
The five hounds directly went for his feet, but he lunged towards the reddish one on the left and lopped off its head with a single strike. The body tumbled on the ground, spraying blood everywhere while the head rolled to the side. The other four couldn't turn instantly, and after two short heartbeats, he found himself facing four pairs of eyes.
Even though the hounds were large and vicious, he did not fear them. He was faster, stronger, and just as vicious and had fought far more dangerous and numerous foes. Their hide couldn't halt the edge of his sword. Just as he prepared to slay them, he could feel something wiggle on the back of his mind.
Suddenly, their growls turned into pitiful whines; they all rolled on their backs, exposing their bellies, and he-
-found himself looking at the dangerous two legs with savage grey eyes.
28th Day of the 3rd Moon
Roose Bolton
The Lord of Dreadfort dismissed the servant after she filled his chalice with his favourite spiced wine.
"So where is he?"
Roose took a small sip and languidly looked at the captain of the guards.
"Ramsay's dead, my Lord," Walton reported.
A pity his bastard son had been shaping up to be… useful. But now, he was faced with a new quandary.
"And how did that happen?"
"Found him and Reek along with some woman in the forest where he liked to hunt or what little was left of them. Bears, wolves, and crows had feasted generously. Their eyes were pecked out, and they were mauled so badly they wouldn't have been recognised had it not been for the torn coat of arms," Steelshanks dutifully explained. "Seems like they died about five days ago, but all the traces were destroyed by hungry beasts, the snow, and the rain."
He thoughtfully twirled the wine for a few moments before taking another small sip, the spices making his tongue tingle pleasantly.
"What of his hounds?"
"Found a few torn limbs all over the forest and two half-eaten dogs, my Lord."
His bastard at least had the sense to perform his indiscretions in the more secluded parts of his lands. This time, the boy had ventured out only with Reek in tow, leaving Skinner and Grunt in the Dreadfort. But Ramsay's willfulness seemed to have worked against him this time. Usually, nobody dared to do anything under the banner of House Bolton.
A peaceful land, a quiet people.
Ramsay did hide his proclivities well enough and had not made any enemies Roose knew of. But the bastard, with a man-at-arms and a couple of hunting hounds by his side, should not have been easy to kill, especially by wild animals. Yet, the boy had always been reckless with little self-control; it would not surprise him if Ramsay tried to bite off more than he could chew. What a foolish death; Roose couldn't help but wonder if the gods simply deigned to punish his kinslaying son for his sacrilege.
Not only were his son's activities unsavoury, but his origins were as well. Roose never really acknowledged Ramsay as his bastard officially, especially since he was a fruit of partaking in the now-forbidden right of the First Night.
"What do you think of this, Walton?"
"Well, if it was done by men, they certainly knew how to cover their tracks. But not a single thing was looted from the corpses, and it's hard for a large number of men to hide their tracks well, even with the rain. Methinks Ramsay got a little too brave and ran afoul of an angry cave bear from the nearby hills."
It mattered little now; he had far greater problems than a dead bastard boy with far too much daring and too little wits.
"Double the patrols around the border and question anyone suspicious," he finally ordered.
"And what should we do with Ramsay's bones?"
"Leave them to the wolves," Roose impassively decided before dismissing Steelshanks. There was no need to bury a bastard in the crypts, where only the trueborn Bolton lay.
As the clinking of the captain's steel greaves was quietly fading in the distance, the Lord of Dreadfort took another sip and found himself in a dilemma.
Roose was sorely lacking an heir. His heir-apparent was Harwin Slate, the second grandson of the current Lord. A Bolton's daughter married into the Slates five generations ago. That would simply not do; the Dreadfort would never pass on those fools.
Ramsay could have been taught with time and maybe legitimised as his sole son, but now he had to look for a third wife. But it was not as simple as picking out a daughter from any House, big or small. House Bolton had an unsavoury reputation; many Northern Lords would hesitate to wed their daughters to him. He had to negotiate with Rodrick Ryswell for nearly two years before managing to arrange the marriage to Bethany. His first two marriages had hardly borne any fruit. Out of eight births, only Domeric had survived beyond the cradle. Roose now needed a third, more fertile wife, preferably one that would grant him a decent alliance.
He was not getting any younger, and it was time to review his options and begin negotiations.
He rang his bell, and a wiry serving girl entered, trying to mask the fear on her face but failing.
"Fetch me Maester Tybald."
3rd Day of the 4th Moon
Cotter Pyke, Eastwatch by the Sea
"Now, now, now, what do we have here?" Cotter Pyke asked with a wide smile, looking at the smuggler dragged in by the two burly rangers. He could recognise a Tyroshi cunt with their bright clothes and that painted hair anywhere, and this one smelled like loot. By the Drowned God, it's been only three moons since they bagged their last Tyroshi smuggler.
"We caught this one tryin' to sneak south after selling steel to the wildlings," Darlan explained with a toothy smile while he kicked the man down.
"Ah, this is a mis-"
Gormon smacked the smuggler's head with the flat of his blade, and the man flopped on the ground out cold. Everyone hated the greedy fucks tryin' to arm the wildlings just to earn some coin. The better armed the savages were, the more deadly were the rangings north of the Wall.
"Blackbird n' Talon caught his ship's loaded with weirwood, furs, ivory, some silver nuggets, n' few swords n' axes of poorer steel," the ranger added while Cotter whistled inwardly. The smugglers had gotten fucking silver! "Woulda chopped his head off on his own deck, but fuckers like this are too good for me sword."
Well, if nothing else, it would give Cotter one more ship under his command!
"This would make a hefty coin, enough to buy proper booze for everyone for half a year," Maester Harmune drunkenly muttered from the side, making Gormon snort with amusement.
Gods, he was tempted to toss Harmune down the Wall sometimes; the fucking Citadel had sent the most useless cunt for their maester. But alas, should he do that, he risked having an even more useless cunt come over.
"Hang him and all of his crew," Cotter ordered as the rangers dragged the man over to the middle of the courtyard.
"But what do we do with the galley slaves?"
"They can take the Black or hang with the smugglers," he waved it off. "We can always use more men."
Rangers, builders, stewards, there were never enough.
Just as he turned to return to his quarters, one of his men barely intercepted him from the docks beyond the makeshift gate.
While the castles on the wall were supposed to have no walls or defences to the south, a few braver wildlings had sailed around and attacked them during the night before, and thus a simple wooden palisade was raised to at least hold off raiders.
"Commander Pyke, a woman is looking fer ya," old Maekar hoarsely rasped out, trying to catch his breath.
The steward looked extremely thin, his eyes were sunken, and his sparse white hair looked dry, sticky, and as if it would fall off any moment. Cotter didn't give him more than a few moons before he went to sleep and didn't wake on the morrow, and even that might be generous. Maester Harmune, whose sole redeeming feature while sober was his two silver links in medicine, had declared that nothing could be done for the man.
"Is Kevan tryin' to smuggle his whores in again cuz he's too lazy to go to Hollowtree's whorehouse?" He asked tiredly.
"Nay, this one's some weird Essosi priestess dressed in all in red from the ship from Gulltown," the old man added, coughing and wheezing sickly.
This sounded suspiciously like those annoying red priests. What in the Drowned God's name would one of the fire-loving fucks want to do with him?
"Lead me to her," Cotter said with a sigh.
The Commander followed the hobbling man and soon left the dilapidated wooden gate and was onto the dreary docks. He blinked, unsure if the eyes were not deceiving him. Cotter was faced with a gorgeous pair of boobs and an alluring face, with an unhealthy obsession with the colour red. The red-haired, red-eyed woman in question was dressed in a rather thin crimson dress, yet the cold did not seem to bother her at all. Her unused travel cloak was crimson, and her small travel bag was also red. Cotter could see a lot of the Black Brothers looking lustily at the woman, but she seemed unbothered. Yeah, definitely a red priestess.
"You've been looking for me, lady…?"
"Melisandre of Asshai, devout servant of the Lord of the Light," she supplied with an alluring smile.
Cotter, unaffected by her melodic voice, shuddered at the mention of that accursed place. He'd seen a man that returned alive from Asshai, and the hardened sailor had become a drooling, quivering mess that had taken a leave of his senses and could only bumble like a lackwit and could not even control his own bladder.
No matter how much he wanted to bury his face into the ample bosom before him, his ma's warnings about witches ran like a death knell in his head.
"What brings a red witch all the way here?" He bluntly asked, hoping to send the vixen away as soon as possible.
Preferably before the Black Brothers lost whatever little control they had or before she decided to do her foul magicks here.
"I require a horse and a passage beyond the Wall," she stated.
"I can give ya a garron for a dragon, Malindre," he offered after mulling for a few moments.
He would normally order her searched in case she tried to smuggle something to the wildlings, but another look at her half-naked form dissuaded him from that… no matter how tempted he was to do the search himself.
"It's Melisandre, commander," she corrected with another sweet smile. "And I will take the horse."
"But if you want to go beyond the Wall, none of my men will accompany you."
"I only require a passage; R'hllor will light my path," the red woman assured him.
"Fine!"
Well, if the crazy priestess wanted to kill herself, Cotter was not going to stop her. A pity for the poor horse, he would make sure Norrey picked some older gelding that would not be missed.
Author's Endnote:
Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Also, warning, there are some rather graphic scenes(not for the faint of heart), yet nothing explicit.
17th Day of the 3rd Moon
Lord Eddard Stark
Eddard tiredly rubbed his brow as the raindrops relentlessly pattered his shutter. It would snow during the night, but the days were too warm and turned the snow into rain. He collapsed on the Lord's chair behind the desk and sighed. The waiting had become unbearable, and all he could do was worry while his mind conjured worse and worse scenarios. It didn't help that the king's arrival loomed in the distance. Ned hated dealing with the Southron court and had no desire to see any of it, doubly more so now when he was grieving.
Now with the latest rain erasing the tracks, if his men had not found traces of Jon, then there was nothing that could be done. And worst of all, only so much time and resources could be spent without beginning to gather far too much unhealthy attention. His last hope was to have some of his principal bannermen spot Jon and return him to Winterfell, but the chances were slim.
Jory finally entered the solar, looking tired and sat on one of the chairs.
"Anything?"
"No, Lord Stark," his captain of the guard replied with a grimace.
"You're telling me that a sick boy of six and ten escaped his room, direwolf in tow, bypassing the guard at his door, the guard at the entrance of the Great Keep, the guardsmen at the armoury, the kitchen, and those at the gates and walls and left Winterfell unnoticed with the finest garron in my stables, and you have no idea how he did it?!"
"Yes, Lord Stark," Jory admitted, and his shoulders sagged.
Ned could feel his head beginning to throb painfully. In moments like these, he wished he was a landless second son with no duties and responsibilities.
"Did you find out what he took from the armoury?"
"A brigandine, arming doublet, chainmail sleeves, greaves, a shield, two quivers full of arrows and a yew longbow, two bastard swords, three daggers, a hunting axe, two hunting spears, our finest tent, and my camping supplies. All of the finest quality," the captain finished and looked down, face laden with guilt.
Gods, had Jon taken his favourite fur-inlaid tent with the Myrish silk cot? Ned groaned and tiredly rubbed his brow again. Coupled with all the travelling food missing from the kitchens, it was as if his son was preparing for war.
What had happened at the heart tree?
Why did Jon speak of things that had never happened in his fever?
Why did his boy run away? Jon had never wanted for anything in Winterfell!
How did he manage to sneak away unnoticed while looting the armoury? Jon could have just asked, and Ned would have let him take his pick anyway, just not his favourite tent...
The Lord of Winterfell had so many questions and no answers at all.
"All the guardsmen on duty that night will assist the gong workers with clearing the cisterns and drains for a fortnight," he ordered. Ned could not leave the failure of duty unpunished, but he did not want to flog anyone either. Jon had sneaked around with an uncanny amount of skill without anyone noticing at all, and he'd rather consider it his son's ability than his guardsmen's failure. But still, more steps would have to be taken. "Double the guardsmen on watch, start recruiting more men, and report to Rodrik to intensify the training for everyone."
"It will be done, my Lord," Jory promised and quickly ran off.
Ned's own desire to lift his sword and strike people bubbled angrily in his gut.
It had been a while since he regularly trained in the yard, and mayhaps it was time to take it up again. His odd training once or twice a fortnight would no longer cut it. And since he had ordered his guards to train more rigorously, it would be good to join them and lead by example. Robb seemed to have calmed greatly with the help of all the time spent in the yard.
He poured himself a small cup of ale and downed it in one go.
If nothing else, Ned could take solace that Jon had left well-prepared. His boy was an able hunter and a fighter, and with a direwolf in tow, albeit an adolescent one, little could endanger him in the Seven Kingdoms as long as he used his head wisely. But the most worrying part was that Ned had no idea if his son still had his wits about him!
At that moment, the guardsman outside the door announced Rodrik Cassel and the weary master-at-arms entered his solar. The old knight shed his wet cloak and placed it on the hanger before silently sitting on the chair.
"Nothing," Rodrik glumly reported. "No traces from our trackers and hunters; the wolfhounds found no leads at all."
And now, with the heavy rain, any trail would be lost. Ned found his hand had balled in a fist and took a deep breath.
"A green boy of six and ten avoids my best guards, sneaks out of my keep, makes a fool of the North's finest, and we have no idea how or why?" The Lord of Winterfell slumped on his chair again, feeling defeated. He was not sure if he should feel proud of his boy or furious.
"None of this were the actions of a green boy," Cassel hesitantly countered. "Pardon me, my Lord, but only a cunning and seasoned veteran could pull this off. While Jon himself is cleverer than he shows and is intimately familiar with every nook and cranny of Winterfell, I wouldn't expect it from him. But I think I know how he managed to run away."
"And why did you not say anything about it so far?!"
"It's all a conjecture, and I have no proof," the old knight supplied with a grimace.
"Well, it's better than what we got so far, so spill," The Lord of Winterfell urged with a sigh.
"I think the boy climbed down the shutter of his room," Rodrik began slowly. "The window is large enough and was left open. It would be close enough to the ground floor, so it's not impossible. Jon could have sneaked into the armoury while the guardsmen changed shifts during the night. It's also possible that they were asleep on duty. Mayhaps one or two, but not all of them."
"Indeed," Ned acquiesced with a grimace. "But he never showed a penchant for climbing before. That didn't explain how he managed to sneak past the walls with a horse."
"Jon's always been a resourceful and observant lad, and he did climb all over the trees in the Godswood as a child," Cassel countered as he pulled on his grey whisker. "He could have worn a direwolf livery and simply ridden out before dawn when the guardsmen are laxest. The main gate always stays open in peacetime, and the men guarding it are far more stringent on who enters than who leaves. But as I said, this is only a conjecture of mine."
Ned's mind came to a grinding halt for a short moment. His boy might have played his guardsmen for fools, but Ned knew Jon very well; his son did not have a malicious bone in his body. But the possibility alone sent cold shivers down his back, and his mind began conjuring worse and worse images again. If it was not Jon but someone hostile and experienced enough, his whole family could have had their throats slit during the night. Someone familiar with Winterfell's layout could do much harm if they put their mind to it.
"It seems that I've grown too lax. This cannot continue," Ned murmured to himself before raising his voice. "From now on, every soul entering and leaving Winterfell will be carefully checked. I've ordered Jory to double the guard and recruit more men-at-arms. You're to increase the training of everyone in Winterfell. Wait for me in the yard in an hour, I require some sparring myself."
The master-at-arms nodded and quickly headed out of the solar, leaving Ned Stark alone with his thoughts.
He sighed and forced himself to stand up and head to his chamber to change into something more suitable than silks for the yard.
Just as he was putting on his training tunic, Winter paddled over to him, scroll too large for his small frame comically clasped in his jaw.
"Where did you find that, boy?"
The direwolf didn't answer but insistently butted his leg with his tiny grey head. Ned chuckled softly, petted the eager furball, and picked up the scroll. The Lord of Winterfell slowly unfurled it, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of dread. A single glance almost made him drop it; the letters were written not in ink but in blood.
Dear uncle,
Mayhaps I am truly mad, and I hope that I am, but I feel that I must give you a warning. I beg of you to read it till the end, no matter how fantastical it sounds-
Ned paled, and his heart began to hammer like a drum; how did Jon find out!? Ned had been cautious not to mention anything. And only Howland knew, but his friend had never left Greywater Watch since the Rebellion. He fought off the urge to quickly toss it into the crackling hearth with gritted teeth and forced himself to continue reading.
I hope I am mad, and it's all something conjured by my addled mind, but just in case it's not, I'm writing this letter. I'd rather this all be a bad dream and be your bastard son instead of Rhaegar's, but one rarely gets what one wishes for. Some things have changed, but most seem to have remained the same. Beware...
23nd Day of the 3rd Moon
Jon Snow
Jon fed a piece of dried jerky to Ghost, who happily devoured it in one bite. Nearby, Shadow, the newly-named pitch-black garron, grazed a few tufts of grass sticking out of the snow-covered ground. Being in the wilderness seemed to agree with his companion, as he looked far happier and had grown half the way to his knees now. At the start, Jon had hunted some smaller game like hares, squirrels, and the such, nothing that be considered poaching and catch the attention of the local outrider patrols.
Now, Ghost had started hunting on his own, and quite successfully at that, if the connection in his mind was to judge. He now always knew what his direwolf was doing or where Ghost was. A shroud of snow had covered the land last night, making Ghost incredibly hard to spot, especially with his silent steps. He had to make do without any fire when he approached the Bolton lands, lest it attracted undue attention, but the weather felt warm compared to the freezing cold that he had grown used to.
Ghost quietly darted into the snowy forest to scout ahead, leaving a thoughtful Jon alone. He could slip into his companion's mind, but the direwolf was smart enough to deal with things on his own. Over the years, Jon had become an able ranger and tracker, but he still struggled to compete with Ghost in the forest. His thoughts slowly drifted towards certain decisions of his. Gods, now that the numbness was gone, he felt like a child again, plagued by indecision and all sorts of pesky feelings. Feelings that were very pleasantly muted after Melisandre's cruel resurrection were now back with a vengeance.
A fortnight later and he still felt craven for avoiding his family. Were they even his family anymore? Gone were his brothers and sisters, and cousins had taken their place. Alas, Winterfell was a place of ghosts for him. Deep down, he had wanted to become the Lord of Winterfell, and when his darkest desire came true, it tasted like ash on his tongue. His kin slain, and the North itself was torn apart, facing enemies from within and without. He had yearned dearly to reunite with his siblings, and now that they were here and alive, not only had they turned out to be cousins instead, but Jon found himself with nothing to say. They were the children of summer, young and joyful, but he was no longer the same innocent boy of four and ten, but a weary, battered, and broken shell of a man, kept together only by duty and vengeance. And now both the duty and vengeance were gone, vows or oaths no longer bound him, yet he found himself walking down a similar road again.
Everything else felt meaningless as long as the darkness gathered and the white winds began to blow.
The endless struggle amidst the snow was the only thing he knew now.
As for why he left so quickly?
Jon knew that a letter written in blood from a missing son would be far more striking than the mad ramblings of a bastard with addled wits. Or worse, Eddard Stark would believe him and keep him confined to his rooms. And Jon did not think he could set his eyes on Greyjoy without gutting the traitorous cunt open, which would create a myriad of problems. Last but not least, it was necessary to leave because nobody else could deal with the Others as well as he could. Nobody else knew how!
But no matter how much he repeated that in his head, it didn't make the bitter feeling disappear.
Hopefully, Bran's direwolf would follow his instructions. He did not expect to be able to connect to its mind almost as easily as he could with Ghosts'. Jon also knew that the Lord of Winterfell's hands were tied without proof, and he wondered if Lord Stark would listen and follow his ideas. The North, the Watch, and the Free Folk were all as stubborn as they came; despite their differences, words would do little to convince them. Even after all three were bent and broken into pieces, on the verge of death and with a common enemy, Jon had struggled greatly to bind them to work together, and even then, there were a lot of problems.
Having the Night's Watch, the North, and the Fre Folk work together without being broken first was nothing but a pipe dream.
Words were wind. There was only a single way any of them would listen and work together.
Violence.
Jon shook his head with a sigh; he prayed his uncle would at least heed his warnings.
Not that Jon knew exactly what had gone wrong in the South. But at least he knew the broad strokes of it.
Nobody in the South is to be trusted. There were no friends there, only plotters and schemers that would stab you in the back at the first opportunity.
Mayhaps he was wrong, but all his efforts to squeeze out some help from below the Neck had been in vain. Vague promises of future aid that would never come to pass in return for the North's thinning number of swords and obeisance. As if he would bow to those who beheaded his father or break bread on a table with those who plotted his kin's demise. Most would see him killed just for being the 'son' of Eddard Stark. He had suppressed his burning desire to tear into the South, killing everyone that wronged his family, as they were far too numerous and the North's strength had waned greatly, and he was far too busy battling the Others.
But the South was not his concern now, no matter how dangerous it seemed. He was just a bastard again, and the North was ruled by the Lord of Winterfell, not Jon Snow. He had aided his uncle in every way he could, and now it was out of his hands. No, the bigger threat lay to the far north.
But first, he had to deal with one final pesky problem before heading beyond the Wall.
A small smile appeared on his lips as he felt Ghost nudge him through the link. The gods were smiling upon him today, he had expected to wait and stalk here for nearly a moon, yet it was scarcely the second day. He slipped his mind into the direwolf, only to be greeted by a gruesome sight. At a small clearing in the distance stood two ugly, cruel-looking men wearing the Flayed Man heraldry, surrounded by a handful of hounds.
The familiar one, with blotchy pink skin, wormy-looking lips, and pale, soulless eyes, was forcing himself upon a bruised and naked maiden while the second, all sorts of blisters and spots covering his skin, watched from the side with delight. Jon broke his connection, quickly strung his yew longbow and followed his companion's direction, trying his hardest not to produce a sound while stepping only on rocks and roots. He could recognise the repulsive face of the bastard of Dreadfort anywhere; although he was not sure who the other man was, it mattered little. He, too, would not see another sunrise. Thankfully, the snow was thin and soft enough not to crunch with every step. The moment the sun peaked over the clouds, it would melt the snow away.
It took him nearly half an hour, but he finally reached where Ghost stood as still as a statue amidst the snow. Jon looked at the clearing and felt his guts clench at the sight. The maiden now lay unmoving on the ground amidst a pool of blood; chunks of flesh were missing from her body, and he could see some blood dripping from some of the dogs' snouts. That was far from the worst he had seen, but the loathsome sight made his stomach churn. Gods, he felt like a green boy again! He shook his head and cleared his mind.
The uglier man that looked like he belonged in a pigsty was forcing himself upon the cold corpse while Ramsay watched from the side, fleshy face twisted grotesquely from sadistic glee.
He carefully measured the distance and thanked the gods again. The wind was blowing towards him, so the hounds had not yet smelled him nor Ghost. But a hundred yards was too far; Jon was unsure he could strike true at this distance. If he missed here, things could get ugly.
Jon slowly crept forward, praying for the beast of a man not to finish his vile deed just yet. Two painful minutes later, he was little less than sixty yards away, and the raper was still rutting the cold corpse.
An arrow was quietly notched, and he drew the yew bow and aimed towards Ramsay.
The arrow flew, and before it found its mark, Jon quickly drew a second one from the quiver and instantly let it loose towards the second man. The first one struck true and buried itself straight into Ramsay's eye, making him collapse like a sack of rocks. Sadly, the bastard's companion twisted and tried to see what was happened and was only struck in the shoulder.
Jon cursed while the man cried in pain and turned to run and quickly let loose a third and a fourth arrow. The third and fourth ones impaled his back, and he tumbled on the ground. The uneasy hounds seemed to have pinpointed Jon's location and mindlessly rushed his way, barking furiously. He barely managed to order the reluctant Ghost away; his direwolf was too young and small and would be easily killed by the bigger savage dogs. Arrows flew from his bow one after another, but he only downed two of them by the time they approached. When they were ten yards away, he tossed the bow away and quickly unsheathed his bastard sword in his right hand and a dagger in his left.
The five hounds directly went for his feet, but he lunged towards the reddish one on the left and lopped off its head with a single strike. The body tumbled on the ground, spraying blood everywhere while the head rolled to the side. The other four couldn't turn instantly, and after two short heartbeats, he found himself facing four pairs of eyes.
Even though the hounds were large and vicious, he did not fear them. He was faster, stronger, and just as vicious and had fought far more dangerous and numerous foes. Their hide couldn't halt the edge of his sword. Just as he prepared to slay them, he could feel something wiggle on the back of his mind.
Suddenly, their growls turned into pitiful whines; they all rolled on their backs, exposing their bellies, and he-
-found himself looking at the dangerous two legs with savage grey eyes.
28th Day of the 3rd Moon
Roose Bolton
The Lord of Dreadfort dismissed the servant after she filled his chalice with his favourite spiced wine.
"So where is he?"
Roose took a small sip and languidly looked at the captain of the guards.
"Ramsay's dead, my Lord," Walton reported.
A pity his bastard son had been shaping up to be… useful. But now, he was faced with a new quandary.
"And how did that happen?"
"Found him and Reek along with some woman in the forest where he liked to hunt or what little was left of them. Bears, wolves, and crows had feasted generously. Their eyes were pecked out, and they were mauled so badly they wouldn't have been recognised had it not been for the torn coat of arms," Steelshanks dutifully explained. "Seems like they died about five days ago, but all the traces were destroyed by hungry beasts, the snow, and the rain."
He thoughtfully twirled the wine for a few moments before taking another small sip, the spices making his tongue tingle pleasantly.
"What of his hounds?"
"Found a few torn limbs all over the forest and two half-eaten dogs, my Lord."
His bastard at least had the sense to perform his indiscretions in the more secluded parts of his lands. This time, the boy had ventured out only with Reek in tow, leaving Skinner and Grunt in the Dreadfort. But Ramsay's willfulness seemed to have worked against him this time. Usually, nobody dared to do anything under the banner of House Bolton.
A peaceful land, a quiet people.
Ramsay did hide his proclivities well enough and had not made any enemies Roose knew of. But the bastard, with a man-at-arms and a couple of hunting hounds by his side, should not have been easy to kill, especially by wild animals. Yet, the boy had always been reckless with little self-control; it would not surprise him if Ramsay tried to bite off more than he could chew. What a foolish death; Roose couldn't help but wonder if the gods simply deigned to punish his kinslaying son for his sacrilege.
Not only were his son's activities unsavoury, but his origins were as well. Roose never really acknowledged Ramsay as his bastard officially, especially since he was a fruit of partaking in the now-forbidden right of the First Night.
"What do you think of this, Walton?"
"Well, if it was done by men, they certainly knew how to cover their tracks. But not a single thing was looted from the corpses, and it's hard for a large number of men to hide their tracks well, even with the rain. Methinks Ramsay got a little too brave and ran afoul of an angry cave bear from the nearby hills."
It mattered little now; he had far greater problems than a dead bastard boy with far too much daring and too little wits.
"Double the patrols around the border and question anyone suspicious," he finally ordered.
"And what should we do with Ramsay's bones?"
"Leave them to the wolves," Roose impassively decided before dismissing Steelshanks. There was no need to bury a bastard in the crypts, where only the trueborn Bolton lay.
As the clinking of the captain's steel greaves was quietly fading in the distance, the Lord of Dreadfort took another sip and found himself in a dilemma.
Roose was sorely lacking an heir. His heir-apparent was Harwin Slate, the second grandson of the current Lord. A Bolton's daughter married into the Slates five generations ago. That would simply not do; the Dreadfort would never pass on those fools.
Ramsay could have been taught with time and maybe legitimised as his sole son, but now he had to look for a third wife. But it was not as simple as picking out a daughter from any House, big or small. House Bolton had an unsavoury reputation; many Northern Lords would hesitate to wed their daughters to him. He had to negotiate with Rodrick Ryswell for nearly two years before managing to arrange the marriage to Bethany. His first two marriages had hardly borne any fruit. Out of eight births, only Domeric had survived beyond the cradle. Roose now needed a third, more fertile wife, preferably one that would grant him a decent alliance.
He was not getting any younger, and it was time to review his options and begin negotiations.
He rang his bell, and a wiry serving girl entered, trying to mask the fear on her face but failing.
"Fetch me Maester Tybald."
3rd Day of the 4th Moon
Cotter Pyke, Eastwatch by the Sea
"Now, now, now, what do we have here?" Cotter Pyke asked with a wide smile, looking at the smuggler dragged in by the two burly rangers. He could recognise a Tyroshi cunt with their bright clothes and that painted hair anywhere, and this one smelled like loot. By the Drowned God, it's been only three moons since they bagged their last Tyroshi smuggler.
"We caught this one tryin' to sneak south after selling steel to the wildlings," Darlan explained with a toothy smile while he kicked the man down.
"Ah, this is a mis-"
Gormon smacked the smuggler's head with the flat of his blade, and the man flopped on the ground out cold. Everyone hated the greedy fucks tryin' to arm the wildlings just to earn some coin. The better armed the savages were, the more deadly were the rangings north of the Wall.
"Blackbird n' Talon caught his ship's loaded with weirwood, furs, ivory, some silver nuggets, n' few swords n' axes of poorer steel," the ranger added while Cotter whistled inwardly. The smugglers had gotten fucking silver! "Woulda chopped his head off on his own deck, but fuckers like this are too good for me sword."
Well, if nothing else, it would give Cotter one more ship under his command!
"This would make a hefty coin, enough to buy proper booze for everyone for half a year," Maester Harmune drunkenly muttered from the side, making Gormon snort with amusement.
Gods, he was tempted to toss Harmune down the Wall sometimes; the fucking Citadel had sent the most useless cunt for their maester. But alas, should he do that, he risked having an even more useless cunt come over.
"Hang him and all of his crew," Cotter ordered as the rangers dragged the man over to the middle of the courtyard.
"But what do we do with the galley slaves?"
"They can take the Black or hang with the smugglers," he waved it off. "We can always use more men."
Rangers, builders, stewards, there were never enough.
Just as he turned to return to his quarters, one of his men barely intercepted him from the docks beyond the makeshift gate.
While the castles on the wall were supposed to have no walls or defences to the south, a few braver wildlings had sailed around and attacked them during the night before, and thus a simple wooden palisade was raised to at least hold off raiders.
"Commander Pyke, a woman is looking fer ya," old Maekar hoarsely rasped out, trying to catch his breath.
The steward looked extremely thin, his eyes were sunken, and his sparse white hair looked dry, sticky, and as if it would fall off any moment. Cotter didn't give him more than a few moons before he went to sleep and didn't wake on the morrow, and even that might be generous. Maester Harmune, whose sole redeeming feature while sober was his two silver links in medicine, had declared that nothing could be done for the man.
"Is Kevan tryin' to smuggle his whores in again cuz he's too lazy to go to Hollowtree's whorehouse?" He asked tiredly.
"Nay, this one's some weird Essosi priestess dressed in all in red from the ship from Gulltown," the old man added, coughing and wheezing sickly.
This sounded suspiciously like those annoying red priests. What in the Drowned God's name would one of the fire-loving fucks want to do with him?
"Lead me to her," Cotter said with a sigh.
The Commander followed the hobbling man and soon left the dilapidated wooden gate and was onto the dreary docks. He blinked, unsure if the eyes were not deceiving him. Cotter was faced with a gorgeous pair of boobs and an alluring face, with an unhealthy obsession with the colour red. The red-haired, red-eyed woman in question was dressed in a rather thin crimson dress, yet the cold did not seem to bother her at all. Her unused travel cloak was crimson, and her small travel bag was also red. Cotter could see a lot of the Black Brothers looking lustily at the woman, but she seemed unbothered. Yeah, definitely a red priestess.
"You've been looking for me, lady…?"
"Melisandre of Asshai, devout servant of the Lord of the Light," she supplied with an alluring smile.
Cotter, unaffected by her melodic voice, shuddered at the mention of that accursed place. He'd seen a man that returned alive from Asshai, and the hardened sailor had become a drooling, quivering mess that had taken a leave of his senses and could only bumble like a lackwit and could not even control his own bladder.
No matter how much he wanted to bury his face into the ample bosom before him, his ma's warnings about witches ran like a death knell in his head.
"What brings a red witch all the way here?" He bluntly asked, hoping to send the vixen away as soon as possible.
Preferably before the Black Brothers lost whatever little control they had or before she decided to do her foul magicks here.
"I require a horse and a passage beyond the Wall," she stated.
"I can give ya a garron for a dragon, Malindre," he offered after mulling for a few moments.
He would normally order her searched in case she tried to smuggle something to the wildlings, but another look at her half-naked form dissuaded him from that… no matter how tempted he was to do the search himself.
"It's Melisandre, commander," she corrected with another sweet smile. "And I will take the horse."
"But if you want to go beyond the Wall, none of my men will accompany you."
"I only require a passage; R'hllor will light my path," the red woman assured him.
"Fine!"
Well, if the crazy priestess wanted to kill herself, Cotter was not going to stop her. A pity for the poor horse, he would make sure Norrey picked some older gelding that would not be missed.
Author's Endnote:
Stuff happens!
Jon's not in a good place mentally, he has long become a lone wolf and is unwilling to confront his kin.
ASOIAF winter = mini ice age. Northern summer snow = the regular yearly winter.
You'll notice that Jon is 16 as opposed to 14. This is one of the ripples, Harrenhal and the rebellion happened two years earlier, with all the ripples and consequences.
And the Father of the Year award goes to…
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
On a side note, Epilogue Part 5 of 'The Dragonwolf' is coming out in two Tuesdays (or you can read it right now on my discord).
Also, check out Bub3loka's 'A Lament of Snow and Magic', an HP x ASOIAF crossover in which I heavily participated in the planning and editing.
Jon's not in a good place mentally, he has long become a lone wolf and is unwilling to confront his kin.
ASOIAF winter = mini ice age. Northern summer snow = the regular yearly winter.
You'll notice that Jon is 16 as opposed to 14. This is one of the ripples, Harrenhal and the rebellion happened two years earlier, with all the ripples and consequences.
And the Father of the Year award goes to…
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
On a side note, Epilogue Part 5 of 'The Dragonwolf' is coming out in two Tuesdays (or you can read it right now on my discord).
Also, check out Bub3loka's 'A Lament of Snow and Magic', an HP x ASOIAF crossover in which I heavily participated in the planning and editing.
04-A Warning Heeded
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.
Edited by: Void Uzumaki
B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement. Without those people, I'd probably not be here now.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Davos Seaworth
Dragonstone
Despite Maester Cressen's fears, Stannis had finally awoken three days ago. They still had no idea what had started the fire, the claw knight had grown highly paranoid, and the fortress's defences had been tightened to the extreme. Not even a rat could enter without the knowledge of the master-at-arms. Worse, the Lord of Dragonstone was in great pain, and his throat couldn't produce anything beyond raspy coughs or pained wheezes.
And thus, he was still stuck here, unable to leave for nearly a moon now. There was little to do in the fortress; the Onion Knight was never one for training at arms, especially in his old age and with his missing fingers. So, most of his time was spent walking around idly, and he visited the local sept for the first time in years. Davos was not a particularly godly man, but a prayer or two were not remiss at times like these. Yet he could spend only so much time in the sept before growing tired of it. Even then, the aimless waiting would have been nigh unbearable if not for little Lady Shireen's insistence that he learn how to read.
Stannis' daughter was still the sweet and gentle little girl he remembered, but she had grown even sadder. Her eyes almost always rimmed with red, and he knew she probably cried herself to sleep every night. Still, she showed steely resilience, and once Shireen had something on her mind, nothing could stop her. Thus, when she decided he needed to learn to read, he couldn't help but buckle to her persistence.
Davos's mind idly wandered towards his sons; the seven had deigned to bless him with seven healthy sons, and he couldn't help but wonder if the gods had given him a sign. But alas, he was not a septon and could not even begin to understand the gods' will. Dale was grown enough to handle things on his own, but his other boys were young and impatient enough to do something foolish without his supervision after so long. Especially Allard, who was rash and had a penchant for finding trouble when there was none. Hopefully, his eldest would keep them in line.
Just as he watched the dreary sunset while enjoying the breeze and the smell of salt, sulfur, and brimstone from the western wall, a fat guardsman rushed over.
Davos recognised him as Dain, the local butcher's son who had a notorious fondness for salted pork and freshly baked sweetbread with the body to show for it too.
"Lord Baratheon has summoned ye," the man wheezed out as he tried to catch his breath.
Thank the Seven, it seemed that Stannis had recovered!
"I shall go at once," the former smuggler reassured with a curt nod and headed to the Stone Drum tower.
Hopefully, with his liege lord back on his feet, Davos could leave to box Allard's ears in again, return back to his beautiful Marya, and see his two youngest.
By the time he climbed the overly long flight of stairs and reached the Lord's quarters, the Onion Knight was out of breath. Father above, he was made for the sea, not climbing like a squirrel! At least his own holdfast was nothing more than a small tower with four floors and a thirteen feet tall curtain wall, but good enough to keep brigands and pirates out.
The imposing pair of guardsmen guarding Stannis' quarters nodded at him and opened the door.
The chamber smelled heavily of herbs and poultices. It was a nearly empty room with no ornaments and luxuries beyond the barest necessities. The Lord of Dragonstone lay still on the bed, most of his body aside from the face covered entirely by green-tinted soaked bandages.
Davos quickly came over to the bed and sat on the nearby chair.
Stannis shuffled uneasily and twisted his head to look at him with his dark blue eyes.
"Ser Davos, I am in need of advice," the Baratheon wheezed out painfully before starting to cough wetly.
"I would be glad to give you my advice, m'lord," he bowed his head lightly, "yet I'm but a former smuggler and know little of the lordly games and woes. Ser Hardy or Maester Cressen could provide far better counsel than me."
"I have heard their counsel, and now I shall hear yours!" Another bout of wet, sickly coughing ensued. It took a few painful moments before he calmed down. "Cressen says my lungs are damaged beyond repair."
The former smuggler recoiled at the news. Stannis had always been a man of iron will and conviction, undaunted even after starving for nearly a year in Storm's End. He remembered the young, painfully thin Lord back then, whose eyes were like two darkened and raw chips of sapphire, unbroken despite the odds.
"How long…?"
"The Maester says little more than half a year if I stay here," another sickly wheeze that made Davos wince inwardly. "The sulfur and brimstone of the Dragonmont are bad for my damaged lungs, he says. As if I have not been here for sixteen years! I am to spend the rest of my days confined to my bed, dying slowly and painfully! My legs are so badly burned that the barest of movements alone is agonising, let alone walking. Cressen was surprised I even managed to survive, as the odds were in favour of the Stranger."
"Can't nothing be done?" Davos hopefully inquired.
"Can't anything be done," the Lord repeated, wheezing painfully.
"What?"
"Can't have a double negative," Stannis explained hoarsely, much to the smuggler's incomprehension. A scowl settled on his face, and a pained sigh tore from his parched lips. "Forget it. Suppose I move away, I can extend that half a year, but for how long, Cressen does not tell," another painful but thankfully short bout of coughing. "Yet who can I trust when the Lannisters are trying to get rid of me? My master-at-arms and maester claim that the fire was but an accident, that no outsiders entered the fortress that day, but I know better. Jon Arryn, the second most guarded man in the Seven Kingdoms, thought himself safe, yet they murdered him with ease. My wife has perished, and my daughter was almost killed in my own keep!"
"You think Lord Tywin Lannister is behind the fire and the Hand's death?"
"Nay, not him, but his children. The old lion is content to sit in his gilded rock and rule his lands, but the Imp, the Kingslayer, and the Harlot are -"
Another round of wet coughing interrupted Stannis' words, and his face twisted in pain. A few painful heartbeats later, the bedridden Lord finally calmed down.
"Why not go to His Grace with this?"
"I have no proof," Stannis bitterly croaked out. "Even if I did, it would be dismissed, and I would be slighted once more if I even managed to leave King's Landing alive. No matter what I do, it is not enough for him! The only family my kingly brother cares about is Eddard Stark; somehow, the Lord of Winterfell is more of a brother to Robert than I ever was! Even now, he's going all the way North to make him his Hand instead of asking me. No, Robert and his northern brother can deal with the Lannisters on their own."
