The Mormonts are not typical Northern Ladies either. Their circumstances are unique - Ryswell, Karstark, Manderly, Tallheart, and Cerwyn are the noble ladies of the North that we see - and they are that. Ladies, not warriors. Sure, they follow the Old Gods (except Manderly), but they are not trained in arms but in the womanly arts.
And the circumstances of the Mormont women are quite clear - wildling raids from the North, ironborn from the south - every person, man or woman, must learn how to defend themselves.
Another point is - in the North, things are more personal, and the lords are expected to lead from the front if they want any respect. Thus, Maege, whose heirs are all daughters, has taught them the same thing that she does - fighting. Arya, on the other hand, is not expected to lead any men into fighting(ever) nor preside over a family seat by her lonesome.
Still, I hope Arya still learns water dancing and fighting... and knows when to be a lady. I know the divergence here is that everyone failed so Bran sent Jon back but it would still be cool!
Finally, his royal children were presented, the introductions concluded, and condolences given.
"Take me down to your crypt, Ned. I would pay my respects."
"We've been riding since dawn; the children are tired and cold and can use some rest and refreshment. Surely the dead can wait?" Cersei asked neutrally, but Robert could tell she was feeling annoyed.
He looked at her, then meaningfully at her brother, and thankfully the Kingslayer led her aside.
Ned, gods bless him, called for a lantern and led him towards the crypt while Catelyn pulled Cersei and the children over to show them their quarters.
The years seemed to have struck his friend badly; Robert could see weary lines on his face, large black circles under his eyes, and grey had begun to sneak into his usually well-kept beard. Not only that, but he noticed Ned was a tad thinner than usual. And far more solemn, something he had never thought possible. Losing a son had hit his friend hard.
One would think the Lord of Winterfell had begun to waste away, but his stride was still powerful, his gait straight, and he effortlessly pushed open the thick ironwood door that barred the entrance to the crypt. He signalled to Selmy to remain at the door. The old knight gave him a disapproving look but knew better than to argue.
"I was thinking we'd never arrive," Robert complained as he followed his friend down the narrow stone steps. "I even had to take a ship to get here; otherwise, you might have seen me only next year!"
"It's only around seventeen hundred miles from King's Landing to Winterfell by road," Ned provided. "You would have been here in four moons at most."
"Bah, the royal procession crawls like a turtle at its fastest, and this was after we got rid of that monstrosity my wife called a wheelhouse!" He snorted and put a hand on the granite wall to steady himself as they descended deeper into the darkness. "The rain and snow didn't help. Snow, Ned!"
"Summer snows are common enough at this time of the year," his friend provided with a rare smile. "I hope they did not trouble you much. They usually melt at the first kiss of the sun."
It was getting colder as they braved the winding steps. Only the soft flickering of the lantern warded away the pitch-black darkness. A lesser man would have been scared.
"The Others take your mild snows," Robert cursed as the air became more frigid. "What will this place be in winter? I shudder to think."
"The winters are hard," Ned admitted softly but then his voice grew steely. "But the Starks will endure. We always have."
"You need to come south," he prodded. "You need a taste of summer before it flees. Shed your thick furs and feel the hot kiss of the sun upon your skin, and taste the bounty of summer - melons, peaches, fireplums, so ripe and sweet, unlike anything you tasted before! Flowers everywhere, the markets bursting with food, the summerwines so cheap and so good that you can get drunk just by breathing the air. Everyone is fat and drunk and rich!"
Robert patted his stomach with a thump and laughed heartily, but his friend remained as joyful as a block of ice.
"Winter is coming," Ned said ominously, and the king could feel his friend was not in the mood, so he let the topic go for now.
Ned was never big for celebrations, but nearly seventeen years as a Lord of Winterfell seemed to have sucked out what little joy he had before.
They continued to descend in silence, and by the time Ned led him into one of the deeper floors, Robert Baratheon was gasping for breath.
Why did the Starks have to bury themselves so deep into this darkness?!
The shadows danced as they went further into the hallway, past the endless rows of stone pillars where the statues of the long-gone Lords of Winterfell and Kings of Winter sat upon their granite thrones and guarding their own sepulchres.
The Starks of old looked all imposing with their stern, grim, and fearsome faces, with stone direwolves curled at their feet and the traditional iron longsword on their laps, all rusted, and at places, only reddish stains remained.
Robert couldn't help but shiver at the chill, even through his thick cloak, but Ned seemed unbothered by the cold. Ice was said to run through the veins of the Starks along with blood, and right now, the king believed it fully.
They finally stopped at a trio of statues.
"Here," Ned said as he hooked the oil lantern to the hanger next to the pillar.
Robert fought his urge to ignore everything and gazed further into the darkness. There were no more statues; the flickering light illuminated the empty and unsealed tombs, save for one. The king slowly made his way to the small sepulchre.
"Is this your boy, Ned?" He asked, not unkindly.
"Aye," his friend said, voice raspy. "He loved to climb and climb the most, and in the end, the climb took him."
After a short pause, Robert rummaged through the insides of his cloak, took out the forget-me-nots he had Lancel gather, and gently placed them in front of the tomb before turning to Ned and squeezing his shoulder in support.
"My condolences."
He bowed his head and uttered a silent prayer for Ned's boy before returning to the trio of statues and the sepulchres behind them.
At the front was the dignified Lord Rickard Stark on his granite throne, iron longsword clasped by his stone grip. To his right stood Brandon, and to his left was Lyanna. Ah, sweet Lyanna, gone before her time. All three taken by the damned dragon's madness and greed.
Robert Baratheon knelt in front of the statue of his lovely betrothed and silently cursed that silver-haired rapist for the thousandth time. A minute later, he had finished paying his dues, and his knees had begun to protest the cold stone below, so he stood up after a short struggle and looked at the statue of his beloved.
The cold granite had captured Lyanna's likeness well enough, but it was a dead, colourless thing; it lacked her fire.
"She was more beautiful than that," he said as he gazed upon the stone face. Ah, if only Lyanna had lived, she would have been his rightful Queen and not the angry lioness he had for a wife now. "Ah, damn it, Ned. Did you have to bury her down here in the darkness?"
"She's a Stark of Winterfell," was the quiet response. "This is where she belongs."
"Lyanna should have been on a hill somewhere, under a fruit tree, with the sun and clouds above her and the rain to wash her," Robert lamented.
"I was with her when she died," Ned recalled, lost deep in thought. "She wanted to come back home, to rest together with Brandon and Father. I bring her flowers sometimes. Lyanna was… fond of flowers."
The king gently cupped the stone face and brushed his fingers over it. Alas, it was not meant to be, all because of the damned dragons and their greed! "I kill Rhaegar every night in my dreams. Again and again." Ah, how sweet was the sound of steel caving in and bones crunching as his warhammer struck down the Last Dragon; sweeter than any song, sweeter than the fruits of summer. "But it is not enough! A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves."