Davos had never seen his liege's mask of iron composure crack like this. Stannis' face had reddened, and he was heaving and wheezing heavily. The onion knight finally realised that the disgruntled Lord of Dragonstone is only human and could be pushed beyond his limit too.
"What shall you do then, m'lord?"
"I must prepare my daughter for when I pass on, lest the snakes and lions tear her apart," he coughed out. "She shall be the Lady of Dragonstone after me, but half a year is not enough. I… know I am not loved amongst the Lords. Which of my vassals do you think could be trusted enough with my daughter and me against the Lannister gold?"
Davos rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Lord Monford Valeryon, m'lord," he stated with confidence.
"Why?"
"He's a proud man from an old House, and Castle Driftmark is well-defensible. The Lannisters killed Lord Monford's aunt in the sack, and he'll never forget that. His Grace has strongly suppressed all the former dragon loyalists, and last but not least, you saved his baseborn son's life during the Greyjoy Rebellion."
Robb Stark
Sparring simply helped him get his mind off all the woes and the… wrongness. One day, he was two siblings short, and while his mother might have somewhat reduced her visits to the sept, only to turn her attention to Rickon, who was quickly beginning to chafe under all that coddling. Alas, she stubbornly refused to listen to anyone and was glued to his younger brother at all times. At the start, Rickon loved it, but he quickly tired of it and grew rebellious and oft attempted to run away, much to his mother's chagrin.
Rodrik had taught him how to use a greatsword long ago, but he had preferred a longsword, so he was out of practice. After nearly a fortnight of heavy training, his body had remembered the previous drilling, and his movements were no longer choppy or awkward. But the blunted greatsword was far heavier than what Robb was used to, and he grew tired faster than before. His lungs were on fire and screamed for more air as he was forcing his weary body to keep exchanging blows with the energetic Jory Cassel. While Robb had fought five guardsmen one after another already, the captain of the guards was rested, as he had sparred only with a single man so far.
Even with his last moon heavily focused in the yard, the heir of Winterfell could scarcely beat Jory one out of five bouts, and that was if he was lucky. The captain was taller, stronger, and more experienced and skilled than Robb.
He felt his movements slowly grow sluggish, and a few moments later, his greatsword was knocked aside, and the blunted tip of Jory's blade was at his gorget.
"I yield," Robb tiredly grunted out with a grimace.
"You lasted longer than last time," the captain said as his eyes lit up, and he placed his sword away.
"Still getting my arse handed to me, though."
"Any improvement matters," Jory pointed out. "If you keep this up, soon, very few will be your match in Winterfell."
Robb couldn't help but grin; at the start, spending almost all of his time in the yard was just to let the anger out. The rage was quickly smacked out of him, as a furious swordsman was easier to defeat. Instead, he had channelled all of his fervour into unyielding persistence, and now, even with a greatsword, he could best some of the guardsmen that defeated him before. Alas, Jon was gone, disappeared gods know here, and he had nobody his age worthy to test his skill against. Theon was three years his elder, yet Robb defeated him even before, let alone now. Not that the heir to the Iron Isles trained too hard. Even now, he was in Wintertown, visiting Ros.
"Maybe with a longsword, I'd stand a better chance," Robb couldn't help but grumble, looking at Jory's smug face.
"In a few years," the captain chuckled goodnaturedly. "You've not seen blood in battle yet, Lord Robb. There's a difference between a man who has fought and killed for his life and one that has not."
He nodded absentmindedly, returned his blunted greatsword to the weapons rack, and turned to watch his father spar with Rodrik as he began rubbing his sore body. Instead of a greatsword, his father favoured sword and a dagger and was slowly but surely whittling away the knight's defences. Eventually, Rodrik overextended, and his father managed to pin his opponent's sword to the side with his dagger and slammed his shoulder, knocking the older knight to the ground. Eddard Stark helped his grumbling master-at-arms up, gave his shoulder a squeeze, and turned towards the most veteran of the guardsmen.
The next opponent turned out to be Hallis Mollen, and Robb trudged towards the Guest House after ordering one of the servants to bring him a set of clean clothes to change into. It was time to get a few precious moments of rest for his sore body in the hot springs before his father finished his own sparring and needled him for more lordly lessons.
Robb entered the Godswood from the small wooden gate next to the Guest House. The first thing he noticed was the pleasant scent of pine and oak. Inside the ancient grove, the canopy above blocked the sun, and, on the ground, the gnarly roots and stones were covered by moss, surrounding the packed earth. There was also a faint mist coming from the direction of the hot springs. The heir of Winterfell took a few moments to admire the serene view and trudged towards the softly churning waters just below the moss-covered wall. Small streams flowed out of the three hot springs and merged together before crossing the Godswood and flowing into the castle's moat. He quickly discarded his clothes on a large stone nearby and entered the steaming pool on the left. The bubbling water reached just below his ribs, and he took a few moments to find a shallower side to sit down so only his head stayed above. The soreness in his muscles was replaced by the pleasant encompassing warmth, and he let out a sigh of contentment and closed his eyes as a robin chirped from a nearby elm.
His mind slowly drifted over the last half a moon; Eddard Stark rarely visited the yard to train, as he was usually busy with his Lordly duties and was either spending his time in the solar or riding off to settle disputes. But this changed a fortnight ago, shortly after Jon disappeared. His father also shelved a part of his lesser duties and made ample time to give Robb personal tutoring every day instead of twice a sennight.
The melodic singing of the bird felt so calming…
"-Robb, Robb!"
A voice startled him awake, and he almost jumped out of the water.
Across the pool, thinly veiled by steam, his father was sitting, only head and shoulders above the water, hair glistening with moisture. Gods, he hadn't even heard anyone approach!
"Hello, father," Robb coughed out once he calmed down. The chirping bird was nowhere to be heard, and the only other sound was the soft bubbling of the hot water.
"Had a nice nap?" Eddard Stark asked with a knowing smile. Gone was the usually troubled demeanour that he carried around.
"Aye," he confirmed with a sigh. "Is it time for our lessons?"
"In a bit," his father hummed as he stretched his arms. He noticed a few old scars along his shoulder and forearms. "But if you're ready, we can mayhaps start here."
Robb barely managed to hold in his groan. He didn't mind doing his duty, be it training or learning. But there was scarcely any spare time anymore, and when he did manage to find an hour or two, he was too tired to do much. Alas, being the heir of House Stark was far from fun.
"In the Godswood?"
"Nobody said that lessons must be given in a dusty room," Eddard Stark chortled. "In fact, I find myself liking it here more."
"Fine, but I have a few queries first, father," after receiving a nod, Robb slowly continued. "I didn't ask until now, but I feel that I need to know. Why make me train only with a greatsword? Why the more intense and detailed lessons?"
After half a minute of silence, the Lord of Winterfell sighed heavily, and his grey eyes looked weary. For a short moment, the unshakable pillar of a man was replaced with a tired and weary father, but a moment later, his eyes hardened into two chips of stone. Robb couldn't help but notice that the greying beard made him look far older than his four and thirty years.
"You are of age now, Robb," he began slowly. "When I was your age, I expected to become a master-at-arms somewhere and mayhaps fall in love and wed a beautiful highborn maid."
"But you love mother!"
"Aye, I do love her now," his father confirmed with a small chuckle. "How can I not love a woman who gave me five strong children? But this was not always the case. She was to be your uncle Brandon's wife; alas, the Rebellion happened. I was not prepared to be the Lord of Winterfell, let alone a husband. I never spoke to your mother before we wed, and we entered the marriage bed as strangers. Lately, I feel that I have not prepared you enough for becoming the next Lord of Winterfell."
"You're hale and hearty father, I won't become Lord until you probably see your grandchildren grow up!"
"That was my hope as well," Eddard Stark hummed with a soft chuckle. "But fate oft makes fools of the best of us. If something happens to me, I'll have you be prepared."
Chills ran through Robb's spine, despite the hot water surrounding him.
"Is this about the King's visit? Weren't you friends?"
"A crown can change a man, but enough of this," his father's voice grew stern. "I'll tell you more about the south when we're done with the Northern Lords. But first, as for why I'm having you train with a greatsword. The reason is simple; for years and years, I learned how to fight with a longsword and dagger, and when the time came to wield Ice, it was too cumbersome for me. You might have noticed, but I only use our ancestral blade for ceremonial purposes and not as a weapon of war as it was intended."
"Isn't Ice just too big and heavy to be used in battle?"
"Valyrian steel is easily half the weight of normal metal, so while Ice is not light, it's not unusable. Swords forged in the fires of the Freehold also have an unnaturally sharp edge that never dulls, so a skilled and strong swordsman can cut through normal men like a butcher through pigs. Your grandsire, Rickard Stark, was said to chop through steel, bone, and wood effortlessly with Ice in hand in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He split one of the leaders of the Band of Nine in two with a single swing of his sword; shield, plate, and bone cleaved through cleanly. I might not be able to wield Ice in battle, but you will. Does that answer your questions?"
"Aye," Robb confirmed. The thought of using the ancestral blade of his House stirred something primal within him.
"I will also let you handle some of my Lordly duties with my supervision and guidance from now on," Eddard Stark thoughtfully added before splashing his face with a handful of hot water. "But that's for later. Now, let's begin with our lesson. Tell me how you would handle the Northern Lords during a war campaign, especially Lords Umber, Bolton, and Karstark."
The heir of Winterfell stirred from his resting place with interest. Lately, his lessons were quite different from the usual warfare, lordly duties and rights. They now focused on a detailed analysis of the Northern Lords, their keeps, their Houses, and their current relationship with the Starks in the last twenty years. But this was the first time his father asked him how he would deal with specific Northern bannermen in war.
"Karstark is stern but leal," he carefully began as he tried to glean anything from his father's now impassive face. Alas, it was in vain. Robb felt envious of Eddard Stark's stony expression that gave nothing away. "He'll do whatever task I assign him easily enough. The GreatJon is proud and fierce, though he will be difficult to deal with unless I earn his respect. But how would I do that?"
"You tell me," the Lord of Winterfell returned impassively, and his gaze turned piercing, making Robb feel even more naked than he already was.
"I should present a firm and unyielding front," Robb finally spoke after a minute of thoughtful silence. "Or impress him with my martial prowess. But I doubt I can do anything noteworthy against the Giant of Last Hearth."
"Indeed," his father acquiesced. "You cannot show weakness if you wish to lead the North. But once you earn Lord Umber's respect, he'll be your lealest bannerman. What you said about Karstark is true, but Rickard is also a very vengeful man. He lost a brother in the Stoney Sept to a member of house Cressey, and later in the Trident, he dedicated all of his efforts to hunting down anyone with the Cressey sigil. They still haven't recovered from that butchery, if I recall correctly. You can assign whatever positions you want to him, but should one of his kin die, he will try to get vengeance no matter what. What about Roose Bolton and the rest of the Lords?"
Robb gulped as he processed this.
"The others aren't particularly troublesome to lead. But I'm not sure how to handle Roose Bolton," he finally admitted.
"The Lord of the Dreadfort is easy enough to handle from a position of strength, but a Bolton is never to be trusted," his father slowly explained. "Roose, in particular, is remorseless and cunning and wouldn't hesitate to stab you in the back should it prove beneficial to him and his House. With that in mind, how would you handle him during a war?"
Robb paused for another heartbeat, remembering the bad history between the Kings of Winter and the Red Kings.
"If the Boltons are such a thorn in our side, why didn't House Stark vanquish them when they rebelled twice?"
"It's not something written in the history books, or Luwin would know," Eddard Stark acknowledged with a sigh. "I had a similar question to my Lord-father when I was just a boy before I was fostered at the Eyrie. The first time, they managed to lay the blame at the feet of the unruly Greystarks and had a legitimate excuse to revolt. A Bolton son was slain on Stark lands, and the Kings of Winter refused to give any explanation or recompense, or so the story goes. They somehow managed to goad the Greystarks into starting a rebellion. Remember, my son, the Flayed Man is always cunning. The second time they rebelled was when the North was attacked by the Ironborn and an alliance of Andal Warlords at the same time. King Harlon Stark defeated his foes, only to return home and find it burned by Lord Royce Bolton. The Dreadfort was too hard to take, and winter would soon be upon them."
His father took a deep breath and continued.
"If House Stark had stormed the hardy and well-manned fortress, the losses would have been big enough to greatly weaken their position as kings. The cunning Flayed Lord thought that the snow would melt away Harlon's army and resolve, but he was wrong. After two years, when their larders began to run low, the Boltons finally felt fear and bent their knee on the condition that their youngest, the three-year-old grandson of the Flayed Lord, was spared from the Black or the block. The Northern King reluctantly accepted because the winter was too harsh, and his army was soon on its last leg. Now, let's get back to the question at hand."
At that moment, Robb finally felt uncomfortable after standing in the hot water for so long. Gods, his skin had gone all pruney. He carefully left the pool and grabbed a grey towel to dry himself, and quickly began putting on the clean clothes the servants had placed nearby.
"I would avoid giving Bolton any important command of any of the troops," Robb hesitantly provided as he clasped his leather belt. "A position of honour, not too important and one he cannot refuse, would be perfect. Particularly, one with plenty of danger and little glory, to whittle down the Bolton forces and, if I'm lucky, he'll die from the enemy in the process or be captured."
His father nodded with approval and rose from the bubbling waters, revealing a lean yet powerful scarred body, reminding Robb that his father had seen plenty of fighting. There was a wide sword scar on the side and a few smaller ones on his back and above his navel. Eddard Stark had never been fat, but the hint of plumpness that had begun to appear in the last few years was nowhere to be seen now.
"That is a good plan," Eddard Stark acknowledged, but his face grew deathly serious, and his voice became heavy. "But you must remember, Winterfell is the most important thing for House Stark. As long as it stands, House Stark will stand strong. With five hundred men, you can repel ten thousand, and with two thousand, you can stop half a hundred thousand. If you leave south to go to war, make sure to leave an ample garrison and a trusted person in charge. Throw the forces of more unruly lords in the most dangerous parts of the fighting, but do not compromise your battles by giving the important positions to those unfit to stand in them. It will keep them honoured and weakened while preserving most of your own forces while also giving them a taste of battle."
Robb couldn't help but feel stumped at his father's words. That was quite… cunning and unlike anything he was taught before.
"But wouldn't it be dishonouring yourself with actions like this?"
"Nay, there is nothing dishonourable about giving your bannermen a chance to win some spoils and glory," was the impassive reply. "It seems that I have taught you wrong. Robb, what is honour?"
The heir of Winterfell was stumped for a short moment, and Eddard Stark finally finished clothing himself and sat on a clean stone nearby.
"Doing the right thing?"
"Right according to whom?" His father countered, and after half a minute of uneasy silence, he continued. "There are many types of honour, but the most important is to honour one's vows. A Lord's word is as weighty as a mountain and should not be given lightly. It is why we upheld our agreement with the Boltons in their second and last rebellion, despite the temptation of destroying them root and stem as we had done to many other nameless Houses before them. If you shirk it, your word will always mean less for it, and people will begin doubting your ability to rule your vassals. People would say House Stark were nothing more than traitors for rebelling against the dragons, but they forget that fealty is a vow that goes both ways. Obeisance is given only in return for mercy, justice, and protection, and House Stark received neither. And when I called the banners in rebellion, all my bannermen answered me dutifully, despite being a boy raised in the Vale that few had seen and even fewer had remembered. Did you know that I was in love with another woman before I married your mother?"
The heir of Winterfell sat there stunned, unsure if he had heard correctly. Then, something clicked.
"Was it Jon's mother?"
"Nay," was the forlorn denial. "There's another story there, one that you will hear soon if your studies progress well enough. I had resolved myself to not speak of this, but mayhaps you need to hear it. It was Ashara Dayne, and we had agreed to wed each other."
"But-" Robb's words failed him at that moment. This was the first time he had heard about any of this, and he felt so confused. If the woman in question was not Jon's mother, was his father having an intended and a paramour on the side?
"Aye, we were young, and I was just a second son with no land to inherit. Despite being Dornish, the Daynes are a respected House with a strong Fist Man ancestry and tradition, said to originate all the way in the Dawn Age. Alas, the gods laugh at the plans of men, and your grandfather and uncle perished in the hands of the Mad King in a foul mockery of a trial. During the Rebellion, our forces were severely lacking in numbers, and we could not afford Hoster Tully to join the royalist cause or even to stay neutral, which would leave our western flank and supply lines completely open. So, despite my promises of marriage to Ashara Dayne, when the Lord of Riverrun demanded to renew the marriage arrangement to our Houses, I agreed. And I do not regret it. I scarcely even remember how the dornish beauty even looked anymore. Nothing good awaited House Stark if we had lost, and both of us wouldn't even be here to have this conversation. House Stark is not just our family, but every single soul under us that we have sworn to protect." His father's speech fell into a pregnant pause for a moment. "So… what is honour?"
A heavy silence followed up as Robb was pondering on his answer. A few minutes later, a set of hurried footsteps heralded the arrival of one of the guardsmen, Wayn.
"M'lord, Howland Reed is at the gates, claiming he's here to see you."
"Let him in. I'll meet him in the yard in a few minutes," Eddard Stark ordered the guardsman, who quickly ran off, knowing he was not supposed to be in the Godswood for longer than necessary. His father turned to look towards Robb again. "Well, my son, think on it carefully. There is no need to give me a hasty answer. I suppose our further lessons shall wait for tomorrow. Go to Luwin, and brush up on your recent history of the Great Houses of the South and their current members."
The Lord of Winterfell headed towards the yard, leaving Robb Stark alone in the godswood, deep in thought.
Author's Endnote:
Edited by: Void Uzumaki
B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement. Without those people, I'd probably not be here now.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Davos Seaworth
Dragonstone
Despite Maester Cressen's fears, Stannis had finally awoken three days ago. They still had no idea what had started the fire, the claw knight had grown highly paranoid, and the fortress's defences had been tightened to the extreme. Not even a rat could enter without the knowledge of the master-at-arms. Worse, the Lord of Dragonstone was in great pain, and his throat couldn't produce anything beyond raspy coughs or pained wheezes.
And thus, he was still stuck here, unable to leave for nearly a moon now. There was little to do in the fortress; the Onion Knight was never one for training at arms, especially in his old age and with his missing fingers. So, most of his time was spent walking around idly, and he visited the local sept for the first time in years. Davos was not a particularly godly man, but a prayer or two were not remiss at times like these. Yet he could spend only so much time in the sept before growing tired of it. Even then, the aimless waiting would have been nigh unbearable if not for little Lady Shireen's insistence that he learn how to read.
Stannis' daughter was still the sweet and gentle little girl he remembered, but she had grown even sadder. Her eyes almost always rimmed with red, and he knew she probably cried herself to sleep every night. Still, she showed steely resilience, and once Shireen had something on her mind, nothing could stop her. Thus, when she decided he needed to learn to read, he couldn't help but buckle to her persistence.
Davos's mind idly wandered towards his sons; the seven had deigned to bless him with seven healthy sons, and he couldn't help but wonder if the gods had given him a sign. But alas, he was not a septon and could not even begin to understand the gods' will. Dale was grown enough to handle things on his own, but his other boys were young and impatient enough to do something foolish without his supervision after so long. Especially Allard, who was rash and had a penchant for finding trouble when there was none. Hopefully, his eldest would keep them in line.
Just as he watched the dreary sunset while enjoying the breeze and the smell of salt, sulfur, and brimstone from the western wall, a fat guardsman rushed over.
Davos recognised him as Dain, the local butcher's son who had a notorious fondness for salted pork and freshly baked sweetbread with the body to show for it too.
"Lord Baratheon has summoned ye," the man wheezed out as he tried to catch his breath.
Thank the Seven, it seemed that Stannis had recovered!
"I shall go at once," the former smuggler reassured with a curt nod and headed to the Stone Drum tower.
Hopefully, with his liege lord back on his feet, Davos could leave to box Allard's ears in again, return back to his beautiful Marya, and see his two youngest.
By the time he climbed the overly long flight of stairs and reached the Lord's quarters, the Onion Knight was out of breath. Father above, he was made for the sea, not climbing like a squirrel! At least his own holdfast was nothing more than a small tower with four floors and a thirteen feet tall curtain wall, but good enough to keep brigands and pirates out.
The imposing pair of guardsmen guarding Stannis' quarters nodded at him and opened the door.
The chamber smelled heavily of herbs and poultices. It was a nearly empty room with no ornaments and luxuries beyond the barest necessities. The Lord of Dragonstone lay still on the bed, most of his body aside from the face covered entirely by green-tinted soaked bandages.
Davos quickly came over to the bed and sat on the nearby chair.
Stannis shuffled uneasily and twisted his head to look at him with his dark blue eyes.
"Ser Davos, I am in need of advice," the Baratheon wheezed out painfully before starting to cough wetly.
"I would be glad to give you my advice, m'lord," he bowed his head lightly, "yet I'm but a former smuggler and know little of the lordly games and woes. Ser Hardy or Maester Cressen could provide far better counsel than me."
"I have heard their counsel, and now I shall hear yours!" Another bout of wet, sickly coughing ensued. It took a few painful moments before he calmed down. "Cressen says my lungs are damaged beyond repair."
The former smuggler recoiled at the news. Stannis had always been a man of iron will and conviction, undaunted even after starving for nearly a year in Storm's End. He remembered the young, painfully thin Lord back then, whose eyes were like two darkened and raw chips of sapphire, unbroken despite the odds.
"How long…?"
"The Maester says little more than half a year if I stay here," another sickly wheeze that made Davos wince inwardly. "The sulfur and brimstone of the Dragonmont are bad for my damaged lungs, he says. As if I have not been here for sixteen years! I am to spend the rest of my days confined to my bed, dying slowly and painfully! My legs are so badly burned that the barest of movements alone is agonising, let alone walking. Cressen was surprised I even managed to survive, as the odds were in favour of the Stranger."
"Can't nothing be done?" Davos hopefully inquired.
"Can't anything be done," the Lord repeated, wheezing painfully.
"What?"
"Can't have a double negative," Stannis explained hoarsely, much to the smuggler's incomprehension. A scowl settled on his face, and a pained sigh tore from his parched lips. "Forget it. Suppose I move away, I can extend that half a year, but for how long, Cressen does not tell," another painful but thankfully short bout of coughing. "Yet who can I trust when the Lannisters are trying to get rid of me? My master-at-arms and maester claim that the fire was but an accident, that no outsiders entered the fortress that day, but I know better. Jon Arryn, the second most guarded man in the Seven Kingdoms, thought himself safe, yet they murdered him with ease. My wife has perished, and my daughter was almost killed in my own keep!"
"You think Lord Tywin Lannister is behind the fire and the Hand's death?"
"Nay, not him, but his children. The old lion is content to sit in his gilded rock and rule his lands, but the Imp, the Kingslayer, and the Harlot are -"
Another round of wet coughing interrupted Stannis' words, and his face twisted in pain. A few painful heartbeats later, the bedridden Lord finally calmed down.
"Why not go to His Grace with this?"
"I have no proof," Stannis bitterly croaked out. "Even if I did, it would be dismissed, and I would be slighted once more if I even managed to leave King's Landing alive. No matter what I do, it is not enough for him! The only family my kingly brother cares about is Eddard Stark; somehow, the Lord of Winterfell is more of a brother to Robert than I ever was! Even now, he's going all the way North to make him his Hand instead of asking me. No, Robert and his northern brother can deal with the Lannisters on their own."
Davos had never seen his liege's mask of iron composure crack like this. Stannis' face had reddened, and he was heaving and wheezing heavily. The onion knight finally realised that the disgruntled Lord of Dragonstone is only human and could be pushed beyond his limit too.
"What shall you do then, m'lord?"
"I must prepare my daughter for when I pass on, lest the snakes and lions tear her apart," he coughed out. "She shall be the Lady of Dragonstone after me, but half a year is not enough. I… know I am not loved amongst the Lords. Which of my vassals do you think could be trusted enough with my daughter and me against the Lannister gold?"
Davos rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Lord Monford Valeryon, m'lord," he stated with confidence.
"Why?"
"He's a proud man from an old House, and Castle Driftmark is well-defensible. The Lannisters killed Lord Monford's aunt in the sack, and he'll never forget that. His Grace has strongly suppressed all the former dragon loyalists, and last but not least, you saved his baseborn son's life during the Greyjoy Rebellion."
Robb Stark
Sparring simply helped him get his mind off all the woes and the… wrongness. One day, he was two siblings short, and while his mother might have somewhat reduced her visits to the sept, only to turn her attention to Rickon, who was quickly beginning to chafe under all that coddling. Alas, she stubbornly refused to listen to anyone and was glued to his younger brother at all times. At the start, Rickon loved it, but he quickly tired of it and grew rebellious and oft attempted to run away, much to his mother's chagrin.
Rodrik had taught him how to use a greatsword long ago, but he had preferred a longsword, so he was out of practice. After nearly a fortnight of heavy training, his body had remembered the previous drilling, and his movements were no longer choppy or awkward. But the blunted greatsword was far heavier than what Robb was used to, and he grew tired faster than before. His lungs were on fire and screamed for more air as he was forcing his weary body to keep exchanging blows with the energetic Jory Cassel. While Robb had fought five guardsmen one after another already, the captain of the guards was rested, as he had sparred only with a single man so far.
Even with his last moon heavily focused in the yard, the heir of Winterfell could scarcely beat Jory one out of five bouts, and that was if he was lucky. The captain was taller, stronger, and more experienced and skilled than Robb.
He felt his movements slowly grow sluggish, and a few moments later, his greatsword was knocked aside, and the blunted tip of Jory's blade was at his gorget.
"I yield," Robb tiredly grunted out with a grimace.
"You lasted longer than last time," the captain said as his eyes lit up, and he placed his sword away.
"Still getting my arse handed to me, though."
"Any improvement matters," Jory pointed out. "If you keep this up, soon, very few will be your match in Winterfell."
Robb couldn't help but grin; at the start, spending almost all of his time in the yard was just to let the anger out. The rage was quickly smacked out of him, as a furious swordsman was easier to defeat. Instead, he had channelled all of his fervour into unyielding persistence, and now, even with a greatsword, he could best some of the guardsmen that defeated him before. Alas, Jon was gone, disappeared gods know here, and he had nobody his age worthy to test his skill against. Theon was three years his elder, yet Robb defeated him even before, let alone now. Not that the heir to the Iron Isles trained too hard. Even now, he was in Wintertown, visiting Ros.
"Maybe with a longsword, I'd stand a better chance," Robb couldn't help but grumble, looking at Jory's smug face.
"In a few years," the captain chuckled goodnaturedly. "You've not seen blood in battle yet, Lord Robb. There's a difference between a man who has fought and killed for his life and one that has not."
He nodded absentmindedly, returned his blunted greatsword to the weapons rack, and turned to watch his father spar with Rodrik as he began rubbing his sore body. Instead of a greatsword, his father favoured sword and a dagger and was slowly but surely whittling away the knight's defences. Eventually, Rodrik overextended, and his father managed to pin his opponent's sword to the side with his dagger and slammed his shoulder, knocking the older knight to the ground. Eddard Stark helped his grumbling master-at-arms up, gave his shoulder a squeeze, and turned towards the most veteran of the guardsmen.
The next opponent turned out to be Hallis Mollen, and Robb trudged towards the Guest House after ordering one of the servants to bring him a set of clean clothes to change into. It was time to get a few precious moments of rest for his sore body in the hot springs before his father finished his own sparring and needled him for more lordly lessons.
Robb entered the Godswood from the small wooden gate next to the Guest House. The first thing he noticed was the pleasant scent of pine and oak. Inside the ancient grove, the canopy above blocked the sun, and, on the ground, the gnarly roots and stones were covered by moss, surrounding the packed earth. There was also a faint mist coming from the direction of the hot springs. The heir of Winterfell took a few moments to admire the serene view and trudged towards the softly churning waters just below the moss-covered wall. Small streams flowed out of the three hot springs and merged together before crossing the Godswood and flowing into the castle's moat. He quickly discarded his clothes on a large stone nearby and entered the steaming pool on the left. The bubbling water reached just below his ribs, and he took a few moments to find a shallower side to sit down so only his head stayed above. The soreness in his muscles was replaced by the pleasant encompassing warmth, and he let out a sigh of contentment and closed his eyes as a robin chirped from a nearby elm.
His mind slowly drifted over the last half a moon; Eddard Stark rarely visited the yard to train, as he was usually busy with his Lordly duties and was either spending his time in the solar or riding off to settle disputes. But this changed a fortnight ago, shortly after Jon disappeared. His father also shelved a part of his lesser duties and made ample time to give Robb personal tutoring every day instead of twice a sennight.
The melodic singing of the bird felt so calming…
"-Robb, Robb!"
A voice startled him awake, and he almost jumped out of the water.
Across the pool, thinly veiled by steam, his father was sitting, only head and shoulders above the water, hair glistening with moisture. Gods, he hadn't even heard anyone approach!
"Hello, father," Robb coughed out once he calmed down. The chirping bird was nowhere to be heard, and the only other sound was the soft bubbling of the hot water.
"Had a nice nap?" Eddard Stark asked with a knowing smile. Gone was the usually troubled demeanour that he carried around.
"Aye," he confirmed with a sigh. "Is it time for our lessons?"
"In a bit," his father hummed as he stretched his arms. He noticed a few old scars along his shoulder and forearms. "But if you're ready, we can mayhaps start here."
Robb barely managed to hold in his groan. He didn't mind doing his duty, be it training or learning. But there was scarcely any spare time anymore, and when he did manage to find an hour or two, he was too tired to do much. Alas, being the heir of House Stark was far from fun.
"In the Godswood?"
"Nobody said that lessons must be given in a dusty room," Eddard Stark chortled. "In fact, I find myself liking it here more."
"Fine, but I have a few queries first, father," after receiving a nod, Robb slowly continued. "I didn't ask until now, but I feel that I need to know. Why make me train only with a greatsword? Why the more intense and detailed lessons?"
After half a minute of silence, the Lord of Winterfell sighed heavily, and his grey eyes looked weary. For a short moment, the unshakable pillar of a man was replaced with a tired and weary father, but a moment later, his eyes hardened into two chips of stone. Robb couldn't help but notice that the greying beard made him look far older than his four and thirty years.
"You are of age now, Robb," he began slowly. "When I was your age, I expected to become a master-at-arms somewhere and mayhaps fall in love and wed a beautiful highborn maid."
"But you love mother!"
"Aye, I do love her now," his father confirmed with a small chuckle. "How can I not love a woman who gave me five strong children? But this was not always the case. She was to be your uncle Brandon's wife; alas, the Rebellion happened. I was not prepared to be the Lord of Winterfell, let alone a husband. I never spoke to your mother before we wed, and we entered the marriage bed as strangers. Lately, I feel that I have not prepared you enough for becoming the next Lord of Winterfell."
"You're hale and hearty father, I won't become Lord until you probably see your grandchildren grow up!"
"That was my hope as well," Eddard Stark hummed with a soft chuckle. "But fate oft makes fools of the best of us. If something happens to me, I'll have you be prepared."
Chills ran through Robb's spine, despite the hot water surrounding him.
"Is this about the King's visit? Weren't you friends?"
"A crown can change a man, but enough of this," his father's voice grew stern. "I'll tell you more about the south when we're done with the Northern Lords. But first, as for why I'm having you train with a greatsword. The reason is simple; for years and years, I learned how to fight with a longsword and dagger, and when the time came to wield Ice, it was too cumbersome for me. You might have noticed, but I only use our ancestral blade for ceremonial purposes and not as a weapon of war as it was intended."
"Isn't Ice just too big and heavy to be used in battle?"
"Valyrian steel is easily half the weight of normal metal, so while Ice is not light, it's not unusable. Swords forged in the fires of the Freehold also have an unnaturally sharp edge that never dulls, so a skilled and strong swordsman can cut through normal men like a butcher through pigs. Your grandsire, Rickard Stark, was said to chop through steel, bone, and wood effortlessly with Ice in hand in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He split one of the leaders of the Band of Nine in two with a single swing of his sword; shield, plate, and bone cleaved through cleanly. I might not be able to wield Ice in battle, but you will. Does that answer your questions?"
"Aye," Robb confirmed. The thought of using the ancestral blade of his House stirred something primal within him.
"I will also let you handle some of my Lordly duties with my supervision and guidance from now on," Eddard Stark thoughtfully added before splashing his face with a handful of hot water. "But that's for later. Now, let's begin with our lesson. Tell me how you would handle the Northern Lords during a war campaign, especially Lords Umber, Bolton, and Karstark."
The heir of Winterfell stirred from his resting place with interest. Lately, his lessons were quite different from the usual warfare, lordly duties and rights. They now focused on a detailed analysis of the Northern Lords, their keeps, their Houses, and their current relationship with the Starks in the last twenty years. But this was the first time his father asked him how he would deal with specific Northern bannermen in war.
"Karstark is stern but leal," he carefully began as he tried to glean anything from his father's now impassive face. Alas, it was in vain. Robb felt envious of Eddard Stark's stony expression that gave nothing away. "He'll do whatever task I assign him easily enough. The GreatJon is proud and fierce, though he will be difficult to deal with unless I earn his respect. But how would I do that?"
"You tell me," the Lord of Winterfell returned impassively, and his gaze turned piercing, making Robb feel even more naked than he already was.
"I should present a firm and unyielding front," Robb finally spoke after a minute of thoughtful silence. "Or impress him with my martial prowess. But I doubt I can do anything noteworthy against the Giant of Last Hearth."
"Indeed," his father acquiesced. "You cannot show weakness if you wish to lead the North. But once you earn Lord Umber's respect, he'll be your lealest bannerman. What you said about Karstark is true, but Rickard is also a very vengeful man. He lost a brother in the Stoney Sept to a member of house Cressey, and later in the Trident, he dedicated all of his efforts to hunting down anyone with the Cressey sigil. They still haven't recovered from that butchery, if I recall correctly. You can assign whatever positions you want to him, but should one of his kin die, he will try to get vengeance no matter what. What about Roose Bolton and the rest of the Lords?"
Robb gulped as he processed this.
"The others aren't particularly troublesome to lead. But I'm not sure how to handle Roose Bolton," he finally admitted.
"The Lord of the Dreadfort is easy enough to handle from a position of strength, but a Bolton is never to be trusted," his father slowly explained. "Roose, in particular, is remorseless and cunning and wouldn't hesitate to stab you in the back should it prove beneficial to him and his House. With that in mind, how would you handle him during a war?"
Robb paused for another heartbeat, remembering the bad history between the Kings of Winter and the Red Kings.
"If the Boltons are such a thorn in our side, why didn't House Stark vanquish them when they rebelled twice?"
"It's not something written in the history books, or Luwin would know," Eddard Stark acknowledged with a sigh. "I had a similar question to my Lord-father when I was just a boy before I was fostered at the Eyrie. The first time, they managed to lay the blame at the feet of the unruly Greystarks and had a legitimate excuse to revolt. A Bolton son was slain on Stark lands, and the Kings of Winter refused to give any explanation or recompense, or so the story goes. They somehow managed to goad the Greystarks into starting a rebellion. Remember, my son, the Flayed Man is always cunning. The second time they rebelled was when the North was attacked by the Ironborn and an alliance of Andal Warlords at the same time. King Harlon Stark defeated his foes, only to return home and find it burned by Lord Royce Bolton. The Dreadfort was too hard to take, and winter would soon be upon them."
His father took a deep breath and continued.
"If House Stark had stormed the hardy and well-manned fortress, the losses would have been big enough to greatly weaken their position as kings. The cunning Flayed Lord thought that the snow would melt away Harlon's army and resolve, but he was wrong. After two years, when their larders began to run low, the Boltons finally felt fear and bent their knee on the condition that their youngest, the three-year-old grandson of the Flayed Lord, was spared from the Black or the block. The Northern King reluctantly accepted because the winter was too harsh, and his army was soon on its last leg. Now, let's get back to the question at hand."
At that moment, Robb finally felt uncomfortable after standing in the hot water for so long. Gods, his skin had gone all pruney. He carefully left the pool and grabbed a grey towel to dry himself, and quickly began putting on the clean clothes the servants had placed nearby.
"I would avoid giving Bolton any important command of any of the troops," Robb hesitantly provided as he clasped his leather belt. "A position of honour, not too important and one he cannot refuse, would be perfect. Particularly, one with plenty of danger and little glory, to whittle down the Bolton forces and, if I'm lucky, he'll die from the enemy in the process or be captured."
His father nodded with approval and rose from the bubbling waters, revealing a lean yet powerful scarred body, reminding Robb that his father had seen plenty of fighting. There was a wide sword scar on the side and a few smaller ones on his back and above his navel. Eddard Stark had never been fat, but the hint of plumpness that had begun to appear in the last few years was nowhere to be seen now.
"That is a good plan," Eddard Stark acknowledged, but his face grew deathly serious, and his voice became heavy. "But you must remember, Winterfell is the most important thing for House Stark. As long as it stands, House Stark will stand strong. With five hundred men, you can repel ten thousand, and with two thousand, you can stop half a hundred thousand. If you leave south to go to war, make sure to leave an ample garrison and a trusted person in charge. Throw the forces of more unruly lords in the most dangerous parts of the fighting, but do not compromise your battles by giving the important positions to those unfit to stand in them. It will keep them honoured and weakened while preserving most of your own forces while also giving them a taste of battle."
Robb couldn't help but feel stumped at his father's words. That was quite… cunning and unlike anything he was taught before.
"But wouldn't it be dishonouring yourself with actions like this?"
"Nay, there is nothing dishonourable about giving your bannermen a chance to win some spoils and glory," was the impassive reply. "It seems that I have taught you wrong. Robb, what is honour?"
The heir of Winterfell was stumped for a short moment, and Eddard Stark finally finished clothing himself and sat on a clean stone nearby.
"Doing the right thing?"
"Right according to whom?" His father countered, and after half a minute of uneasy silence, he continued. "There are many types of honour, but the most important is to honour one's vows. A Lord's word is as weighty as a mountain and should not be given lightly. It is why we upheld our agreement with the Boltons in their second and last rebellion, despite the temptation of destroying them root and stem as we had done to many other nameless Houses before them. If you shirk it, your word will always mean less for it, and people will begin doubting your ability to rule your vassals. People would say House Stark were nothing more than traitors for rebelling against the dragons, but they forget that fealty is a vow that goes both ways. Obeisance is given only in return for mercy, justice, and protection, and House Stark received neither. And when I called the banners in rebellion, all my bannermen answered me dutifully, despite being a boy raised in the Vale that few had seen and even fewer had remembered. Did you know that I was in love with another woman before I married your mother?"
The heir of Winterfell sat there stunned, unsure if he had heard correctly. Then, something clicked.
"Was it Jon's mother?"
"Nay," was the forlorn denial. "There's another story there, one that you will hear soon if your studies progress well enough. I had resolved myself to not speak of this, but mayhaps you need to hear it. It was Ashara Dayne, and we had agreed to wed each other."
"But-" Robb's words failed him at that moment. This was the first time he had heard about any of this, and he felt so confused. If the woman in question was not Jon's mother, was his father having an intended and a paramour on the side?
"Aye, we were young, and I was just a second son with no land to inherit. Despite being Dornish, the Daynes are a respected House with a strong Fist Man ancestry and tradition, said to originate all the way in the Dawn Age. Alas, the gods laugh at the plans of men, and your grandfather and uncle perished in the hands of the Mad King in a foul mockery of a trial. During the Rebellion, our forces were severely lacking in numbers, and we could not afford Hoster Tully to join the royalist cause or even to stay neutral, which would leave our western flank and supply lines completely open. So, despite my promises of marriage to Ashara Dayne, when the Lord of Riverrun demanded to renew the marriage arrangement to our Houses, I agreed. And I do not regret it. I scarcely even remember how the dornish beauty even looked anymore. Nothing good awaited House Stark if we had lost, and both of us wouldn't even be here to have this conversation. House Stark is not just our family, but every single soul under us that we have sworn to protect." His father's speech fell into a pregnant pause for a moment. "So… what is honour?"
A heavy silence followed up as Robb was pondering on his answer. A few minutes later, a set of hurried footsteps heralded the arrival of one of the guardsmen, Wayn.
"M'lord, Howland Reed is at the gates, claiming he's here to see you."