"We should return, Your Grace," Ned sighed. "Your wife will be waiting."
"Others take my wife," Robert muttered sourly and turned his gaze from whence they came. "And if I hear 'Your Grace' once more, I'll have your head on a spike. We are more to each other than that."
The lantern barely illuminated a dozen yards, and the darkness swallowed the rest of the endless hallway. Gods, the thought of all the stairs on the way up did not sit well with him. Hah, if Lyanna could see him now, she would laugh and weep, the mighty stag, the Demon of the Trident, frightened by a flight of stairs!
"Let's go," the king finally decided, Ned unlatched the lantern, and they slowly made their way through the darkness again. They were alone down here amongst the Kings of Winter, undisturbed by the gazes and ears of others. "You must be wondering why I came all the way to Winterfell after so long."
"For the pleasure of my company, surely," Ned said lightly, and Robert snorted. "And there is the Wall. You need to see it, Your Grace, to walk along its battlements and talk to those who man it-"
"The Wall has stood for what, eight thousand years? It can stand for a few more without me propping it up," he waved off. He had more than enough of the cold already without visiting that gigantic block of ice."I have more pressing concerns. These are difficult times, and I need good men about me. Men like Jon Arryn," he stopped and turned to face his friend. "Men like you."
"I am yours to command, Your Grace," Ned vowed. "Always."
"I want you at my side again, Ned," Robert admitted. The memories of them running around the Eyrie and the Vale together were something he still yearned for. Damn the throne; if he had known what it was to be king, he would have fled to Essos on the first ship! But no, they chained him with a crown and a throne, and he foolishly sat on it. "I want you down in King's Landing, not here at the end of the world where you are of no use to anybody!" He blankly stared at the darkness, remembering the endless drudgery of ruling. "I swear to you, sitting on a throne is a thousand times harder than winning it. You or Jon should have taken it, not me."
"You had the claim, Robert," his friend softly objected. "Nobody would have kneeled at an untested Northerner who follows the Old Gods."
"Untested? Without your planning, our bones would be laid to rest at the Ruby Ford. Or would they name it the Stag's Ford, then? And piss on the claim; we had the victory, and we had the swords!" The King thundered. "If it was about a claim, that dragonspawn would have ruled us, and he could have been as mad as his father or brother," he shook his head. "Nay, the dragons are gone now, and you have saddled me with ruling. Laws are a tedious business, and counting coppers is even worse. And the people… there is no end to them. Always complaining, always petitioning, and there is no end to them, I sit on that damned iron chair until my mind is numb and ass raw. They all want something… and the lies they tell. And my lords and ladies are no better. I am surrounded by flatterers and fools. It can drive the best of men to madness, Ned. Half of them don't care to tell me the truth, and the other half can't find it. There are nights I wish we lost at the trident. Ah, no, not truly, but…"
"I understand," his friend said softly.
Yes, that's right. Ned was the only one who always understood him! The brother in all but blood, and even that was taken by that damned Rhaegar!
Robert shook his head, took a few breaths to calm himself down, and nodded with a smile, "You're the only one, my friend," he straightened up, "Lord Eddard Stark, I name you Hand of the King!"
Ned dropped to one knee, and the silence stretched for a moment. "Your Grace, I am not worthy of the honour."
Robert found himself grinning, "If I wanted to honour you, I'd let you retire. No, I am planning to let you run the kingdom and fight the wars while I feast, drink, and wench my way into an early grave!" He slapped his bulging gut. "You know the saying about the king and his Hand?"
"The King dreams, and the Hand builds?"
"A fishmaid I bedded once had a choicer way of saying it. The king eats, she said, and the Hand takes the shit," he roared with laughter at his own jest, but Ned, still kneeling quietly, did not seem amused; his face had become a carving of ice, similar to the silent disproval from the stone kings of winter. His laugh quickly dwindled when he realised this was not the best way to bring his friend south. "Damn it, Ned, at least humour me with a smile!"
"They say it grows so cold here in winter that a man's laughter freezes in his throat, choking him to death." Robert could totally believe it. It was summer here, yet colder than the last winter at King's Landing. "Perhaps that's why the Starks have so little humour."
"Come south, and I'll teach you how to laugh again," Robert cajoled. "You put me on this damnable throne; now help me hold it. If Lyanna had lived, we would have been brothers, bound by blood and affection. It's not too late. You have a daughter, and I have a son. My Joff and your Arya shall join your houses, as Lyanna and I might have once done."
Ned paled even further, and his face twisted in a grimace.
"She's too young, only eleven."
"Old enough for a betrothal. The marriage can wait a few years. Now stand up and say yes, damn you!"
Hesitation shone in the steely grey eyes, and Ned sighed heavily. "It pains me to say it, but Arya is not suitable to be a Queen. Not now, not ever. My daughter is wilder than Lyanna and Brandon together. She's more likely to slit your son's throat during the bedding than let him touch her."
Robert roared out in laughter again at the image, so little Arya not only looked like her aunt but took after her in character! But it was understandable. Truthfully, if Joffrey were not his, he'd not want his daughter wed to him either. Ah, where did he go wrong with that boy? Myrcella and Tommen were so much better.
He shook his head; Robert was ill-made to be a father, let alone king. But it mattered little; he was already one and might as well enjoy it to the fullest!
"Ah, my mistake, Ned. It's understandable that you don't want to part with another child so soon," the king nodded wisely, pleased with his conclusion. Sanda, or what was her name, would not do either. But that was not a problem. "How about my Myrcella for your heir? She's well-mannered, more beautiful than her mother, and with wits to spare! You'll find no better woman for your boy in the Seven Kingdoms. They're even the same age and can wed soon if need be!"
He had inspected Robb Stark very closely earlier. On the cusp of manhood, the boy looked half Tully, half Stark, a powerful figure of a born warrior if he ever saw one, with an easy smile and good courtesies. Robert was never a good parent, but he wanted to do right by his children. And this was a worthy match for his daughter, if there was any!
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Your Grace," Ned sighed with hesitation. "These honours are all unexpected. May I have some time to consider? I need to tell my wife…"
Gods, was his knee not tired yet?
"Yes, yes, tell Catelyn and sleep on it if you must," Robert reached down and effortlessly pulled Ned up to his feet and patted his shoulder. "Just don't keep me waiting. You know I'm not the most patient of men."
Abel the Bard
Benjen Stark's appearance was unexpected, but in hindsight, he should have seen the First Ranger coming. Thankfully, they had never met in person, so he could not recognise his face. Still, Lord Stark could remember his face from all those years ago, but Mance had decided to risk it anyway. Not that he was unprepared, he let his beard grow out for this. As one of the knights demanded, he continued playing the lute, and his gaze moved towards the high seat.