"Let him in. I'll meet him in the yard in a few minutes," Eddard Stark ordered the guardsman, who quickly ran off, knowing he was not supposed to be in the Godswood for longer than necessary. His father turned to look towards Robb again. "Well, my son, think on it carefully. There is no need to give me a hasty answer. I suppose our further lessons shall wait for tomorrow. Go to Luwin, and brush up on your recent history of the Great Houses of the South and their current members."
The Lord of Winterfell headed towards the yard, leaving Robb Stark alone in the godswood, deep in thought.
Author's Endnote:
Stannis is not well and is getting paranoid. I mean, who wouldn't?
It seems that Ned doesn't want to sit back and wait for stuff to happen to him and starts making some preparations(Although he's not really ready to believe Jon's letter just yet fully. But it doesn't hurt to be prepared, just in case).
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
It seems that Ned doesn't want to sit back and wait for stuff to happen to him and starts making some preparations(Although he's not really ready to believe Jon's letter just yet fully. But it doesn't hurt to be prepared, just in case).
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
05-The Leal, the Delightful, and the Reckless
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.
Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Eddard Stark
"Lord Stark," his friend greeted him with a smile, and Ned finally felt some relief.
Howland Reed was still a head shorter than him and slim like all the other crannogmen. A slight brown stubble sported on his chin, and his signature bronze scaleshirt peeked beneath his dark-green cloak.
"It's Ned for you, Howland. Did you come alone?"
"Five of my men are in Wintertown," Howland supplied before looking around the bustling with training guardsmen yard. He carefully leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. "I received your summons, Ned. Did something happen? Winterfell looks like it's preparing for war."
"We'll speak in my solar," Ned hushedly replied, turning towards the Great Keep. As usual, his muscles felt pleasantly tired after a good training session. Since he started sparring regularly again, he felt more energetic, and his mind was clearer.
Before they passed the ironwood gate, the Crannoglord handed over his black trident and three bronze knives to Donnis, one of the four sentries at the entrance of the Great Keep.
A few minutes later, they were finally in front of the oaken door of the solar, guarded by one of his men.
"Stand watch at the stairway and let none pass, Varly," he ordered, and the man dutifully moved towards the end of the hallway.
Ned opened the door and entered the room, only for his boots to be attacked by the enthusiastic Winter.
"Down, boy," he ordered, and the grey direwolf sat, looking expectantly at him with yellow eyes while his shaggy silvery tail was sweeping along the floor in excitement. It had scarcely been a moon, yet Winter reached his knees already.
"Gods, Ned, is that a direwolf?"
Howland stood there in shock as Ned tossed a piece of jerky from the stash to Winter, who happily devoured it in one bite. A second and third piece followed, and it seemed that the young direwolf had enough as he returned to his favourite spot on the myrish rug near the hearth.
"Aye."
"I thought the direwolves were gone south of the Wall for nearly two hundred years."
"Now there are six," Ned said with a sigh, remembering the day of the execution, and chills ran down his spine. He grabbed a jug of dark ale, filled two tankards on the desk, and handed one to Howland. "I am in dire need of advice, my friend."
"Ask away, Ned," the crannogman urged after taking a sip. "House Reed have always been leal servants of the Starks."
The Lord of Winterfell took a generous gulp of his own.
"Have you told Jon anything?" He slowly asked, and his friend's face scrunched up in confusion momentarily.
"I haven't seen the lad since he was a swaddling babe, and I have not left the Neck since the Rebellion ended," Howland replied, face still puzzled. "Why?"
A heavy sigh tore out from his lips. If his friend did not tell Jon, it only meant one thing. He walked over to his chair and slumped down as the Lord of the Neck sat across the desk.
"It all started with a Night's Watch deserter-" the tale began to slowly tumble out from his mouth. The old deserter's fevered rambling, the dead direwolf gored by a stag, the pups, Bran's death and Jon's collapse at the heart tree. The impossible illness, and eventual seemingly nonsensical rambling, before his son disappeared from Winterfell and, finally, the letter written in blood, heralding all sorts of dark omens.
When Ned finished his tale, he let out a sigh of relief. It was as if he had a mountain pressing on his shoulders, and it was now gone. For a moon, he had nobody to confide in, and he felt as if the world was going crazy, and he descended into madness along with it. Robb was far from ready, and he felt unsure about entrusting his woes to his wife after reading the letter, especially since she was still grieving. And while he had faith in Rodrik and Luwin, neither could be trusted with the knowledge of Jon's parentage.
He glanced at Howland, who looked incredibly troubled.
"Ned, do you still have the letter?"
The Lord of Winterfell grabbed a small bronze key from his belt, unlocked the lower drawer, withdrew an ironwood box and placed it on the desk. With another key from his belt, it opened with a rusty click, and he handed over the roll of parchment to the Crannoglord.
His friend's green eyes darted along the parchment, and a minute later, he placed it back into the ironwood box with a heavy sigh. Ned hesitated for a short moment. The words penned down with blood were both too damning and dangerous. But the urge to toss it into the fire lost out, and the message returned under lock and key.
"I thought magic had waned from the land, merely a thing of the past, alive only in the tales of old," Ned sighed, still troubled. "Yet Luwin, with his Valyrian Steel link, says that magic was at play, and even the old records couldn't help him make heads or tails out of the odd malady. Do you think Jon has truly lived the future, or it's just the addled rambling of a fevered madman?"
"Magic might have waned, but it never truly left, Ned. It might be little more than a memory now, but it's not to be underestimated," Howland slowly began, as his brow was scrunched up with thought. "Which day did Jon fall ill?"
Ned paused for a few moments, trying to remember.
"Second day of the third moon."
"It is as I feared," his friend replied, looking even more troubled, "That's the day my son lost his sight."
"Did young Jojen go blind?!"
"Nay, he lost his Greensight," Eddard opened his mouth, but his friend quickly continued. "Ever since he caught a greywater fever as a youngling, he was bestowed prophetic dreams or visions by the three-eyed crow that our old records classify as the Greensight. At first, I was sceptical, but then he foresaw his wet nurse dying to a lizard lion. The next morning, she was wandering in the swamp looking for mushrooms for her frog stew when a lizard lion pulled her into the turbid waters. Jojen's sight was weak, and he scarcely saw anything beyond the mundane things. On the first day of the third moon, he dreamed of blood, ice, darkness, and death, and nothing ever since. His body, which was weak ever since the greywater fever, has finally begun to strengthen, and his dreams are no more."
Eddard Stark's first instinct was to claim his friend's words were a load of horseshit, but Howland Reed was not one for lying, and after the last moon, Ned himself had seen things just as crazy, if not even more. The memory of his gloved hand burned from the unnatural coldness seeping from his son's skin was still fresh in his mind.
"Three-eyed crow? Glimpsing into the future? I thought that was just an old children's tale."
He vaguely remembered the tale of Daenys the Dreamer and how the Eyrie's maester had simply dismissed it as the Targaryens covering for their shameful exile from the Freehold.
"Most tales have a grain of truth in them," the Crannoglord explained with a pained smile before sipping from his tankard. "The three-eyed crow is one of the last great Greenseer lineages, clinging to life in alcoves hidden by magic. Yet it's not only the Greenseers who can glimpse into the future. The Dragonlords also had a similar ability, albeit lesser. When the mightiest of sorcerers gather, few things are impossible. The wonders and horrors of the Freehold were equal in their grandeur, and the Children of the Forest did manage to shatter the Arm of Dorne and flood the Neck with the Hammer of the Waters, after all."
"Gods..." The Lord of Winterfell tiredly ran a hand through his hair. All of this was supposed to be just a children's tale.
"Aye. Jon could be having glimpses of the future from either side of the family. It's not impossible that he truly has travelled through time either." Howland's words were very close to his own suspicions, but Ned needed to hear them from someone else's mouth to feel less mad. "According to an old legend, eighty-one Greenseers willingly sacrificed themselves to shatter the Arm of Dorne, so you'd never know with magic. You said it yourself, Jon escaped Winterfell and took whatever he wanted, leaving nary a trace like a skilled thief or a catspaw. Is this something a sixteen-year-old boy could plan, let alone pull off after half a moon of being bound to the sick bed?"
"Fuck," Ned groaned before emptying his tankard in one breath, welcoming the bittersweet feeling burning through his throat. There was no point in dwelling on this any longer. "How does one prepare for the Long Night?!"
"Jon left you the answer," Howland supplied. "The Northern Mountains have significant deposits of obsidian, along with Skaagos. I'm sure some can be found in other areas around the North, even near Winterfell, considering the hot springs you are so proud of. Lya's boy refuses to divulge his plan but seems to know what he's doing."
And Ned couldn't help but worry. But there was nothing he could do anymore. Even if he found Jon and made him return to Winterfell, his son had proven far too slippery and could probably escape again anyway. He could only hope Jon would succeed and return home.
"Obsidian is far too fragile for anything other than arrowheads, daggers, and speartips," he darkly recounted. "I can order it being gathered and worked, but none would use it over normal steel. But any outright talk about dead men walking and Long Night would simply be madness."
"There's not much that could be done about this without proof. Still, some preparations can be done, and you can start with your brother," his friend proposed thoughtfully. "The First Ranger would be far better positioned to prepare the Watch from within or procure proof, especially if he knows what is coming. But I'm not too worried about the Others. Jon claims he has a plan of his own to deal with them."
"He's just a-"
"-A Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, a Lord of Winterfell, a King of the North, and an experienced warrior and a veteran of many a battle," Howland Reed interrupted. "He might be a sixteen-year-old boy now, but if what half of the letter is true, he not only survived but thrived against all odds with foes in every direction. Have faith in your nephew! Even so, I'm more worried about the troubles in the South. Bolton rebelling is just a matter of course when the direwolf is weak, but everything else seems like someone was trying to push House Stark into a perilous conflict. The dead direwolf omen does not bode well either, as I find it difficult to believe that Robert would ever harm you in any way. Alas, I am unfamiliar with the games of the South and can be of little help with this. But it seems that young Jon put this well enough-nobody from the South can be trusted."
Ned tiredly rubbed his brow. His questions were answered, yet now he had even more than before. It felt as if the world was going mad. Magic, prophetic dreams, the Others and dragons walking the land once again while enemies gathered against his House in the shadows, making him feel like a helpless child once more.
Could he afford to ignore Jon's warning?
No. Even if Eddard still felt somewhat sceptical, it painted a dire future; something couldn't be allowed to pass. But at least now he had an inkling of what to do. If nothing else, he could plan and prepare. House Stark was ancient, and its roots ran deep. It would not be so easily toppled, especially if he had anything to say about it.
"I shall pen a letter and send riders to the clansmen and the Skagosi, ordering them to start looking and mining for obsidian and crafting it into daggers and arrowheads," he finally decided. Ned could already feel the headache of dealing with the quarrelsome Skagosi and the inconvenience of them not having ravens or maesters. "But what do I tell the Lords and the Watch should they ask why?"
"Oh Ned, you've always been too honest for your own good," Howland bemoaned. "I have no idea how you fooled people that Jon's yours for so long. The solution is pretty simple, you will say that you received a dire warning about a great peril from a Greenseer, which is pretty close to the truth. Your pristine reputation would play in your favour, and your bannermen will believe your word. We of the North still remember, and a Stark's word is more valuable than gold. Besides, it's not like he's wrong. The signs are there for those who wish to see them. This summer has been unnaturally long, and more veterans are deserting their Watch. You even mentioned the last one speaking of the Cold Ones."
By the gods, Ned hated lying, but despite his mislike for the idea, Howland was giving good advice. If lying could aid his family, he would grit his teeth and lie! None of his remaining children would perish anytime soon if he could do something about it!
"That still leaves the problem with the South," a heavy sigh escaped his mouth again. "House Stark has far too many alliances on the other side of the Neck to stay out of Southron affairs, even if I decline the Handship."
"That might be so, but you've still isolated yourself from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, Ned," his friend chastised softly. "You still have no idea who the main players are or what they want, despite being the most connected Highlord in the realm. Is it truly any wonder that almost all of those connections were turned against House Stark? Someone clearly used you to start a civil war and drag the Starks right into the middle of it all. I think you should summon Lord Wyman or his heir for advice. House Manderly still keeps some connections to the South for trade, if nothing else. The merman lord and his heir are far more cunning and shrewd than they appear and are still one of your most leal bannermen."
Ned briefly mulled on the idea before realising it had no downsides. His friend had a point; he was not alone in all of this. House Stark had plenty of trusty bannermen that could serve as his advisors. Not to discount Rodrik or Luwin, but while wise and experienced, they simply lacked the lordly perspective. Two heads were better than one, and three were better than two. Seven hells, it had taken him nearly a sennight to suspect someone actively moving against House Stark, but Howland had seen through it almost immediately.
"I require your services by my side for the near future, Lord Reed," Ned declared after a minute of contemplation.
His friend gave him a wide smile.
"It would be an honour, Lord Stark."
9th day of the 4th Moon
White Harbour
Princess Myrcella Baratheon
She shivered and pulled her golden velvet cloak tighter. It did little to ward off the Northern cold. Even the gentle rays of the sun couldn't warm her up yet. She vaguely remembered cold and snow from her early childhood, but it felt so long ago. And it was supposed to be a damned summer right now!
The Lord of White Harbour was old and so fat she wondered how he could even move. It was a small miracle he managed to kneel, and a mystery how he would even get up. Wyman Manderly reminded her of an oversized barrel about to burst. His fat spilt from his blue-green velvet doublet, and it looked as if he had not one, not two, but four chins. His sons seemed to take after their father in every way but slightly less round, with walrus-like moustaches and bald heads that shone in the midday sun. The merman granddaughters, however, looked nothing like their father or grandfather. They were both slim and demure and very pleasing to the eye, even with the younger one having her hair dyed in a garish green colour.
"Rise," her father's voice was not as booming as usual. The journey at sea seemed to hit every single member of their family but her and Uncle Jaime. She threw a look at her younger brother Joffrey, who was uncharacteristically silent, most probably because he looked ready to heave over and spill his breakfast.
She turned her attention to the centre of the square just in time to see how the Lord of White Harbour needed the help of two burly guardsmen to get up from his kneeling position. Myrcella couldn't help but wonder if her father would soon require aid to get up himself. While he was not as fat as the Lord before him, he wasn't far off…
Finally, the cold wind began to die out, and the sun's soft caress managed to seep some warmth into her skin. From the side, her mother, wrapped tightly in her crimson velvet cloak, fussed over Tommen's runny nose with a silken handkerchief, and Joffrey was trying to suppress his shivers and look manly but failing miserably.
He looked like a sickly cat instead.
It unnerved her how much the cold affected their party, and this was supposed to be the height of summer. Myrcella shuddered to imagine how the North was during winter.
A serving man dressed in a sea-green tunic quickly walked over with a platter of bread and salt. Her kingly father tore a generous piece, dipped it in the salt, and devoured it in one bite.
"Your Grace, I have a feast prepared for you at New Castle!"
The mention of a generous serving of food and wine seemed to invigorate her royal father.
"Lead the way, Wyman!"
"I must apologise in advance, Your Grace," Lord Manderly began as he wiped a few beads of sweat from his head with his meaty hand. "The Castle Stair leading up to New Castle is lined with steps and unsuitable for a wheelhouse. But I have the finest horses to take you there if you wish."
"Bah, it's good to feel solid ground under my feet after so long," her father eagerly waved it away. "It would do us good to stretch our legs before the feast!"
On the side, her mother looked like she had just swallowed a lemon whole. A pity, as the unqueenly grimace made the otherwise beautiful face of Cersei Lannister look rather grotesque.
The whole procession slowly headed up the white street, and Myrcella had ample time to look around. The chill of the northern air seemed to abate even further as she started moving.
The Northern city was… not bad. From the inner harbour, the wide cobbled streets were straight and orderly, and the smell of pigsty that was ever present in King's Landing was replaced with clean but salty air. While White Harbour was bustling, it thankfully lacked the noisy commotion of the royal city. All the houses were built from whitewashed stone, creating a clean appearance. Even Lannisport was not as tidy and orderly as this.
The city guard had cordoned off the streets, men wearing simple arming doublets and woollen cloaks dyed in sea green with a silver trident emblazoned on their surcoats. Each watchman had a bludgeon, a dagger, and a spanghelm.
"It's lovely," Rosamund said in awe from her left.
Alas, her handmaid was nearly half her age and barely reached her elbow. Sometimes it felt that Myrcella had to care for the younger girl, not the reverse. Not that she minded; Rosamund was a sweet little girl, and her cousin besides.
To her right walked the rest of her family, bar Uncle Tyrion. The shortest lion had probably found his way into the nearest brothel. Uncle Jaime's gaze lazily wandered around the streets, looking for danger. Next to him, her mother had donned her ever-present scowl. Tommen's eyes sparkled as he drank in the surrounding view while Joffrey still looked pale and miserable.
"It certainly isn't as dreary as I dreaded," her mother hummed as she looked around. "While small, the city is passable. Hopefully, the rest of the North is similar. Perhaps a merman's daughter for your handmaid, Myrcella."
"Bah, they make us walk like common peasants in this cold," Joffrey grouched from the side, and colour finally seemed to return to his pale face.
Alas, he quickly got better enough to start his usual incessant grumbling as soon as he got away from the rocking of the ship.
"Our royal father commanded it," Myrcella countered. "If you had to ride a horse while your world was still spinning and shaking from the boat, you could very well fall off. Besides, it's not bad. Usually, all we see is Casterly Rock, King's Landing, and the Gold Road in between. Now, you get to visit some more of the other bannermen. Maidenpool was great, and I've heard that Winterfell's hotsprings easily rival Jonquil's pool."
"We are the royal family!" her younger brother continued whinging. "The rabble should come to us, not the reverse!"
Gods, would he ever grow up?! He was three and ten and as tall as her already!
"If everyone came to King's Landing, it would be too full of people you don't like," Myrcella countered, and Joffrey's face scrunched up. "Besides, good luck moving a hot spring all the way to King's Landing. And it was the Northern swords that placed Father on the throne, and House Stark is very well-connected. Aside from the friendship between Lord Stark and our royal father, the future Lords Tully and Arryn are cousins of the Stark heir, and the Greyjoy heir is fostering in Winterfell. This is an opportunity to make your own connections and shows you care for your future bannermen, you know. Many a king did a royal progress for a reason, Joff!"
Her brother finally shut up, and his face became thoughtful. He even looked half as adorable as Tommen now, as long as he did not open his mouth. For some reason, Myrcella felt that her mother's eyes flashed with disapproval, but the Queen remained silent. The princess couldn't help but pity the woman who got to marry Joffrey; he was simply unbearable.
They finally ascended the hill and were at the opened gate of the proud and pale New Castle. The large keep and the surrounding ring of curtain walls were made of whitewashed stone. The ramparts looked more than forty feet tall and fifteen feet thick. As they entered the courtyard, Myrcella couldn't help but shiver as the sun was hidden behind one of the pale towers. Without the sun's warm kiss, the cold returned with a vengeance.
The Manderly heir and his Woolfield wife approached her mother and Joffrey, offering to show them the way to their quarters.
At that moment, though, all her attention was drawn by the dark-haired Wynafryd Manderly, who came to her and Rosamund with two fur-lined cloaks.
The Northern Mountains
Jon Snow
It seemed that he managed to successfully pull off Ramsay's assassination since nobody followed him. He wouldn't have minded culling a few Bolton men as he was sorely out of practice; his current body still felt sluggish and weak. Then again, the men-at-arms were usually innocent of their overlord's sins. He could get away with that too. Aside from Ghost, who could easily hide, Jon had nothing that would distinguish him as a Stark aside from his looks, but more than half the North shared the first men colouring, similar to him. It would also be good to avoid openly breaking the King's Peace.
Regardless, Ghost had grown too large to travel in his bosom. In fact, he was already above his knees, and in another half a moon, he'd be larger than the other dogs. Jon's travel speed slowed with the four hunting hounds for his companions. It took him nearly twelve days instead of the original estimate of eight to arrive at the Liddle lands while evading all the villages and settlements from afar. That was two days ago, and Jon had been searching for dragonglass since.
Alas, he only knew of one open vein of obsidian somewhere around here but not the exact location. The last time he visited when everything had been covered by a thick white veil of snow, and the clansmen were the ones that mined the obsidian and provided it to his forces. Mayhaps he could easily acquire assistance in the Little Hall, the seat of the Liddles, but he didn't want to impose on their hospitality. Even as a bastard son of Eddard Stark, he would be warmly welcomed and aided. Bastardry meant very little compared to blood and mettle in the harsh northern mountains.
But that was not all; Jon was wary of his uncle having ordered his bannermen to return him to Winterfell should they find him. While the need to prove himself to the world had dimmed long ago, the sliver of stubborn pride had remained.
He had already left Winterfell and helped himself plenty from the armoury; there was no need to go around begging for pittances from the leal Stark Bannermen. Even if Jon failed, if his uncle heeded his warning, the Others could be fought off if the Watch and the North were not caught unaware like last time.
Mayhaps he was foolish to rush headfirst beyond the Wall to confront the foes of old, but no matter what preparations were made, it would be far simpler to snuff out the danger before it could gain in on numbers. Something that would take the Night's Watch and the North years. They were simply not prepared to even consider the existence of the Others, let alone confront them or fight beyond the Wall during the harshest of winters.
But Jon Snow was.
The Others weren't that terrifying foes once you knew how to deal with them. The real problem was the endless horde of wights under their thrall and the fact that if it got too cold for too long, the Bay of Seals might freeze, allowing them to easily bypass the Wall, turning the North into a terrifying battlefield.
Jon's failure or success would depend entirely on himself and his skill. Fighting, death, and ice have been his companions for a long time now. He had made peace with his death long ago, even before dying twice.
A sigh escaped his lips as he gazed at the sun. It was slowly crawling towards the western horizon; dusk looked little more than two hours away. The current clearing was too good to pass up, and it took at least half an hour to set camp properly. Mayhaps he would have better luck on the morrow after a good night's sleep. Jon tied Shadow's reigns to a nearby tree at the end of the small clearing and started pitching his tent. Ghost dashed into the nearby pinewood in hunt of some prey. After the tent was done, he also headed out to gather a few dry twigs for his campfire. Red Jeyne, Helicent, and Maude followed him while he left Willow to guard the uneasy Shadow.
Now wasn't that a surprise? Not only could he near effortlessly slip into the minds of Ramsay's former hunting hounds, but he could somehow tell their names. And, similar to Ghost, it felt as if they could tell his intentions or even thoughts the moment they passed through his head. He wasn't going to complain, though. They made hunting even easier, and having four more faithful companions would only aid him in the future.
"Now, I suppose you don't know where exactly that deposit of dragonglass was?"
Sadly, Red Jeyne didn't respond and only huffed at him with amusement as she wagged her shaggy tail. Just as he finished gathering a bundle of dry branches, he felt Ghost wildly tug at his mind.
He slipped into his companion's mind, only to be greeted by a terrifying sight.
A young auburn-haired girl with grey eyes garbed in leather breeches, and a fur-lined tunic had climbed high on a thick sentinel tree. She was holding onto a thick branch for dear life and looking in terror at an enormous snow bear that was effortlessly rocking the humungous tree below. He reckoned the monstrous beast was about twenty feet tall as it stood on its hind legs. By the gods, its enormous back was at least six feet wide. The tree was groaning with every push, and it looked as if it was going to fall any moment now. He could clearly feel Ghost's terror.
Jon snapped the connection, returning to his own body.
A wise man would pack up his things and move away from the monstrous bear as far as possible. A behemoth of enormous size straight from the tales of old, not something a lone man could hunt.
The Bastard of Winterfell, however, ran towards his horse, the gathered firewood left forgotten amongst the grass. He grabbed his hunting spears, yew longbow, and quiver and sprinted in Ghost's direction as he began stringing up his bow. Helicent, Red Jeyne, and Maude dutifully ran after him with angry barks. The girl reminded him of his sisters; she had Sansa's hair and Arya's eyes. Even if she did not, Jon knew he would regret it if he did not do anything. In his previous life, he had many regrets, but in this one, he would have none if he could help it.
He weaved between the trees and leapt over stones and gnarly roots as he ascended the hill. Jon felt his blood begin to sing as he pushed himself to the limit. He felt the hunting hounds lag behind, unable to keep up with his mad dash, yet could not slow down as the chances that the girl still lived dwindled with every second. The upcoming clash of life and death only made his heart thunder with excitement.
A dozen heartbeats later, he finally arrived, only to see the sentinel tree groan under the monstrous bear's efforts. A large patch of earth near its roots began to rise ominously as the tree tilted dangerously while the girl above was crying and yelling for help.
Jon Snow took a deep breath and bellowed angrily to draw the bear's attention while he notched an arrow. He succeeded as the monster turned around to face him and roared back at him. The terrifying sound reverberated in the air, making even his bones shake. On four legs, it was still nearly eight feet tall, towering over Jon. Fuck, the beast was even larger than Borroq's gigantic boar. Why was something this size south of the Wall?!
He could only blink as the snow bear charged his way far faster than its size would suggest. He barely managed to loose two arrows that missed the behemoth's eyes and harmlessly bounced off its white-furred head, enraging his foe even further. He couldn't aim well as the bear was too fast, and it was already upon him before he could blink. Even with his inhuman reflexes, he had yet to grab his spear and scarcely managed to roll to the side, barely avoiding the furious charge. He instantly got up and turned to face his foe, ignoring the flaring pain from the rocks he hit during his reckless roll. Unable to halt its momentum, the bear crashed into a younger pine, toppling it with ease, and it turned to glare at Jon with a pair of angry brown eyes.
His heart beat like a drum excitedly, Jon's hunting spear was finally in his arm, and he could taste the danger in the air. Yet his blood froze as Ghost crept up behind the beast. For a short moment, he had forgotten about his companion.
Thankfully, the bear didn't notice him as the direwolf was silent as usual and easily blended within his surroundings. Ghost hid patiently, though Jon sent a strong desire through his link for his companion to stay away. He gripped his spear tightly as the furious beast rapidly approached. He took a deep breath, aimed at the eye, and threw his first spear with all his might. His aim was true, but the bear moved its head at the last instant, and the steel tip bounced off its forehead. The steel tip probably bent before leaving a small smidgen of blood that only infuriated the bear more than anything else.
He swore inwardly as he gripped his last spear; another throw would leave him bereft of weapons.
Jon's blood sang with excitement as he gripped the ash shaft and prepared himself. He would have mayhaps half a second to pierce the enormous snow bear's eye before it ran him through. But two heartbeats before it came in the range of his spear, it quickly began to slow down as the hunting hounds finally caught up and dashed his way, barking up a storm and providing a short moment of distraction.
He took a deep breath as his foe was only ten yards away; one strike of the titanic paw would effortlessly crush the thickest of bones. Now the enormous beast was looking around, hesitating whether to attack Jon, the newly discovered direwolf, or the incoming dogs. It didn't help that if it stood up on its hind legs, its neck, eyes, and mouth would be too far away from him to reach with his spear. Even on four legs, he would struggle to stab into its eyes from below.
Every inch of his body was tensed to the limit, every muscle tightly coiled like a spring. If his foe went for his companions, there was nothing he could do with regular steel against the thick fur. Before the bear could choose whom to attack, Jon decided to act as the behemoth was warily eyeing Ghost. He took a large step forward, leapt recklessly with all his might, and cried out, grabbing the bear's attention again.
It instantly looked his way and began to rear back up with a growl as it swatted the enormous paw at him. It was lightning-fast, but Jon was half a heartbeat faster.
His heart soared with joy, and he smiled savagely as the steel tip of the hunting spear found the snow bear's eye.
Author's Endnote:
Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Eddard Stark
"Lord Stark," his friend greeted him with a smile, and Ned finally felt some relief.
Howland Reed was still a head shorter than him and slim like all the other crannogmen. A slight brown stubble sported on his chin, and his signature bronze scaleshirt peeked beneath his dark-green cloak.
"It's Ned for you, Howland. Did you come alone?"
"Five of my men are in Wintertown," Howland supplied before looking around the bustling with training guardsmen yard. He carefully leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. "I received your summons, Ned. Did something happen? Winterfell looks like it's preparing for war."
"We'll speak in my solar," Ned hushedly replied, turning towards the Great Keep. As usual, his muscles felt pleasantly tired after a good training session. Since he started sparring regularly again, he felt more energetic, and his mind was clearer.
Before they passed the ironwood gate, the Crannoglord handed over his black trident and three bronze knives to Donnis, one of the four sentries at the entrance of the Great Keep.
A few minutes later, they were finally in front of the oaken door of the solar, guarded by one of his men.
"Stand watch at the stairway and let none pass, Varly," he ordered, and the man dutifully moved towards the end of the hallway.
Ned opened the door and entered the room, only for his boots to be attacked by the enthusiastic Winter.
"Down, boy," he ordered, and the grey direwolf sat, looking expectantly at him with yellow eyes while his shaggy silvery tail was sweeping along the floor in excitement. It had scarcely been a moon, yet Winter reached his knees already.
"Gods, Ned, is that a direwolf?"
Howland stood there in shock as Ned tossed a piece of jerky from the stash to Winter, who happily devoured it in one bite. A second and third piece followed, and it seemed that the young direwolf had enough as he returned to his favourite spot on the myrish rug near the hearth.
"Aye."
"I thought the direwolves were gone south of the Wall for nearly two hundred years."
"Now there are six," Ned said with a sigh, remembering the day of the execution, and chills ran down his spine. He grabbed a jug of dark ale, filled two tankards on the desk, and handed one to Howland. "I am in dire need of advice, my friend."
"Ask away, Ned," the crannogman urged after taking a sip. "House Reed have always been leal servants of the Starks."
The Lord of Winterfell took a generous gulp of his own.
"Have you told Jon anything?" He slowly asked, and his friend's face scrunched up in confusion momentarily.
"I haven't seen the lad since he was a swaddling babe, and I have not left the Neck since the Rebellion ended," Howland replied, face still puzzled. "Why?"
A heavy sigh tore out from his lips. If his friend did not tell Jon, it only meant one thing. He walked over to his chair and slumped down as the Lord of the Neck sat across the desk.
"It all started with a Night's Watch deserter-" the tale began to slowly tumble out from his mouth. The old deserter's fevered rambling, the dead direwolf gored by a stag, the pups, Bran's death and Jon's collapse at the heart tree. The impossible illness, and eventual seemingly nonsensical rambling, before his son disappeared from Winterfell and, finally, the letter written in blood, heralding all sorts of dark omens.
When Ned finished his tale, he let out a sigh of relief. It was as if he had a mountain pressing on his shoulders, and it was now gone. For a moon, he had nobody to confide in, and he felt as if the world was going crazy, and he descended into madness along with it. Robb was far from ready, and he felt unsure about entrusting his woes to his wife after reading the letter, especially since she was still grieving. And while he had faith in Rodrik and Luwin, neither could be trusted with the knowledge of Jon's parentage.
He glanced at Howland, who looked incredibly troubled.
"Ned, do you still have the letter?"
The Lord of Winterfell grabbed a small bronze key from his belt, unlocked the lower drawer, withdrew an ironwood box and placed it on the desk. With another key from his belt, it opened with a rusty click, and he handed over the roll of parchment to the Crannoglord.
His friend's green eyes darted along the parchment, and a minute later, he placed it back into the ironwood box with a heavy sigh. Ned hesitated for a short moment. The words penned down with blood were both too damning and dangerous. But the urge to toss it into the fire lost out, and the message returned under lock and key.
"I thought magic had waned from the land, merely a thing of the past, alive only in the tales of old," Ned sighed, still troubled. "Yet Luwin, with his Valyrian Steel link, says that magic was at play, and even the old records couldn't help him make heads or tails out of the odd malady. Do you think Jon has truly lived the future, or it's just the addled rambling of a fevered madman?"
"Magic might have waned, but it never truly left, Ned. It might be little more than a memory now, but it's not to be underestimated," Howland slowly began, as his brow was scrunched up with thought. "Which day did Jon fall ill?"
Ned paused for a few moments, trying to remember.
"Second day of the third moon."
"It is as I feared," his friend replied, looking even more troubled, "That's the day my son lost his sight."
"Did young Jojen go blind?!"
"Nay, he lost his Greensight," Eddard opened his mouth, but his friend quickly continued. "Ever since he caught a greywater fever as a youngling, he was bestowed prophetic dreams or visions by the three-eyed crow that our old records classify as the Greensight. At first, I was sceptical, but then he foresaw his wet nurse dying to a lizard lion. The next morning, she was wandering in the swamp looking for mushrooms for her frog stew when a lizard lion pulled her into the turbid waters. Jojen's sight was weak, and he scarcely saw anything beyond the mundane things. On the first day of the third moon, he dreamed of blood, ice, darkness, and death, and nothing ever since. His body, which was weak ever since the greywater fever, has finally begun to strengthen, and his dreams are no more."
Eddard Stark's first instinct was to claim his friend's words were a load of horseshit, but Howland Reed was not one for lying, and after the last moon, Ned himself had seen things just as crazy, if not even more. The memory of his gloved hand burned from the unnatural coldness seeping from his son's skin was still fresh in his mind.
"Three-eyed crow? Glimpsing into the future? I thought that was just an old children's tale."
He vaguely remembered the tale of Daenys the Dreamer and how the Eyrie's maester had simply dismissed it as the Targaryens covering for their shameful exile from the Freehold.
"Most tales have a grain of truth in them," the Crannoglord explained with a pained smile before sipping from his tankard. "The three-eyed crow is one of the last great Greenseer lineages, clinging to life in alcoves hidden by magic. Yet it's not only the Greenseers who can glimpse into the future. The Dragonlords also had a similar ability, albeit lesser. When the mightiest of sorcerers gather, few things are impossible. The wonders and horrors of the Freehold were equal in their grandeur, and the Children of the Forest did manage to shatter the Arm of Dorne and flood the Neck with the Hammer of the Waters, after all."
"Gods..." The Lord of Winterfell tiredly ran a hand through his hair. All of this was supposed to be just a children's tale.
"Aye. Jon could be having glimpses of the future from either side of the family. It's not impossible that he truly has travelled through time either." Howland's words were very close to his own suspicions, but Ned needed to hear them from someone else's mouth to feel less mad. "According to an old legend, eighty-one Greenseers willingly sacrificed themselves to shatter the Arm of Dorne, so you'd never know with magic. You said it yourself, Jon escaped Winterfell and took whatever he wanted, leaving nary a trace like a skilled thief or a catspaw. Is this something a sixteen-year-old boy could plan, let alone pull off after half a moon of being bound to the sick bed?"
"Fuck," Ned groaned before emptying his tankard in one breath, welcoming the bittersweet feeling burning through his throat. There was no point in dwelling on this any longer. "How does one prepare for the Long Night?!"
"Jon left you the answer," Howland supplied. "The Northern Mountains have significant deposits of obsidian, along with Skaagos. I'm sure some can be found in other areas around the North, even near Winterfell, considering the hot springs you are so proud of. Lya's boy refuses to divulge his plan but seems to know what he's doing."
And Ned couldn't help but worry. But there was nothing he could do anymore. Even if he found Jon and made him return to Winterfell, his son had proven far too slippery and could probably escape again anyway. He could only hope Jon would succeed and return home.
"Obsidian is far too fragile for anything other than arrowheads, daggers, and speartips," he darkly recounted. "I can order it being gathered and worked, but none would use it over normal steel. But any outright talk about dead men walking and Long Night would simply be madness."
"There's not much that could be done about this without proof. Still, some preparations can be done, and you can start with your brother," his friend proposed thoughtfully. "The First Ranger would be far better positioned to prepare the Watch from within or procure proof, especially if he knows what is coming. But I'm not too worried about the Others. Jon claims he has a plan of his own to deal with them."
"He's just a-"
"-A Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, a Lord of Winterfell, a King of the North, and an experienced warrior and a veteran of many a battle," Howland Reed interrupted. "He might be a sixteen-year-old boy now, but if what half of the letter is true, he not only survived but thrived against all odds with foes in every direction. Have faith in your nephew! Even so, I'm more worried about the troubles in the South. Bolton rebelling is just a matter of course when the direwolf is weak, but everything else seems like someone was trying to push House Stark into a perilous conflict. The dead direwolf omen does not bode well either, as I find it difficult to believe that Robert would ever harm you in any way. Alas, I am unfamiliar with the games of the South and can be of little help with this. But it seems that young Jon put this well enough-nobody from the South can be trusted."
Ned tiredly rubbed his brow. His questions were answered, yet now he had even more than before. It felt as if the world was going mad. Magic, prophetic dreams, the Others and dragons walking the land once again while enemies gathered against his House in the shadows, making him feel like a helpless child once more.
Could he afford to ignore Jon's warning?
No. Even if Eddard still felt somewhat sceptical, it painted a dire future; something couldn't be allowed to pass. But at least now he had an inkling of what to do. If nothing else, he could plan and prepare. House Stark was ancient, and its roots ran deep. It would not be so easily toppled, especially if he had anything to say about it.
"I shall pen a letter and send riders to the clansmen and the Skagosi, ordering them to start looking and mining for obsidian and crafting it into daggers and arrowheads," he finally decided. Ned could already feel the headache of dealing with the quarrelsome Skagosi and the inconvenience of them not having ravens or maesters. "But what do I tell the Lords and the Watch should they ask why?"
"Oh Ned, you've always been too honest for your own good," Howland bemoaned. "I have no idea how you fooled people that Jon's yours for so long. The solution is pretty simple, you will say that you received a dire warning about a great peril from a Greenseer, which is pretty close to the truth. Your pristine reputation would play in your favour, and your bannermen will believe your word. We of the North still remember, and a Stark's word is more valuable than gold. Besides, it's not like he's wrong. The signs are there for those who wish to see them. This summer has been unnaturally long, and more veterans are deserting their Watch. You even mentioned the last one speaking of the Cold Ones."
By the gods, Ned hated lying, but despite his mislike for the idea, Howland was giving good advice. If lying could aid his family, he would grit his teeth and lie! None of his remaining children would perish anytime soon if he could do something about it!
"That still leaves the problem with the South," a heavy sigh escaped his mouth again. "House Stark has far too many alliances on the other side of the Neck to stay out of Southron affairs, even if I decline the Handship."
"That might be so, but you've still isolated yourself from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, Ned," his friend chastised softly. "You still have no idea who the main players are or what they want, despite being the most connected Highlord in the realm. Is it truly any wonder that almost all of those connections were turned against House Stark? Someone clearly used you to start a civil war and drag the Starks right into the middle of it all. I think you should summon Lord Wyman or his heir for advice. House Manderly still keeps some connections to the South for trade, if nothing else. The merman lord and his heir are far more cunning and shrewd than they appear and are still one of your most leal bannermen."
Ned briefly mulled on the idea before realising it had no downsides. His friend had a point; he was not alone in all of this. House Stark had plenty of trusty bannermen that could serve as his advisors. Not to discount Rodrik or Luwin, but while wise and experienced, they simply lacked the lordly perspective. Two heads were better than one, and three were better than two. Seven hells, it had taken him nearly a sennight to suspect someone actively moving against House Stark, but Howland had seen through it almost immediately.
"I require your services by my side for the near future, Lord Reed," Ned declared after a minute of contemplation.
His friend gave him a wide smile.
"It would be an honour, Lord Stark."
9th day of the 4th Moon
White Harbour
Princess Myrcella Baratheon
She shivered and pulled her golden velvet cloak tighter. It did little to ward off the Northern cold. Even the gentle rays of the sun couldn't warm her up yet. She vaguely remembered cold and snow from her early childhood, but it felt so long ago. And it was supposed to be a damned summer right now!
The Lord of White Harbour was old and so fat she wondered how he could even move. It was a small miracle he managed to kneel, and a mystery how he would even get up. Wyman Manderly reminded her of an oversized barrel about to burst. His fat spilt from his blue-green velvet doublet, and it looked as if he had not one, not two, but four chins. His sons seemed to take after their father in every way but slightly less round, with walrus-like moustaches and bald heads that shone in the midday sun. The merman granddaughters, however, looked nothing like their father or grandfather. They were both slim and demure and very pleasing to the eye, even with the younger one having her hair dyed in a garish green colour.
"Rise," her father's voice was not as booming as usual. The journey at sea seemed to hit every single member of their family but her and Uncle Jaime. She threw a look at her younger brother Joffrey, who was uncharacteristically silent, most probably because he looked ready to heave over and spill his breakfast.