The guards near the walls were carefully keeping an eye on him, and that would make him wary if the other bards were not under the same scrutiny.
The King was nothing like the peerless warrior described in the tales but just a fat man with a penchant for drinking. Even now, his face had grown red from too much wine as he was groping a maid in full view for all to see.
No, Robert Baratheon was not a threat. The only weapon he would lift was his wine cup.
The more worrying prospect, however, was the wolves. Lord Stark had grown gruffer and more dangerous after nearly ten years and was currently discreetly sneaking glances at the Queen's golden children with curiosity. Winterfell had always been a formidable fortress, but the last time he had not paid much attention to it or its lord. Now though, Mance scarcely saw little, but it spoke loudly. Even if he had his whole army throw themselves at the walls of this keep, they would fail to take it.
Now it was teeming endlessly with wary guards, and he was barely allowed entry, even with his singing skills. It was very hard to sneak even a dagger and a short sword; even now, those lay in his room at the tavern. Abel was very glad to have left them behind, the inspection to enter the inner yard was ever stricter, and not even daggers were allowed unless you were highborn.
The biggest problem was that all the Stark children had gotten themselves a direwolf if half the rumours were true, including Wolf Lord himself. A fucking direwolf that could tear a limb off a man with nary an effort, and they were raising them as dogs!
Mance would eat his lute if they were not all wargs. Anyone else would have been long attacked, pups or not. The Old Gods had blessed House Stark greatly in the new generation, despite their loss.
The Night's Watch barely had a thousand men, but if Mance wanted his people to cross the Wall, he'd have to deal with the North, which meant dealing with House Stark. The King beyond the Wall wanted to think he could best the wolves on the field, but experience taught him otherwise. The summer was long, and according to the teachings of old maester Aemon, the North could mobilise forty thousand swords, and Eddard Stark's tactical acumen was a legend even fifteen years ago. He looked at Robb Stark, and there was that half-giant muscled man clad in steel near him. The two daughters were under watch by at least a dozen burly guardsmen, and the youngest boy was no less defended either.
Attempting to kidnap any of them was futile, especially with their direwolf pups. Even if Abel somehow succeeded, he would not manage to travel five miles without getting found. Mance Rayder shook his head and continued playing 'A dornishman's Wife' for the Southron knights as they began to sing along. His biggest hope was for the fat stag king to pull the Lord of Winterfell to the South. A green boy would be far easier to deal with than someone like Eddard Stark.
Eddard Stark
Robert had become a pale shadow of himself; gone was the mighty warrior with a warhammer, and the fat and perfumed king had taken his place. And sure enough, both the betrothal and the Handship were offered, although he did not expect the hand of the Princess to be offered to Robb. Eddard had observed Cersei's children closely but could find little fault with them. Joffrey was not the most pleasant of boys, but few were at three and ten, and he had seen worse before. Myrcella was a beauty to behold with her long golden curls and emerald eyes, and while serious and proud, there was none of the ire and disdain her mother poorly tried to conceal. Not that it helped that Robert had a serving wench in his lap…
The feast had finally ended as the hour of the bat had approached. Now he was gathered together with Howland and Benjen in his solar. Three loyal men were guarding the stairs to this floor, and none would hear what they were to speak now.
His brother placed down his nephew's letter, and a forlorn sigh tore from his mouth as his brow was scrunched up in thought.
"So Jon's Lya's boy?" Benjen whispered as he shook his head. "Madness, all of it!"
"I wish it were so, but…" Ned shook his head. "As you read just now, we have greater problems we cannot ignore. You're the First Ranger. Do you think there's any truth to his warnings of the Others?"
His brother stood there deep in thought for a few moments before grimacing.
"I'm afraid it's quite possible. We lose far more men on ranging lately, and entire wildling villages are gone without a single soul remaining," Benjen slowly explained. "First, we thought it was Mance Rayder gathering them all before a desperate push through the Wall, but even he cannot muster all of them, and many of those hamlets are abandoned with food, clothing, and arms all left behind. The wildlings are afraid, and the few we've caught recently speak of the 'Cold Shadows'. We thought them growing mad from the cold and hunger, but…."
"I feared this was the case," the Lord of Winterfell sighed. "The deserter that we caught spoke a similar tale, you see. He was so mad with fear it made him flee all the way here to Winterfell, and his only request was to burn his body."
"Damn it all! The Night's Watch is not ready to face the Others!" His brother tiredly ran a hand through his dark hair. "Seven hells, we are not ready to deal with a King Beyond the Wall either. Scarcely a thousand men between three castles, and half of them builders and stewards, not too skilled with a blade or a bow."
"You'll have the North behind you," Ned squeezed Benjen's shoulder. "The Night's Watch won't stand alone. And if Jon's word is to be trusted, he knows how to deal with the Others. I've already sent for the clans and the Skagosi to start mining and fashioning obsidian into daggers, speartips and arrowheads."
"Aye, that's true, but you cannot call the northern banners to simply wait forever at the Wall," the First Ranger countered. "The wildlings can be broken in a decisive fight or two. But the Others? For all we know, any fighting against them might stretch for years. The Gift lays fallow. We can barely feed our own, let alone tens of thousands more throats for long."
"We need to strengthen the Night's Watch. But the question is how?" Eddard muttered to himself. "The South is never going to believe any of this, and we have no proof but some words. And words are wind."
He did not mention how Robert seemed to care little for the Watch. In fact, his old friend seemed to care little for anything not related to wenching, feasting, and drinking. The crown had brought the once mighty stag to ruin and decadence.
"Lord Commander Mormont has been struggling to do so for years, but all of his pleas for assistance to the Wall would have met deaf ears if not for the North," Bejen sighed. "As for proof, I will try to convince the Old Bear to try and procure some, but I give no promises. For no word to reach the Watch directly, all our rangers who met the Walkers were either slain or fled."
"You'll arm yourself with obsidian-tipped weapons before you return to Castle Black," Ned said with a tone that brooked no disagreements, and his brother nodded.
"It's better than just words, but I doubt proof would be easily believed, even if you manage to procure a wight," the Crannoglord cautioned. "The Others are far from the only ones capable of sorcery to raise the dead as their thralls."
"Then what can we do?"
"There's not much the North can do on its own that it has not done already," Howland supplied as he thoughtfully scratched his chin. "But… there is a way, but you will mislike it."
The Lord of Greywater Watch spoke with such a foreboding tone that it sent cold shivers down Ned's spine.
"Tell me."
"You can accept Princess Myrcella as a bride for Robb and demand the lands of the New Gift be returned to the North as a dowry with a reduced tax for five years. The king will not hesitate to grant it. You can use the coin to directly support the Watch. The Umbers would regain their lost lands, and so would the clansmen, and you would still have enough left to appoint two or three more middling lords to rebuild old holdfasts and repopulate the first line after the Wall."