She turned her attention to the centre of the square just in time to see how the Lord of White Harbour needed the help of two burly guardsmen to get up from his kneeling position. Myrcella couldn't help but wonder if her father would soon require aid to get up himself. While he was not as fat as the Lord before him, he wasn't far off…
Finally, the cold wind began to die out, and the sun's soft caress managed to seep some warmth into her skin. From the side, her mother, wrapped tightly in her crimson velvet cloak, fussed over Tommen's runny nose with a silken handkerchief, and Joffrey was trying to suppress his shivers and look manly but failing miserably.
He looked like a sickly cat instead.
It unnerved her how much the cold affected their party, and this was supposed to be the height of summer. Myrcella shuddered to imagine how the North was during winter.
A serving man dressed in a sea-green tunic quickly walked over with a platter of bread and salt. Her kingly father tore a generous piece, dipped it in the salt, and devoured it in one bite.
"Your Grace, I have a feast prepared for you at New Castle!"
The mention of a generous serving of food and wine seemed to invigorate her royal father.
"Lead the way, Wyman!"
"I must apologise in advance, Your Grace," Lord Manderly began as he wiped a few beads of sweat from his head with his meaty hand. "The Castle Stair leading up to New Castle is lined with steps and unsuitable for a wheelhouse. But I have the finest horses to take you there if you wish."
"Bah, it's good to feel solid ground under my feet after so long," her father eagerly waved it away. "It would do us good to stretch our legs before the feast!"
On the side, her mother looked like she had just swallowed a lemon whole. A pity, as the unqueenly grimace made the otherwise beautiful face of Cersei Lannister look rather grotesque.
The whole procession slowly headed up the white street, and Myrcella had ample time to look around. The chill of the northern air seemed to abate even further as she started moving.
The Northern city was… not bad. From the inner harbour, the wide cobbled streets were straight and orderly, and the smell of pigsty that was ever present in King's Landing was replaced with clean but salty air. While White Harbour was bustling, it thankfully lacked the noisy commotion of the royal city. All the houses were built from whitewashed stone, creating a clean appearance. Even Lannisport was not as tidy and orderly as this.
The city guard had cordoned off the streets, men wearing simple arming doublets and woollen cloaks dyed in sea green with a silver trident emblazoned on their surcoats. Each watchman had a bludgeon, a dagger, and a spanghelm.
"It's lovely," Rosamund said in awe from her left.
Alas, her handmaid was nearly half her age and barely reached her elbow. Sometimes it felt that Myrcella had to care for the younger girl, not the reverse. Not that she minded; Rosamund was a sweet little girl, and her cousin besides.
To her right walked the rest of her family, bar Uncle Tyrion. The shortest lion had probably found his way into the nearest brothel. Uncle Jaime's gaze lazily wandered around the streets, looking for danger. Next to him, her mother had donned her ever-present scowl. Tommen's eyes sparkled as he drank in the surrounding view while Joffrey still looked pale and miserable.
"It certainly isn't as dreary as I dreaded," her mother hummed as she looked around. "While small, the city is passable. Hopefully, the rest of the North is similar. Perhaps a merman's daughter for your handmaid, Myrcella."
"Bah, they make us walk like common peasants in this cold," Joffrey grouched from the side, and colour finally seemed to return to his pale face.
Alas, he quickly got better enough to start his usual incessant grumbling as soon as he got away from the rocking of the ship.
"Our royal father commanded it," Myrcella countered. "If you had to ride a horse while your world was still spinning and shaking from the boat, you could very well fall off. Besides, it's not bad. Usually, all we see is Casterly Rock, King's Landing, and the Gold Road in between. Now, you get to visit some more of the other bannermen. Maidenpool was great, and I've heard that Winterfell's hotsprings easily rival Jonquil's pool."
"We are the royal family!" her younger brother continued whinging. "The rabble should come to us, not the reverse!"
Gods, would he ever grow up?! He was three and ten and as tall as her already!
"If everyone came to King's Landing, it would be too full of people you don't like," Myrcella countered, and Joffrey's face scrunched up. "Besides, good luck moving a hot spring all the way to King's Landing. And it was the Northern swords that placed Father on the throne, and House Stark is very well-connected. Aside from the friendship between Lord Stark and our royal father, the future Lords Tully and Arryn are cousins of the Stark heir, and the Greyjoy heir is fostering in Winterfell. This is an opportunity to make your own connections and shows you care for your future bannermen, you know. Many a king did a royal progress for a reason, Joff!"
Her brother finally shut up, and his face became thoughtful. He even looked half as adorable as Tommen now, as long as he did not open his mouth. For some reason, Myrcella felt that her mother's eyes flashed with disapproval, but the Queen remained silent. The princess couldn't help but pity the woman who got to marry Joffrey; he was simply unbearable.
They finally ascended the hill and were at the opened gate of the proud and pale New Castle. The large keep and the surrounding ring of curtain walls were made of whitewashed stone. The ramparts looked more than forty feet tall and fifteen feet thick. As they entered the courtyard, Myrcella couldn't help but shiver as the sun was hidden behind one of the pale towers. Without the sun's warm kiss, the cold returned with a vengeance.
The Manderly heir and his Woolfield wife approached her mother and Joffrey, offering to show them the way to their quarters.
At that moment, though, all her attention was drawn by the dark-haired Wynafryd Manderly, who came to her and Rosamund with two fur-lined cloaks.
The Northern Mountains
Jon Snow
It seemed that he managed to successfully pull off Ramsay's assassination since nobody followed him. He wouldn't have minded culling a few Bolton men as he was sorely out of practice; his current body still felt sluggish and weak. Then again, the men-at-arms were usually innocent of their overlord's sins. He could get away with that too. Aside from Ghost, who could easily hide, Jon had nothing that would distinguish him as a Stark aside from his looks, but more than half the North shared the first men colouring, similar to him. It would also be good to avoid openly breaking the King's Peace.
Regardless, Ghost had grown too large to travel in his bosom. In fact, he was already above his knees, and in another half a moon, he'd be larger than the other dogs. Jon's travel speed slowed with the four hunting hounds for his companions. It took him nearly twelve days instead of the original estimate of eight to arrive at the Liddle lands while evading all the villages and settlements from afar. That was two days ago, and Jon had been searching for dragonglass since.
Alas, he only knew of one open vein of obsidian somewhere around here but not the exact location. The last time he visited when everything had been covered by a thick white veil of snow, and the clansmen were the ones that mined the obsidian and provided it to his forces. Mayhaps he could easily acquire assistance in the Little Hall, the seat of the Liddles, but he didn't want to impose on their hospitality. Even as a bastard son of Eddard Stark, he would be warmly welcomed and aided. Bastardry meant very little compared to blood and mettle in the harsh northern mountains.
But that was not all; Jon was wary of his uncle having ordered his bannermen to return him to Winterfell should they find him. While the need to prove himself to the world had dimmed long ago, the sliver of stubborn pride had remained.
He had already left Winterfell and helped himself plenty from the armoury; there was no need to go around begging for pittances from the leal Stark Bannermen. Even if Jon failed, if his uncle heeded his warning, the Others could be fought off if the Watch and the North were not caught unaware like last time.
Mayhaps he was foolish to rush headfirst beyond the Wall to confront the foes of old, but no matter what preparations were made, it would be far simpler to snuff out the danger before it could gain in on numbers. Something that would take the Night's Watch and the North years. They were simply not prepared to even consider the existence of the Others, let alone confront them or fight beyond the Wall during the harshest of winters.
But Jon Snow was.
The Others weren't that terrifying foes once you knew how to deal with them. The real problem was the endless horde of wights under their thrall and the fact that if it got too cold for too long, the Bay of Seals might freeze, allowing them to easily bypass the Wall, turning the North into a terrifying battlefield.
Jon's failure or success would depend entirely on himself and his skill. Fighting, death, and ice have been his companions for a long time now. He had made peace with his death long ago, even before dying twice.
A sigh escaped his lips as he gazed at the sun. It was slowly crawling towards the western horizon; dusk looked little more than two hours away. The current clearing was too good to pass up, and it took at least half an hour to set camp properly. Mayhaps he would have better luck on the morrow after a good night's sleep. Jon tied Shadow's reigns to a nearby tree at the end of the small clearing and started pitching his tent. Ghost dashed into the nearby pinewood in hunt of some prey. After the tent was done, he also headed out to gather a few dry twigs for his campfire. Red Jeyne, Helicent, and Maude followed him while he left Willow to guard the uneasy Shadow.
Now wasn't that a surprise? Not only could he near effortlessly slip into the minds of Ramsay's former hunting hounds, but he could somehow tell their names. And, similar to Ghost, it felt as if they could tell his intentions or even thoughts the moment they passed through his head. He wasn't going to complain, though. They made hunting even easier, and having four more faithful companions would only aid him in the future.
"Now, I suppose you don't know where exactly that deposit of dragonglass was?"
Sadly, Red Jeyne didn't respond and only huffed at him with amusement as she wagged her shaggy tail. Just as he finished gathering a bundle of dry branches, he felt Ghost wildly tug at his mind.
He slipped into his companion's mind, only to be greeted by a terrifying sight.
A young auburn-haired girl with grey eyes garbed in leather breeches, and a fur-lined tunic had climbed high on a thick sentinel tree. She was holding onto a thick branch for dear life and looking in terror at an enormous snow bear that was effortlessly rocking the humungous tree below. He reckoned the monstrous beast was about twenty feet tall as it stood on its hind legs. By the gods, its enormous back was at least six feet wide. The tree was groaning with every push, and it looked as if it was going to fall any moment now. He could clearly feel Ghost's terror.
Jon snapped the connection, returning to his own body.
A wise man would pack up his things and move away from the monstrous bear as far as possible. A behemoth of enormous size straight from the tales of old, not something a lone man could hunt.
The Bastard of Winterfell, however, ran towards his horse, the gathered firewood left forgotten amongst the grass. He grabbed his hunting spears, yew longbow, and quiver and sprinted in Ghost's direction as he began stringing up his bow. Helicent, Red Jeyne, and Maude dutifully ran after him with angry barks. The girl reminded him of his sisters; she had Sansa's hair and Arya's eyes. Even if she did not, Jon knew he would regret it if he did not do anything. In his previous life, he had many regrets, but in this one, he would have none if he could help it.
He weaved between the trees and leapt over stones and gnarly roots as he ascended the hill. Jon felt his blood begin to sing as he pushed himself to the limit. He felt the hunting hounds lag behind, unable to keep up with his mad dash, yet could not slow down as the chances that the girl still lived dwindled with every second. The upcoming clash of life and death only made his heart thunder with excitement.
A dozen heartbeats later, he finally arrived, only to see the sentinel tree groan under the monstrous bear's efforts. A large patch of earth near its roots began to rise ominously as the tree tilted dangerously while the girl above was crying and yelling for help.
Jon Snow took a deep breath and bellowed angrily to draw the bear's attention while he notched an arrow. He succeeded as the monster turned around to face him and roared back at him. The terrifying sound reverberated in the air, making even his bones shake. On four legs, it was still nearly eight feet tall, towering over Jon. Fuck, the beast was even larger than Borroq's gigantic boar. Why was something this size south of the Wall?!
He could only blink as the snow bear charged his way far faster than its size would suggest. He barely managed to loose two arrows that missed the behemoth's eyes and harmlessly bounced off its white-furred head, enraging his foe even further. He couldn't aim well as the bear was too fast, and it was already upon him before he could blink. Even with his inhuman reflexes, he had yet to grab his spear and scarcely managed to roll to the side, barely avoiding the furious charge. He instantly got up and turned to face his foe, ignoring the flaring pain from the rocks he hit during his reckless roll. Unable to halt its momentum, the bear crashed into a younger pine, toppling it with ease, and it turned to glare at Jon with a pair of angry brown eyes.
His heart beat like a drum excitedly, Jon's hunting spear was finally in his arm, and he could taste the danger in the air. Yet his blood froze as Ghost crept up behind the beast. For a short moment, he had forgotten about his companion.
Thankfully, the bear didn't notice him as the direwolf was silent as usual and easily blended within his surroundings. Ghost hid patiently, though Jon sent a strong desire through his link for his companion to stay away. He gripped his spear tightly as the furious beast rapidly approached. He took a deep breath, aimed at the eye, and threw his first spear with all his might. His aim was true, but the bear moved its head at the last instant, and the steel tip bounced off its forehead. The steel tip probably bent before leaving a small smidgen of blood that only infuriated the bear more than anything else.
He swore inwardly as he gripped his last spear; another throw would leave him bereft of weapons.
Jon's blood sang with excitement as he gripped the ash shaft and prepared himself. He would have mayhaps half a second to pierce the enormous snow bear's eye before it ran him through. But two heartbeats before it came in the range of his spear, it quickly began to slow down as the hunting hounds finally caught up and dashed his way, barking up a storm and providing a short moment of distraction.
He took a deep breath as his foe was only ten yards away; one strike of the titanic paw would effortlessly crush the thickest of bones. Now the enormous beast was looking around, hesitating whether to attack Jon, the newly discovered direwolf, or the incoming dogs. It didn't help that if it stood up on its hind legs, its neck, eyes, and mouth would be too far away from him to reach with his spear. Even on four legs, he would struggle to stab into its eyes from below.
Every inch of his body was tensed to the limit, every muscle tightly coiled like a spring. If his foe went for his companions, there was nothing he could do with regular steel against the thick fur. Before the bear could choose whom to attack, Jon decided to act as the behemoth was warily eyeing Ghost. He took a large step forward, leapt recklessly with all his might, and cried out, grabbing the bear's attention again.
It instantly looked his way and began to rear back up with a growl as it swatted the enormous paw at him. It was lightning-fast, but Jon was half a heartbeat faster.
His heart soared with joy, and he smiled savagely as the steel tip of the hunting spear found the snow bear's eye.
Author's Endnote:
Ned turns to an old friend for advice and help.
More AU changes appear. Since the Harrenhal Tourney and the Rebellion happened two years earlier, and now the birth order of Cersei's kids is scrambled (because why not?!). Myrcella is the eldest, and Joffrey is already 13. The royal procession has finally arrived in the North, but the road from White Harbour to Winterfell is not short.
Jon's abrave reckless fucker with no fear of death. The Jon PoV just didn't come out the way I imagined, but what can you do?
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
More AU changes appear. Since the Harrenhal Tourney and the Rebellion happened two years earlier, and now the birth order of Cersei's kids is scrambled (because why not?!). Myrcella is the eldest, and Joffrey is already 13. The royal procession has finally arrived in the North, but the road from White Harbour to Winterfell is not short.
Jon's a
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
06-Saviours and Sellsails
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the ASOIAF universe. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of GRRM; I make no claim to ownership.
Acknowledgements: This chapter has not been edited by anyone but sleepy ole me, so beware. Cheers to Bub3loka, my beta reader, who helped me immensely.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Warning! There's also some possibly graphic/disturbing content not for the faint of heart, but nothing explicit.
I had to rewrite one or two parts to that skirted too close to NSFW, but I believe/hope I didn't cross any lines.
Lysara Liddle
Her heart sang with joy as the young man heroically leapt and drove his spear through the enormous snow bear's eye. The beast instantly slumped, but the gigantic paw that was already in motion still struck him. Lysara froze as her saviour's body rolled through the packed ground like a ragdoll.
A moment later, he finally stopped at the roots of an ancient oak. After a few moments, the young maiden got out of her stupor and cautiously eyed the sprawled snow bear.
It was not moving at all.
Fear completely forgotten, Lysara quickly climbed down the tilted sentinel tree and dashed towards her fallen saviour as fast as her legs could carry her.
A relieved sigh escaped her; his eyes were still open, and he struggled to get up. But it was short-lived as her eyes glanced towards his ribs. His brigandine was torn open, a few plates of steel were bent like straws, and there was blood. Gods, what would she do now?! Lysara shook her head furiously, trying to remember old Lena's lessons.
"Hey," her eyes goggled as the man greeted her with a strained voice, face contorted by pain. "Are you unharmed, my lady?"
For a short moment, she stood there, stunned. He finally sat up, back to the oaken tree, and unsheathed a dagger from his belt after a short struggle. Before Lysara could find her words, the man cut a large strip from his grey cloak and pressed it on his bloody torso.
"I'm fine," she barely mumbled. "But-"
Unable to articulate herself, she just timidly gestured towards the injury.
"Ah, 'tis but a flesh wound, no need to worry. Might leave a scar, but I'll be fine," he quickly waved her concerns away.
"There was blood!"
"Well, that happens when you get wounded, my lady," he chuckled weakly, but she was not feeling amused one bit! Yet Lysara did notice that his face was no longer too pained nor his voice as strained. "I was lucky. My armour took the brunt of the strike, which lost its strength after the bear died. After going through the brigandine, the chainshirt, and the arming doublet, there wasn't much power left in the claws. But I'm certainly bruised and might've cracked a rib or two."
Lysara's worries subsided at his now confident voice. Bruises and cracked ribs were far from lethal, so he would definitely be fine! She finally took a careful look at his features and blushed. Gods, he was pretty, even with the dirt and beads of sweat running down his face! Her saviour had soft grey eyes, high cheekbones and a sharp, sculpted face. His comely face was surrounded by damp, dark hair reaching his broad shoulders. Wait, she had completely forgotten her manners!
"Ah, thank you for saving me, ser-" Lysara paused when she realised he had not given his name. She had not even introduced herself either!
Her cheeks reddened.
"Name's Jon," her pretty saviour took mercy on her and responded with a pained chuckle. "I'm not a knight either, just a Northern bastard."
But he was so heroic and pretty! How was he not a knight?! At that moment, she heard a faint shuffling behind her. She instinctively turned around and froze.
She was surrounded by four vicious-looking hounds; one was as white as snow, one dirty red, one brown, and the last had grey fur. A few fearful heartbeats passed, but nothing happened. Lysara noticed that none of them were standing aggressively, nor were their teeth bared and began to calm.
"Ah, those are my companions," the young man voiced behind her. "They are harmless, don't worry. Give them your hand to take your scent."
A breath she did not remember holding was released, and she hesitantly offered her right hand, making the pack approach and inspect it with their wet noses.
"LYSARA!" a mighty cry tore through the air, startling both her and the dogs, making her pale. The hounds instantly turned towards the source of the cry; four tails rose in the air as they crouched defensively in front of her and her saviour.
That was her father's voice, and she was going to be in so much trouble…
And there he was. Atop the northern rocky ridge, her father, Torren Liddle, along with her brothers, Duncan, Morgan, and Rickard, followed by nearly three dozen hunters and a score of angrily barking hunting hounds. Even from that distance, Lysara could see her father's weary face etched with worry, but she could recognise the storm brewing in his icy eyes.
The hounds in front of her began to growl in warning as the group approached, and her father's wolfhounds barked up a loud racket. All of them looked tense, spears and bows in their arms.
"Down, Ghost. Girls," the voice of the young man behind her was almost drowned out in the ruckus, but at that moment, the four hunting hounds sat down peacefully, and her father's hunting hounds quieted down as he raised his hand in a fist.
"Hello, Father!" she waved, trying to look cheerful.
It did not work. Torren Liddle did not spare Jon more than a passing glance before pinning her with his icy gaze.
"Lysara," his voice was impassive, slow and measured, his usual northern burr nowhere to be heard; she couldn't help but shrink down. "Did you remember what you promised when I agreed for you to accompany us on the hunt?"
"That I'll make no trouble and listen to your commands?" Lyarra timidly recounted and tried to evade her father's sharp gaze.
"That's right. Look me in the eyes when I speak to ye!" he snapped coldly, and she guiltily looked up to meet his eyes. "And what did you do when I ordered you to stay in the camp with Rickard?"
"I went to look for some yellow caps for the stew?" She offered weakly as she rubbed her neck. "I just wanted to help too…"
"Lysara," Torren's voice was deathly calm, but his icy eyes were filled with worry. "Next time you go to 'help', don't foolishly sneak away, but come to me, and I'll get someone to escort you. You could have been mauled by a wild animal or taken by a daring wilding. We just heard a monstrous roar from this direction not long ago."
She couldn't help but laugh nervously at his words.
"Da, you gotta see this," Rickard, her youngest brother, pointed towards the snow bear's corpse that looked like a small hill from here.
Torren Liddle craned his head and looked at the slain beast. The only reaction he showed was the widening of his eyes before returning his gaze to Lysara. Her brother Morgan and half a dozen hunters went to the corpse to inspect it.
"You'll not only double your lessons with Lena but muck the stables and help in the kitchen for the next three moons without a single complaint." She swallowed down her objection at his stern face and bowed her head in agreement. From experience, Lysara knew there was no point in arguing lest her father decided to lengthen her punishment further. "And who is your companion behind you?"
"That's Jon, father," she explained and stepped away as she realised she was standing in front of her saviour. "He killed the bear to save me."
"Well met, Chief Liddle," Jon bowed his head in acknowledgement with a slight grimace.
Torren Liddle, however, was staring at the young man without saying a word for some reason.
"Gods, father, is that a direwolf?" Duncan, her eldest brother, broke the silence as he pointed towards… the white wolfhound?
At that moment, her father's face softened, and the ice in his blue eyes finally melted.
"That's a direwolf, alright, with its overly large head." Torren Liddle finally agreed as he gazed at Jon. "Yer a Stark. The Ned's boy?"
By the gods, why didn't he tell her he was a Stark?! It took all of Lysara's control not to squeal in delight right here. Starks were even better than knights!
"Aye, I'm Lord Stark's son, but just a Snow."
At that moment, Morgan finally returned, bloody spear in hand. Soft steam arose from the badly twisted leaf-shaped steelhead as it dripped rich black blood.
"Father, that behemoth must be what was driving all the prey away. Methinks it weighs at least four thousand pounds, more than enough to feed us for a whole moon. The skin is undamaged. It took five of us to take the spear out of the eye," her brother looked at Jon with undisguised admiration.
"I apologise for stealing your prey, Lord Torrhen," Jon chimed in with a pained grimace as he pressed the now reddish strip of cloth tighter to his wound. "I relinquish my rights to the carcass to you."
"None of that Southron crap, lad," her father dismissively waved his hand; Lysara noticed his voice had regained its usual brogue. "A tall feat for the songs, slaying a beast so large alone. I would have lost me only daughter and even some of me finest men putting it down. Name or not, The Ned's get is always welcome in me lands. How's yer wound?"
"Bruised heavily, and claws raked my skin, but I'll live," her saviour barely suppressed a groan. "Might need a clean bandage and mayhaps some poultice to ward away any festering."
"We'll get ya to me Hall, lad, and old Lena will patch ya up good," he turned to the rest of the men. "Rodrik, Hrothgar, go fetch the litter for the Ned's son. The rest of you, skin the beast and harvest everything before it goes bad. Tonight we feast!"
Tyrosh
Salladhor Saan
The sun was slowly crawling towards the horizon in the west, giving a pinkish hue to the clouds littering the vast sky. Salladhor looked at Zephon Sarrios' enormous manse with a hint of annoyance. The black marble walls were nearly twenty feet tall, and he could see Unsullied patrolling along the ramparts above. The gates, made of solid ebony lined with silver and gold, were also manned by four Unsullied, who stood as still as statues.
The whole place could easily qualify as a fortress if it wasn't for the excessive amount of luxury. He had no idea why the richest magister in Tyrosh had summoned him, but Salladhor was never one to pass up an opportunity to make some gold. In fact, he could practically hear the sweet clinks of coin filling his purse. He just hoped that the magister would not make him wait until dawn. That bad business with the sack forty years ago dragged the Saan name through the mud in this city because of his greedy uncle.
Thankfully, Salladhor did not have to wait long. A buxom blonde with long, flowing hair and pale skin, dressed in scant silk, scarcely covering her ample teats and shapely hips, haughtily walked out of the ebony door next to the gate and looked at him. With her lithe waist and heart-shaped face, the woman would easily be the top courtesan in the best pillow houses in Lys!
"Magister Sarrios will see you now, Master Saan," she spoke in a melodic voice, beckoning him with a smooth, elegant gesture.
He took an appreciative glance at her swaying hips and, a moment later, followed. She moved so lightly and gracefully that the only sound he could hear was the rustling of her dress. To his chagrin, none of Salladhor's concubines could hold a candle to the alluring messenger before him. Ynanna's holy teats, he'd have to visit a pillow house to vent after this.
The courtyard was vast and opulent. A broad walkway was paved in white marble, and exotic trees, plants, and flowers of myriad colours were lined around the path. Salladhor was a well-travelled explorer, but he could only recognise a scant few like Goldenheart, Ebony, Nightwood, and even Black-barked trees! Not only that but there was a giant statue of a pair of naked lovers made entirely out of jade. He could also spot a gilded fountain surrounded by four silver sculptures of bare maidens.
His gaze now slid forward to the manse where the prodigal magister resided. It was a tall building made of white marble, with a tall round tower at every corner. It had a wing on each side, and large glass windows littered the facade. Pillars with the shapes of dancing bodies supported the elongated parts of the silvery roof.
At that moment, Salladhor couldn't help but envy Magister Sarrios. Alas, men like him had to break their backs and brave the seas to get a small fraction of the riches the Tyroshi Magister possessed.
They finally arrived at the entrance of the manse. The large goldenheart door was inlaid with silver and was guarded by yet another pair of Unsullied.
The magnificent display of wealth became even more luxurious inside, but Salladhor was now too numb to care. After a walk down a wide hallway filled with marble, jade, and gold, they entered a large hall.
At the corner, a completely naked maiden pleasantly ran her delicate fingers on a large golden harp lined with rubies. His eyes slid over the few unsullied that stood like statues along the walls towards the numerous bare maids running around with gilded platters heavy with food or silver-bound pitchers of wine. They all had the red anemone tattooed on their belly, signifying their status as pleasure slaves. To Salladhor's surprise, none were lesser in looks than the fair messenger. The woman led him towards the centre, where a large mahogany table lined with jade, surrounded by ebony chairs tapered with crimson velvet.
Magister Zephon Sarrios stood on a large ebony throne lined with gold and encrusted emeralds. Tall yet plump, with olive skin, dyed blue hair, and a round face, the man didn't look too impressive. Clad in a loose robe of purple silk emblazoned with gold, his fingers were adorned in valyrian steel rings bejewelled with large diamonds and emeralds. A slender, naked, silver-haired valyrian beauty with purple eyes was feeding him grapes while a second, buxom and just as naked, was massaging his neck and shoulders.
It took all of Salladhor's self-control not to stare at their rosy nipples but at the unappealing magister instead. Even in Lys, one would be hard-pressed to see so much naked flesh, let alone one of such quality.
"Ah, Captain Saan," Zephon Sarrios smiled widely, blinding the Lyseni Captain with a flash of gold. He almost tripped on the jade stairs up the dais as he saw that all of the teeth of the magister were golden. "Just the man I was looking for. Take a seat, and do not be afraid to fill your belly or soothe your parched throat."
"Magister Sarrios, it's an honour to meet you," Salladhor bowed his head and sat across the table.
One of the naked maids with red hair and an ample bosom came over and filled his goblet with a dark-purple liquid, and an exquisite scent teased his nostrils. Ynanna's holy teats! Was this from the legendary exclusive stash of Lord Redwyne?! Then he noticed that all the cutlery on the table was made from dark, rippled steel and gaped. Salladhor did not know what to do for the first time in his life. His desire to bury his face into the ample bosom of the naked redhead beside him warred with his admiration for the opulent cutlery and the need to drown the cup filled with the wine of legend.
With titanic effort, he shook his head and forced himself to focus on the Magister, who had a sly, knowing smile on his face.
"I take it you're in agreement with my meagre bounty, Captain," pride was evident in the tyroshi's voice. "I am in need of your services."
"What do you require of me, Magister?"
The merchant prince's jovial expression melted away and turned blank. He slapped the arse of the lithe beauty next to him, and she lifted one of the pitchers and filled his valyrian steel goblet studded with rubies.
"My eldest daughter, Melyta, is to marry Archon Varonar as his main wife," he slowly began before taking a generous gulp from his goblet. "I've prepared to add the grandest dowry of the Free Cities, so all would know House Sarrios is the richest and most powerful of them all! Countless treasured materials have been prepared, from imperial jade from Yi Ti to valyrian steel armaments for the Archon. I shall gift every priceless treasure from the four corners of the world!" He grandly waved his hand, but then his face soured. "But I am unable to find anyone to procure weirwood and mammoth ivory!"
Salladhor opened his mouth to agree but then halted. Something was wrong; this wouldn't be too hard for any run-of-the-mill smuggler to procure!
"It should be simple to get some weirwood or ivory from the Night's Watch for a man of your calibre, Magister," he cautiously replied.
Zephon Sarrios was not only the most powerful head of the Tyroshi cartels, the owner of the most developed harbour in the city, but also the sole distributor of the luxurious purple dye, the biggest banker, and the head of the chattel slavery in the city. He bred and trained the finest slaves, be it pleasure, fighting, serving, or craftsmen. While the Archon ruled in Tyrosh in the open, Zephon Sarrios was the hidden power of the city.
"Ah, my friend Saan. Usually, you would be right!" Zephon's smiling face then twisted into an angry grimace. "But that cretin Arvaad bought out all the mammoth ivory off the market and refuses to sell to me no matter the price! And I need not the measly branches of the weirwoods but thick trunks to make a grand statue of my daughter, so her beauty will be remembered for eternity! I need a brave man to go north of that icy Wall and procure me the goods."
It took a moment for Salladhor to remember who Arvaad was. Another rich and powerful magister, second only to Sarrios. He commanded the largest portion of the Tyroshi fleet and had a lot of connections in Westeros.
"Why me?" he found himself asking suspiciously. Something did not add up here; plenty of skilled smugglers and pirates in Tyrosh would jump to earn the Magister's favour. "Surely, Tyrosh does not lack capable sellsails eager to do your bidding."
Zephon Sarrios then pulled the lithe naked serving girl into his lap. Ignoring her yelp, his dark hands began to rove eagerly over her pale flesh.
"Ah, my friend, normally you would be right," the magister nodded in agreement. "Given enough time, I can surely procure the ivory one way or another. But the wedding is in less than three moons! All the men I send north of the Wall never returned. That damned Cotter Pyke and his black sails would let them go up and catches them on their way down when they're weakened, slow, and heavy with spoils! You're the only one alive that has sailed past the Wall and returned. It does help that you have ample skill and experience."
Salladhor frowned; he could remember at least three other Captains who had made the trip north of the Wall and returned.
"What about Ardo the Earless?"
"I already sent him! The Blacksail caught him, lopped his head off and confiscated his men, ships, and my goods! That fiend Arvaad bought the taken ivory already. The weirwood was not even half large enough for my goals! And he's the fourth one that went and did not return! Red Hydalf also went, but..."
The magister needed not finish; Red Hydalf was a far poorer sellsail than Ardo; fools would not succeed where the seasoned veterans failed.
It seemed like Cotter Pyke had only grown more savage during his stay at the Wall. Salladhor finally took a sip from his own cup, and his mouth almost went numb with pleasure. He found himself gulping more and more, and before he knew it, the goblet was empty, yet his newfound thirst was unquenched. The red-haired servant came over and instantly refilled it. Ah, this damned Tyorshi! He had ruined other wine for Salladhor…
He lifted his newly filled cup and, this time, with titanic effort, managed not to drink it all in one go. The Lyseni smuggler slowly took a small gulp and twirled the liquid around his mouth, sending slivers of pleasure down his spine. How was Salladhor supposed to drink normal wine after this?!
He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He looked at the vast array of delicacies in front of him, half of which even he did not even recognise and groaned. It took Salladhor Saan all his focus to force himself to think.
The last time he had gone to smuggle past Eastwatch was eighteen years ago when the infamous Blacksail Cotter was only just caught for fucking some iron lord's daughter and sent to the Wall. His skill in sailing was matched only by his ferocity, and his fame had just begun to spread across the sea. It was a great jape back in the day for a lusty pirate of renown to be forced to take vows of celibacy.
Baelor Morrigen, the commander of Eastwatch back then, was like a sundered sieve, and unless you were stupid or too greedy, you could come and go as you wished.
But now, if he wanted to sail North, he would have to brave the Shivering Sea east of Skagos to avoid the Bay of Seals and the Blacksail. Dangerous, but well within the capabilities of someone like Salladhor Saan!
Salladhor finally stopped mulling and reluctantly forced himself to tear his eyes from the godly wine and look at the Magister, who was angrily pawing at the girl in his lap with a savage scowl. She did not dare make a sound, but her face contorted into a pained grimace, and tears began to run down from her amethyst eyes.
"So, you want me to sail north of the Wall, chop off a gigantic sacred tree, hunt down some mammoths, avoid the Blacksail, Lord of the Ships, the Braavosi, and come back here in about fifty days?"
"Indeed, Captain Saan," the magister confirmed and pushed the pleasure slave off his lap, making her fall into the floor with a pained cry before lifting his goblet and taking a generous gulp. "But worry not about the Lord of Ships. After a fire at Dragonstone, none has seen or heard from him for a moon now!"
Truth be told, Salladhor did not fear the Blacksail or the Braavosi too much, but Stannis Baratheon was a terrifying man. You could not bribe him with anything, and he was just and fair and could even turn smugglers into honest men! Such vile sorcery was too dangerous; he would rather not risk getting captured and somehow turning over a new leaf.
"It will still cost you heavily, Magister Sarrios," Salladhor finally responded, and he took a bite from a juicy piece of meat covered with reddish sauce. "The Northmen hate it when people cut down their sacred trees!"
Gods, even the food here was to die for. The meat was soft and succulent and melted in his mouth, leaving a pleasantly spicy feeling on his tongue.
"Just a bunch of savages worshipping trees," the Tyroshi waved away his concerns without a care in the world. The buxom valyrian slave was still kneading the man's shoulders relentlessly. "The price is not an issue, my friend. I will pay you thrice the weight in gold for the mammoth ivory and weirwood trunks. If you deliver everything, I'll even gift you half a dozen of my finest slaves of your choosing!"
Salladhor Saan quickly ran the numbers through his head. He could make plenty of coin by selling silk, dyes, oranges and lemons in Gulltown and White Harbour. He could also stock up on cheap fur clothing in White Harbour, as those would be needed North of the Wall if one did not want to freeze to death. The route north of the Wall was not too difficult either and returning would be easy if Stannis Baratheon and his men were not active. North of the Wall, he could sell steel armaments and acquire some valuables and assistance from the wildlings. Even if he went with ten ships and paid all their crews handsomely, Salladhor would still be rich enough to be considered an important Magister in Lys afterwards. Yet, there were some problems.
"I'd do it, Magister, but I know nothing of mammoth tracking or hunting," he cautiously admitted.
"Don't worry, I will send Denzo Hartys and his men with you. He's an experienced elephant and man hunter. If you two bring me some exotic savages, I shall not be stingy either."
Bah, now he had to split his reward with another, and a slaver at that. Manhunters were all nasty ilk and difficult to deal with. Although that was not truly a problem, after the job was done, this Denzo Hartys and his men needed not reach Tyrosh.
"I'll take him with me," Salladhor finally confirmed with a vigorous nod.
After this, he could retire and live like a king for the rest of his days.
"Good, good," Magister Sarrios's face split into a broad smile, blinding him with its golden shine. The Tyroshi then stood up and, with a gesture, the buxom valyrian beauty massaging his shoulders bent over the tapered throne's armrest, leaving her naked pale arse hanging in the air. "Mayhaps it's time to sample what my slaves have to offer. Senerra, attend our guest."
Author's Endnote:
Acknowledgements: This chapter has not been edited by anyone but sleepy ole me, so beware. Cheers to Bub3loka, my beta reader, who helped me immensely.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Warning! There's also some possibly graphic/disturbing content not for the faint of heart, but nothing explicit.
I had to rewrite one or two parts to that skirted too close to NSFW, but I believe/hope I didn't cross any lines.
Lysara Liddle
Her heart sang with joy as the young man heroically leapt and drove his spear through the enormous snow bear's eye. The beast instantly slumped, but the gigantic paw that was already in motion still struck him. Lysara froze as her saviour's body rolled through the packed ground like a ragdoll.
A moment later, he finally stopped at the roots of an ancient oak. After a few moments, the young maiden got out of her stupor and cautiously eyed the sprawled snow bear.
It was not moving at all.
Fear completely forgotten, Lysara quickly climbed down the tilted sentinel tree and dashed towards her fallen saviour as fast as her legs could carry her.
A relieved sigh escaped her; his eyes were still open, and he struggled to get up. But it was short-lived as her eyes glanced towards his ribs. His brigandine was torn open, a few plates of steel were bent like straws, and there was blood. Gods, what would she do now?! Lysara shook her head furiously, trying to remember old Lena's lessons.
"Hey," her eyes goggled as the man greeted her with a strained voice, face contorted by pain. "Are you unharmed, my lady?"
For a short moment, she stood there, stunned. He finally sat up, back to the oaken tree, and unsheathed a dagger from his belt after a short struggle. Before Lysara could find her words, the man cut a large strip from his grey cloak and pressed it on his bloody torso.
"I'm fine," she barely mumbled. "But-"
Unable to articulate herself, she just timidly gestured towards the injury.
"Ah, 'tis but a flesh wound, no need to worry. Might leave a scar, but I'll be fine," he quickly waved her concerns away.
"There was blood!"
"Well, that happens when you get wounded, my lady," he chuckled weakly, but she was not feeling amused one bit! Yet Lysara did notice that his face was no longer too pained nor his voice as strained. "I was lucky. My armour took the brunt of the strike, which lost its strength after the bear died. After going through the brigandine, the chainshirt, and the arming doublet, there wasn't much power left in the claws. But I'm certainly bruised and might've cracked a rib or two."
Lysara's worries subsided at his now confident voice. Bruises and cracked ribs were far from lethal, so he would definitely be fine! She finally took a careful look at his features and blushed. Gods, he was pretty, even with the dirt and beads of sweat running down his face! Her saviour had soft grey eyes, high cheekbones and a sharp, sculpted face. His comely face was surrounded by damp, dark hair reaching his broad shoulders. Wait, she had completely forgotten her manners!
"Ah, thank you for saving me, ser-" Lysara paused when she realised he had not given his name. She had not even introduced herself either!
Her cheeks reddened.
"Name's Jon," her pretty saviour took mercy on her and responded with a pained chuckle. "I'm not a knight either, just a Northern bastard."
But he was so heroic and pretty! How was he not a knight?! At that moment, she heard a faint shuffling behind her. She instinctively turned around and froze.
She was surrounded by four vicious-looking hounds; one was as white as snow, one dirty red, one brown, and the last had grey fur. A few fearful heartbeats passed, but nothing happened. Lysara noticed that none of them were standing aggressively, nor were their teeth bared and began to calm.
"Ah, those are my companions," the young man voiced behind her. "They are harmless, don't worry. Give them your hand to take your scent."
A breath she did not remember holding was released, and she hesitantly offered her right hand, making the pack approach and inspect it with their wet noses.
"LYSARA!" a mighty cry tore through the air, startling both her and the dogs, making her pale. The hounds instantly turned towards the source of the cry; four tails rose in the air as they crouched defensively in front of her and her saviour.
That was her father's voice, and she was going to be in so much trouble…
And there he was. Atop the northern rocky ridge, her father, Torren Liddle, along with her brothers, Duncan, Morgan, and Rickard, followed by nearly three dozen hunters and a score of angrily barking hunting hounds. Even from that distance, Lysara could see her father's weary face etched with worry, but she could recognise the storm brewing in his icy eyes.
The hounds in front of her began to growl in warning as the group approached, and her father's wolfhounds barked up a loud racket. All of them looked tense, spears and bows in their arms.
"Down, Ghost. Girls," the voice of the young man behind her was almost drowned out in the ruckus, but at that moment, the four hunting hounds sat down peacefully, and her father's hunting hounds quieted down as he raised his hand in a fist.
"Hello, Father!" she waved, trying to look cheerful.
It did not work. Torren Liddle did not spare Jon more than a passing glance before pinning her with his icy gaze.
"Lysara," his voice was impassive, slow and measured, his usual northern burr nowhere to be heard; she couldn't help but shrink down. "Did you remember what you promised when I agreed for you to accompany us on the hunt?"