"You are right, I mislike the idea greatly," Ned sighed heavily. He had dreamed of resettling the Gift before, but not like this. Abusing his position and haggling like a common merchant with the crown?
Benjen also did not look very eager about it.
Although the golden-haired maiden would make a fine wife for Robb, especially if Howland was right, and she was Robert's daughter.
"Then you'll mislike what I will say even more," Howland continued. "While the Lord of Winterfell can reach only the North, the Hand can reach Seven Kingdoms."
"I'm ill fit to rule as Hand, and it's too dangerous," Ned shook his head in denial.
"It's not an honour so easily declined," the Lord of Greywater Watch sighed. "The king came all the way here with pomp and pageantry, and you cannot let him return emptyhanded. And I don't mean to stay in the South for years. Go there, and do everything in your power to bolster the Night's Watch from the office of Hand. No need for proof they might or might not believe. Sending more men, more supplies would be easily within your grasp! Robert has always been a proud man, even more so with a crown atop his head. Sooner or later, you'll disagree on something, and you can resign and return North. By then, the Watch would be manyfold what it was before!"
"You want me to accept the Handship only to shirk away my duty later, Howland?!"
"The King is the Lord Protector of the Realm first, and that duty falls on the Hand second, Ned and that does not mean you would not do the rest of your duties and help Robert at the same time," the crannogman shrugged. "If you have any better ideas, I'm all ears."
After finishing another round of lovemaking, Ned left the bed without bothering to put on his clothes, made way for the windows, pulled the tapestries away, and opened them, enjoying the cool night air entering the chambers. His wife's quarters were the warmest in the whole keep, and he oft felt them too suffocating for his taste.
He was intent on declining Robert on both of his offers, but damn Howland, he was speaking too much sense. And the worst was, they had no better ideas.
His desire to avoid the Southern mess was already futile. Vows and alliances he would never break bound him stronger than steel. Tully, Arryn, Stark, the bonds were already vowed and written in blood, and if he agreed, so would be Baratheon. At that moment, Ned felt like he was tangled in a web of his own making.
"Did Robert tell you how your foster father passed?" Cat's soft voice echoed from the bed. "Or about my sister and her son?"
"I didn't ask," Ned admitted. Jon Arryn was far from his mind these days; he had greater troubles. His stay at the Eyrie seemed like an eternity ago. While he loved the Lord of the Vale, old men died all the time, and they did before they reached seventy, let alone eighty, like his foster father. He worried even less for Lysa and Robert Arryn, both of which outlived House Stark and Tully after ignoring their bonds by blood.
"Then what troubles you so?" Catelyn's soft voice echoed from the bed, and he turned to face his wife.
Ah, how he wanted to tell her everything, but now was not the time or the place.
"I want to refuse him."
"You cannot. You must not," she stood up. "The king travelled all this way to give you great honours other highlords can only dream of. The last time a princess married outside the Royal Family was over eighty years ago!"
"I know," he agreed softly. "But I am sorely needed here."
"The North is peaceful; there has not been a battle fought here in more than fifty years," Catelyn said. "Isn't Robb already aiding you in your duties? And all that additional tutoring you give him! He might be young, but our son is a man now and can handle any trouble that comes his way. Princess Myrcella is a demure yet smart girl, she would make a great wife for him and a worthy Lady of Winterfell."
"I have no real reason to decline that marriage. He wanted to wed Arya and Joffrey first…" his wife made a choking sound and gaped like a fish. "Aye, I managed to dissuade him from that particular notion. But new, far direr tidings came from Beyond the Wall."
She paled. "Did you not say Mance Rayder is nothing for us to fear?"
"I do not fear a bold deserter of the Night's Watch," he shook his head. "You turned out to be right. Far darker things stir in the Lands of Always Winter than desperate savages."
"Ned?"
"The Others have begun to move again."
"How can you know?" Cat shuddered and pulled her covers closer.
"It's not a single thing," he waved it away. "More missing rangers than ever, more deserters, the last one I executed was broken by fear, but not a fear of men. And a warning, a warning I could not ignore."
"A warning?"
"A greenseer," he lied and swallowed heavily as he felt a knot twist in his stomach. "He left me no room for doubt."
Ned hated lying, but he did not feel it was the right moment to tell his wife everything. But it was not yet the time. Doubt was etched on her face, but it was replaced with thoughtfulness.
"And hearsay would easily be dismissed from the King and the rest of the Realm," Cat slowly muttered. She believed him; at that moment, he couldn't have loved her more. "Without proof, people would say the cold addles your wits, and you're seeing grumpkins and snarks where there are none."
"Aye, and I have no real proof to offer," Ned agreed.
"You must still go South," she said after pondering for a few heartbeats. "The North is already aiding the Watch as much as it can. In the court, you can forge more alliances for House Stark. And as Hand, you can force the rest of the kingdoms to provide men and supplies to the Wall. The North needs not be the only one to aid the Watch."
A knock came at the door, loud and unexpected, making Ned turn with a frown.
"What is it?"
"My lord, Ser Rodrik caught a man trying to sneak into the Maester's Turrent and sent a guard to report to you," Desmond's voice came through the door.
"I'll be there in a few," Ned said after exchanging a worried look with Cat before crossing to the wardrobe and grabbing his doublet and breeches.
A man sneaking like a catspaw during the night after the King's party arrived? It did not bode well at all.
Author's Endnote:
There's so much to unpack here as well. Ned has too much on his mind to ask about an old man dying, which is not particularly suspicious, so Jon Arryn is left mostly unmentioned. He also holds some subconscious bias against Lysa for not honouring her alliances with House Stark and Tully in the future.
Arya is preferred to Sansa because she's far closer age to Lyanna this time in looks and reminds Robert of his old flame. Myrcella's age gets her near the top of the list of marriageable royal children.
The die is cast, and Ned is faced with a choice he doesn't like. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't.
Catelyn's reasoning is similar to the original so far, and Howland proves to be quite cunning in a practical sense. As for why she's so quick to believe? She was originally superstitious about things North of the Wall, and Ned was the one to dismiss them.
As we already established, Howland already believes that Cersei's children are Robert's and simply inherited their mother's colouring.
I want to remind you that Jon had no way of objectively knowing the truth, and neither did Howland or Ned at this point. The notion of the queen cuckolding the king with her own brother and nobody would find out is so absurd that it is barely believable, especially from the mouth of the one that benefits the most (Stannis, who was the closet source of information Jon had on the topic).
Oh, and the increased security in Winterfell begins to bear its first fruits.
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
why do you think Mance fucked up? The man caught sneaking into the Maester's turret?
that one is more likely to be the agent of Lyssa Tully / Littlefinger that delivered the secret message in cannon then Mance.
Remember, in the books, a telescope / microscope with Myrish lenses (very expensive) was delivered to the Maester in the night. As he had not ordered such a thing, and reasoning that a microscope is a devise used to look closer, the Stark Maester investigated the device closely and found a letter hidden in a double bottom. That letter was written in the code used by the Tully sisters as children, and contained the accusation that John Arryn was poisoned by the Lannisters. The going assumption is that this message was sent either by Lyssa, by Littlefinger, or by both of them together. It was the first thing that started Edward's suspicion of the Lannisters in cannon.
In the show, this complexity is lessened by just claiming a 'rider in the night' arrived with a letter.
Stannis had taken his sweet time to come to a decision, and more than a moon later, they were finally here.
"Driftmark is yours, my lord," Monford Velaryon bowed deeply.
The Lord of the Tides was a handsome, tall man garbed in green silk with fair hair and purple eyes. There was no woman next to him, and if Davos remembered correctly, his wife had died after a bad miscarriage a handful of years ago. According to the rumours he had heard on the docks, lord Monford had not remarried despite having only a single heir because of his fierce love for his deceased spouse.
"Lord Velaryon," Stannis returned stiffly.
Everything about the Lord of Dragonstone was stiff right now, from how he moved his limbs to his face, which reminded Davos of an iron mask. Still, his presence was imposing as always, and his gaze was even more piercing than usual. The Lord of Dragonstone showed no outward signs of pain at all; all his terrible burns were beneath his neck, covered by his garb.
Despite Stannis' dislike for the milk of the poppy, he decided to use it for public appearances to present a position of strength.
"My condolences for Lady Baratheon's passing," the Valyrian lord sounded regretful, but he only elicited a gruff nod from Stannis. Monford then pushed forward a young boy who had the same colouring. "This is my son, Monterys."
The heir of Driftmark hesitantly looked around before bowing.
"This is my daughter, Shireen Baratheon," Stannis' voice grew steely, and Davos could sense a sliver of pride underneath as the shy girl was pushed forward and curtsied. "Enough of the pleasantries. Let's go somewhere private."
It seemed that Castle Driftmark was rarely in use, and the Lord of the Tides preferred High Tide with its pale stone and slender towers.
Aside from the luxuriously decorated entrance and antechamber, the inner hallways and rooms looked less… gaudy than Davos expected. A few delicate myrish vases could be seen everywhere but were sparse at best. Jade, silver, and mahogany were replaced with oak, bronze, and olden, threadbare tapestries whose colours had begun to fade with the passage of time. It seemed that the Velaryons had fallen far from their former glory as the richest House of the realm.
After a nod from Stannis, they were led to a small, private parlour while the young Monterys hesitantly led Shireen towards her quarters, escorted by a pair of guards. Davos barely stifled a laugh at the sight; the shy girl towered over the young boy with a whole head.
Monford bid the guards stand at the hallway entrance, and as soon as the door closed, the Lord of Dragonstone collapsed bonelessly on a tapered chair and began to cough wetly. The Valyrian lord watched with confusion as his liege finally managed to gather his bearing after a painful minute.
"Lord Monford," Stannis wheezed out painfully. "I am in need of your service."
Eddard Stark
Usually, the Lord of Winterfell would deal only with executions and arbitration, not petty thieves or poachers. But he was already up and about, so he might as well handle it, lest the court thought House Stark was neglecting the king's security.
"What do we know?"
"The man entered with the royal party. He refuses to say anything," Rodrik shook his head as he descended into the dungeons, lantern in hand. Winter had decided to accompany them and curiously trailed after Ned.
Like the stairway, the dark hallways were narrow, cold, damp, and lined with undressed granite. Most of the cells were hewn directly into the stone, making any prisoners stuck in perpetual darkness.
At the end of the passageway, a pair of braziers flickered, scarcely illuminating the four wary guardsmen.
They stopped at the first oaken door. It was very thick and so generously lined with iron that it took two strong men to push it open.
The flickering lantern revealed the insides of a small cell, where a thin, short man with sandy hair and dark eyes had his hands and feet clasped in irons. He was clad in a gaudy cotton tunic and breeches, and Ned vaguely remembered his face from the feast. A bard, mayhaps?
The prisoner blinked in confusion for a few heartbeats, then warily eyed the adolescent direwolf, stood up, and bowed deeply, despite the manacles.
"'Tis a mistake, m'lord! I meant to visit one of the serving maids!"
Eddard Stark squinted his eyes; the man had just lied; he could feel it. He shook his head and pushed the odd feeling into a corner of his mind.
"Not only a thief but a liar as well," Ned snorted and nodded to the guardsmen outside.
Heward brought an ironwood stump while Wayn and Jacks held down the man and forced him to his knees with the thief's hand pressed to the bloc. Winter obediently sat down on the ground to the side and observed with his shining yellow eyes.
"W-wait! What are you doing?!" the chained man cried out as Rodrik handed him a sharpened steel blade. A pity Ice was too large to be used in narrow places like this.
"Your right hand is forfeit for thievery," the master-of-arms supplied, "and so is your tongue for lying to the Lord of Winterfell."
The bard began to shiver and struggle, but it was futile against the iron grip of the two burly guardsmen. Ned gave the blade a few waves to test the balance before lifting it and aiming for the outstretched right hand.
"I-I'm innocent!"
Ned stilled; he could tell the desperate plea was genuine, and this time, the man had spoken truthfully.
"Innocent? You were caught sneaking inside the Maester's Turret in the middle of the night," Rodrik snorted. "Doubtlessly to steal some parchment, candles, or even precious books!"
"If not to steal, why sneak like a thief in the night? Speak truthfully, and you can keep your hand," the Lord of Winterfell offered after a moment of contemplation.
"I w-was sent here b-by the l-lord Littlefinger to deliver a wooden box to the m-maester's tower w-without being seen," he uttered hoarsely.
Truth.
"Littlefinger?"
"L-lord Petyr B-Baelish."
Truth. That Baelish again, what would the master of coin want with his family? Ned liked this not.
"There was no crate on him, my lord," Rodrik supplied.
"It's in my room at t-the tavern, I swear," the bard's cries became desperate. Truth. "I tried to scout first to see if I could sneak past the guardsmen…"
There was no lie in his words, and the Lord of Winterfell found himself frowning. Even ignoring the odd feeling on the back of his head, he saw no deceit in the trembling man.
"Do you oft do tasks for the master of coin?" Ned returned the blade to Rodrik, who put it away in its sheath and signalled for the guards to release the man.
"He pays good s-silver to bring him rumours from afar, m'lord," the bard stood up, still burdened by the chains, and trembled. "A-and even b-better coin to deliver things."
Truth.
Eddard Stark sighed inwardly.
"Get five more men, quietly escort him to the tavern, and bring me back this box."