"That I'll make no trouble and listen to your commands?" Lyarra timidly recounted and tried to evade her father's sharp gaze.
"That's right. Look me in the eyes when I speak to ye!" he snapped coldly, and she guiltily looked up to meet his eyes. "And what did you do when I ordered you to stay in the camp with Rickard?"
"I went to look for some yellow caps for the stew?" She offered weakly as she rubbed her neck. "I just wanted to help too…"
"Lysara," Torren's voice was deathly calm, but his icy eyes were filled with worry. "Next time you go to 'help', don't foolishly sneak away, but come to me, and I'll get someone to escort you. You could have been mauled by a wild animal or taken by a daring wilding. We just heard a monstrous roar from this direction not long ago."
She couldn't help but laugh nervously at his words.
"Da, you gotta see this," Rickard, her youngest brother, pointed towards the snow bear's corpse that looked like a small hill from here.
Torren Liddle craned his head and looked at the slain beast. The only reaction he showed was the widening of his eyes before returning his gaze to Lysara. Her brother Morgan and half a dozen hunters went to the corpse to inspect it.
"You'll not only double your lessons with Lena but muck the stables and help in the kitchen for the next three moons without a single complaint." She swallowed down her objection at his stern face and bowed her head in agreement. From experience, Lysara knew there was no point in arguing lest her father decided to lengthen her punishment further. "And who is your companion behind you?"
"That's Jon, father," she explained and stepped away as she realised she was standing in front of her saviour. "He killed the bear to save me."
"Well met, Chief Liddle," Jon bowed his head in acknowledgement with a slight grimace.
Torren Liddle, however, was staring at the young man without saying a word for some reason.
"Gods, father, is that a direwolf?" Duncan, her eldest brother, broke the silence as he pointed towards… the white wolfhound?
At that moment, her father's face softened, and the ice in his blue eyes finally melted.
"That's a direwolf, alright, with its overly large head." Torren Liddle finally agreed as he gazed at Jon. "Yer a Stark. The Ned's boy?"
By the gods, why didn't he tell her he was a Stark?! It took all of Lysara's control not to squeal in delight right here. Starks were even better than knights!
"Aye, I'm Lord Stark's son, but just a Snow."
At that moment, Morgan finally returned, bloody spear in hand. Soft steam arose from the badly twisted leaf-shaped steelhead as it dripped rich black blood.
"Father, that behemoth must be what was driving all the prey away. Methinks it weighs at least four thousand pounds, more than enough to feed us for a whole moon. The skin is undamaged. It took five of us to take the spear out of the eye," her brother looked at Jon with undisguised admiration.
"I apologise for stealing your prey, Lord Torrhen," Jon chimed in with a pained grimace as he pressed the now reddish strip of cloth tighter to his wound. "I relinquish my rights to the carcass to you."
"None of that Southron crap, lad," her father dismissively waved his hand; Lysara noticed his voice had regained its usual brogue. "A tall feat for the songs, slaying a beast so large alone. I would have lost me only daughter and even some of me finest men putting it down. Name or not, The Ned's get is always welcome in me lands. How's yer wound?"
"Bruised heavily, and claws raked my skin, but I'll live," her saviour barely suppressed a groan. "Might need a clean bandage and mayhaps some poultice to ward away any festering."
"We'll get ya to me Hall, lad, and old Lena will patch ya up good," he turned to the rest of the men. "Rodrik, Hrothgar, go fetch the litter for the Ned's son. The rest of you, skin the beast and harvest everything before it goes bad. Tonight we feast!"
Tyrosh
Salladhor Saan
The sun was slowly crawling towards the horizon in the west, giving a pinkish hue to the clouds littering the vast sky. Salladhor looked at Zephon Sarrios' enormous manse with a hint of annoyance. The black marble walls were nearly twenty feet tall, and he could see Unsullied patrolling along the ramparts above. The gates, made of solid ebony lined with silver and gold, were also manned by four Unsullied, who stood as still as statues.
The whole place could easily qualify as a fortress if it wasn't for the excessive amount of luxury. He had no idea why the richest magister in Tyrosh had summoned him, but Salladhor was never one to pass up an opportunity to make some gold. In fact, he could practically hear the sweet clinks of coin filling his purse. He just hoped that the magister would not make him wait until dawn. That bad business with the sack forty years ago dragged the Saan name through the mud in this city because of his greedy uncle.
Thankfully, Salladhor did not have to wait long. A buxom blonde with long, flowing hair and pale skin, dressed in scant silk, scarcely covering her ample teats and shapely hips, haughtily walked out of the ebony door next to the gate and looked at him. With her lithe waist and heart-shaped face, the woman would easily be the top courtesan in the best pillow houses in Lys!
"Magister Sarrios will see you now, Master Saan," she spoke in a melodic voice, beckoning him with a smooth, elegant gesture.
He took an appreciative glance at her swaying hips and, a moment later, followed. She moved so lightly and gracefully that the only sound he could hear was the rustling of her dress. To his chagrin, none of Salladhor's concubines could hold a candle to the alluring messenger before him. Ynanna's holy teats, he'd have to visit a pillow house to vent after this.
The courtyard was vast and opulent. A broad walkway was paved in white marble, and exotic trees, plants, and flowers of myriad colours were lined around the path. Salladhor was a well-travelled explorer, but he could only recognise a scant few like Goldenheart, Ebony, Nightwood, and even Black-barked trees! Not only that but there was a giant statue of a pair of naked lovers made entirely out of jade. He could also spot a gilded fountain surrounded by four silver sculptures of bare maidens.
His gaze now slid forward to the manse where the prodigal magister resided. It was a tall building made of white marble, with a tall round tower at every corner. It had a wing on each side, and large glass windows littered the facade. Pillars with the shapes of dancing bodies supported the elongated parts of the silvery roof.
At that moment, Salladhor couldn't help but envy Magister Sarrios. Alas, men like him had to break their backs and brave the seas to get a small fraction of the riches the Tyroshi Magister possessed.
They finally arrived at the entrance of the manse. The large goldenheart door was inlaid with silver and was guarded by yet another pair of Unsullied.
The magnificent display of wealth became even more luxurious inside, but Salladhor was now too numb to care. After a walk down a wide hallway filled with marble, jade, and gold, they entered a large hall.
At the corner, a completely naked maiden pleasantly ran her delicate fingers on a large golden harp lined with rubies. His eyes slid over the few unsullied that stood like statues along the walls towards the numerous bare maids running around with gilded platters heavy with food or silver-bound pitchers of wine. They all had the red anemone tattooed on their belly, signifying their status as pleasure slaves. To Salladhor's surprise, none were lesser in looks than the fair messenger. The woman led him towards the centre, where a large mahogany table lined with jade, surrounded by ebony chairs tapered with crimson velvet.
Magister Zephon Sarrios stood on a large ebony throne lined with gold and encrusted emeralds. Tall yet plump, with olive skin, dyed blue hair, and a round face, the man didn't look too impressive. Clad in a loose robe of purple silk emblazoned with gold, his fingers were adorned in valyrian steel rings bejewelled with large diamonds and emeralds. A slender, naked, silver-haired valyrian beauty with purple eyes was feeding him grapes while a second, buxom and just as naked, was massaging his neck and shoulders.
It took all of Salladhor's self-control not to stare at their rosy nipples but at the unappealing magister instead. Even in Lys, one would be hard-pressed to see so much naked flesh, let alone one of such quality.
"Ah, Captain Saan," Zephon Sarrios smiled widely, blinding the Lyseni Captain with a flash of gold. He almost tripped on the jade stairs up the dais as he saw that all of the teeth of the magister were golden. "Just the man I was looking for. Take a seat, and do not be afraid to fill your belly or soothe your parched throat."
"Magister Sarrios, it's an honour to meet you," Salladhor bowed his head and sat across the table.
One of the naked maids with red hair and an ample bosom came over and filled his goblet with a dark-purple liquid, and an exquisite scent teased his nostrils. Ynanna's holy teats! Was this from the legendary exclusive stash of Lord Redwyne?! Then he noticed that all the cutlery on the table was made from dark, rippled steel and gaped. Salladhor did not know what to do for the first time in his life. His desire to bury his face into the ample bosom of the naked redhead beside him warred with his admiration for the opulent cutlery and the need to drown the cup filled with the wine of legend.
With titanic effort, he shook his head and forced himself to focus on the Magister, who had a sly, knowing smile on his face.
"I take it you're in agreement with my meagre bounty, Captain," pride was evident in the tyroshi's voice. "I am in need of your services."
"What do you require of me, Magister?"
The merchant prince's jovial expression melted away and turned blank. He slapped the arse of the lithe beauty next to him, and she lifted one of the pitchers and filled his valyrian steel goblet studded with rubies.
"My eldest daughter, Melyta, is to marry Archon Varonar as his main wife," he slowly began before taking a generous gulp from his goblet. "I've prepared to add the grandest dowry of the Free Cities, so all would know House Sarrios is the richest and most powerful of them all! Countless treasured materials have been prepared, from imperial jade from Yi Ti to valyrian steel armaments for the Archon. I shall gift every priceless treasure from the four corners of the world!" He grandly waved his hand, but then his face soured. "But I am unable to find anyone to procure weirwood and mammoth ivory!"
Salladhor opened his mouth to agree but then halted. Something was wrong; this wouldn't be too hard for any run-of-the-mill smuggler to procure!
"It should be simple to get some weirwood or ivory from the Night's Watch for a man of your calibre, Magister," he cautiously replied.
Zephon Sarrios was not only the most powerful head of the Tyroshi cartels, the owner of the most developed harbour in the city, but also the sole distributor of the luxurious purple dye, the biggest banker, and the head of the chattel slavery in the city. He bred and trained the finest slaves, be it pleasure, fighting, serving, or craftsmen. While the Archon ruled in Tyrosh in the open, Zephon Sarrios was the hidden power of the city.
"Ah, my friend Saan. Usually, you would be right!" Zephon's smiling face then twisted into an angry grimace. "But that cretin Arvaad bought out all the mammoth ivory off the market and refuses to sell to me no matter the price! And I need not the measly branches of the weirwoods but thick trunks to make a grand statue of my daughter, so her beauty will be remembered for eternity! I need a brave man to go north of that icy Wall and procure me the goods."
It took a moment for Salladhor to remember who Arvaad was. Another rich and powerful magister, second only to Sarrios. He commanded the largest portion of the Tyroshi fleet and had a lot of connections in Westeros.
"Why me?" he found himself asking suspiciously. Something did not add up here; plenty of skilled smugglers and pirates in Tyrosh would jump to earn the Magister's favour. "Surely, Tyrosh does not lack capable sellsails eager to do your bidding."
Zephon Sarrios then pulled the lithe naked serving girl into his lap. Ignoring her yelp, his dark hands began to rove eagerly over her pale flesh.
"Ah, my friend, normally you would be right," the magister nodded in agreement. "Given enough time, I can surely procure the ivory one way or another. But the wedding is in less than three moons! All the men I send north of the Wall never returned. That damned Cotter Pyke and his black sails would let them go up and catches them on their way down when they're weakened, slow, and heavy with spoils! You're the only one alive that has sailed past the Wall and returned. It does help that you have ample skill and experience."
Salladhor frowned; he could remember at least three other Captains who had made the trip north of the Wall and returned.
"What about Ardo the Earless?"
"I already sent him! The Blacksail caught him, lopped his head off and confiscated his men, ships, and my goods! That fiend Arvaad bought the taken ivory already. The weirwood was not even half large enough for my goals! And he's the fourth one that went and did not return! Red Hydalf also went, but..."
The magister needed not finish; Red Hydalf was a far poorer sellsail than Ardo; fools would not succeed where the seasoned veterans failed.
It seemed like Cotter Pyke had only grown more savage during his stay at the Wall. Salladhor finally took a sip from his own cup, and his mouth almost went numb with pleasure. He found himself gulping more and more, and before he knew it, the goblet was empty, yet his newfound thirst was unquenched. The red-haired servant came over and instantly refilled it. Ah, this damned Tyorshi! He had ruined other wine for Salladhor…
He lifted his newly filled cup and, this time, with titanic effort, managed not to drink it all in one go. The Lyseni smuggler slowly took a small gulp and twirled the liquid around his mouth, sending slivers of pleasure down his spine. How was Salladhor supposed to drink normal wine after this?!
He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He looked at the vast array of delicacies in front of him, half of which even he did not even recognise and groaned. It took Salladhor Saan all his focus to force himself to think.
The last time he had gone to smuggle past Eastwatch was eighteen years ago when the infamous Blacksail Cotter was only just caught for fucking some iron lord's daughter and sent to the Wall. His skill in sailing was matched only by his ferocity, and his fame had just begun to spread across the sea. It was a great jape back in the day for a lusty pirate of renown to be forced to take vows of celibacy.
Baelor Morrigen, the commander of Eastwatch back then, was like a sundered sieve, and unless you were stupid or too greedy, you could come and go as you wished.
But now, if he wanted to sail North, he would have to brave the Shivering Sea east of Skagos to avoid the Bay of Seals and the Blacksail. Dangerous, but well within the capabilities of someone like Salladhor Saan!
Salladhor finally stopped mulling and reluctantly forced himself to tear his eyes from the godly wine and look at the Magister, who was angrily pawing at the girl in his lap with a savage scowl. She did not dare make a sound, but her face contorted into a pained grimace, and tears began to run down from her amethyst eyes.
"So, you want me to sail north of the Wall, chop off a gigantic sacred tree, hunt down some mammoths, avoid the Blacksail, Lord of the Ships, the Braavosi, and come back here in about fifty days?"
"Indeed, Captain Saan," the magister confirmed and pushed the pleasure slave off his lap, making her fall into the floor with a pained cry before lifting his goblet and taking a generous gulp. "But worry not about the Lord of Ships. After a fire at Dragonstone, none has seen or heard from him for a moon now!"
Truth be told, Salladhor did not fear the Blacksail or the Braavosi too much, but Stannis Baratheon was a terrifying man. You could not bribe him with anything, and he was just and fair and could even turn smugglers into honest men! Such vile sorcery was too dangerous; he would rather not risk getting captured and somehow turning over a new leaf.
"It will still cost you heavily, Magister Sarrios," Salladhor finally responded, and he took a bite from a juicy piece of meat covered with reddish sauce. "The Northmen hate it when people cut down their sacred trees!"
Gods, even the food here was to die for. The meat was soft and succulent and melted in his mouth, leaving a pleasantly spicy feeling on his tongue.
"Just a bunch of savages worshipping trees," the Tyroshi waved away his concerns without a care in the world. The buxom valyrian slave was still kneading the man's shoulders relentlessly. "The price is not an issue, my friend. I will pay you thrice the weight in gold for the mammoth ivory and weirwood trunks. If you deliver everything, I'll even gift you half a dozen of my finest slaves of your choosing!"
Salladhor Saan quickly ran the numbers through his head. He could make plenty of coin by selling silk, dyes, oranges and lemons in Gulltown and White Harbour. He could also stock up on cheap fur clothing in White Harbour, as those would be needed North of the Wall if one did not want to freeze to death. The route north of the Wall was not too difficult either and returning would be easy if Stannis Baratheon and his men were not active. North of the Wall, he could sell steel armaments and acquire some valuables and assistance from the wildlings. Even if he went with ten ships and paid all their crews handsomely, Salladhor would still be rich enough to be considered an important Magister in Lys afterwards. Yet, there were some problems.
"I'd do it, Magister, but I know nothing of mammoth tracking or hunting," he cautiously admitted.
"Don't worry, I will send Denzo Hartys and his men with you. He's an experienced elephant and man hunter. If you two bring me some exotic savages, I shall not be stingy either."
Bah, now he had to split his reward with another, and a slaver at that. Manhunters were all nasty ilk and difficult to deal with. Although that was not truly a problem, after the job was done, this Denzo Hartys and his men needed not reach Tyrosh.
"I'll take him with me," Salladhor finally confirmed with a vigorous nod.
After this, he could retire and live like a king for the rest of his days.
"Good, good," Magister Sarrios's face split into a broad smile, blinding him with its golden shine. The Tyroshi then stood up and, with a gesture, the buxom valyrian beauty massaging his shoulders bent over the tapered throne's armrest, leaving her naked pale arse hanging in the air. "Mayhaps it's time to sample what my slaves have to offer. Senerra, attend our guest."
Author's Endnote:
Lysara Liddle and pretty much everything Tyroshi is a complete OC.
Unfortunately, the love goddess of Lys is not named (the one depicted on their coinage), so that honour goes to me. Ynanna = The Lyseni Goddess of love, pleasure, sex, beauty, and fertility. Derived/inspired by Inanna, the ancient Mesopotamian goddess of love and that whole package that goes with it. The same Goddess was renamed Ishtar by the Babylonians and the Assyrians.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord(dgj93pNeAD), where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
Unfortunately, the love goddess of Lys is not named (the one depicted on their coinage), so that honour goes to me. Ynanna = The Lyseni Goddess of love, pleasure, sex, beauty, and fertility. Derived/inspired by Inanna, the ancient Mesopotamian goddess of love and that whole package that goes with it. The same Goddess was renamed Ishtar by the Babylonians and the Assyrians.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord(dgj93pNeAD), where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
07-Heartfelt Hospitality
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.
Edited by: Void Uzumaki & Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
10th day of the 4th Moon
Torren Liddle
The crisp morning air saw him kneeling in prayer at the Heart Tree amidst its thick roots, just as the first rays of the sun lazily peaked from the eastern hills. His breath formed fleeting misty clouds in the morning cold. The weirwood was old, older than the Liddles, with most of its gnarly roots being thicker than a woman's waist. Torren opened his eyes and looked at the carved face grotesquely twisted in defiance as usual. The Gods had proven merciful yesterday; now it was time for a sacrifice. Behind him, clad in wool, leather, and fur, stood his sons, his unruly daughter, and his greying uncle Jarod, who watched on from the side as he thoughtfully stroked his braided white goatee.
His nose tingled at the strong metallic scent as he started circling the Heart Tree and poured the crimson liquid carefully into the base of the gnarly roots while Duncan began hanging its entrails along the branches. Enough blood was drained from the behemoth bear to easily fill the five ironbound buckets. The crimson liquid did not colour the bone-white roots red but seeped into them and the soil below as the red leaves rustled.
A wide smile formed on Torren's face; the Gods had seen and accepted the offering! He nodded inwardly; it was a macabre sight as some blood still dripped from the entrails.
Sacrifice and worships to the Old Gods required little ceremony and could be done anytime, unlike the southrons and their stone effigies, where one had to have the zealous rainbow-loving white-bound priests perform pompous ceremonies.
The Liddles all kneeled in a half circle around the Heart Tree in silent prayer for a few more moments.
Before long, he stood up and looked at his family. His sons and brother were solemn, while Lysara finally looked shaken. Good, it would do for her to finally learn some of the olden traditions. She was too young the last time they made an offering to the Gods; before joining the Stark to fight the reaving squids on their dreary isles.
"Let's go."
Unlike the larger lordships, the Liddles were nought but a clan, their keep modest, and godswood but a small grove for prayer and sacrifice, filled with sentinel pine, oaks, chestnut, and a scant few elms. The ground was covered in blue coldsnaps and dangling bleeding hearts, giving the air a soft and pleasant sweet scent. It was separated from the rest of the keep by a small granite masonry, barely seven feet tall. In less than a minute, they were in front of the small oaken gate that led to the training yard.
He stopped and turned to Lysara, whose usual cocksure attitude was replaced with uncertainty and trepidation.
"Even entrails and blood could be turned into blood sausages to fill our larders, yet we sacrificed them to the Old Gods. Why?"
His daughter stilled as her brow scrunched up in thought. The minutes stretched by as she was mulling, but in the end, she shook her head as no answer left her lips, so Torren turned to his eldest.
"Duncan, can you tell her why?"
"The gods of forest, stream, and stone are harsh and primal like the very nature they embody and care nought for the affairs of mortal men," his eldest began explaining in his deep voice as his slate-grey eyes darted to his sister. "They might not give, but they do not take. It's an olden custom to give an offering when luck shines upon you so the gods do not feel spurned for their blessing, but it is mostly practised only in the mountains now. And we, the Liddles, have our own tradition of giving a sacrifice before going to war."
Torren nodded in satisfaction at the explanation.
"Luck?" Lysara muttered in confusion.
"Do you know how incredibly fortunate you were, sister?" Morgan grunted in displeasure and gently ruffled her hair, eliciting a pout from his sister. "If any other man found you, they would have turned tail and run or simply died under the bear's claws. By the time we arrived, you'd have been nothing more than food in its belly. Each claw was as big as a dagger and could shred through armour as if made out of parchment. Not only did the Jon decide to risk his life to aid an unknown young girl in mortal peril, but he succeeded in slaying a beast that would take down many a brave man with it."
Lysara stared guiltily at the ground, making Torren sigh. A few months of mucking horse shit and endless chores in the kitchen would whittle down her foolish wildness. After all, one could only be foolish until one realised the pain of consequence.
The Liddle turned around, pushed the small oaken gate open, and entered the small training yard, and his daughter immediately darted towards old Lena's Quarters, where the Jon was resting.
"Lysara!" She immediately froze at his words and turned around. "Ye have ta clean the stables and assist Dalana in the kitchens before attending lessons."
His daughter hung her head low and headed towards the stables instead.
"If you offered to wed her to the Jon, she would accept in a heartbeat," Jarod's ribbed as his eyes crinkled in delight while the stable boy handed Lysara a shovel. "It's been hundreds of years since a Liddle was wed to a son of Winterfell."
"I'd love ta have a man of his calibre as my good-son, but Lysara's far too young at only two and ten, not even flowered yet," Torren grunted out. "She can dream all she wants, but I saw she did not hold Jon's gaze. Maybe Lysara could have caught his eye in a few years, but now he thinks of her as a child. But do you think a man like him will stay unwed for a handful of years?"
"You've grown soft, Torren. If this had happened to the old Norrey or Burley, Jon would already be swearing marriage vows with one of their daughters at the heart tree," his uncle countered cheerily. He tried to keep a serious expression, but a second later, his lips twitched, and he burst out in laughter.
"Aye, and they would have The Ned knocking on his gates, asking why his son was stolen like a wildling," the Liddle added with a chuckle before shaking his head. "The Stark watches over his brood like a hawk, scarcely letting any of them out of his sight. Let's go to see the beast's fur."
"Should be still salted at the mead hall," Duncan helpfully supplied. "The tannery's chamber wasn't large enough to stretch the skin."
"Are we going to put it on display?" Rickard chimed in.
"Nay, neither of us took it down," Torrhen shook his head. "Would be shameful to display such a trophy when slain by another. The organs, meat, and fat are a generous gift that would bolster our stores for quite some time. The Jon will decide what to do with the pelt when ready."
They finally reached the middling mead hall. It was the second largest structure in the Liddle's seat of power and was almost entirely made out of pine, with grey slate tiles covering the roof. At the ridge, it barely reached eighteen feet. The facade also had a small slanted front shielding the door and the now-opened shutters from snow and rain. With a small push, the bronze-bound oaken gate no longer barred their way.
The insides smelled of the sweet scent of burned oak as the hearth's flames playfully danced, illuminating the belly of the mead hall. Four large ornate beams of intricately carved oak supported the rafters, each depicting a different tale. All the tables were pushed to the walls, leaving a large clearing in the middle of the hall, where the enormous pelt stretched between the four pillars' bases.
He looked at the enormous salted pelt, and his mind could not help but wonder. It easily covered a big part of the large wall of his hall. From the tail to the head, it was sixteen feet, and the width was only slightly lesser.
He had seen the beast with its formidable size up close before it was butchered and couldn't help but thank the old Gods. The thick sentinel tree that Lysara had climbed was almost toppled. It looked like a slanted pillar; even its bulging roots, the size of a man's waist, were half-pulled up in their futile struggle to keep the trunk grounded. The charge of the monstrous bear would have easily laid low a smaller pine. If Ned's son had not been there, they would have been mourning his daughter, not feasting in celebration.
"Tough beast. Two skinning knives broken, three twisted, and two more blunted in skinning it," Duncan's sombre voice roused him out of his musings. "Even more in butchering it. Rodrik says most of the meat is as hard as steel."
Jarod scoffed to the side as he pulled a chair over.
"Have no fear, Dunk. Dalena will work his magic as always. We'll sample its tender paws for the next few days, and you will enjoy smoked venison for moons to come." His uncle's mention of the succulent delicacy that was bear paws made Torren salivate a bit, but he quickly shook his head.
"What are we going to do with the Jon?" Morgan asked as he pulled one of the chairs over and sat down.
"He's a guest in my halls for as long as he wishes," the Liddle declared.
"Only he has to wake up first to receive Guest Right," Rickard jested, making them chuckle.
"I'd like to see how you end up after a meeting with a bear even half the size of that beast, nephew mine," Jarod snorted, making his youngest son deflate.
"A pity our guest of honour spent the feast in his name in the tender hands of Lena," Duncan barked out a laugh.
The old wood witch was anything but tender, but there were scant few things she could not cure.
"We'll simply hold another feast once he's well on his feet," Torren said.
"What about our larders?" his youngest son worriedly asked.
"Worry not, Rickard," the Liddle waved away his concerns. "The summer snows are over, and food's easier to come by. With our bolstered stores from the bear, we can easily afford not one but at least four more feasts!"
"I wonder what brought him so deep in the Northern Mountains," Jarod hummed thoughtfully. "If he wanted to take the Black, he could have simply taken the King's Road to Castle Black. Hells, his uncle, the First Ranger, would have probably escorted him. And as you said, the Ned keeps his pack close, refusing to part with any of them."
His brother voiced his own thoughts, but the Liddle shook his head.
"There's no need for idle guesswork as if you're a gossiping scullery maid, Jarod," Torren chastised, making his eldest snort softly. "We'll find out from the horse's mouth when he wakes."
The conversation lulled down, and the only sound heard in the mead hall was the soft cackling of the hearth and the faint hubbub from the yard.
"I do wonder how that behemoth ended up here," Rickard broke the silence after a few minutes.
"Beast like this can only come from the Lands of Always Winter. It probably swam through the Bay near the mouth of the Milkwater in search of food, or maybe something drove it away," Jarod thoughtfully supplied. "But the fucker is big even for the lands beyond the Wall."
Torren couldn't help but shudder at the thought. What could chase away a monster such as this?
More than an hour later, Delia, one of old Lena's assistants, fetched him with the news that Jon Snow had finally awoken. He ordered one of the servants to bring over the large clay pot from the kitchens. The wood witch and her apprentices lived in a not-too-small house built out of log and undressed stone, nestled just next to the godswood's wall. It was crowned by a simple roof of grey tiles. There was even a small door next to it, leading inside the godswood, where the old medicine woman had a small garden full of various herbs.
Many years ago, when old Lena was not so old, when his father Torrhen was still alive, and Duncan was just a newborn babe in his swaddling clothes, the medicine woman had stubbornly lived in a small thatched hut far outside the walls of Little Hall and refused to move in, no matter how hard his father had tried persuading her. At least until her granddaughter, Valla, had been taken by the wildlings while gathering herbs in the forest. Lena had bitterly cried and cursed but had finally agreed to finally come under the protection of the Liddle.
Torren opened the creaky pine door and was immediately hit with the usual heavy herbal smell. Only a few candles and the flickering heart illuminated the dim room. All the walls were fully covered with wooden shells full of clay and bronze pots full of her herbal concoctions. Old Lena was sitting near the fire, using a bronze mortar and pestle to grind some herbs into powder. A hunchbacked and wrinkled old woman, her hair had long become as white as snow. She turned to look at him with her icy eyes the moment he entered.
"Liddle," the old woods witch rasped out in greeting.
"Lena," Torren returned with a nod. "How's he?"
"Healing well. The boy is… strong," she hummed thoughtfully and finally placed her mortar and pestle on a small wooden stand nearby.
"A green boy no longer," he corrected. If Jon Snow was a boy, what did that make the rest of them? Green Southron maids? "And aye, his arm is strong, a single strike cracked part of the great snow bear's skull."
"That might be so," the old crone conceded grudgingly with a wet cough. "But he's still six and ten. Yet there's more, something on the edge of my mind I can't put my finger on. A normal man would have been gutted open even with all the armour, yet Jon Snow's flesh had not been raked too deeply, and his ribs were only barely bruised instead of shattered. Mayhaps it's luck."
"The gods were generous," he hummed in agreement. "And his brigandine is the finest make of northern steel, not some iron a green smith cobbled together for a poor man-at-arms. Can I see him?"
"Aye, just don't let him get up or walk," Lena mentioned towards the red door to the left, leading to the small cosy infirmary room where her bedridden patients usually rested.
Torren gave her a nod and opened the red door. The room was quite dark, and the smell of herbs and poultices was even heavier. Two pairs of eyes instantly settled on him as he entered. Two sharp grey eyes belonged to Jon Snow lying on the bed near the small hearth, and two crimson red belonged to the silent white direwolf curled at the bottom of his master's feet. With the colouring of weirwood, the beast was blessed by the Gods, and he even suspected that the Ned's son might be a warg. Ghost, the aptly named direwolf, decided Torren was not very interesting, laid down his head and closed his crimson eyes.
"How are ye feeling, lad? I hope ye don't mind me using yer name."
"Call me Jon," he said with a slight grimace as he lifted himself up so his back was supported by the wall. Herb-soaked bandages run over his naked torso. "And I'm as well as one could be when stuck to a bed. Did you manage to get Willow, Shadow, and my things? The old wood's witch left before I could ask her."
"No need to fret, all yer hounds are at the kennels. Feisty bitches, the lot of them. The grey one almost took off Daren's hand when he tried to bring her over," he explained, and the young man coughed before wincing in pain. "Easy boy, our hounds aren't much better. Yer garron is resting at the stables, and yer things are there in the chest at the corner. Only yer longbow was trampled by the bear."
Jon just sighed.
"Thank you for taking care of the girls and me," he bowed his head. The chieftain squinted his eyes, remembering how obedient the man's hounds were at his every gesture but fierce to everyone else. Any doubt that the Jon was a warg quickly evaporated, yet he was not one to press.
"Bah, it's the least I can do," Torren bowed his head in turn. "If anyone has to give my thanks, it is me! Ye saved me precious daughter. Ask any boon, and I will grant it."
Jon Snow shuffled uncomfortably in the bed before sighing.
"I would require some dragonglass, Lord Liddle."
"Dragonglass?" The Liddle asked incredulously.
Of all the things the young man could have asked, his request was some worthless brittle rock that could be found at every corner of the mountains?!
"Aye," Jon Snow confirmed, face deadly serious. "If you have someone knowledgable in working it, I'll need as many daggers and arrowtips as possible."
The chief of Little Hall paused for a short moment and looked at the solemn man in front of him, and his mind was quickly made up.
"I'll see it done," Torren declared. If the Ned's son wanted dragonglass, he would get it. "By the time yer well enough to leave, ye'll have more obsidian than you know what to do with! But if ye don't mind me askin', what brings a son of Winterfell here, in the Northern Mountains?"
Jon Snow's face grew troubled as his brow scrunched up in thought.
"Tis not a very believable tale," the young man began with a heavy sigh; the words were slow to tumble out of his mouth. "I have been having dreams for some time. Dreams of darkness, death and ice from the far north…"
He wanted to say that the boy was just jesting. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he held it in and observed Jon Snow's face. He was gravely serious, and his grey eyes were resigned. The young man had spoken, expecting not to be believed. Not a believable tale, indeed…
The chieftain's blood ran cold.
"The Long Winter?"
"Aye, but I have no proof. Mayhaps it's just a bad dream, or my wits have been addled," Jon Snow eked out a hollow chuckle. But Torren found himself staring at the empty grey eyes. The eyes of a man who had lost everything yet were on the youthful face of a lad scarcely six and ten. "I wish it were so, but I cannot take the chance that it is not…"
"Say it is so, what can a single man do, albeit as daring as ya?" Torren challenged. "Why not go to the Stark with this?"
"I've already warned my father," a tinge of bitterness crept through the young man's voice. "But he cannot begin moving the North without proof, and I have none to give. I am here to travel to the Lands of Always Winter and see the threat with my own eyes."
The chieftain could feel that the man was not telling the whole tale, but why would he? Even here in the North, where people had long memories, the Long Night was little more than a children's tale or an old legend from more than eight thousand years ago. For good or bad, Torren himself wanted this to be just a boy's nightmare.
"What's dragonglass got to do with any of this?"
"I've perused some of the olden tomes of Winterfell," Jon's face became an unreadable icy mask, reminding Torren of The old Stark. "The Others are unharmed by bronze and iron, but dragonglass is said to be their weakness, and these mountains are brimming with it."
"They are, true. And fret not, you'll have yer black stone," Torren found himself sighing. "Why not warn the Watch about this?"
"The Watch is dwindling and can barely hold off the wildlings, let alone spare men to look for the Others on the word of a dream-struck green boy," Jon Snow scoffed. "I'll be lucky if they don't laugh in my face."
The Liddle agreed inwardly; the Watch was indeed hard-pressed to deal even with the savages beyond the Wall. And they wouldn't believe the Jon's word either, mistaking his youth for foolishness or inexperience. Torren shook his head; there was not much that could be done, and he himself was not sure if he truly believed.
"Enough of these dreary tales for now."
Jon nodded, and for a short few moments, Liddle sat there in contemplation. He had no idea how long had passed when a knock on the door broke the silence. An older boy in roughspun clothes entered with a large wooden tray, struggling to carry a large pot easily twice the size of a grown man's head, together with some bread and salt. It was carefully placed on the small wooden drawer next to the bed.
"It is finally here! Thank you, Jor," the chieftain dismissed the serving boy and turned to Jon. "I have not given Guest Right yet."
The white direwolf finally stirred from his resting spot, hopped on the ground, and neared the tray curiously with a wagging tail.
"What is this?" Jon Snow inquired with a nod towards the clay pot after dipping a piece of bread in the salt and devouring it.
"This is the heart of the snow bear ya slew," Torren provided with a small chuckle.
"I gave up my rights to the spoils, though," the son of Winterfell pointed out.
"That might be, but it's an ancient tradition. In the olden days, when a boy reached six and ten, he would venture out alone in the wilderness and would not return home lest they proved themselves a man. To do so, one had to best a warrior in single combat or hunt a worthy beast! 'Tis rarely practised nowadays, even here in the mountains, but by taking down the bear, ye have proven yerself a man grown."
"What does the heart have to do with that?" Jon Snow asked curiously.
"Ah yes," Torren coughed. "To complete the journey, the boy had to eat the heart raw to gain the strength of his hunt." The chieftain couldn't help but chuckle at the grimace on the young man's face that slowly morphed into a steely resolve, so he finally added with a laugh. "But at some point, we started cooking them instead."
"Thank you once again, chieftain."
The Liddle waved away Jon Snow's concerns.
"Eat up and rest, lad. Ye've given me much to think about."
Torren took one last glance before he left, and he snorted inwardly as he saw the young man sharing his spoils with the white direwolf.
14th Day of the 4th Moon
Jon Snow
The Liddles proved generous in their hospitality. In his previous life, Torren had died fighting the Boltons for Stannis, and Jon knew little of him. Duncan, the Big Liddle, had been one of the rangers of the Night's Watch, a hardy and reliable Northman both now and before. Morgan, the Middle Liddle, was severe and gruff as always, and the youngest, Rickard, known as the Little Liddle, almost always had a jest on his lips and could be seen smiling most of the time, a contrast to his solemn self that Jon remembered. Truth be told, all three of the brothers were tall, their bodies were rippling with power beneath their leather tunics, and there was nothing middling or little in any of them.
According to a guardsman, the nicknames came when they were still young and stuck much to the displeasure of the brothers.
The old Jarod Snow reminded him of Uncle Benjen with his easy laughs and generous tales. Despite getting on with age, he was tall and wiry, and Jon had little doubt that the greybeard knew his way around a sword or bow.
The young Lysara not only looked like a mix of his Arya and Sansa but also acted like them; she had not been a thing in his last life, to his knowledge. Being the object of her admiration was amusing, but she was just a young girl. He had an inkling that Lysara had died when encountering the behemoth bear before, her clansmen too late to save her; thus, he had never heard of her before…
He shook his head and focused on the present. His bruised side only ached if he tried to overexert himself or moved too suddenly, but otherwise, he was fine. The wounds had scabbed, and Lena had already removed the stitches in the morn. Jon took up his horn of mead and emptied it in one breath.
He could feel the burn down his throat and warmth in his belly, but he was not getting tipsy yet. The mead had a rich, honeyed taste that felt sweet on his tongue. But for good or bad, it seemed that spirits were still slow to affect him.
"DRINK!" The gathered men urged on as the serving wench filled their horns again.
"DRINK!"
Jon emptied the mead in one swig and looked across. Rickard, whose face was reddened and his eyes bloodshot, swayed while clumsily attempting to lift his horn. But before he reached his lips, his eyes rolled over, and he fell back on the ground, his horn clattering on the floor, mead spilling on the pine boards of the hall.
"THE JON!'
Hearing his name being cheered with such fervour was odd, yet not unpleasant. While the hall was roaring in celebration, Jon knifed a whole roast chicken and slipped it beneath the table, where Ghost and Red Jeyne had curled by his feet.
Two men pulled over unconscious Little Liddle to the side, and the Middle Liddle took his place, and the surrounding men quieted down.
"Another round?" Morgan challenged with his gruff voice as his sweaty bare scalp glistened with the light of the fire.
Jon lifted his newly filled horn in the air and downed it again in one go, making the crowd erupt into cheers again.
15th Day of the 4th Moon
Little Hall was a small but cosy keep, the people were all welcoming, and Jon couldn't help but like it. The seat of the Liddles was nestled atop a steep hill, making the otherwise twenty-five feet walls a formidable obstacle. Torren Liddle had not mentioned anything about the Others, and Jon had not pushed, so his stay here had been carefree and peaceful. Alas, all good things must end, and he could not afford to dally any longer since he was good enough to travel.
Even after all that drinking, was only feeling tipsy at best. In fact, aside from waking up twice to relieve his displeased bladder, Jon had slept like a newborn.
So, after waking up before the crack of dawn, he already dressed up fully and clad himself in his patched-up armour. The smith here was not as good as Mikken, but while the repairs looked ugly, they were good, and both the brigandine and chainmail were as good as new. He knew the dragonglass he had requested was with his saddle in the stable, so there was little point in staying any longer.
The sun was yet to show in the east, but a slight pink hue heralded the arrival of dawn. Ghost silently trailed after him as Jon entered the kennels and opened the door to the small fenced square where his hounds were.
Helicent, Red Jeyne, Willow, and Maude greeted him with happy barks and wagging tails. He ruffled them behind their ears, and they happily joined Ghost, who was already approaching Helicent in size, the biggest of the pack, and was already above his knees in height.
With a mental nudge, they all grew silent as Jon headed towards the stables.
But as he approached, he realised that his path was barred.
Jared Snow, Toren and Duncan Liddle, all armed to the teeth and clad in brigandine and chain, barred his way. Jon groaned inwardly; he wouldn't be able to leave unnoticed now.
"Chief Liddle, Dunk, Jarod," Jon greeted evenly. "I thought you'd still be resting after yesterday…"
"You might have managed to drink all of us under the table, but the Liddles are made of stern stuff too!" Duncan boasted.
"What he means to say is that we drank and ate pickled cabbage to make the hangover go away," Jarod added with a chuckle.
"Uncle, you're not supposed to give away our secret…"
Torren, however, looked furious, and Jon could even see a vein throb dangerously at his temple.
"Lad, do ye think The Liddles to be thankless curs who know no gratitude?!" The chieftain finally exploded, and his angry voice thundered through the yard, scaring away a few snow shrikes from the slated rooftops.
"Ah, you've helped me more than enough with just the dragonglass and patching me and my gear up," Jon responded, baffled. They owed him nothing!
"Horseshit," Torren spat on the ground and signalled to the side. A servant ran out from the stables, carrying a long, pale bow. "You broke yer bow to save my daughter, it's only right that I grant ye another. This is a weirwood longbow with a string from the sinew of the beast you slew."
Jon accepted it with a nod. In his haste to sneak away, he had forgotten about the longbow.