The visiting bards, fools, and the more important merchants were usually housed in the tavern in the Outer ward, and it had been re-opened to accommodate those too lowborn to stay in the Guest House but would be needed close by in case the nobles required entertainment. He should have foreseen that the royal retinue and their camp followers would not be trustworthy.
Eddard Stark tiredly ran a hand through his hair as he waited in a large room in one of the inner towers; Winter curled in a grey ball at his feet. The whole day was long, troublesome, and tiring, and he now found cursing himself at his decision to visit his wife's chambers instead of simply sleeping. Staying awake was becoming a struggle.
Soon enough, the bard entered, escorted by Rodrik with half a dozen men-at-arms, and the direwolf at his feet perked up.
A delicate, intricately carved box was presented on the small table before him. Made of polished ebony and small enough to fit into the palm of his hand.
"Do you know what's inside?"
"No, m'lord," the bard vigorously shook his head.
This time, Ned ignored the feeling in the back of his mind and carefully observed the fair-haired man before him. All visible signs only confirmed the vague feeling that he had spoken truthfully.
"Your name?"
"Corwyn, m'lord."
Beads of sweat were pooling heavily on the bard's brow, despite the cold night.
"You'll keep your tongue and hand, Corwyn," Ned decided, and the man let out a relieved sigh. "But trespassing inside my halls is not something I can forgive, nor was attempting to lie at the start. Five lashes."
"B-but you promised!"
"To keep your hand, not to free you from punishment," he flexed his fingers. "Take him out and flog him in Winter Town. And Corwyn is now barred from Winterfell."
The guardsmen dragged the reluctant bard out, leaving Ned alone with Rodrik, both looking at the intricate box. Winter was also circling curiously around the table.
"Let me," the master-at-arms cautioned. Ned nodded, and the old knight took the miniature chest and carefully latched it open. "A tube?"
Rodrik blinked a few times in confusion and fiddled with the box for a handful of heartbeats before handing it over.
The insides were padded with purple velvet, and a lone bronze cylinder lay in the middle. The small, delicate tube had two polished lenses on each end. A far-eye. Ned cautiously picked it up and closely inspected it in the flickering light of the nearby torch. The glasswork was smooth, without any visible blemishes. The bronze was also polished like a mirror, with a few intricate circles and stars inscribed along its length. Only the myrish craftsmen could make glasswork so fine. It would be rather costly to buy for a common merchant but within the means of even minor lordlings. He held up the cylinder and gingerly looked through the lens, seeing the table far closer and in greater detail. A far-eye indeed.
The cylinder was left on the table as he fiddled with the box curiously. Yet there seemed to be nothing exceptional aside from the intricate carvings.
Why would the master of coin go through all this trouble just to send a far-eye to Winterfell's maester?
At that moment, Winter rose on his back legs, poked his snout at the ebony box in his hands and whined.
Ned placed it on the ground and watched as his direwolf circled around it uneasily and poked at the bottom with his paw. Clearly, the canine's sharp senses found something the Lord of Winterfell couldn't. Winter suddenly bit the box and wildly shook his furry head.
"Stop it, boy," for the first time since he began training the beast, the direwolf ignored his command. But before Ned could even get angry, something cracked with a click, and Winter stopped before paddling softly to him and placing the box in his hand with a wagging tail.
Barely adolescent, his bite had still cracked open the hardwood like an egg. A small compartment had popped out from the bottom, containing a tightly-rolled parchment, sealed by wax bearing the blue falcon of House Arryn. Ned absentmindedly scratched Winter behind the ear as he checked the mark and frowned.
Rodrik turned to leave, but the Lord of Winterfell waved him to remain. Cassel was leal and would keep his secrets. The old knight averted his gaze.
The message was marked not for him but for Catelyn Stark, his wife.
There was nothing wrong with sisters trying to write one another. But the Arryns lacked neither ravens nor trusted riders to carry a message. Why all the secrecy, and why was the master of coin used as an intermediary?
He hesitated for a few moments but decided to open it regardless. He trusted his wife, but not Lysa Arryn, let alone this meddlesome Petyr Baelish.
With trepidation, Ned broke the seal, and his brows furrowed. The letters and words were all jumbled and made little sense. He spun it around, but it was still meaningless gibberish. A private language, mayhaps?
Surely, his wife would be familiar with it, as the message was intended for her. He rubbed his tired eyes, rolled back the parchment, tucked it and the far-eye in the inner pocket of his cloak and slumped on the chair. His quarters were too far away for his liking, and Ned simply felt tempted to sleep here.
Rodrik hesitantly approached; the swinging lantern in his hand made the shadows dance.
"My lord," the old knight tugged at his greying whiskers, "I had the guardsmen observe the royal retinue during the feast. There were a few other suspicious characters amongst the entertainers. Jugglers, jesters, dancers, and bards, among other men."
Damn Robert and his hide, did he have to bring the whole pit of vipers with him?!
Ned tiredly rubbed his brow and held in his groan. He struggled with the desire to leave these woes for later, but no. His sleep was already gone; it was better to deal with problems now. What if they did some mischief in the night, just like the Corwyn fellow?
"Bring them in for questioning."
"In the middle of the night?" Rodrik asked.
"Aye, now."
The knight bowed and left the chambers. Ned's heavy eyelids slowly closed as he sat there waiting, and didn't notice how the grey direwolf curiously paddled through the open door and into the darkness outside.
Abel the 'Bard'
A loud yell awoke him. He stood up instantly, grabbed his sword and lute, struggled to fasten his cloak in the darkness, and creaked the shutter slightly.
Abel cursed inwardly, the surrounding yard was swarming with guardsmen, and the darkness made everything hard to see, but he could count at least two dozen torches streaming towards the entrance.
Had they found him?
His heart beat like a drum, and the sound of heavy footsteps coming from the hallway forced him to come to a decision. The sounds of doors opened one by one, and the confused and drowsy voices of the patrons quickly banished his drowsiness.
Deserters of the Watch were executed, and his head would roll if he was caught. But Mance couldn't afford to die here. He finally had his sweet taste of life and freedom and wanted more.
Saying a quiet prayer, he opened the shutter, climbed onto the window sill and looked above. His earlier caution to memorise the layout of the tavern had paid off as he had chosen a room with a view to the backside on the lower floor.
Thankfully the Stark men hadn't surrounded the building. Abel pushed the shutter closed from the outside as he jumped down to the ground. With some luck, they would think the room empty or that he was visiting some scullery maid and wouldn't look too close in the darkness. Taking a moment to massage his now numb legs, the bard cautiously looked around.
No guardsmen could be seen, and the thick darkness would work in his favour. But he'd now have to sneak to the hundred feet wall, climb it, swim through the cold waters of the wide moat, and climb the second wall without being found.