"The bear pelt is yours as well," Jarod added. "Nay, don't decline, lad. It's a magnificent skin, too precious to turn into clothing, but it would only shame us if we place it on display when we're not the ones to hunt the snow bear down."
Jon knew a stubborn Northman when he saw one; he was one, after all. They all looked like they had made up their minds and would not accept his refusal, making him sigh. What was he going to do with that gigantic pelt? Jon silently mulled for a moment before a mirthful chuckle tore from his lips.
"If so, I have a request for you. Could you bring the pelt as a gift to my father in Winterfell?" And as proof that he was alive and well. But that was left unsaid. "I might have taken his favourite tent before leaving…"
The old greybeard barked out in laughter.
"I thought your tent was familiar," Torren added with a throaty chuckle. "It belonged to the Silver Prince, and the Ned took it as his spoils after the Trident. But worry not lad, I'll see the pelt to Winterfell myself!"
The bastard of Winterfell stood there stunned while the young stable hand brought out the saddled Shadow. What was the chance that he had taken the tent that had belonged to both his father and his sire?
At that moment, another servant ran over, holding two folded packages.
"Can't have a son of Winterfell travel around without bringing glory to his house," the Chieftain handed the still baffled Jon a padded surcoat and a thick linen cloak lined with wool on the inside.
Jon Snow mechanically looked at the thick dark-grey surcoat, which had a lone white direwolf head with red eyes proudly sitting in the middle of the chest. These were the reverse colours of House Stark whilst also depicting Ghost, who had come over to inspect the image with his silent gaze curiously. The cloak was much the same in colour, but the heraldry was on the back.
Even when he had been declared a King of the North, he had stuck to black clothing with scarcely any sigils other than a silver direwolf clasp for his cloak. The North had a long, bitter war to fight, so he had little time and patience for pageantry.
At that moment, he felt wetness on his cheeks and realised that a few tears were escaping from his eyes. Jon furiously wiped them, cursing the dust that had probably irritated him. The stable hand kept taking out saddled horses for some reason.
"Just take them, Jon," Torren urged. "The Stark acknowledged ya as his son before ye could even walk, so bear the direwolf proudly. And Lysara spent every last minute of her free time helping in their making."
"Not that any would doubt you're a son of Winterfell with a living direwolf," Jarod added with a chuckle.
With trepidation, he donned the surcoat, and the cloak was clasped over his shoulders with a small bronze pin.
"If you give me any more, it will be me who owes you," Jon warned.
"Pah, me daughter's more precious than some trinkets," Torren shook his head. "Four quivers full of black glass arrows and twelve daggers are on yer saddle as I promised."
"Thank you, Chief Liddle," Jon nodded gratefully and mounted Shadow with a leap, ignoring the small stab of pain to the side where he was still tender.
"Duncan and I are going to join ya, lad," Jarod said, making Jon tense.
"We want to see with our own eyes if your dreams are true," Duncan added solemnly.
Jon inwardly cursed the stubbornness of his fellow Northmen once more and began feeling regret about telling Torren.
"There's a high chance I will perish," he warned. "If you come with me, you might not return."
"Good," Jarod laughed boisterously. "This was to be my last summer, and dying in a battle against the foes of legend or the wildlings riders is far more glorious than going hunting in the winter!"
"I was about to go to the Shadow Tower and join the Watch the next sennight, but there's far more glory and honour in fighting for a Stark than for the Watch!" Duncan declared with a wide grin as he mounted a brown garron.
"I'm just a Snow," Jon reminded them.
"Load of Andal horseshite," Torren spat on the ground. "A son of Winterfell is a son of Winterfell, regardless of which cunt spawned him."
Jon remained impassive outwardly but felt warm on the inside, despite the clansman's crude language. Although it was a Stark that birthed him, not that he would go around announcing that…
"You can come, but only if you follow my command," he finally acquiesced.
To Jon's surprise, Duncan and Jarod nodded in agreement, despite being older and supposedly more experienced. Mayhaps it wouldn't be bad to have more horses, trusty men to watch his back, and more supplies on his journey.
Author's Endnote:
Edited by: Void Uzumaki & Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
10th day of the 4th Moon
Torren Liddle
The crisp morning air saw him kneeling in prayer at the Heart Tree amidst its thick roots, just as the first rays of the sun lazily peaked from the eastern hills. His breath formed fleeting misty clouds in the morning cold. The weirwood was old, older than the Liddles, with most of its gnarly roots being thicker than a woman's waist. Torren opened his eyes and looked at the carved face grotesquely twisted in defiance as usual. The Gods had proven merciful yesterday; now it was time for a sacrifice. Behind him, clad in wool, leather, and fur, stood his sons, his unruly daughter, and his greying uncle Jarod, who watched on from the side as he thoughtfully stroked his braided white goatee.
His nose tingled at the strong metallic scent as he started circling the Heart Tree and poured the crimson liquid carefully into the base of the gnarly roots while Duncan began hanging its entrails along the branches. Enough blood was drained from the behemoth bear to easily fill the five ironbound buckets. The crimson liquid did not colour the bone-white roots red but seeped into them and the soil below as the red leaves rustled.
A wide smile formed on Torren's face; the Gods had seen and accepted the offering! He nodded inwardly; it was a macabre sight as some blood still dripped from the entrails.
Sacrifice and worships to the Old Gods required little ceremony and could be done anytime, unlike the southrons and their stone effigies, where one had to have the zealous rainbow-loving white-bound priests perform pompous ceremonies.
The Liddles all kneeled in a half circle around the Heart Tree in silent prayer for a few more moments.
Before long, he stood up and looked at his family. His sons and brother were solemn, while Lysara finally looked shaken. Good, it would do for her to finally learn some of the olden traditions. She was too young the last time they made an offering to the Gods; before joining the Stark to fight the reaving squids on their dreary isles.
"Let's go."
Unlike the larger lordships, the Liddles were nought but a clan, their keep modest, and godswood but a small grove for prayer and sacrifice, filled with sentinel pine, oaks, chestnut, and a scant few elms. The ground was covered in blue coldsnaps and dangling bleeding hearts, giving the air a soft and pleasant sweet scent. It was separated from the rest of the keep by a small granite masonry, barely seven feet tall. In less than a minute, they were in front of the small oaken gate that led to the training yard.
He stopped and turned to Lysara, whose usual cocksure attitude was replaced with uncertainty and trepidation.
"Even entrails and blood could be turned into blood sausages to fill our larders, yet we sacrificed them to the Old Gods. Why?"
His daughter stilled as her brow scrunched up in thought. The minutes stretched by as she was mulling, but in the end, she shook her head as no answer left her lips, so Torren turned to his eldest.
"Duncan, can you tell her why?"
"The gods of forest, stream, and stone are harsh and primal like the very nature they embody and care nought for the affairs of mortal men," his eldest began explaining in his deep voice as his slate-grey eyes darted to his sister. "They might not give, but they do not take. It's an olden custom to give an offering when luck shines upon you so the gods do not feel spurned for their blessing, but it is mostly practised only in the mountains now. And we, the Liddles, have our own tradition of giving a sacrifice before going to war."
Torren nodded in satisfaction at the explanation.
"Luck?" Lysara muttered in confusion.
"Do you know how incredibly fortunate you were, sister?" Morgan grunted in displeasure and gently ruffled her hair, eliciting a pout from his sister. "If any other man found you, they would have turned tail and run or simply died under the bear's claws. By the time we arrived, you'd have been nothing more than food in its belly. Each claw was as big as a dagger and could shred through armour as if made out of parchment. Not only did the Jon decide to risk his life to aid an unknown young girl in mortal peril, but he succeeded in slaying a beast that would take down many a brave man with it."
Lysara stared guiltily at the ground, making Torren sigh. A few months of mucking horse shit and endless chores in the kitchen would whittle down her foolish wildness. After all, one could only be foolish until one realised the pain of consequence.
The Liddle turned around, pushed the small oaken gate open, and entered the small training yard, and his daughter immediately darted towards old Lena's Quarters, where the Jon was resting.
"Lysara!" She immediately froze at his words and turned around. "Ye have ta clean the stables and assist Dalana in the kitchens before attending lessons."
His daughter hung her head low and headed towards the stables instead.
"If you offered to wed her to the Jon, she would accept in a heartbeat," Jarod's ribbed as his eyes crinkled in delight while the stable boy handed Lysara a shovel. "It's been hundreds of years since a Liddle was wed to a son of Winterfell."
"I'd love ta have a man of his calibre as my good-son, but Lysara's far too young at only two and ten, not even flowered yet," Torren grunted out. "She can dream all she wants, but I saw she did not hold Jon's gaze. Maybe Lysara could have caught his eye in a few years, but now he thinks of her as a child. But do you think a man like him will stay unwed for a handful of years?"
"You've grown soft, Torren. If this had happened to the old Norrey or Burley, Jon would already be swearing marriage vows with one of their daughters at the heart tree," his uncle countered cheerily. He tried to keep a serious expression, but a second later, his lips twitched, and he burst out in laughter.
"Aye, and they would have The Ned knocking on his gates, asking why his son was stolen like a wildling," the Liddle added with a chuckle before shaking his head. "The Stark watches over his brood like a hawk, scarcely letting any of them out of his sight. Let's go to see the beast's fur."
"Should be still salted at the mead hall," Duncan helpfully supplied. "The tannery's chamber wasn't large enough to stretch the skin."
"Are we going to put it on display?" Rickard chimed in.
"Nay, neither of us took it down," Torrhen shook his head. "Would be shameful to display such a trophy when slain by another. The organs, meat, and fat are a generous gift that would bolster our stores for quite some time. The Jon will decide what to do with the pelt when ready."
They finally reached the middling mead hall. It was the second largest structure in the Liddle's seat of power and was almost entirely made out of pine, with grey slate tiles covering the roof. At the ridge, it barely reached eighteen feet. The facade also had a small slanted front shielding the door and the now-opened shutters from snow and rain. With a small push, the bronze-bound oaken gate no longer barred their way.
The insides smelled of the sweet scent of burned oak as the hearth's flames playfully danced, illuminating the belly of the mead hall. Four large ornate beams of intricately carved oak supported the rafters, each depicting a different tale. All the tables were pushed to the walls, leaving a large clearing in the middle of the hall, where the enormous pelt stretched between the four pillars' bases.
He looked at the enormous salted pelt, and his mind could not help but wonder. It easily covered a big part of the large wall of his hall. From the tail to the head, it was sixteen feet, and the width was only slightly lesser.
He had seen the beast with its formidable size up close before it was butchered and couldn't help but thank the old Gods. The thick sentinel tree that Lysara had climbed was almost toppled. It looked like a slanted pillar; even its bulging roots, the size of a man's waist, were half-pulled up in their futile struggle to keep the trunk grounded. The charge of the monstrous bear would have easily laid low a smaller pine. If Ned's son had not been there, they would have been mourning his daughter, not feasting in celebration.
"Tough beast. Two skinning knives broken, three twisted, and two more blunted in skinning it," Duncan's sombre voice roused him out of his musings. "Even more in butchering it. Rodrik says most of the meat is as hard as steel."
Jarod scoffed to the side as he pulled a chair over.
"Have no fear, Dunk. Dalena will work his magic as always. We'll sample its tender paws for the next few days, and you will enjoy smoked venison for moons to come." His uncle's mention of the succulent delicacy that was bear paws made Torren salivate a bit, but he quickly shook his head.
"What are we going to do with the Jon?" Morgan asked as he pulled one of the chairs over and sat down.
"He's a guest in my halls for as long as he wishes," the Liddle declared.
"Only he has to wake up first to receive Guest Right," Rickard jested, making them chuckle.
"I'd like to see how you end up after a meeting with a bear even half the size of that beast, nephew mine," Jarod snorted, making his youngest son deflate.
"A pity our guest of honour spent the feast in his name in the tender hands of Lena," Duncan barked out a laugh.
The old wood witch was anything but tender, but there were scant few things she could not cure.
"We'll simply hold another feast once he's well on his feet," Torren said.
"What about our larders?" his youngest son worriedly asked.
"Worry not, Rickard," the Liddle waved away his concerns. "The summer snows are over, and food's easier to come by. With our bolstered stores from the bear, we can easily afford not one but at least four more feasts!"
"I wonder what brought him so deep in the Northern Mountains," Jarod hummed thoughtfully. "If he wanted to take the Black, he could have simply taken the King's Road to Castle Black. Hells, his uncle, the First Ranger, would have probably escorted him. And as you said, the Ned keeps his pack close, refusing to part with any of them."
His brother voiced his own thoughts, but the Liddle shook his head.
"There's no need for idle guesswork as if you're a gossiping scullery maid, Jarod," Torren chastised, making his eldest snort softly. "We'll find out from the horse's mouth when he wakes."
The conversation lulled down, and the only sound heard in the mead hall was the soft cackling of the hearth and the faint hubbub from the yard.
"I do wonder how that behemoth ended up here," Rickard broke the silence after a few minutes.
"Beast like this can only come from the Lands of Always Winter. It probably swam through the Bay near the mouth of the Milkwater in search of food, or maybe something drove it away," Jarod thoughtfully supplied. "But the fucker is big even for the lands beyond the Wall."
Torren couldn't help but shudder at the thought. What could chase away a monster such as this?
More than an hour later, Delia, one of old Lena's assistants, fetched him with the news that Jon Snow had finally awoken. He ordered one of the servants to bring over the large clay pot from the kitchens. The wood witch and her apprentices lived in a not-too-small house built out of log and undressed stone, nestled just next to the godswood's wall. It was crowned by a simple roof of grey tiles. There was even a small door next to it, leading inside the godswood, where the old medicine woman had a small garden full of various herbs.
Many years ago, when old Lena was not so old, when his father Torrhen was still alive, and Duncan was just a newborn babe in his swaddling clothes, the medicine woman had stubbornly lived in a small thatched hut far outside the walls of Little Hall and refused to move in, no matter how hard his father had tried persuading her. At least until her granddaughter, Valla, had been taken by the wildlings while gathering herbs in the forest. Lena had bitterly cried and cursed but had finally agreed to finally come under the protection of the Liddle.
Torren opened the creaky pine door and was immediately hit with the usual heavy herbal smell. Only a few candles and the flickering heart illuminated the dim room. All the walls were fully covered with wooden shells full of clay and bronze pots full of her herbal concoctions. Old Lena was sitting near the fire, using a bronze mortar and pestle to grind some herbs into powder. A hunchbacked and wrinkled old woman, her hair had long become as white as snow. She turned to look at him with her icy eyes the moment he entered.
"Liddle," the old woods witch rasped out in greeting.
"Lena," Torren returned with a nod. "How's he?"
"Healing well. The boy is… strong," she hummed thoughtfully and finally placed her mortar and pestle on a small wooden stand nearby.
"A green boy no longer," he corrected. If Jon Snow was a boy, what did that make the rest of them? Green Southron maids? "And aye, his arm is strong, a single strike cracked part of the great snow bear's skull."
"That might be so," the old crone conceded grudgingly with a wet cough. "But he's still six and ten. Yet there's more, something on the edge of my mind I can't put my finger on. A normal man would have been gutted open even with all the armour, yet Jon Snow's flesh had not been raked too deeply, and his ribs were only barely bruised instead of shattered. Mayhaps it's luck."
"The gods were generous," he hummed in agreement. "And his brigandine is the finest make of northern steel, not some iron a green smith cobbled together for a poor man-at-arms. Can I see him?"
"Aye, just don't let him get up or walk," Lena mentioned towards the red door to the left, leading to the small cosy infirmary room where her bedridden patients usually rested.
Torren gave her a nod and opened the red door. The room was quite dark, and the smell of herbs and poultices was even heavier. Two pairs of eyes instantly settled on him as he entered. Two sharp grey eyes belonged to Jon Snow lying on the bed near the small hearth, and two crimson red belonged to the silent white direwolf curled at the bottom of his master's feet. With the colouring of weirwood, the beast was blessed by the Gods, and he even suspected that the Ned's son might be a warg. Ghost, the aptly named direwolf, decided Torren was not very interesting, laid down his head and closed his crimson eyes.
"How are ye feeling, lad? I hope ye don't mind me using yer name."
"Call me Jon," he said with a slight grimace as he lifted himself up so his back was supported by the wall. Herb-soaked bandages run over his naked torso. "And I'm as well as one could be when stuck to a bed. Did you manage to get Willow, Shadow, and my things? The old wood's witch left before I could ask her."
"No need to fret, all yer hounds are at the kennels. Feisty bitches, the lot of them. The grey one almost took off Daren's hand when he tried to bring her over," he explained, and the young man coughed before wincing in pain. "Easy boy, our hounds aren't much better. Yer garron is resting at the stables, and yer things are there in the chest at the corner. Only yer longbow was trampled by the bear."
Jon just sighed.
"Thank you for taking care of the girls and me," he bowed his head. The chieftain squinted his eyes, remembering how obedient the man's hounds were at his every gesture but fierce to everyone else. Any doubt that the Jon was a warg quickly evaporated, yet he was not one to press.
"Bah, it's the least I can do," Torren bowed his head in turn. "If anyone has to give my thanks, it is me! Ye saved me precious daughter. Ask any boon, and I will grant it."
Jon Snow shuffled uncomfortably in the bed before sighing.
"I would require some dragonglass, Lord Liddle."
"Dragonglass?" The Liddle asked incredulously.
Of all the things the young man could have asked, his request was some worthless brittle rock that could be found at every corner of the mountains?!
"Aye," Jon Snow confirmed, face deadly serious. "If you have someone knowledgable in working it, I'll need as many daggers and arrowtips as possible."
The chief of Little Hall paused for a short moment and looked at the solemn man in front of him, and his mind was quickly made up.
"I'll see it done," Torren declared. If the Ned's son wanted dragonglass, he would get it. "By the time yer well enough to leave, ye'll have more obsidian than you know what to do with! But if ye don't mind me askin', what brings a son of Winterfell here, in the Northern Mountains?"
Jon Snow's face grew troubled as his brow scrunched up in thought.
"Tis not a very believable tale," the young man began with a heavy sigh; the words were slow to tumble out of his mouth. "I have been having dreams for some time. Dreams of darkness, death and ice from the far north…"
He wanted to say that the boy was just jesting. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he held it in and observed Jon Snow's face. He was gravely serious, and his grey eyes were resigned. The young man had spoken, expecting not to be believed. Not a believable tale, indeed…
The chieftain's blood ran cold.
"The Long Winter?"
"Aye, but I have no proof. Mayhaps it's just a bad dream, or my wits have been addled," Jon Snow eked out a hollow chuckle. But Torren found himself staring at the empty grey eyes. The eyes of a man who had lost everything yet were on the youthful face of a lad scarcely six and ten. "I wish it were so, but I cannot take the chance that it is not…"
"Say it is so, what can a single man do, albeit as daring as ya?" Torren challenged. "Why not go to the Stark with this?"
"I've already warned my father," a tinge of bitterness crept through the young man's voice. "But he cannot begin moving the North without proof, and I have none to give. I am here to travel to the Lands of Always Winter and see the threat with my own eyes."
The chieftain could feel that the man was not telling the whole tale, but why would he? Even here in the North, where people had long memories, the Long Night was little more than a children's tale or an old legend from more than eight thousand years ago. For good or bad, Torren himself wanted this to be just a boy's nightmare.
"What's dragonglass got to do with any of this?"
"I've perused some of the olden tomes of Winterfell," Jon's face became an unreadable icy mask, reminding Torren of The old Stark. "The Others are unharmed by bronze and iron, but dragonglass is said to be their weakness, and these mountains are brimming with it."
"They are, true. And fret not, you'll have yer black stone," Torren found himself sighing. "Why not warn the Watch about this?"
"The Watch is dwindling and can barely hold off the wildlings, let alone spare men to look for the Others on the word of a dream-struck green boy," Jon Snow scoffed. "I'll be lucky if they don't laugh in my face."
The Liddle agreed inwardly; the Watch was indeed hard-pressed to deal even with the savages beyond the Wall. And they wouldn't believe the Jon's word either, mistaking his youth for foolishness or inexperience. Torren shook his head; there was not much that could be done, and he himself was not sure if he truly believed.
"Enough of these dreary tales for now."
Jon nodded, and for a short few moments, Liddle sat there in contemplation. He had no idea how long had passed when a knock on the door broke the silence. An older boy in roughspun clothes entered with a large wooden tray, struggling to carry a large pot easily twice the size of a grown man's head, together with some bread and salt. It was carefully placed on the small wooden drawer next to the bed.
"It is finally here! Thank you, Jor," the chieftain dismissed the serving boy and turned to Jon. "I have not given Guest Right yet."
The white direwolf finally stirred from his resting spot, hopped on the ground, and neared the tray curiously with a wagging tail.
"What is this?" Jon Snow inquired with a nod towards the clay pot after dipping a piece of bread in the salt and devouring it.
"This is the heart of the snow bear ya slew," Torren provided with a small chuckle.
"I gave up my rights to the spoils, though," the son of Winterfell pointed out.
"That might be, but it's an ancient tradition. In the olden days, when a boy reached six and ten, he would venture out alone in the wilderness and would not return home lest they proved themselves a man. To do so, one had to best a warrior in single combat or hunt a worthy beast! 'Tis rarely practised nowadays, even here in the mountains, but by taking down the bear, ye have proven yerself a man grown."
"What does the heart have to do with that?" Jon Snow asked curiously.
"Ah yes," Torren coughed. "To complete the journey, the boy had to eat the heart raw to gain the strength of his hunt." The chieftain couldn't help but chuckle at the grimace on the young man's face that slowly morphed into a steely resolve, so he finally added with a laugh. "But at some point, we started cooking them instead."
"Thank you once again, chieftain."
The Liddle waved away Jon Snow's concerns.
"Eat up and rest, lad. Ye've given me much to think about."
Torren took one last glance before he left, and he snorted inwardly as he saw the young man sharing his spoils with the white direwolf.
14th Day of the 4th Moon
Jon Snow
The Liddles proved generous in their hospitality. In his previous life, Torren had died fighting the Boltons for Stannis, and Jon knew little of him. Duncan, the Big Liddle, had been one of the rangers of the Night's Watch, a hardy and reliable Northman both now and before. Morgan, the Middle Liddle, was severe and gruff as always, and the youngest, Rickard, known as the Little Liddle, almost always had a jest on his lips and could be seen smiling most of the time, a contrast to his solemn self that Jon remembered. Truth be told, all three of the brothers were tall, their bodies were rippling with power beneath their leather tunics, and there was nothing middling or little in any of them.
According to a guardsman, the nicknames came when they were still young and stuck much to the displeasure of the brothers.
The old Jarod Snow reminded him of Uncle Benjen with his easy laughs and generous tales. Despite getting on with age, he was tall and wiry, and Jon had little doubt that the greybeard knew his way around a sword or bow.
The young Lysara not only looked like a mix of his Arya and Sansa but also acted like them; she had not been a thing in his last life, to his knowledge. Being the object of her admiration was amusing, but she was just a young girl. He had an inkling that Lysara had died when encountering the behemoth bear before, her clansmen too late to save her; thus, he had never heard of her before…
He shook his head and focused on the present. His bruised side only ached if he tried to overexert himself or moved too suddenly, but otherwise, he was fine. The wounds had scabbed, and Lena had already removed the stitches in the morn. Jon took up his horn of mead and emptied it in one breath.
He could feel the burn down his throat and warmth in his belly, but he was not getting tipsy yet. The mead had a rich, honeyed taste that felt sweet on his tongue. But for good or bad, it seemed that spirits were still slow to affect him.
"DRINK!" The gathered men urged on as the serving wench filled their horns again.
"DRINK!"
Jon emptied the mead in one swig and looked across. Rickard, whose face was reddened and his eyes bloodshot, swayed while clumsily attempting to lift his horn. But before he reached his lips, his eyes rolled over, and he fell back on the ground, his horn clattering on the floor, mead spilling on the pine boards of the hall.
"THE JON!'
Hearing his name being cheered with such fervour was odd, yet not unpleasant. While the hall was roaring in celebration, Jon knifed a whole roast chicken and slipped it beneath the table, where Ghost and Red Jeyne had curled by his feet.
Two men pulled over unconscious Little Liddle to the side, and the Middle Liddle took his place, and the surrounding men quieted down.
"Another round?" Morgan challenged with his gruff voice as his sweaty bare scalp glistened with the light of the fire.
Jon lifted his newly filled horn in the air and downed it again in one go, making the crowd erupt into cheers again.
15th Day of the 4th Moon
Little Hall was a small but cosy keep, the people were all welcoming, and Jon couldn't help but like it. The seat of the Liddles was nestled atop a steep hill, making the otherwise twenty-five feet walls a formidable obstacle. Torren Liddle had not mentioned anything about the Others, and Jon had not pushed, so his stay here had been carefree and peaceful. Alas, all good things must end, and he could not afford to dally any longer since he was good enough to travel.
Even after all that drinking, was only feeling tipsy at best. In fact, aside from waking up twice to relieve his displeased bladder, Jon had slept like a newborn.
So, after waking up before the crack of dawn, he already dressed up fully and clad himself in his patched-up armour. The smith here was not as good as Mikken, but while the repairs looked ugly, they were good, and both the brigandine and chainmail were as good as new. He knew the dragonglass he had requested was with his saddle in the stable, so there was little point in staying any longer.
The sun was yet to show in the east, but a slight pink hue heralded the arrival of dawn. Ghost silently trailed after him as Jon entered the kennels and opened the door to the small fenced square where his hounds were.
Helicent, Red Jeyne, Willow, and Maude greeted him with happy barks and wagging tails. He ruffled them behind their ears, and they happily joined Ghost, who was already approaching Helicent in size, the biggest of the pack, and was already above his knees in height.
With a mental nudge, they all grew silent as Jon headed towards the stables.
But as he approached, he realised that his path was barred.
Jared Snow, Toren and Duncan Liddle, all armed to the teeth and clad in brigandine and chain, barred his way. Jon groaned inwardly; he wouldn't be able to leave unnoticed now.
"Chief Liddle, Dunk, Jarod," Jon greeted evenly. "I thought you'd still be resting after yesterday…"
"You might have managed to drink all of us under the table, but the Liddles are made of stern stuff too!" Duncan boasted.
"What he means to say is that we drank and ate pickled cabbage to make the hangover go away," Jarod added with a chuckle.
"Uncle, you're not supposed to give away our secret…"
Torren, however, looked furious, and Jon could even see a vein throb dangerously at his temple.
"Lad, do ye think The Liddles to be thankless curs who know no gratitude?!" The chieftain finally exploded, and his angry voice thundered through the yard, scaring away a few snow shrikes from the slated rooftops.
"Ah, you've helped me more than enough with just the dragonglass and patching me and my gear up," Jon responded, baffled. They owed him nothing!
"Horseshit," Torren spat on the ground and signalled to the side. A servant ran out from the stables, carrying a long, pale bow. "You broke yer bow to save my daughter, it's only right that I grant ye another. This is a weirwood longbow with a string from the sinew of the beast you slew."
Jon accepted it with a nod. In his haste to sneak away, he had forgotten about the longbow.
"The bear pelt is yours as well," Jarod added. "Nay, don't decline, lad. It's a magnificent skin, too precious to turn into clothing, but it would only shame us if we place it on display when we're not the ones to hunt the snow bear down."
Jon knew a stubborn Northman when he saw one; he was one, after all. They all looked like they had made up their minds and would not accept his refusal, making him sigh. What was he going to do with that gigantic pelt? Jon silently mulled for a moment before a mirthful chuckle tore from his lips.
"If so, I have a request for you. Could you bring the pelt as a gift to my father in Winterfell?" And as proof that he was alive and well. But that was left unsaid. "I might have taken his favourite tent before leaving…"
The old greybeard barked out in laughter.
"I thought your tent was familiar," Torren added with a throaty chuckle. "It belonged to the Silver Prince, and the Ned took it as his spoils after the Trident. But worry not lad, I'll see the pelt to Winterfell myself!"
The bastard of Winterfell stood there stunned while the young stable hand brought out the saddled Shadow. What was the chance that he had taken the tent that had belonged to both his father and his sire?
At that moment, another servant ran over, holding two folded packages.
"Can't have a son of Winterfell travel around without bringing glory to his house," the Chieftain handed the still baffled Jon a padded surcoat and a thick linen cloak lined with wool on the inside.
Jon Snow mechanically looked at the thick dark-grey surcoat, which had a lone white direwolf head with red eyes proudly sitting in the middle of the chest. These were the reverse colours of House Stark whilst also depicting Ghost, who had come over to inspect the image with his silent gaze curiously. The cloak was much the same in colour, but the heraldry was on the back.
Even when he had been declared a King of the North, he had stuck to black clothing with scarcely any sigils other than a silver direwolf clasp for his cloak. The North had a long, bitter war to fight, so he had little time and patience for pageantry.
At that moment, he felt wetness on his cheeks and realised that a few tears were escaping from his eyes. Jon furiously wiped them, cursing the dust that had probably irritated him. The stable hand kept taking out saddled horses for some reason.
"Just take them, Jon," Torren urged. "The Stark acknowledged ya as his son before ye could even walk, so bear the direwolf proudly. And Lysara spent every last minute of her free time helping in their making."
"Not that any would doubt you're a son of Winterfell with a living direwolf," Jarod added with a chuckle.
With trepidation, he donned the surcoat, and the cloak was clasped over his shoulders with a small bronze pin.
"If you give me any more, it will be me who owes you," Jon warned.
"Pah, me daughter's more precious than some trinkets," Torren shook his head. "Four quivers full of black glass arrows and twelve daggers are on yer saddle as I promised."
"Thank you, Chief Liddle," Jon nodded gratefully and mounted Shadow with a leap, ignoring the small stab of pain to the side where he was still tender.
"Duncan and I are going to join ya, lad," Jarod said, making Jon tense.
"We want to see with our own eyes if your dreams are true," Duncan added solemnly.
Jon inwardly cursed the stubbornness of his fellow Northmen once more and began feeling regret about telling Torren.
"There's a high chance I will perish," he warned. "If you come with me, you might not return."
"Good," Jarod laughed boisterously. "This was to be my last summer, and dying in a battle against the foes of legend or the wildlings riders is far more glorious than going hunting in the winter!"
"I was about to go to the Shadow Tower and join the Watch the next sennight, but there's far more glory and honour in fighting for a Stark than for the Watch!" Duncan declared with a wide grin as he mounted a brown garron.
"I'm just a Snow," Jon reminded them.
"Load of Andal horseshite," Torren spat on the ground. "A son of Winterfell is a son of Winterfell, regardless of which cunt spawned him."
Jon remained impassive outwardly but felt warm on the inside, despite the clansman's crude language. Although it was a Stark that birthed him, not that he would go around announcing that…
"You can come, but only if you follow my command," he finally acquiesced.
To Jon's surprise, Duncan and Jarod nodded in agreement, despite being older and supposedly more experienced. Mayhaps it wouldn't be bad to have more horses, trusty men to watch his back, and more supplies on his journey.
Author's Endnote:
Jarod Snow= Uncle of Lord Torren Liddle, OC. Everyone else, aside from the Liddles, is OC as well.
Duncan and brothers call Jarod uncle instead of grand-uncle for short.
This chapter just kept on giving, and it was a joy writing it. GRRM's northern lore and customs ring incredibly empty and bland, so I had great fun filling some of them here, but nothing too drastic.
Also, I claim unreliable narrator here(and in every other chapter, really), don't take things said at face value; it's just the words/thoughts/speech of the characters.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
Duncan and brothers call Jarod uncle instead of grand-uncle for short.
This chapter just kept on giving, and it was a joy writing it. GRRM's northern lore and customs ring incredibly empty and bland, so I had great fun filling some of them here, but nothing too drastic.
Also, I claim unreliable narrator here(and in every other chapter, really), don't take things said at face value; it's just the words/thoughts/speech of the characters.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
Last edited:
08-The Final Gift
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.
Edited by: Void Uzumaki & Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
18th Day of the 4th Moon
Somewhere in the Northern Mountains
Jon Snow
As the sun crawled towards the western horizon, a grey owl hooted from the nearby pines.
This part of the mountains had grown wild, and there was scarcely a trace of human activity; the roads had all narrowed and were covered in bushes and weeds. The fertile parts of the gift had long grown fallow, and the forests had slowly begun to reclaim them. The part with the northern mountains reminded Jon of the Haunted Forest, albeit more lively. They would have been nearly at the Wall by now if not for his sore side. The wound was fast to heal, even by his standards, but he did not want to risk pushing too much and making it worse, so they barely rode more than six hours a day at a leisurely pace.
They had stopped at a small clearing to rest for the night.
A small brass cauldron slowly bubbled above the campfire, letting out the alluring smell of rabbit stew. Both he and Duncan had caught a rabbit earlier. Red Jeyne and Ghost were both peacefully curled by his feet. The reddish hound was surprisingly well-behaved and affectionate, not what he would have expected for one raised by the bastard of Dreadfort.
Helicent was content to be sprawled to his right, snoring softly; Maude and Willow were at the edge of the camp, gnawing on the bones of a mountain goat that Ghost had killed earlier. The hounds oft followed his direwolf in the forest and were fearsome hunters with him at the lead.
With six garrons, three without a rider, they could carry a wide range of tools and supplies that a lone man with a single horse could not, including a large bag of salt Jarod had decided was necessary.
The old clansman slowly stirred the cauldron's contents with a wooden ladle before filling it with stew, bringing it to his mouth, and taking a tiny sip.
"Tis almost ready," Jarod said with a smile. "Keep bringing me game every eve to save our supplies for Beyond the Wall. Who knows if we'll be able to hunt anything over there?"
"Or find wild herbs and roots," Duncan added.
"The lands Beyond the Wall are not lacking food if you know where to look for it," Jon stated absentmindedly as he scratched behind Ghost's ear.
"How do you know?" Duncan curiously asked, and Jon stilled.
"I asked Uncle Benjen about it," he quickly lied. "When I was a child, I dreamed of joining the Watch and endlessly pestered him for details."
"Why didn't you join?" Big Liddle leaned over and asked curiously.
"I don't think I would fit in very well," Jon slowly explained. "But if I do join, I wouldn't be able to assist my family if they need me."
"True," Duncan thoughtfully agreed and tossed another branch into the cackling fire.
"Ha! You've got the right of it, but forgot the most important part! I told Dunk here that he was crazy to think swearing off women so young," Jarod slapped his grandnephew's shoulder before looking at the stew. "It's ready, methinks."
The old man grabbed a strip of linen, took the brass cauldron off the fire and placed it on a nearby rock to cool.
"To be fair, the vows only forbid you from taking wives, not bedding women," Jon coughed.
"Eh, tryin' to bed a spearwife will get your balls bitten off. And the pox-ridden whores in Mole's Town don't count," Jarod waved dismissively. "Why pay coin when you can find a willing woman?"
"Uncle, I always wondered how an old lecher like you never sired a dozen bastards of your own or had not taken a wife," Duncan clicked his tongue.
"Look at your pa, he has you four devils, and his hair's going grey at forty. I lack Torren's patience, so I give moon tea to my lovers," Jarod said with a lusty smile. "Old Lena is generous enough to supply me when I ask nicely. And if I swore myself to a woman at the heart tree, I'd be stuck with her for the rest of my life."
The old man grabbed and filled a few bronze bowls from their bags.
"Having a direwolf with us is mighty convenient," Duncan noted as he fondly looked at Ghost. "Him marking around the camp, and nothing dares approach."
"And they would sense intruders long before we do," Jarod added, handing them a bowl of stew each. Jon could sense the scent of sage, rosemary, and garlic, making his mouth water.
And it was true. Ever since he came back, Jon never had to worry at night. Ghost would wake him when anything came near, even before he had taken in the hounds.
"But are direwolves supposed to grow so fast? Your Ghost has visibly grown in just a sennight," Duncan pointed out.
"I… don't know," Jon shrugged. It was true that Ghost was growing faster than the previous time, but he wouldn't complain. A fully grown direwolf was a fearsome foe and a trusty companion.
He had far more important things to worry about, so Jon put the thought out of his mind and focused on the hot stew. It was not Gage's cooking but still far better than the pitiful slop in The Night's Watch. Once it was empty, he handed the bowl to Jarod.
"Another."
"You are almost as insatiable as the old Wull," the greybeard chuckled as he returned a filled bowl.
"Jon needs plenty of meat to heal," Duncan objected. "And at only six and ten, he can grow a bit more, methinks."
"He's nearly six feet already," Jarod snorted. "If he keeps shoving food down his throat like this, he will not become a giant but a merman too fat to ride a horse."
The image of him looking like Wyman Manderly made Jon laugh, and Duncan quickly joined him. But he was not worried about gaining in girth. The harsh lands beyond the Wall did not allow for excess.
"So, how are we going to cross the Wall?" Duncan idly asked, and Jon raised an eyebrow. They had yet to ask a single thing about their destination and mission the last three days and were content to let him lead the way.
"At the Shadow Tower," Jon said. "Commander Denys Mallister has little reason to bar our passage, but if he proves stubborn, we can sneak past Westwatch and the Bridge of Skulls at night."
"The old Eagle might grumble, but he'll let us pass," Jarod chortled. "The clans, the Umbers, and the Starks give far more aid to the Watch than anyone else."
Willow and Maude suddenly started barking northwards, quickly joined by the now awake Helicent and Red Jeyne. Ghost was up on his feet as well, teeth silently bared.
All the men instantly stood up, Jon had grabbed his sword, which always rested within a hand's reach, while Duncan had hefted his greatax, and Jarod had his sling in hand, ready to pelt any intruders with stones.
"We're surrounded," Jon said as he squinted his eyes; he could feel Ghost sense many foes.
"Fuck!" Jarod swore under his nose. "How many?"
Even with his sharp senses, the direwolf struggled to feel anything but danger and the faint scent of leaves and trees from every direction. The hounds were no better; they could feel that there was something, and they did not like it. How did they sneak up upon four savage hounds and a direwolf?!
"Near half a hundred," he uttered as he picked up his shield from the nearby log.
"Then it's time to meet our ancestors," Jarod grunted savagely as he started to whirl his sling. "Let us prove ourselves worthy!"
Jon's heart was thundering like a drum as his body tensed, he did not like the odds with his side not fully healed, but he was not going to go down without a fight either. He took a deep breath.
"SHOW YOURSELF, CRAVENS!"
Only the whirling sling, hound's growls, and leaves rustling restlessly in the wind could be heard for a few tense heartbeats. Jon quickly glanced at the tree where the horses were tied and noticed they did not seem uneasy or bothered.
"We come in peace," a melodic voice spoke. A woman's voice. It was high and sweet and felt like music to his ears. But it carried a tune of profound sadness that made him want to weep.
"What do you want from us?" Jon asked suspiciously while signalling Jarod to lower his sling and nudged the dogs mentally to sit down. He was still ready to rush into action with his sword, though.
A short figure with a cloak made of red leaves emerged from one of the bushes ahead, and Jon and his companions gasped. A pair of golden-green slitted eyes belonging to a small two-legged creature with nut-brown skin similar to a deer, along with pale spots. She had two large ears; her hands had three fingers and a thumb sporting black claws instead of nails. Vines, twigs and withered flowers were woven into her hair, a messy brown, red, and gold tangle, reminding Jon of autumn leaves. She was beautiful in a raw, primal way that Jon could not deny, despite the strangeness of her features.
"We are here to return something to its rightful owner," She gently said.
"What are you?" Duncan hoarsely asked, and Jon could see his knuckles turning white from gripping the greatax.
"In our language, we're called those who sing the song of the earth."
Something in Jon's mind clicked.
"You're the Children of the Forest," he stated as Duncan and Jarod silently stared at the legend come alive. Ghost and the hounds, however, seemed vigilant and ready to pounce at his command.
But Jon had seen more than enough legends and myths in person and liked them little.
"The men call us that, yes," her catlike eyes squinted in displeasure. "But we have been here long before the First Men crossed the Arm of Dorne with their bronze spears and axes. Men, they are the children."
"Apologies, earth singer," Jon conceded with a light bow, but he did his best to keep an eye on the so-called singer. "You said you're here to return something."
"Yes," at that moment, another child, no, earth singer with darker skin and snow-white hair, came from behind a tree, carrying a lengthy fur-wrapped bundle. The singer slowly approached under the men's vigilant gaze and placed the bundle in front of Ghost and Red Jeyne before swiftly fleeing into the nearby shrubbery.
He squinted his eyes; she was almost as fast as the Others. The first earth singer gazed at him expectantly, and he cautiously kneeled to pick up the wrapping. Ghost felt no maliciousness from the small being or her companion, so Jon found himself easing up.
He stabbed his sword into the ground so both hands were free. The package was light, and he quickly discarded the furs, only to reveal a pitch-black scabbard, a gaudy hilt wrapped in black leather rested at the mouth, encrusted with a ruby on the gilded crossguard. He recognised it. While fighting the Others, he had memorised every Valyrian Steel sword in Westeros and their characteristics and whereabouts. A pity it had been for nought, as no bearer of such blades was willing to lend them to the North or aid them in person.
There was a familiar feeling in the back of his mind, and he slowly released the blade from its prison and stared. Dark grey steel, with black ripples gracing the length of the longsword, which had a single fuller incised along the blade.
It felt right in his hand. He could feel his blood boil in excitement.
Jon Snow twirled the blade, and it made the familiar whistling sound of unparalleled sharpness of a sharp edge cutting through the air. He slashed towards the thick log where he sat, and the longsword sunk halfway with nary an effort. With a light pull, the blade was free and up in the air again.
This changed everything!
To the side, Jon saw that Jarod had finally lost his composure, and his eyes were as wide as saucers, while Duncan was rubbing his eyes and pinching his arm as if he wanted to wake up.
"Dark Sister, the blade of the Sorcerer Queen, the Rogue Prince and the Dragonknight," he declared with amazement before gazing at the earth singer and bowed deeply. "A priceless gift. Do you have a name?"
"My name is long and too cumbersome for your tongue, but you can call me Leaf," she provided.
He had contemplated going to Castle Black and trying to acquire Longclaw, but he doubted that the Old Bear would bequeath it to him if he did not take the Black. There was always the option of trying to steal it, but it was too dangerous, and too many things could go wrong. It did not help that the seat of the Lord Commander was full of unpleasant memories and faces he would rather avoid.
Death? It was a long time since he feared dying or failing, so it bothered him little.
Gifts like this were too precious to be given for free. But first-
"I am Jon Snow, and this is Jarod Snow and Duncan Liddle," he introduced his companions with a nod. "The sword was lost with Brynden Rivers Beyond the Wall. How did you get it? Why would you bring it to me, Leaf?"
Now that he got his hands on Valyrian Steel, he'd never let it go, but it was important to know what the other side wanted.
"Nearly a moon and a half, things changed. The Three-Eyed Crow suddenly expired, but not before bidding us bring the dragonblade to the blessed direwolf and aid him," she explained in her sad yet melodic voice, and Jon had to fight not to weep again. "And the blade belonged to the Three-Eyed Crow."
This was the first time one could speak so ethereally, yet with such tangible sadness.
But Leaf's answer only raised more questions. The blessed direwolf to those who worshipped the Old Gods could only be Ghost with the colouring of weirwood. If the blade belonged to the Three-Eyed Crow, was he the notorious Brynden Rivers? Or maybe his son or grandson, as Bloodraven would have been nearly a hundred and thirty, long dead. But that was not so important right now.
"How did you find me?"
"You and your white wolf are touched by the Old Gods, shining with power like a sun in the darkness to us Singers," Leaf unhelpfully provided. "There's ice and fire in you, the Last Hero come again."
"I'm no hero," Jon grunted sourly.
"As you say, Jon Snow," Leaf bobbed her head with amusement, and it took him a few moments to push down his irritation.
The implication that these singers could easily find him did not sit right with him. He hated magic with a passion; it reminded him too much of the accursed Red Witch. Wait, if he was so easily found-
"Can others find me as you could?"
"No, the Old Gods guard their champions jealously from errant gazes."
Well, that was a relief!
He took his time to study the so-called Earth Singer. She was no bigger than Arya but spoke with a grown woman's voice and wisdom. Indeed, not a child. Her calm voice, peaceful words, and graceful movements spoke volumes. After many bitter lessons, Jon could tell there was not a single drop of deception in her. Nor any animosity.
"You would offer your assistance at the words of a dead man?" He found himself asking.
"Yes, the Three-Eyed Crow was our last greenseer, our elder and leader, and his words are heavy even in death," Leaf's voice grew forlorn. "Without him, the protections that hid us began to wane, and we could only wait for death. The age of the Singers of the Earth had long begun to dwindle, and we are its final remnants. There is no room for us in the world of men, and the Singers of the Ice would eagerly hunt us down to the North."
Singers of the Ice… what an apt name for the Others. Jon Snow carefully appraised the sad Earth Singer in front of him once more. She had not lied a single time; he could feel it. Even Ghost was amiable towards the so-called earth singer. The being in front of him was simply pure and straightforward. Could he even afford to refuse freely given assistance?
"Tell me, Leaf, what exactly can you Earth Singers do?"
The Lord of Winterfell
"I've finished preparing everything for the welcome feast, my lord," Vayon Poole reported dutifully. "Lady Sansa's assistance with the decorations, arrangements, and singers was much appreciated."
Eddard Stark was baffled. That was the job of the Lady of Winterfell, not her daughter. Another problem for later. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and shook his head before focusing on the task at hand.
"Can our larders survive the royal appetite?"
The worries of feeding the royal court in his halls had become fleeting in contrast to everything Jon had revealed, but he could not afford to ignore them. He remembered the feast at Casterly Rock after the Greyjoy Rebellion all too well, where every knight and lord gorged themselves as if it was their last meal. At least he had time to prepare - the royal retinue was anything but fast, and by the last account, they had not even crossed half the distance to Winterfell from White Harbour yet.
"The long summer has made our harvest generous, but with the additional guardsmen and three hundred men with the King, we might have to cull one of our larger herds."
And together with the exotic fruits from the far south and Essos, the royal visit was shaping up to be an expensive venture. Nearly two and a half centuries had passed since Winterfell had been graced by royal presence. Some might say it was an honour, but any joy that Ned had initially felt at the prospect of seeing his childhood friend had grown cold, especially after reading Jon's bloody warning. Damn him!
Damn Robert and his royal hide!
Ned had more than enough trouble brewing on the horizon without dealing with the petty Southron games.
"Use the feast to start emptying our larders and granaries of everything that cannot last more than a year and start filling them up with only lasting foodstuff," Ned ordered while rubbing his brow.
"But my lord, it's still summer, there's still plenty of time to prepare for winter."
"This summer won't last forever," he grimly reminded. "Better to be prepared now. Winter is coming."
"It shall be done," Vayon vowed solemnly.
"And send for my lady wife," Ned added before dismissing the steward.
He did not begrudge Catelyn from grieving about their son, and he never barred her from worshipping her rainbow statues. But there was only so much she could shirk her duty in sorrow. Ned had scarcely seen his wife outside the family meals, where she had mostly remained silent or focused her attention on Rickon. Most of her day was spent praying at the sept, clad in black mourning clothes.
The minutes flew by as he focused on the ledgers, and eventually, the solar's door opened, and Catelyn entered.
Dressed in a plain black robe with no jewellery, one could mistake her for a woman of the Faith. Her fair skin looked paler than usual, and her beautiful face was beginning to look gaunt, and her figure slimmer.
Between sparring, training Winter, his lordly duties, Robb's lessons, and his long planning sessions with Howland, he seemed to have neglected his lady wife.
"You summoned me, Ned?" Her voice had grown raspy.
He grabbed two chairs, placed them facing each other near the hearth, and sat on one of them.
"Come here, Cat," he said with a sigh, and she joined him with a small smile.
"Did you know that Sansa has taken up almost all of your duties?"
"Gods…" his wife paled even further, her face heavy with guilt and shame.
'Twas a shameful thing to be a lady of the House, yet have no idea what is happening in her household.
"Indeed. I know it's hard, but it's been nearly a moon and a half, and you've grieved enough," Ned curtly said. "Cat, I love you dearly, but I married a lady of the realm, not a septa. You have three more children that need you just as much as Rickon does."
"But what if he also starts climbing-"
"No, Cat. I've always indulged you, but too much coddling will not do Rickon any good. The wolfsblood is strong with him. It's time for him to start training under Rodrik."
"He's only five name days old," she vehemently objected.
"What of it? Robb started as soon as he could walk, and Rickon is older, wilder, and more restless. Better to have him busy and tired than always looking up to run around with mischief," Ned reasoned with a sigh. "That's far from the only problem, Cat. You look like you've begun to waste away."
"I…" his wife trailed off, unsure what to say.
The loss of Bran had devastated her far more than he thought.
"From now on, you will attend every meal with us in the Great Hall," he ordered sternly. "And you will eat, or gods help me, I will feed you myself in front of the children and the servants," Catelyn reddened, and her lips twitched. "And if I hear you visited the Sept more than once a moon, I'll personally tear it down."
Guilt and love warred in her blue eyes, and she eventually let out an amused huff, stood up from the chair, and curtsied.
"I shall do as my lord commands me."
She stiffened as Ned abruptly stood up and pulled her into an embrace before she could sit down. He grimaced; Catelyn had indeed grown thinner. A yelp escaped her lips as he sat down and pulled her into his lap.
"Should I get the servants to bring you a meal here and now?"
His wife shook her head and melted into his embrace. "Not now, I shall join you at the Great Hall at luncheon."
At that moment, Winter stirred from his resting place near the corner. The silver-furred direwolf stretched lazily and trotted over to them with a wagging tail, making his wife stiffen in his arms once again.
"Give him your hand," Ned whispered in her ear.
Catelyn hesitantly reached out her arm, only for the direwolf to inspect her carefully with his muzzle for a short few moments before curling down in their feet.
"He's bigger than Shaggydog and Grey Wind," she observed. "They are sweet and obedient little things as pups, but are you sure they will stay as such when grown?"
A loud knock on the door stifled his reply before it left his tongue, and saw Winter jump warily, facing the entrance.
"What is it?"
"My lord, we have caught a raper in Winter Town," Walder's voice rumbled through the door.
"I'll be in the yard in a few minutes," he replied and mulled over an errant idea for a short moment. "Send for Robb, Sansa, and Arya to join me."
"At once, my lord!"
"Ned, why would you summon for our daughters?" Cat asked cautiously as she stood up.
"It is time they see northern justice," the Lord of Winterfell replied curtly, and his wife's face twisted in horror and recoiled as if struck.
"This is not a woman's duty!" Her voice was shaky. "They are to be ladies of the realm, and they've no need to see that… ugly butchery!"
"Septa Mordane has done her best to turn them into ladies, true," he conceded but steeled himself. "But closing your eyes does not mean the bad goes away, Cat. Our children are of the North. Winter is coming, and it does not suffer the green boys and the maidens of summer."
"Damn you Starks, and your winter!"
Much to his pain, his wife looked furious, like a shadowcat ready to pounce on her prey. But he had hardened his heart. Eddard Stark had shielded his children from the ugliness of the world as best as he could for a long time, but in the last moon, he had come to realise that it might have been a grave mistake.
"You are a Stark too," he reminded her as he grabbed his fur-lined grey cloak emblazoned with the sigil of his House from the hanger and draped it over her shoulders. "Come, your daughters will need their mother."
Catelyn deflated, and the anger bled out of her.
"Yes, my lord," she acquiesced with a tired sigh.
Author's Endnote:
Edited by: Void Uzumaki & Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
18th Day of the 4th Moon
Somewhere in the Northern Mountains
Jon Snow
As the sun crawled towards the western horizon, a grey owl hooted from the nearby pines.
This part of the mountains had grown wild, and there was scarcely a trace of human activity; the roads had all narrowed and were covered in bushes and weeds. The fertile parts of the gift had long grown fallow, and the forests had slowly begun to reclaim them. The part with the northern mountains reminded Jon of the Haunted Forest, albeit more lively. They would have been nearly at the Wall by now if not for his sore side. The wound was fast to heal, even by his standards, but he did not want to risk pushing too much and making it worse, so they barely rode more than six hours a day at a leisurely pace.
They had stopped at a small clearing to rest for the night.
A small brass cauldron slowly bubbled above the campfire, letting out the alluring smell of rabbit stew. Both he and Duncan had caught a rabbit earlier. Red Jeyne and Ghost were both peacefully curled by his feet. The reddish hound was surprisingly well-behaved and affectionate, not what he would have expected for one raised by the bastard of Dreadfort.
Helicent was content to be sprawled to his right, snoring softly; Maude and Willow were at the edge of the camp, gnawing on the bones of a mountain goat that Ghost had killed earlier. The hounds oft followed his direwolf in the forest and were fearsome hunters with him at the lead.
With six garrons, three without a rider, they could carry a wide range of tools and supplies that a lone man with a single horse could not, including a large bag of salt Jarod had decided was necessary.
The old clansman slowly stirred the cauldron's contents with a wooden ladle before filling it with stew, bringing it to his mouth, and taking a tiny sip.
"Tis almost ready," Jarod said with a smile. "Keep bringing me game every eve to save our supplies for Beyond the Wall. Who knows if we'll be able to hunt anything over there?"
"Or find wild herbs and roots," Duncan added.
"The lands Beyond the Wall are not lacking food if you know where to look for it," Jon stated absentmindedly as he scratched behind Ghost's ear.
"How do you know?" Duncan curiously asked, and Jon stilled.
"I asked Uncle Benjen about it," he quickly lied. "When I was a child, I dreamed of joining the Watch and endlessly pestered him for details."
"Why didn't you join?" Big Liddle leaned over and asked curiously.
"I don't think I would fit in very well," Jon slowly explained. "But if I do join, I wouldn't be able to assist my family if they need me."
"True," Duncan thoughtfully agreed and tossed another branch into the cackling fire.
"Ha! You've got the right of it, but forgot the most important part! I told Dunk here that he was crazy to think swearing off women so young," Jarod slapped his grandnephew's shoulder before looking at the stew. "It's ready, methinks."
The old man grabbed a strip of linen, took the brass cauldron off the fire and placed it on a nearby rock to cool.
"To be fair, the vows only forbid you from taking wives, not bedding women," Jon coughed.
"Eh, tryin' to bed a spearwife will get your balls bitten off. And the pox-ridden whores in Mole's Town don't count," Jarod waved dismissively. "Why pay coin when you can find a willing woman?"
"Uncle, I always wondered how an old lecher like you never sired a dozen bastards of your own or had not taken a wife," Duncan clicked his tongue.
"Look at your pa, he has you four devils, and his hair's going grey at forty. I lack Torren's patience, so I give moon tea to my lovers," Jarod said with a lusty smile. "Old Lena is generous enough to supply me when I ask nicely. And if I swore myself to a woman at the heart tree, I'd be stuck with her for the rest of my life."
The old man grabbed and filled a few bronze bowls from their bags.
"Having a direwolf with us is mighty convenient," Duncan noted as he fondly looked at Ghost. "Him marking around the camp, and nothing dares approach."
"And they would sense intruders long before we do," Jarod added, handing them a bowl of stew each. Jon could sense the scent of sage, rosemary, and garlic, making his mouth water.
And it was true. Ever since he came back, Jon never had to worry at night. Ghost would wake him when anything came near, even before he had taken in the hounds.
"But are direwolves supposed to grow so fast? Your Ghost has visibly grown in just a sennight," Duncan pointed out.
"I… don't know," Jon shrugged. It was true that Ghost was growing faster than the previous time, but he wouldn't complain. A fully grown direwolf was a fearsome foe and a trusty companion.
He had far more important things to worry about, so Jon put the thought out of his mind and focused on the hot stew. It was not Gage's cooking but still far better than the pitiful slop in The Night's Watch. Once it was empty, he handed the bowl to Jarod.
"Another."
"You are almost as insatiable as the old Wull," the greybeard chuckled as he returned a filled bowl.
"Jon needs plenty of meat to heal," Duncan objected. "And at only six and ten, he can grow a bit more, methinks."
"He's nearly six feet already," Jarod snorted. "If he keeps shoving food down his throat like this, he will not become a giant but a merman too fat to ride a horse."
The image of him looking like Wyman Manderly made Jon laugh, and Duncan quickly joined him. But he was not worried about gaining in girth. The harsh lands beyond the Wall did not allow for excess.
"So, how are we going to cross the Wall?" Duncan idly asked, and Jon raised an eyebrow. They had yet to ask a single thing about their destination and mission the last three days and were content to let him lead the way.
"At the Shadow Tower," Jon said. "Commander Denys Mallister has little reason to bar our passage, but if he proves stubborn, we can sneak past Westwatch and the Bridge of Skulls at night."
"The old Eagle might grumble, but he'll let us pass," Jarod chortled. "The clans, the Umbers, and the Starks give far more aid to the Watch than anyone else."
Willow and Maude suddenly started barking northwards, quickly joined by the now awake Helicent and Red Jeyne. Ghost was up on his feet as well, teeth silently bared.
All the men instantly stood up, Jon had grabbed his sword, which always rested within a hand's reach, while Duncan had hefted his greatax, and Jarod had his sling in hand, ready to pelt any intruders with stones.
"We're surrounded," Jon said as he squinted his eyes; he could feel Ghost sense many foes.
"Fuck!" Jarod swore under his nose. "How many?"
Even with his sharp senses, the direwolf struggled to feel anything but danger and the faint scent of leaves and trees from every direction. The hounds were no better; they could feel that there was something, and they did not like it. How did they sneak up upon four savage hounds and a direwolf?!
"Near half a hundred," he uttered as he picked up his shield from the nearby log.
"Then it's time to meet our ancestors," Jarod grunted savagely as he started to whirl his sling. "Let us prove ourselves worthy!"
Jon's heart was thundering like a drum as his body tensed, he did not like the odds with his side not fully healed, but he was not going to go down without a fight either. He took a deep breath.
"SHOW YOURSELF, CRAVENS!"
Only the whirling sling, hound's growls, and leaves rustling restlessly in the wind could be heard for a few tense heartbeats. Jon quickly glanced at the tree where the horses were tied and noticed they did not seem uneasy or bothered.
"We come in peace," a melodic voice spoke. A woman's voice. It was high and sweet and felt like music to his ears. But it carried a tune of profound sadness that made him want to weep.
"What do you want from us?" Jon asked suspiciously while signalling Jarod to lower his sling and nudged the dogs mentally to sit down. He was still ready to rush into action with his sword, though.
A short figure with a cloak made of red leaves emerged from one of the bushes ahead, and Jon and his companions gasped. A pair of golden-green slitted eyes belonging to a small two-legged creature with nut-brown skin similar to a deer, along with pale spots. She had two large ears; her hands had three fingers and a thumb sporting black claws instead of nails. Vines, twigs and withered flowers were woven into her hair, a messy brown, red, and gold tangle, reminding Jon of autumn leaves. She was beautiful in a raw, primal way that Jon could not deny, despite the strangeness of her features.
"We are here to return something to its rightful owner," She gently said.
"What are you?" Duncan hoarsely asked, and Jon could see his knuckles turning white from gripping the greatax.
"In our language, we're called those who sing the song of the earth."
Something in Jon's mind clicked.
"You're the Children of the Forest," he stated as Duncan and Jarod silently stared at the legend come alive. Ghost and the hounds, however, seemed vigilant and ready to pounce at his command.
But Jon had seen more than enough legends and myths in person and liked them little.
"The men call us that, yes," her catlike eyes squinted in displeasure. "But we have been here long before the First Men crossed the Arm of Dorne with their bronze spears and axes. Men, they are the children."
"Apologies, earth singer," Jon conceded with a light bow, but he did his best to keep an eye on the so-called singer. "You said you're here to return something."
"Yes," at that moment, another child, no, earth singer with darker skin and snow-white hair, came from behind a tree, carrying a lengthy fur-wrapped bundle. The singer slowly approached under the men's vigilant gaze and placed the bundle in front of Ghost and Red Jeyne before swiftly fleeing into the nearby shrubbery.
He squinted his eyes; she was almost as fast as the Others. The first earth singer gazed at him expectantly, and he cautiously kneeled to pick up the wrapping. Ghost felt no maliciousness from the small being or her companion, so Jon found himself easing up.
He stabbed his sword into the ground so both hands were free. The package was light, and he quickly discarded the furs, only to reveal a pitch-black scabbard, a gaudy hilt wrapped in black leather rested at the mouth, encrusted with a ruby on the gilded crossguard. He recognised it. While fighting the Others, he had memorised every Valyrian Steel sword in Westeros and their characteristics and whereabouts. A pity it had been for nought, as no bearer of such blades was willing to lend them to the North or aid them in person.
There was a familiar feeling in the back of his mind, and he slowly released the blade from its prison and stared. Dark grey steel, with black ripples gracing the length of the longsword, which had a single fuller incised along the blade.
It felt right in his hand. He could feel his blood boil in excitement.
Jon Snow twirled the blade, and it made the familiar whistling sound of unparalleled sharpness of a sharp edge cutting through the air. He slashed towards the thick log where he sat, and the longsword sunk halfway with nary an effort. With a light pull, the blade was free and up in the air again.
This changed everything!
To the side, Jon saw that Jarod had finally lost his composure, and his eyes were as wide as saucers, while Duncan was rubbing his eyes and pinching his arm as if he wanted to wake up.
"Dark Sister, the blade of the Sorcerer Queen, the Rogue Prince and the Dragonknight," he declared with amazement before gazing at the earth singer and bowed deeply. "A priceless gift. Do you have a name?"
"My name is long and too cumbersome for your tongue, but you can call me Leaf," she provided.
He had contemplated going to Castle Black and trying to acquire Longclaw, but he doubted that the Old Bear would bequeath it to him if he did not take the Black. There was always the option of trying to steal it, but it was too dangerous, and too many things could go wrong. It did not help that the seat of the Lord Commander was full of unpleasant memories and faces he would rather avoid.
Death? It was a long time since he feared dying or failing, so it bothered him little.
Gifts like this were too precious to be given for free. But first-
"I am Jon Snow, and this is Jarod Snow and Duncan Liddle," he introduced his companions with a nod. "The sword was lost with Brynden Rivers Beyond the Wall. How did you get it? Why would you bring it to me, Leaf?"
Now that he got his hands on Valyrian Steel, he'd never let it go, but it was important to know what the other side wanted.
"Nearly a moon and a half, things changed. The Three-Eyed Crow suddenly expired, but not before bidding us bring the dragonblade to the blessed direwolf and aid him," she explained in her sad yet melodic voice, and Jon had to fight not to weep again. "And the blade belonged to the Three-Eyed Crow."
This was the first time one could speak so ethereally, yet with such tangible sadness.
But Leaf's answer only raised more questions. The blessed direwolf to those who worshipped the Old Gods could only be Ghost with the colouring of weirwood. If the blade belonged to the Three-Eyed Crow, was he the notorious Brynden Rivers? Or maybe his son or grandson, as Bloodraven would have been nearly a hundred and thirty, long dead. But that was not so important right now.
"How did you find me?"
"You and your white wolf are touched by the Old Gods, shining with power like a sun in the darkness to us Singers," Leaf unhelpfully provided. "There's ice and fire in you, the Last Hero come again."
"I'm no hero," Jon grunted sourly.
"As you say, Jon Snow," Leaf bobbed her head with amusement, and it took him a few moments to push down his irritation.
The implication that these singers could easily find him did not sit right with him. He hated magic with a passion; it reminded him too much of the accursed Red Witch. Wait, if he was so easily found-
"Can others find me as you could?"
"No, the Old Gods guard their champions jealously from errant gazes."
Well, that was a relief!
He took his time to study the so-called Earth Singer. She was no bigger than Arya but spoke with a grown woman's voice and wisdom. Indeed, not a child. Her calm voice, peaceful words, and graceful movements spoke volumes. After many bitter lessons, Jon could tell there was not a single drop of deception in her. Nor any animosity.
"You would offer your assistance at the words of a dead man?" He found himself asking.
"Yes, the Three-Eyed Crow was our last greenseer, our elder and leader, and his words are heavy even in death," Leaf's voice grew forlorn. "Without him, the protections that hid us began to wane, and we could only wait for death. The age of the Singers of the Earth had long begun to dwindle, and we are its final remnants. There is no room for us in the world of men, and the Singers of the Ice would eagerly hunt us down to the North."
Singers of the Ice… what an apt name for the Others. Jon Snow carefully appraised the sad Earth Singer in front of him once more. She had not lied a single time; he could feel it. Even Ghost was amiable towards the so-called earth singer. The being in front of him was simply pure and straightforward. Could he even afford to refuse freely given assistance?
"Tell me, Leaf, what exactly can you Earth Singers do?"
The Lord of Winterfell
"I've finished preparing everything for the welcome feast, my lord," Vayon Poole reported dutifully. "Lady Sansa's assistance with the decorations, arrangements, and singers was much appreciated."
Eddard Stark was baffled. That was the job of the Lady of Winterfell, not her daughter. Another problem for later. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and shook his head before focusing on the task at hand.
"Can our larders survive the royal appetite?"
The worries of feeding the royal court in his halls had become fleeting in contrast to everything Jon had revealed, but he could not afford to ignore them. He remembered the feast at Casterly Rock after the Greyjoy Rebellion all too well, where every knight and lord gorged themselves as if it was their last meal. At least he had time to prepare - the royal retinue was anything but fast, and by the last account, they had not even crossed half the distance to Winterfell from White Harbour yet.
"The long summer has made our harvest generous, but with the additional guardsmen and three hundred men with the King, we might have to cull one of our larger herds."
And together with the exotic fruits from the far south and Essos, the royal visit was shaping up to be an expensive venture. Nearly two and a half centuries had passed since Winterfell had been graced by royal presence. Some might say it was an honour, but any joy that Ned had initially felt at the prospect of seeing his childhood friend had grown cold, especially after reading Jon's bloody warning. Damn him!
Damn Robert and his royal hide!
Ned had more than enough trouble brewing on the horizon without dealing with the petty Southron games.
"Use the feast to start emptying our larders and granaries of everything that cannot last more than a year and start filling them up with only lasting foodstuff," Ned ordered while rubbing his brow.
"But my lord, it's still summer, there's still plenty of time to prepare for winter."
"This summer won't last forever," he grimly reminded. "Better to be prepared now. Winter is coming."
"It shall be done," Vayon vowed solemnly.
"And send for my lady wife," Ned added before dismissing the steward.
He did not begrudge Catelyn from grieving about their son, and he never barred her from worshipping her rainbow statues. But there was only so much she could shirk her duty in sorrow. Ned had scarcely seen his wife outside the family meals, where she had mostly remained silent or focused her attention on Rickon. Most of her day was spent praying at the sept, clad in black mourning clothes.
The minutes flew by as he focused on the ledgers, and eventually, the solar's door opened, and Catelyn entered.
Dressed in a plain black robe with no jewellery, one could mistake her for a woman of the Faith. Her fair skin looked paler than usual, and her beautiful face was beginning to look gaunt, and her figure slimmer.
Between sparring, training Winter, his lordly duties, Robb's lessons, and his long planning sessions with Howland, he seemed to have neglected his lady wife.
"You summoned me, Ned?" Her voice had grown raspy.
He grabbed two chairs, placed them facing each other near the hearth, and sat on one of them.
"Come here, Cat," he said with a sigh, and she joined him with a small smile.
"Did you know that Sansa has taken up almost all of your duties?"
"Gods…" his wife paled even further, her face heavy with guilt and shame.
'Twas a shameful thing to be a lady of the House, yet have no idea what is happening in her household.
"Indeed. I know it's hard, but it's been nearly a moon and a half, and you've grieved enough," Ned curtly said. "Cat, I love you dearly, but I married a lady of the realm, not a septa. You have three more children that need you just as much as Rickon does."
"But what if he also starts climbing-"
"No, Cat. I've always indulged you, but too much coddling will not do Rickon any good. The wolfsblood is strong with him. It's time for him to start training under Rodrik."
"He's only five name days old," she vehemently objected.
"What of it? Robb started as soon as he could walk, and Rickon is older, wilder, and more restless. Better to have him busy and tired than always looking up to run around with mischief," Ned reasoned with a sigh. "That's far from the only problem, Cat. You look like you've begun to waste away."
"I…" his wife trailed off, unsure what to say.
The loss of Bran had devastated her far more than he thought.
"From now on, you will attend every meal with us in the Great Hall," he ordered sternly. "And you will eat, or gods help me, I will feed you myself in front of the children and the servants," Catelyn reddened, and her lips twitched. "And if I hear you visited the Sept more than once a moon, I'll personally tear it down."
Guilt and love warred in her blue eyes, and she eventually let out an amused huff, stood up from the chair, and curtsied.
"I shall do as my lord commands me."
She stiffened as Ned abruptly stood up and pulled her into an embrace before she could sit down. He grimaced; Catelyn had indeed grown thinner. A yelp escaped her lips as he sat down and pulled her into his lap.
"Should I get the servants to bring you a meal here and now?"
His wife shook her head and melted into his embrace. "Not now, I shall join you at the Great Hall at luncheon."
At that moment, Winter stirred from his resting place near the corner. The silver-furred direwolf stretched lazily and trotted over to them with a wagging tail, making his wife stiffen in his arms once again.
"Give him your hand," Ned whispered in her ear.
Catelyn hesitantly reached out her arm, only for the direwolf to inspect her carefully with his muzzle for a short few moments before curling down in their feet.
"He's bigger than Shaggydog and Grey Wind," she observed. "They are sweet and obedient little things as pups, but are you sure they will stay as such when grown?"
A loud knock on the door stifled his reply before it left his tongue, and saw Winter jump warily, facing the entrance.
"What is it?"
"My lord, we have caught a raper in Winter Town," Walder's voice rumbled through the door.
"I'll be in the yard in a few minutes," he replied and mulled over an errant idea for a short moment. "Send for Robb, Sansa, and Arya to join me."
"At once, my lord!"
"Ned, why would you summon for our daughters?" Cat asked cautiously as she stood up.
"It is time they see northern justice," the Lord of Winterfell replied curtly, and his wife's face twisted in horror and recoiled as if struck.
"This is not a woman's duty!" Her voice was shaky. "They are to be ladies of the realm, and they've no need to see that… ugly butchery!"
"Septa Mordane has done her best to turn them into ladies, true," he conceded but steeled himself. "But closing your eyes does not mean the bad goes away, Cat. Our children are of the North. Winter is coming, and it does not suffer the green boys and the maidens of summer."
"Damn you Starks, and your winter!"
Much to his pain, his wife looked furious, like a shadowcat ready to pounce on her prey. But he had hardened his heart. Eddard Stark had shielded his children from the ugliness of the world as best as he could for a long time, but in the last moon, he had come to realise that it might have been a grave mistake.
"You are a Stark too," he reminded her as he grabbed his fur-lined grey cloak emblazoned with the sigil of his House from the hanger and draped it over her shoulders. "Come, your daughters will need their mother."
Catelyn deflated, and the anger bled out of her.
"Yes, my lord," she acquiesced with a tired sigh.
Author's Endnote:
This chapter was quite hard to write. Bloodraven is a gift that keeps on giving, but this was the last of it.
I have a love/hate relationship with Catelyn as a character, and she was very hard to write, but I think I managed to do her justice.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
I have a love/hate relationship with Catelyn as a character, and she was very hard to write, but I think I managed to do her justice.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
Last edited:
09-Friends in Court
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.
Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Eddard Stark
He looked at Robb. His son was stocky and strong, with an easy smile and laughing blue eyes. Still a boy, despite already being six and ten and reaching Ned's height. Behind him, Grey Wind was trailing curiously. The direwolf and the boy were inseparable almost everywhere outside the training yard.
By Robb's side stood Theon Greyjoy, another source of unease. As always, Balon Greyjoy's son proudly wore the black velvet doublet embroidered with the golden kraken of his House, and his face was graced by a cocky smile as usual. Ned had allowed the boy the same tutoring his children received and even greater freedom. Yet he could see it. Despite his efforts to turn the boy from a hostage to a foster son, the stigma remained.
In the end, blood was thicker than water, and it shouldn't have been such a surprise that Theon would have chosen his own birth family, despite Balon's complete disinterest in his would-be heir. Ned regretted his feeling of mercy for the cowering ten-year boy back then. He should not have offered to take the boy and let Stannis, Robert, or Tywin deal with him. But it was too late; he had taken the ironborn heir in, and returning him to the Iron Isles was not an option now, nor was sending him away.
His gaze moved to his wife, gently speaking to Sansa and Arya in hushed whispers. His younger daughter looked excited, but Sansa had grown pale.
Eddard Stark shook his head and looked carefully at Robb, who fidgeted under his gaze. His son still had much to learn before he could lead the North, let alone wage war. Eddard Stark had no plans of dying anytime soon, but being prepared did not hurt.
"Today you'll mete out justice, Robb," he decided as he picked up Ice from Jory and placed it in his son's stunned hands.
It was time to bloody his boy without the risk of battle. Hunting deers and hares in the Wolfswood was far different from taking a man's life.
"But-"
"Ours is the old way," Ned reminded his son, who nodded uneasily after a moment. "Remember your lessons. Let's go now."
Catelyn threw him a piercing look from the side but ushered the girls after them. Robb uneasily held the ancestral blade of their House; he was barely taller than Ice. It would have made for an amusing sight if not for the occasion. They headed towards the main gate, accompanied by two scores of guardsmen led by Jory and Walder.
"Jory, can you tell us what happened?" Robb asked hesitantly.
The captain of the guards moved closer and coughed with a heavy frown.
"A merchant from King's Landing was staying in the Smoking Log. He pulled Barba into his room-"
"Innkeeper Errold's daughter?" Robb asked, face darkening.
"Aye, her. He pulled her into his room and forced himself on her. When old man Errold heard, he came over to halt them, but the merchant had his two sellsword guards beat him bloody. Hallis Mollen and Harwin were in the Smoking Log and managed to subdue the sellswords and send a runner to the other guardsmen and Winterfell."
They made the rest of the way to Winter Town in solemn silence, where a small crowd had gathered at the market square, and the wooden stalls were all pulled aside. As they neared, loud cries echoed among the muddy square.
"Release me at once! This is a mistake!" The voice was high-pitch and grating to the ears. Artos and Dylon held a manacled, plump man garbed in a green velvet tunic who was bellowing for all to hear. His bald scalp beaded with sweat despite the chill in the air. "I have friends in court!"
"Friends in court?" Artos snorted.
"Yes, yes," the merchant nodded vigorously. "Lord Baelish and Commander Slynt-"
"Have nothing to do with the North," Ned interjected icily.
"Ah, milord," the plump man's face twisted in a greasy smile as he turned to him and made a shallow bow. "My name is Dynas. As I was saying, this has been a mistake!"
"A mistake?" Robb echoed coldly.
"Yes, yes," the merchant bobbed his head like a squirrel. "I paid for the girl's service, and her father attacked me!"
"LIAR!" The crowd parted to show a furious Helga. Errold's wife had reddened eyes, and her weathered face was twisted in scorn and fury. Trailing after her was a slip of a girl, face bruised and bloody with tears streaming from her swollen eyes, and Ned could see that her dress was torn underneath the cloak. "Me daughter is not even four and ten and no whore, you focken' brigand! Yer thugs crippled my Errold when he tried to stop ya!"
"Oh please, she wanted it, and I was going to compensate her-"
Ned took a careful look at his children. Catelyn was looking at him pleadingly, Arya had gone pale, and Sansa looked ready to faint. Robb had clenched his jaw, and he could see his son grit his teeth while Theon's eyes angrily glared at the merchant.
"RAPER!"
"Vile woman, stop besmirching my good name!"
Robb looked hesitantly at him, but Ned remained impassive and lightly shrugged his shoulders. The Lord of Winterfell wanted to see how his son would do. Clearly, the man was a raper, one used to getting away with it. Would Robb geld him? Would he behead him or offer him to take the Black?
His heir looked at the beaten girl, and his hesitation was slowly replaced with an icy resolve.
"Silence!" The squabbling immediately ceased at Robb's cry. He then looked to Artos and Dylon. "Bring him to the block."
The plump man's greasy smile was briefly replaced with shock before it turned into disbelief.
"This is a mistake; we could still resolve this peacefully. It's just a peasant girl's maidenhead," Dynas cried out as the pair of guardsmen placed him over an oaken stump and held him down. "The whore wanted it, and I was going to pay!"
"Any last words?" Robb asked as he slowly unsheathed Ice.
The dark, smoky ripples shone in the middling sun as his son carefully made a few practice swings to the side.
The plump merchant struggled for a few moments but couldn't budge the strong arms of Artos and Dylon.
"My friends shall hear of this!" Dynas angrily vowed. "I demand a trial by battle!"
"A poor choice of last words," Theon snorted with amusement from the side. "I don't think the man has ever swung a sword in his life."
"You're neither knight nor noble to demand such," Robb said.
"Wait," Dynas' desperate voice echoed in the square. "I shall take the Black!"
For a short moment, Robb paused, but his eyes were steeled with resolve.
"In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Seven Kingdoms and Lord Protector of the Realm, by the word of Robb of House Stark, I do sentence you to die." The Valyrian Steel greatsword rose in the air, and the plump man began struggling frantically but to no avail. Artos and Dylan's hands were like iron, holding the merchant down effortlessly.
The blade descended with a single motion, and Dynas' head rolled on the ground, leaving a bloody trail on the mud. Ned nodded with approval at his son; it was a clean cut. Soft cheers and grunts of approval were heard from the crowd.
"The Night's Watch has no need for peddlers," Robb coldly stated, face pale but stoic, but Ned could see a slight tremble in his hand. "Put his head on a spike at the main gate for all to see and bring his two thugs here."
Lew grabbed the head and headed back to the gate while Walder went to fetch the imprisoned sellswords, and Alyn and Alebelly carried away the headless corpse to be burned.
Ned glanced at his daughters; both looked shaken, and his wife had grown pale. He shook his head inwardly; his children would be coddled no more. Two dark and shaggy men that looked like children next to Walder were dragged over by the enormous guardsman effortlessly.
Robb took a deep, shuddering breath, steeled himself and looked at the manacled men.
"The block or the Black?"
19th Day of the 4th Moon
He watched through the window as a fat rider rode into the courtyard below, followed by two knights and four squires. The man who looked too large to ride on the poor horse wore a sea-green cloak.
"Wylis is here," Ned said, eliciting a thoughtful nod from Howland. The mermen knight had thankfully answered his summons and arrived prior to the royal party.
The Lord of Winterfell walked back to his desk and sat on his tapered chair as his mind wandered to the previous day's events again.
The merchant was bold to think that simply giving the names of 'Lord Baelish' and 'Commander Slynt' would get him out of trouble. No doubt the man had done something similar before or simply paid his way out of it. The more concerning part was that Baelish was apparently the master of coin, and Janos Slynt was the Commander of the Goldcloaks, both important positions in King's Landing. In the future, Baelish had risen even further, according to Jon, somehow usurping the role of Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and Lord Protector of the Vale. Definitely a man to be wary of.
The plump Southerner had far more coin in his purse than a common merchant would have. Much to Ned's pride, Robb had given ten dragons to Errold and his family, and the other thirty had entered Winterfell's coffers.
What was Robert doing as King if he let outlaws run roughshod over his subjects?! Jon Arryn had taught them better than that…
Ned shook his head and took a sip of dark ale. What happened in King's Landing was Robert's problem, not his.
The sellswords had refused to 'freeze their balls on the Wall'. Despite his fears, Sansa and Arya had not fainted even after the third beheading. It pained to see both of his vibrant daughters so quiet and subdued, but it was a lesson that needed to be learned sooner rather than later. Robb had emptied his stomach when he returned inside the keep but otherwise held up well. With time and experience, he would become a great Lord of Winterfell. Catelyn was wroth with him but attended all the meals and no longer wasted away at the Sept and resumed her duties as a Lady of Winterfell and mother of four.
Once again, a forlorn sigh tore out of his lips, and he emptied his tankard full of ale. Ned wanted to confide in his lady wife badly, but grief and anger did not go hand in hand with reason. When her head cooled down, he would slowly inform her.
"Wylis should be here any moment," Howland's voice broke him out of his musing. "We can get a measure of the King and his family before they arrive."
Ned simply nodded. Making plans solely on Jon's letter would be folly. His warnings were heeded, but Jon had stated that certain things differed from what he remembered. And he was well aware that all plans go awry as soon as the first arrow flew.