A curse tore from his lips; this castle was a fucking death trap.
At least the skies were dark and cloudy; the moon had waned fully. He quietly moved under the thick veil of darkness, from building to building, staying away from the braziers and torches, hoping nobody would spot him. Maybe it would be better to cause some sort of distraction and try to make for the gate.
Yet, there was still the drawbridge and the outer gate. What if the former was raised? And Abel had counted the gate guard when entering with the royal procession. What distraction could draw half a hundred vigilant guardsmen from their posts?
At that moment, a low growl sounded behind him, making Abel freeze.
His hand made for the grip of his sword, and he slowly turned around, only to be faced with a pair of yellow eyes shining like lanterns through the darkness. With squinted eyes, he could barely make out the silhouette of the hound; it wasn't particularly huge, just above his knees.
"Good boy," he whispered loudly, trying to placate the dog, but it continued growling even louder. "Come now, I mean no harm. I was just about to leave, you see."
If only he had grabbed a piece of jerky from the feast. Abel cursed his luck again, slowly unsheathed his sword, and stepped forward. He had to silence the shaggy mutt before it alerted the numerous guardsmen.
Yet the dog stepped back, and a powerful, high-pitched half-bark half-howl tore through the night. Abel cursed and charged towards the damned pest, but it turned tail and dashed away, barking up a storm.
"Others take this fucking mutt," a stream of angry curses escaped his mouth; the voices of guardsmen had begun to approach along with the light of their torches.
The hound was too fast, and there was no point in chasing it in the dark. Abel gritted his teeth and made for the outer wall as fast as his legs could carry him. But the thrice-damned barks followed right behind him, giving up his location for all to hear.
A sharp pain stabbed into his right ankle, dragging his whole foot, and after a moment of weightlessness, his face met the ground.
Someone began to scream, and it only took Mance a few moments to realise that the sound was coming from his own mouth. His leg was throbbing with crippling agony, and he vaguely heard the shouts approaching.
The Lord of Winterfell
"-lord, my lord!"
Ned groaned, cracked open his eyes, and blinked in confusion at Rodrik's worried face flickering on the lantern's light. The taste of hot blood filled his mouth.
What was happening?
Blurry memories of chasing after bad men in the night clouded his mind. It took him a few moments to remember that he was in one of the towers, evidently fallen asleep. The more he tried to remember the odd dream, the faster it slipped away. Shaking his head with a sigh, he rubbed his weary eyes and focused on his master-at-arms.
"We caught the men," the old knight recounted. "Two bards and one jester, all in the dungeons. But there's some… trouble."
"Trouble?" Ned stood up and stretched, but his body still felt stiff and tired.
"Well," the master-at-arms hesitated for a few moments, then motioned towards the ground with his hand. Winter sat there, snout covered in blood and tail wagging vigorously, looking at Ned expectantly. "We rounded the suspicious folks, but one was missing."
"What's with the blood?" he asked, massaging his temples to fight the rising headache.
"Winter hunted down the runner as he was escaping, barking up a storm. Bit through the man's ankle as if it were made of straw, crunched through bone and all. When we arrived, the bard was moaning in pain, and the direwolf was cautiously circling him while growling."
Looking at Winter, who was eagerly gazing at him, Ned could hardly imagine the young direwolf capable of such damage.
Dangerous beasts, indeed.
But uncannily smart and loyal as well; just tonight, Winter had greatly helped him twice. He didn't regret taking the pups in; he'd just have to continue making sure they were well-trained.
"Do we know why the bard ran?" Ned scratched his beard.
"The man only cursed and moaned at us," Rodrik snorted. "But he wouldn't run if he was innocent," the greying knight hesitated for a moment, "there's something familiar about him, but I just couldn't bring it to mind."
"Let's go," the Lord of Winterfell stood up with a sigh and followed after Rodrik. Outside, Desmond, Wayn, and Jacks followed as escorts.
"I sent him to Luwin so the catspaw doesn't bleed out before we could question him," the old knight explained as they made their way to the Maester's Turret.
Now that Rodrik mentioned that, it made sense. A bard would be a very good catspaw; men were far more busy feasting and drinking at celebrations than worrying for their life.
Two braziers illuminated half a dozen men-at-arms at the tower's entrance, one of which led them up the stairs in front of a small oaken door guarded by four more guards.
The smell of poultices and herbs hit him as he entered the room. A score of candles and two oil lanterns illuminated the room as if it were day. In the middle stood a wide wooden table, and a still man, face covered with dirt, clothes changed into a plain roughspun robe, was tightly strapped by chains on top of it. Luwin stopped busying himself around the bandaged foot and bowed.
"How's our runner?" Eddard asked.
"Passed out from the pain, my lord," Luwin tugged at his chain nervously as he looked at Winter, who had followed and was now sitting peacefully with his tongue lolled out. "His leg will be crippled, the ankle is mangled too badly. I can force him to wake if you wish."
"Not yet," Ned tiredly rubbed his brow, deep in thought for a moment. "What can you tell us about him, any oddities?"
"Strong, broad chest and shoulders, he has the body of a warrior, not a bard. The way his palms are calloused suggests he trained at arms from a young age," the old maester straightened up. "And there's plenty of old scars, all marks of blades and arrows."
He carefully gazed at the knocked-out man chained to the table. Thick beard aside, there was something distantly familiar in his dirty face, but Ned couldn't put his finger on it.
"Aside from the usual knives and daggers, he also had a short sword with him," Rodrik added grimly. "The man somehow managed to smuggle it inside through the guard."
Gods, what did a man have to do to stay protected in his own keep?!
"Tighten security even more." The master-at-arms grimly nodded at his words. "We cannot afford any accidents with the royal family in our halls."
"Mayhaps we can see the maker's mark on the arms?" Luwin suggested with a cough. "It could give us a clue about where the man came from."
"Bring them here," Ned ordered, and the master-at-arms headed out of the room.
A minute later, Rodrik returned with a short sword and a dagger in his hands. He unsheathed them and looked at the base of the blade, where the smiths traditionally left their marks.
"Both bear the same mark. Looks familiar, but I can't recall," the old knight grumbled and carefully handed one hilt to Luwin and the other one to Ned.
The Lord of Winterfell carefully inspected the marking. A simple half-circle with two-crossed lines-
"This is Arlyn's work," Luwin supplied. "The Shadow Tower's master smith."
They all looked at the man chained on the table. His hair was mostly grey, with a few strands of brown valiantly resisting the inevitable onslaught of time.
"So either a deserter or a wildling," Rodrik concluded.
"A wildling won't be able to blend so easily in the North," Ned shook his head. "Nor know enough of our songs to play at a royal feast."
The room fell silent as they were all lost in thought. Gods, what a mess!
"It's also possible that one of the black brothers sold some of their arms for coin and claimed it was lost," the maester cautioned.