"Ser Wylis is here to see you," Walder's voice announced through the door.
"Let him in."
The heir of White Harbour entered, still in his riding clothes and armour. A pale green padded surcoat with a merman emblazoned in the middle graced his cuirass that covered his barrel-like chest, and a sapphire trident brooch clasped his green cloak over his shoulders. Just as he last saw the man two years ago, his head was shaven, and he was chasing his father in girth.
"Lord Stark," Wylis made to bend the knee, but Ned quickly came over and stopped him.
Courtesies were the last thing on his mind right now, and Wyman's son was a heavy, stout man; if he could not get back up on his own, Ned and Howland would struggle greatly to get him back on his feet.
"No need for this now, Wylis," Ned greeted warmly and returned to his chair. "Come, take a seat."
"Lord Reed," the fat knight greeted as he sat down.
"Ser Wylis," the crannoglord returned serenely. "How was your travel?"
"A bit muddy because of the light snow, but otherwise good," the merman knight jovially said from underneath his brown walrus moustache before looking covetously at one of the pitchers of wine on the oaken desk. "My throat is parched; I hope you don't mind-"
"Oh no, feel free," Ned nodded, lamenting his decision to dismiss the servant earlier. Wylis happily filled a goblet with wine and took a generous gulp. "How fares the king?"
"His Grace has seemed to… let go of himself," the fat knight carefully supplied.
"Walder, guard the stairway," Ned raised his voice.
"Yes, my lord," Walder's reply was barely heard through the door, and his heavy footsteps dwindled further and further away.
"It's been nearly two hundred and fifty years since a royal presence has graced the halls of Winterfell. Speak freely, Ser Wylis; I want to know what to expect when the royal party arrives," Ned ordered.
The merman heir fiddled with his moustache for a few moments before sighing.
"The king seems to have gained at least eight stone since the Greyjoy Rebellion and has lost interest in everything but feasting, drinking, and whoring," Wylis slowly reported, eliciting a grimace from Ned. "He cares little for the Queen and shames her in public by groping serving wenches in full view of the court."
Ned couldn't help but shake his head. He knew his friend did not have a good marriage, but this…
"How are the queen and the royal children like?"
"Cersei Lannister looked like a lioness whose tail had been pulled," the merman heir reported with a chuckle. "The children take after their mother in looks. The crown prince seems gallant and courteous at first glance but has a bad temper with a penchant for cruelty if provoked. Joffrey had a servant nearly flogged to death for serving him the wrong wine. I am unsure whether the crown prince knew the difference or was looking for someone to vent his frustrations on."
What was Robert doing? Could he not be bothered to rear his own heir, at least?! An heir had to be carefully nurtured, let alone a Crown Prince!
But no, his friend seemed to be too busy feasting to care. Ned could easily see how he could have lost his head under a person like this. A small sigh tore out of his mouth, and he focused on the matter at hand.
"What about Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen?"
"The Princess is as beautiful as her mother, if not even more," Wylis said after a generous gulp of wine. "Polite, courteous, and sharp of wit, she seems to be the new Realm's Delight with none of the cruelty. The youngest prince is but a small and shy plump boy with a penchant for reading. "
"When do you think the King's party will arrive?" Howland curiously asked from the side.
"Well, they made seven leagues on the first day when I travelled with them," Wylis recounted as he rubbed his meaty chin before emptying the remains of the goblet in one go. "If the gods are gracious and the weather is good, they will arrive within a fortnight."
"Thank you, Ser Wylis," Ned nodded gratefully. "I've arranged for some of the best quarters in the Guest House for you."
Barring the ones meant for the royal family, that was.
The knight stood up, gave another deep bow, and left the solar, leaving the Lord of Winterfell alone with Howland.
"This means little, you know," the Lord of Greywater Watch said.
"You heard him. All of Cersei's children take after her," Ned countered.
"Aye, I did hear. And four of yours look like Cat. Both of mine take after Jyanna in looks," Howland explained. "Jon also takes after his mother. What I mean to say is looks are flimsy proof of anything. You know Stannis would be the sole beneficiary if it were true. Why did he not bring it up to his royal brother? Why wait after Robert died and you were executed?"
"What about the crown prince's cruelty?"
"Was not Robert cruel that day? Laughing at the desecrated corpses of a babe of two and a pregnant woman?" Howland shook his head. "The lion is also cruel. Joffrey is Tywin's grandson, after all. And there are bad fruits on every tree, Ned. Neither the Reeds nor the Starks were lacking in cruel butchers who revelled in senseless acts of violence."
His friend did have a point. All they had were a few words written in blood, and Jon himself had stated that he was not privy to the Southron plots, just what he had eventually reached him at the Wall.
"Aye, I guess you're right," Ned sighed.
Howland ran a hand through his hair, and his face twisted grimly.
"There's something worse, though. It doesn't really matter if the royal children are Robert's or not."
"What do you mean, if the Queen had cuckolded the king, it would be…."
"War, yes. But what if the children simply take after their mother, as happens quite oft, and people are simply fanning the flames of conflict, intent to force House Stark to make the first move and take all the scrutiny and blame?" His friend carefully proposed, making Ned pale. "I find it hard to believe that Cersei would give Robert horns for nearly seventeen years, and you would be the first to notice. What about the Master of Whispers, the Kingsguard, the small council, and the other courtiers? What about Robert himself? Are they all blind while you are all-seeing?"
Ned tiredly rubbed his brow and slumped on his chair.
20th Day of the 4th Moon, The Gift
Jon Snow
He opened his eyes, stretched, and looked at the starry sky above. To his left, near the crackling campfire, sounded the snores of Jarod and Duncan. Red Jeyne and Willow were curled right next to him, and Jon could feel Ghost prowling after a hare in the nearby forest. Helicent and Maude were guarding the edges of the camp, together with an earth singer assigned to watch duty.
His plans were the same as always, but his chances of success had increased substantially with a valyrian steel blade at hand. Facing the Others alone with obsidian weapons had always been a risk, but one he was willing to take. And for good or for bad, he was no longer alone now.
He shook his head and got up. To the far east, a slight pink hue formed on the horizon. At least he had not woken up too early today; there was less than half an hour until sunrise.
Aside from Jarod and Duncan, the ground was littered with smaller, childlike figures clustered together and covered by their leafy cloaks.
Fifty-seven singers, the last remnant of the Dawn age, scarcely half of them hunters and warriors. But they were mighty useful companions despite the fact that only Leaf knew the common tongue. They could stay watch during the night, take care of the horses, find edible roots and mushrooms with ease and help cook and were excellent scouts in the forest to boot. The Earth Singers had a very sharp hearing, and together with the dogs, they made for an excellent night watch.
Which meant more sleep and better rest for him, as long as he did not wake up before the crack of dawn, like just now.
A pity only Leaf could speak the common tongue, although a few other singers did understand some of it.
Jon finally found his way to the edge of the camp, where Leaf stood vigil on a rock.
"Hello, Jon Snow," she greeted with her sad voice.
"Good morning, Leaf," he returned as he sat on a nearby rock and gazed into the darkness. "How did you cross the Wall?"
"By taking the Bridge of Skulls at night," she explained.
In hindsight, that wasn't that big of a surprise. The Watch was stretched thin for men, and they had abandoned all but three castles for a reason. Westwatch had scant patrols from the Shadow Tower at best.
"Can you cross it again and meet us North of the Wall?"
"We'd have to trek through parts of the Frostfangs and cross the Milkwater," Leaf said with a frown. "But I know a few easier crossings up the river. It can be done. Are you not going to cross with us?"
"Nay, passing through the Shadow Tower would be better. I'd rather be allowed passage by Commander Mallister and not have to fight rangers beyond the Wall mistaken me for a wilding. But I don't think the Old Eagle or the other black brothers can stomach seeing you singers."
"Indeed, humans are quick to attack us on sight," she agreed softly. "I am surprised someone like you agreed to let us join you."
"Like me?"
"One not blessed with the greensight," she explained. "Greenseers have an affinity with us. Powerful, yet bound to the weirwoods lest they wanted to waste away quickly, and the earth singers gathered around them for guidance and protection."
"Turning you away did enter my mind," he admitted. "Yet I cannot afford to refuse any aid, especially one as genuine as yours. What would you have done if I had declined?"
"Wander, looking for another hidden alcove while our numbers dwindle into oblivion," Leaf mumbled.
Sadness, acceptance, and peace radiated from her voice and her body. Jon looked upon the being of legend and couldn't help but sigh. The Singers of the Earth had long accepted their fate and, after millennia, had little strength left to fight it.
Could he have so graciously accepted defeat?
Jon Snow found himself chuckling ruefully. No, he would fight to his last breath, he always did, and he always would. He couldn't help but marvel at greenseers' power over the earth singers. Even with the last of them dead, they followed his words religiously.
"Can you tell me more about this three-eyed crow?" He found himself asking.
"He was once a man called Brynden Rivers-"
"Bloodraven?"
"Yes, the very same," Leaf bobbed her head as Jon stared at her incredulously.
"But how could he live for so long? He'd be more than a hundred and twenty years old!"
"In human years, yes," she agreed. "But greenseers always live far longer when wed to the weirwoods."
Was Brynden Rivers passing him Dark Sister as one bastard of House Targaryen to another? Not that he'd complain.
Yet a frown found its way to his face as he looked at the gilded guard with the red ruby on his belt. It was too gaudy, too eye catchy, but Jon couldn't reliably get a trusty blacksmith to change it for him unless he turned back to Little Hall, which would waste nearly a fortnight. He was not afraid of the wildlings but possibly brothers of the Night's Watch recognising or coveting the famed sword. He was no longer the Lord Commander's steward, just a stranger from nowhere. And Jon honestly cared little about the connection with House Targaryen.
Long gone were the days when the dragons were men of greatness, and Maester Aemon was but a dwindling echo of times forgotten. By his memory, Daenerys and someone calling himself Aegon were too busy fighting against each other and the Tyrells over who would hold the Iron Throne, ignoring any of his pleas for aid. All of his efforts to catch a wight had been in vain, as it was quickly dismissed. Supposedly necromancy was practised before in Westeros, and some practitioners still existed in the far corners of Essos to this day, so a moving corpse was flimsy proof of anything.
"Why the long face?" Leaf asked curiously. "Does the sword offend you?"
"Nay, only the hilt," he shook his head with a sigh. "Too conspicuous."
"I can change it if you wish," she offered.
Jon held back the scoff on his lips and curiously gazed at Leaf.
She was sincere.
"How? Are you well-versed in the art of smithing as well?"
"No, but we can use the true tongue to shape wood with the song," Leaf carefully offered.
"I thought you could not do magic?"
"It is not magic, but the power of the true tongue itself. It would require seven of us to sing together and sacrifice a few drops of blood to stir the trees."
Jon squinted his eyes. That still sounded like magic, but it seemed mighty useful.
"Do it," he finally agreed. He'd rather try this than risk showing a Valyrian Steel blade to the blacksmith at the Shadow Tower.
Denys Mallister, the Shadow Tower
Denys Mallister was old. Nearing seventy years, he was still grateful to have all of his teeth and to be able to move. His choice to swear his life to the Night's Watch after his father passed away was spontaneous but not something he would ever regret. He did not stand to inherit anything and could only become a hedge knight or a master-at-arms as the fifth son. After a year of aimless wandering around the tourneys of the realm, he had decided to try his luck with the ancient order at the Wall instead. Denys had been hesitant at first, but the work had been fulfilling, albeit harsh. As the years flew by, the Shadow Tower had become his home, and the Black Brothers - his family.
Yet things had grown troublesome lately. More missing rangers than ever, more deserters, and even fewer recruits than usual.
He looked at the three Northmen before him, all armed and armoured to the teeth. This was the oddest trio Denys Mallister had seen by far, and he had seen a lot of strange things in his seventy years of life.
A large, hulking man, body brimming with strength, wearing the three pinecones on white and green, the sigil of House Liddle. A tall yet wiry greybeard, no less dangerous, wearing the same heraldry but in reversed colours.
A bastard.
And the oddest sight was the young man who was in charge. Not only did a white direwolf head grace the dark-grey surcoat, but a living snow-white adolescent direwolf reaching the man's waist trotted calmly behind him, followed by four large and vicious hunting hounds. They were all suspiciously well-behaved, and if this were on the other side of the Wall, Denys would claim the man was a warg. He looked shy of six feet tall and green as summer grass, but once the Commander of the Shadow Tower looked closer, his eyes and posture spoke differently.
His gait was filled with confidence, one borne of experience, not arrogance. His dark grey eyes were sharp and heavy; Denys Mallister couldn't help but feel that he was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
After decades of experience, the Commander of the Shadow Tower trusted his gut feeling, as it had saved his skin more than a dozen times.
But the most peculiar thing was not the dangerous dark sword that had an odd yet intricate ironwood lining that somehow merged into the steel guard, nor the pale pommel the shape of a direwolf head that looked to be seamlessly carved out of weirwood, but his looks.
The boy, nay, the man, looked like Lord Rickard Stark come again.
The same dark hair, the same long face, and the same hard, steely eyes reminded Denys Mallister of the former Lord of Winterfell, albeit far younger and prettier but no less dangerous. Despite the odd direwolf sigil, this could only be Jon Snow, Rickard's grandson.
"I take it you aren't here to join the Watch?" He asked reluctantly.
Denys direly needed men of their calibre as few worth their salt joined the Black Brothers on their own nowadays, and he had to make do with outlaw dregs or green boys lured in by the recruiters with false promises.
"Nay, Commander Mallister," the young man said and bowed respectfully. "I am Jon Snow, and these are my companions, Duncan Liddle," the boulder-like man nodded politely, then Rickard's grandson gestured towards the greybeard, "and his grand-uncle Jarod Snow. We seek passage further north."
"What business would you have Beyond the Wall?" Denys grunted.
"We're seeking to find the sword Dark Sister," Jon Snow provided simply.
"This is a folly," he sighed. "Many a ranger had sought the famed blade after Bloodraven disappeared, but none were successful. All the parties sent by the Mad King returned with empty hands or not at all. It's probably buried under the snow or forgotten in a dark cave somewhere."
"I am aware of the difficulty, commander," Rickard's grandson evenly said.
"You can join the Watch; once you become rangers, you can venture beyond the Wall freely," Denys Mallister attempted to dissuade them once more.
"I'm afraid we'll have to decline." Jon Snow's steely eyes had not wavered for even a second. "Neither of us is ready to swear off women or our Houses."
If it were any other making a request to pass, he would simply send them off. But House Stark had supported the Wall for eight thousand years, and the Liddles themselves sent supplies every year and oft joined the order. And bastard or not, the young man before him was considered valued enough to be raised together with his trueborn siblings in the ancient halls of Winterfell all the same.
"Alas, I tried," the Commander of the Shadow Tower lamented with a regretful sigh. "I shall let you pass, but I'm afraid I cannot provide you with any aid as we're already stretched thin. You'd be completely on your own."
Jon Snow nodded as if he had never expected otherwise.
Author's Endnote:
Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka
I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.
You can find all of my relevant stuff here.
Eddard Stark
He looked at Robb. His son was stocky and strong, with an easy smile and laughing blue eyes. Still a boy, despite already being six and ten and reaching Ned's height. Behind him, Grey Wind was trailing curiously. The direwolf and the boy were inseparable almost everywhere outside the training yard.
By Robb's side stood Theon Greyjoy, another source of unease. As always, Balon Greyjoy's son proudly wore the black velvet doublet embroidered with the golden kraken of his House, and his face was graced by a cocky smile as usual. Ned had allowed the boy the same tutoring his children received and even greater freedom. Yet he could see it. Despite his efforts to turn the boy from a hostage to a foster son, the stigma remained.
In the end, blood was thicker than water, and it shouldn't have been such a surprise that Theon would have chosen his own birth family, despite Balon's complete disinterest in his would-be heir. Ned regretted his feeling of mercy for the cowering ten-year boy back then. He should not have offered to take the boy and let Stannis, Robert, or Tywin deal with him. But it was too late; he had taken the ironborn heir in, and returning him to the Iron Isles was not an option now, nor was sending him away.
His gaze moved to his wife, gently speaking to Sansa and Arya in hushed whispers. His younger daughter looked excited, but Sansa had grown pale.
Eddard Stark shook his head and looked carefully at Robb, who fidgeted under his gaze. His son still had much to learn before he could lead the North, let alone wage war. Eddard Stark had no plans of dying anytime soon, but being prepared did not hurt.
"Today you'll mete out justice, Robb," he decided as he picked up Ice from Jory and placed it in his son's stunned hands.
It was time to bloody his boy without the risk of battle. Hunting deers and hares in the Wolfswood was far different from taking a man's life.
"But-"
"Ours is the old way," Ned reminded his son, who nodded uneasily after a moment. "Remember your lessons. Let's go now."
Catelyn threw him a piercing look from the side but ushered the girls after them. Robb uneasily held the ancestral blade of their House; he was barely taller than Ice. It would have made for an amusing sight if not for the occasion. They headed towards the main gate, accompanied by two scores of guardsmen led by Jory and Walder.
"Jory, can you tell us what happened?" Robb asked hesitantly.
The captain of the guards moved closer and coughed with a heavy frown.
"A merchant from King's Landing was staying in the Smoking Log. He pulled Barba into his room-"
"Innkeeper Errold's daughter?" Robb asked, face darkening.
"Aye, her. He pulled her into his room and forced himself on her. When old man Errold heard, he came over to halt them, but the merchant had his two sellsword guards beat him bloody. Hallis Mollen and Harwin were in the Smoking Log and managed to subdue the sellswords and send a runner to the other guardsmen and Winterfell."
They made the rest of the way to Winter Town in solemn silence, where a small crowd had gathered at the market square, and the wooden stalls were all pulled aside. As they neared, loud cries echoed among the muddy square.
"Release me at once! This is a mistake!" The voice was high-pitch and grating to the ears. Artos and Dylon held a manacled, plump man garbed in a green velvet tunic who was bellowing for all to hear. His bald scalp beaded with sweat despite the chill in the air. "I have friends in court!"
"Friends in court?" Artos snorted.
"Yes, yes," the merchant nodded vigorously. "Lord Baelish and Commander Slynt-"
"Have nothing to do with the North," Ned interjected icily.
"Ah, milord," the plump man's face twisted in a greasy smile as he turned to him and made a shallow bow. "My name is Dynas. As I was saying, this has been a mistake!"
"A mistake?" Robb echoed coldly.
"Yes, yes," the merchant bobbed his head like a squirrel. "I paid for the girl's service, and her father attacked me!"
"LIAR!" The crowd parted to show a furious Helga. Errold's wife had reddened eyes, and her weathered face was twisted in scorn and fury. Trailing after her was a slip of a girl, face bruised and bloody with tears streaming from her swollen eyes, and Ned could see that her dress was torn underneath the cloak. "Me daughter is not even four and ten and no whore, you focken' brigand! Yer thugs crippled my Errold when he tried to stop ya!"
"Oh please, she wanted it, and I was going to compensate her-"
Ned took a careful look at his children. Catelyn was looking at him pleadingly, Arya had gone pale, and Sansa looked ready to faint. Robb had clenched his jaw, and he could see his son grit his teeth while Theon's eyes angrily glared at the merchant.
"RAPER!"
"Vile woman, stop besmirching my good name!"
Robb looked hesitantly at him, but Ned remained impassive and lightly shrugged his shoulders. The Lord of Winterfell wanted to see how his son would do. Clearly, the man was a raper, one used to getting away with it. Would Robb geld him? Would he behead him or offer him to take the Black?
His heir looked at the beaten girl, and his hesitation was slowly replaced with an icy resolve.
"Silence!" The squabbling immediately ceased at Robb's cry. He then looked to Artos and Dylon. "Bring him to the block."
The plump man's greasy smile was briefly replaced with shock before it turned into disbelief.
"This is a mistake; we could still resolve this peacefully. It's just a peasant girl's maidenhead," Dynas cried out as the pair of guardsmen placed him over an oaken stump and held him down. "The whore wanted it, and I was going to pay!"
"Any last words?" Robb asked as he slowly unsheathed Ice.
The dark, smoky ripples shone in the middling sun as his son carefully made a few practice swings to the side.
The plump merchant struggled for a few moments but couldn't budge the strong arms of Artos and Dylon.
"My friends shall hear of this!" Dynas angrily vowed. "I demand a trial by battle!"
"A poor choice of last words," Theon snorted with amusement from the side. "I don't think the man has ever swung a sword in his life."
"You're neither knight nor noble to demand such," Robb said.
"Wait," Dynas' desperate voice echoed in the square. "I shall take the Black!"
For a short moment, Robb paused, but his eyes were steeled with resolve.
"In the name of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Seven Kingdoms and Lord Protector of the Realm, by the word of Robb of House Stark, I do sentence you to die." The Valyrian Steel greatsword rose in the air, and the plump man began struggling frantically but to no avail. Artos and Dylan's hands were like iron, holding the merchant down effortlessly.
The blade descended with a single motion, and Dynas' head rolled on the ground, leaving a bloody trail on the mud. Ned nodded with approval at his son; it was a clean cut. Soft cheers and grunts of approval were heard from the crowd.
"The Night's Watch has no need for peddlers," Robb coldly stated, face pale but stoic, but Ned could see a slight tremble in his hand. "Put his head on a spike at the main gate for all to see and bring his two thugs here."
Lew grabbed the head and headed back to the gate while Walder went to fetch the imprisoned sellswords, and Alyn and Alebelly carried away the headless corpse to be burned.
Ned glanced at his daughters; both looked shaken, and his wife had grown pale. He shook his head inwardly; his children would be coddled no more. Two dark and shaggy men that looked like children next to Walder were dragged over by the enormous guardsman effortlessly.
Robb took a deep, shuddering breath, steeled himself and looked at the manacled men.
"The block or the Black?"
19th Day of the 4th Moon
He watched through the window as a fat rider rode into the courtyard below, followed by two knights and four squires. The man who looked too large to ride on the poor horse wore a sea-green cloak.
"Wylis is here," Ned said, eliciting a thoughtful nod from Howland. The mermen knight had thankfully answered his summons and arrived prior to the royal party.
The Lord of Winterfell walked back to his desk and sat on his tapered chair as his mind wandered to the previous day's events again.
The merchant was bold to think that simply giving the names of 'Lord Baelish' and 'Commander Slynt' would get him out of trouble. No doubt the man had done something similar before or simply paid his way out of it. The more concerning part was that Baelish was apparently the master of coin, and Janos Slynt was the Commander of the Goldcloaks, both important positions in King's Landing. In the future, Baelish had risen even further, according to Jon, somehow usurping the role of Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and Lord Protector of the Vale. Definitely a man to be wary of.
The plump Southerner had far more coin in his purse than a common merchant would have. Much to Ned's pride, Robb had given ten dragons to Errold and his family, and the other thirty had entered Winterfell's coffers.
What was Robert doing as King if he let outlaws run roughshod over his subjects?! Jon Arryn had taught them better than that…
Ned shook his head and took a sip of dark ale. What happened in King's Landing was Robert's problem, not his.
The sellswords had refused to 'freeze their balls on the Wall'. Despite his fears, Sansa and Arya had not fainted even after the third beheading. It pained to see both of his vibrant daughters so quiet and subdued, but it was a lesson that needed to be learned sooner rather than later. Robb had emptied his stomach when he returned inside the keep but otherwise held up well. With time and experience, he would become a great Lord of Winterfell. Catelyn was wroth with him but attended all the meals and no longer wasted away at the Sept and resumed her duties as a Lady of Winterfell and mother of four.
Once again, a forlorn sigh tore out of his lips, and he emptied his tankard full of ale. Ned wanted to confide in his lady wife badly, but grief and anger did not go hand in hand with reason. When her head cooled down, he would slowly inform her.
"Wylis should be here any moment," Howland's voice broke him out of his musing. "We can get a measure of the King and his family before they arrive."
Ned simply nodded. Making plans solely on Jon's letter would be folly. His warnings were heeded, but Jon had stated that certain things differed from what he remembered. And he was well aware that all plans go awry as soon as the first arrow flew.
"Ser Wylis is here to see you," Walder's voice announced through the door.
"Let him in."
The heir of White Harbour entered, still in his riding clothes and armour. A pale green padded surcoat with a merman emblazoned in the middle graced his cuirass that covered his barrel-like chest, and a sapphire trident brooch clasped his green cloak over his shoulders. Just as he last saw the man two years ago, his head was shaven, and he was chasing his father in girth.
"Lord Stark," Wylis made to bend the knee, but Ned quickly came over and stopped him.
Courtesies were the last thing on his mind right now, and Wyman's son was a heavy, stout man; if he could not get back up on his own, Ned and Howland would struggle greatly to get him back on his feet.
"No need for this now, Wylis," Ned greeted warmly and returned to his chair. "Come, take a seat."
"Lord Reed," the fat knight greeted as he sat down.
"Ser Wylis," the crannoglord returned serenely. "How was your travel?"
"A bit muddy because of the light snow, but otherwise good," the merman knight jovially said from underneath his brown walrus moustache before looking covetously at one of the pitchers of wine on the oaken desk. "My throat is parched; I hope you don't mind-"
"Oh no, feel free," Ned nodded, lamenting his decision to dismiss the servant earlier. Wylis happily filled a goblet with wine and took a generous gulp. "How fares the king?"
"His Grace has seemed to… let go of himself," the fat knight carefully supplied.
"Walder, guard the stairway," Ned raised his voice.
"Yes, my lord," Walder's reply was barely heard through the door, and his heavy footsteps dwindled further and further away.
"It's been nearly two hundred and fifty years since a royal presence has graced the halls of Winterfell. Speak freely, Ser Wylis; I want to know what to expect when the royal party arrives," Ned ordered.
The merman heir fiddled with his moustache for a few moments before sighing.
"The king seems to have gained at least eight stone since the Greyjoy Rebellion and has lost interest in everything but feasting, drinking, and whoring," Wylis slowly reported, eliciting a grimace from Ned. "He cares little for the Queen and shames her in public by groping serving wenches in full view of the court."
Ned couldn't help but shake his head. He knew his friend did not have a good marriage, but this…
"How are the queen and the royal children like?"
"Cersei Lannister looked like a lioness whose tail had been pulled," the merman heir reported with a chuckle. "The children take after their mother in looks. The crown prince seems gallant and courteous at first glance but has a bad temper with a penchant for cruelty if provoked. Joffrey had a servant nearly flogged to death for serving him the wrong wine. I am unsure whether the crown prince knew the difference or was looking for someone to vent his frustrations on."
What was Robert doing? Could he not be bothered to rear his own heir, at least?! An heir had to be carefully nurtured, let alone a Crown Prince!
But no, his friend seemed to be too busy feasting to care. Ned could easily see how he could have lost his head under a person like this. A small sigh tore out of his mouth, and he focused on the matter at hand.
"What about Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen?"
"The Princess is as beautiful as her mother, if not even more," Wylis said after a generous gulp of wine. "Polite, courteous, and sharp of wit, she seems to be the new Realm's Delight with none of the cruelty. The youngest prince is but a small and shy plump boy with a penchant for reading. "
"When do you think the King's party will arrive?" Howland curiously asked from the side.
"Well, they made seven leagues on the first day when I travelled with them," Wylis recounted as he rubbed his meaty chin before emptying the remains of the goblet in one go. "If the gods are gracious and the weather is good, they will arrive within a fortnight."
"Thank you, Ser Wylis," Ned nodded gratefully. "I've arranged for some of the best quarters in the Guest House for you."
Barring the ones meant for the royal family, that was.
The knight stood up, gave another deep bow, and left the solar, leaving the Lord of Winterfell alone with Howland.
"This means little, you know," the Lord of Greywater Watch said.
"You heard him. All of Cersei's children take after her," Ned countered.
"Aye, I did hear. And four of yours look like Cat. Both of mine take after Jyanna in looks," Howland explained. "Jon also takes after his mother. What I mean to say is looks are flimsy proof of anything. You know Stannis would be the sole beneficiary if it were true. Why did he not bring it up to his royal brother? Why wait after Robert died and you were executed?"
"What about the crown prince's cruelty?"
"Was not Robert cruel that day? Laughing at the desecrated corpses of a babe of two and a pregnant woman?" Howland shook his head. "The lion is also cruel. Joffrey is Tywin's grandson, after all. And there are bad fruits on every tree, Ned. Neither the Reeds nor the Starks were lacking in cruel butchers who revelled in senseless acts of violence."
His friend did have a point. All they had were a few words written in blood, and Jon himself had stated that he was not privy to the Southron plots, just what he had eventually reached him at the Wall.
"Aye, I guess you're right," Ned sighed.
Howland ran a hand through his hair, and his face twisted grimly.
"There's something worse, though. It doesn't really matter if the royal children are Robert's or not."
"What do you mean, if the Queen had cuckolded the king, it would be…."
"War, yes. But what if the children simply take after their mother, as happens quite oft, and people are simply fanning the flames of conflict, intent to force House Stark to make the first move and take all the scrutiny and blame?" His friend carefully proposed, making Ned pale. "I find it hard to believe that Cersei would give Robert horns for nearly seventeen years, and you would be the first to notice. What about the Master of Whispers, the Kingsguard, the small council, and the other courtiers? What about Robert himself? Are they all blind while you are all-seeing?"
Ned tiredly rubbed his brow and slumped on his chair.
20th Day of the 4th Moon, The Gift
Jon Snow
He opened his eyes, stretched, and looked at the starry sky above. To his left, near the crackling campfire, sounded the snores of Jarod and Duncan. Red Jeyne and Willow were curled right next to him, and Jon could feel Ghost prowling after a hare in the nearby forest. Helicent and Maude were guarding the edges of the camp, together with an earth singer assigned to watch duty.
His plans were the same as always, but his chances of success had increased substantially with a valyrian steel blade at hand. Facing the Others alone with obsidian weapons had always been a risk, but one he was willing to take. And for good or for bad, he was no longer alone now.
He shook his head and got up. To the far east, a slight pink hue formed on the horizon. At least he had not woken up too early today; there was less than half an hour until sunrise.
Aside from Jarod and Duncan, the ground was littered with smaller, childlike figures clustered together and covered by their leafy cloaks.
Fifty-seven singers, the last remnant of the Dawn age, scarcely half of them hunters and warriors. But they were mighty useful companions despite the fact that only Leaf knew the common tongue. They could stay watch during the night, take care of the horses, find edible roots and mushrooms with ease and help cook and were excellent scouts in the forest to boot. The Earth Singers had a very sharp hearing, and together with the dogs, they made for an excellent night watch.
Which meant more sleep and better rest for him, as long as he did not wake up before the crack of dawn, like just now.
A pity only Leaf could speak the common tongue, although a few other singers did understand some of it.
Jon finally found his way to the edge of the camp, where Leaf stood vigil on a rock.
"Hello, Jon Snow," she greeted with her sad voice.
"Good morning, Leaf," he returned as he sat on a nearby rock and gazed into the darkness. "How did you cross the Wall?"
"By taking the Bridge of Skulls at night," she explained.
In hindsight, that wasn't that big of a surprise. The Watch was stretched thin for men, and they had abandoned all but three castles for a reason. Westwatch had scant patrols from the Shadow Tower at best.
"Can you cross it again and meet us North of the Wall?"
"We'd have to trek through parts of the Frostfangs and cross the Milkwater," Leaf said with a frown. "But I know a few easier crossings up the river. It can be done. Are you not going to cross with us?"
"Nay, passing through the Shadow Tower would be better. I'd rather be allowed passage by Commander Mallister and not have to fight rangers beyond the Wall mistaken me for a wilding. But I don't think the Old Eagle or the other black brothers can stomach seeing you singers."
"Indeed, humans are quick to attack us on sight," she agreed softly. "I am surprised someone like you agreed to let us join you."
"Like me?"
"One not blessed with the greensight," she explained. "Greenseers have an affinity with us. Powerful, yet bound to the weirwoods lest they wanted to waste away quickly, and the earth singers gathered around them for guidance and protection."
"Turning you away did enter my mind," he admitted. "Yet I cannot afford to refuse any aid, especially one as genuine as yours. What would you have done if I had declined?"
"Wander, looking for another hidden alcove while our numbers dwindle into oblivion," Leaf mumbled.
Sadness, acceptance, and peace radiated from her voice and her body. Jon looked upon the being of legend and couldn't help but sigh. The Singers of the Earth had long accepted their fate and, after millennia, had little strength left to fight it.
Could he have so graciously accepted defeat?
Jon Snow found himself chuckling ruefully. No, he would fight to his last breath, he always did, and he always would. He couldn't help but marvel at greenseers' power over the earth singers. Even with the last of them dead, they followed his words religiously.
"Can you tell me more about this three-eyed crow?" He found himself asking.
"He was once a man called Brynden Rivers-"
"Bloodraven?"
"Yes, the very same," Leaf bobbed her head as Jon stared at her incredulously.
"But how could he live for so long? He'd be more than a hundred and twenty years old!"
"In human years, yes," she agreed. "But greenseers always live far longer when wed to the weirwoods."
Was Brynden Rivers passing him Dark Sister as one bastard of House Targaryen to another? Not that he'd complain.
Yet a frown found its way to his face as he looked at the gilded guard with the red ruby on his belt. It was too gaudy, too eye catchy, but Jon couldn't reliably get a trusty blacksmith to change it for him unless he turned back to Little Hall, which would waste nearly a fortnight. He was not afraid of the wildlings but possibly brothers of the Night's Watch recognising or coveting the famed sword. He was no longer the Lord Commander's steward, just a stranger from nowhere. And Jon honestly cared little about the connection with House Targaryen.
Long gone were the days when the dragons were men of greatness, and Maester Aemon was but a dwindling echo of times forgotten. By his memory, Daenerys and someone calling himself Aegon were too busy fighting against each other and the Tyrells over who would hold the Iron Throne, ignoring any of his pleas for aid. All of his efforts to catch a wight had been in vain, as it was quickly dismissed. Supposedly necromancy was practised before in Westeros, and some practitioners still existed in the far corners of Essos to this day, so a moving corpse was flimsy proof of anything.
"Why the long face?" Leaf asked curiously. "Does the sword offend you?"
"Nay, only the hilt," he shook his head with a sigh. "Too conspicuous."
"I can change it if you wish," she offered.
Jon held back the scoff on his lips and curiously gazed at Leaf.
She was sincere.
"How? Are you well-versed in the art of smithing as well?"
"No, but we can use the true tongue to shape wood with the song," Leaf carefully offered.
"I thought you could not do magic?"
"It is not magic, but the power of the true tongue itself. It would require seven of us to sing together and sacrifice a few drops of blood to stir the trees."
Jon squinted his eyes. That still sounded like magic, but it seemed mighty useful.
"Do it," he finally agreed. He'd rather try this than risk showing a Valyrian Steel blade to the blacksmith at the Shadow Tower.
Denys Mallister, the Shadow Tower
Denys Mallister was old. Nearing seventy years, he was still grateful to have all of his teeth and to be able to move. His choice to swear his life to the Night's Watch after his father passed away was spontaneous but not something he would ever regret. He did not stand to inherit anything and could only become a hedge knight or a master-at-arms as the fifth son. After a year of aimless wandering around the tourneys of the realm, he had decided to try his luck with the ancient order at the Wall instead. Denys had been hesitant at first, but the work had been fulfilling, albeit harsh. As the years flew by, the Shadow Tower had become his home, and the Black Brothers - his family.
Yet things had grown troublesome lately. More missing rangers than ever, more deserters, and even fewer recruits than usual.
He looked at the three Northmen before him, all armed and armoured to the teeth. This was the oddest trio Denys Mallister had seen by far, and he had seen a lot of strange things in his seventy years of life.
A large, hulking man, body brimming with strength, wearing the three pinecones on white and green, the sigil of House Liddle. A tall yet wiry greybeard, no less dangerous, wearing the same heraldry but in reversed colours.
A bastard.
And the oddest sight was the young man who was in charge. Not only did a white direwolf head grace the dark-grey surcoat, but a living snow-white adolescent direwolf reaching the man's waist trotted calmly behind him, followed by four large and vicious hunting hounds. They were all suspiciously well-behaved, and if this were on the other side of the Wall, Denys would claim the man was a warg. He looked shy of six feet tall and green as summer grass, but once the Commander of the Shadow Tower looked closer, his eyes and posture spoke differently.
His gait was filled with confidence, one borne of experience, not arrogance. His dark grey eyes were sharp and heavy; Denys Mallister couldn't help but feel that he was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
After decades of experience, the Commander of the Shadow Tower trusted his gut feeling, as it had saved his skin more than a dozen times.
But the most peculiar thing was not the dangerous dark sword that had an odd yet intricate ironwood lining that somehow merged into the steel guard, nor the pale pommel the shape of a direwolf head that looked to be seamlessly carved out of weirwood, but his looks.
The boy, nay, the man, looked like Lord Rickard Stark come again.
The same dark hair, the same long face, and the same hard, steely eyes reminded Denys Mallister of the former Lord of Winterfell, albeit far younger and prettier but no less dangerous. Despite the odd direwolf sigil, this could only be Jon Snow, Rickard's grandson.
"I take it you aren't here to join the Watch?" He asked reluctantly.
Denys direly needed men of their calibre as few worth their salt joined the Black Brothers on their own nowadays, and he had to make do with outlaw dregs or green boys lured in by the recruiters with false promises.
"Nay, Commander Mallister," the young man said and bowed respectfully. "I am Jon Snow, and these are my companions, Duncan Liddle," the boulder-like man nodded politely, then Rickard's grandson gestured towards the greybeard, "and his grand-uncle Jarod Snow. We seek passage further north."
"What business would you have Beyond the Wall?" Denys grunted.
"We're seeking to find the sword Dark Sister," Jon Snow provided simply.
"This is a folly," he sighed. "Many a ranger had sought the famed blade after Bloodraven disappeared, but none were successful. All the parties sent by the Mad King returned with empty hands or not at all. It's probably buried under the snow or forgotten in a dark cave somewhere."
"I am aware of the difficulty, commander," Rickard's grandson evenly said.
"You can join the Watch; once you become rangers, you can venture beyond the Wall freely," Denys Mallister attempted to dissuade them once more.
"I'm afraid we'll have to decline." Jon Snow's steely eyes had not wavered for even a second. "Neither of us is ready to swear off women or our Houses."
If it were any other making a request to pass, he would simply send them off. But House Stark had supported the Wall for eight thousand years, and the Liddles themselves sent supplies every year and oft joined the order. And bastard or not, the young man before him was considered valued enough to be raised together with his trueborn siblings in the ancient halls of Winterfell all the same.
"Alas, I tried," the Commander of the Shadow Tower lamented with a regretful sigh. "I shall let you pass, but I'm afraid I cannot provide you with any aid as we're already stretched thin. You'd be completely on your own."
Jon Snow nodded as if he had never expected otherwise.
Author's Endnote:
Ned's preparation takes a whole different dimension as time passes. We see another person with many friends at court. But his friends at court seem to be of little help outside of King's Landing. Littlefinger has many friends in many places. But not all of them are good.
None of Mance Rayder's plans were going to have a good ending, and Jon is well aware of this fact. It's good that he has a daring plan of his own.
It always felt that the accusation of Cersei's children being bastards was flimsy without her confession (especially without the book about lineages, which isn't too solid proof on its own). Howland is trying to be a voice of reason.
The COTF unveil some minor not-magic (or so they claim) related to trees (gee, what a surprise!?), but that's the last of their bag of tricks without a greenseer.
Also, I claim unreliable narrator here(and in every other chapter, really), don't take things said at face value; it's just the words/thoughts/speech of the characters.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
None of Mance Rayder's plans were going to have a good ending, and Jon is well aware of this fact. It's good that he has a daring plan of his own.
It always felt that the accusation of Cersei's children being bastards was flimsy without her confession (especially without the book about lineages, which isn't too solid proof on its own). Howland is trying to be a voice of reason.
The COTF unveil some minor not-magic (or so they claim) related to trees (gee, what a surprise!?), but that's the last of their bag of tricks without a greenseer.
Also, I claim unreliable narrator here(and in every other chapter, really), don't take things said at face value; it's just the words/thoughts/speech of the characters.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
Comments, questions, and suggestions greatly motivate me, so don't be shy if you have any!
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