The feeling of familiarity strengthened. Eddard had seen this man before, but where? Damn his tired mind!
"Luwin, clean his face and shave his beard," he ordered.
The maester used a clean rag and a basin full of water brought by one of the guardsmen, and soon the grime was gone, revealing a weathered yet sharp face underneath.
A familiar face, a bard, a deserter of the Night's Watch. A deserter of the Night's Watch…
As the razor trimmed through the tangled beard, it finally clicked.
"Mance Rayder!"
Salladhor Saan, Beyond the Wall
Alas, all the coin made in selling fruits in Gulltown was gone in their heavy fur-lined clothing and thickened wool cloaks for the crews. Sailing through the treacherous waters east of Skaagos was but a simple feat for a man like Salladhor, so they had reached their destination with little to no trouble.
Yet it seemed that their troubles had just begun.
He shivered again; the cold was not deterred by his thick woollen undershirt, his fur-lined tunic, or the heavy double cloak. In the beginning, it wasn't that bad, but as they sailed northwards, it slowly seeped into his clothes and skin, and even his bones felt as if they were going to freeze.
Salladhor felt cheated. It was the height of summer back home, where you could go naked in the night and still feel warm!
Where was the summer here? The land was full of ice and snow, with no summer in sight. How people even lived in this cold wasteland was beyond him. If it got any colder, even piss would freeze before it hit the ground!
Salladhor was glad he only took two of his ships and his hardiest men. Any other would have mutinied.
With his shivering hands, he struggled to uncork his wineskin. Even his fingers were freezing, despite the thick leather gloves. Salladhor finally succeeded and took greedy gulps of the pear brandy.
The strong drink set his throat on fire, and warmth began to spread from his belly.
"Fuckin' snow," Denzo swore, his deep breaths forming small misty clouds. The fierce scowl had been a permanent fixture on his face since they reached the snowy shores. "Saan, gimme some of the brandy."
The manhunter was tall and strong, muscled like a bull, with olive skin and a bare head covered by a fur-lined hat, and also shook like a leaf from the cold, despite his thick clothing. Salladhor laughed inwardly at the man's stupidity; the Tyroshi heavily regretted his decision to shave his head after they departed. Not only that, but Denzo had only brought that weak pale-green piss from Myr they called nectar. So sweet it would make your teeth ache and did little to warm up your insides.
An unpleasant, petty man, but Salladhor still needed him and his ilk to catch those mammoths. After a moment of hesitation, he threw the Tyroshi his spare flask.
"Use it sparingly, Hartys," the sellsail warned. "This is all you'll get."
Salladhor had eight more in his cabin, but they were saved for his own throat, not for some slaver.
Denzo grudgingly took a small gulp and belched loudly. Hah, at least the fool stopped shivering.
"Hundreds of miles of shore and not a single soul in sight," the manhunter grumbled as he strapped the wineskin to his black belt and gazed at the coast.
There had been a few small villages, all abandoned. Now there was nobody to trade with or ask for directions, let alone capture like Hartys wanted. It was a rugged, lonely place full of bare drab rocks and coarse sand; the songs of seagulls were replaced with the ominous cries of crows and ravens. The foreboding forest looming above the shore was little better; despite the white veil of snow, it looked dark and haunted.
A tinge of regret began to swell within him, but he quickly squashed it. A little bit of hardship and Salladhor would make enough coin to live as a prince for the rest of his life!
"We came here for weirwood and ivory," he clicked his tongue. "No goods, no coin."
Although both of the materials would still sell with ease, none would be willing to pay even a tenth of what the magister had promised.
Salladhor tried to stay calm, but worry had begun to gnaw at his gut.
They had arrived a sennight ago, and the lyseni smuggler thought everything was in the bag, yet they had found nothing along the shores. No wildlings, no mammoths in sight. There were a few handfuls of the red-leafed trees, but they were too young and small, trunks thinner than a girl's waist at the root, all useless. And it wouldn't do to chop sacred trees and provoke some divine wrath for nought.
The Archon of Tyrosh's wedding was in less than two cycles, and with a moon of sailing back south, they had less than twenty-five days to procure all the materials.
"Always coin with you smugglers," the burly man shook his head with a dismissive snort. "Your head is too filled with dreams of gold to think. Didn't the savages live around their bone trees? Two ducks with one rock," he cracked his knuckles, "and elephants don't drink seawater, mammoths should be little different. We'll have to either venture into the dark forest or sail up that big river we passed yesterday. Even the savages need to drink; there will be at least some living in the surroundings."
As unlikeable as the manhunter was, Salladhor could grudgingly admit that Denzo was good at what he did.
Worse, they had to hurry; he doubted Magister Sarrios would give them a single penny if they arrived after the wedding.
"According to my map, there's a large lake upstream," the smuggler said. "We can use it as a base and spread our search from there."
"Let's go. I'm sick of this damned cold," Denzo Hartys wearily rubbed his gloved hands. "The sooner we're done, the sooner we can go back."
Author's Endnote:
Winterfell's increased defences begin to pay off. I thought long and hard about Lysa's message, and since it came with the royal retinue(remember, book timeline), Littlefinger had a hand in it. In fact, she has no reason to lie to her sister; this is clearly Baelish pulling and planning shit in the dark. Cloak and dagger stuff is far more his style.
Also, Littlefinger didn't go through more layers of delegating because this was too important. Keep in mind that he has only been in KL for about five years, if not less, so his means should be somehow limited still. Another thing is that, while somehow suspicious, there isn't particularly anything incriminating in sending messengers like that (at least not for Baelish).
Winter is a good boy. Or, well, depending on the perspective, a damned mutt.
Ned's having a wild night. And he's going to have an even wilder day.
Our essosi friends are having trouble with the northern summer. It seems that the good-paying job is not as easy as it first sounded.
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!
what? I don't know what an 'insult cabrón' is, but I assume it's bad, like a more extreme version of an insult?
I honestly don't know how you came to that conclusion. I was repeating what Maester Luwin said / did himself. He was the one in the books that said to himself "a microscope's function is to look closer, maybe it's a hidden message to look for a secret compartment". Then he found a hidden message, and went to the Lord & Lady stark with the letter and told them how he found it. I was basically trying to give a condensed sequence of events.
Why would you think I was explaining how a microscope functions to you, let alone doing so with the intention to insult? I do not understand how you came to that conclusion.
anyway, whoop whoop new chapter.
Looks like Mance won't be walking around the True North with his army any time soon. And the Direwolves proof once again they are Good Puppers. 10 out of 10, would adopt apex predators again.
The king awoke, and his throbbing head made him scowl. He couldn't help but feel old - ten years ago, he could spend three days feasting, drinking, and wenching and feel as spry as a stag in the morn, yet now only a single night had lain him low.
His feather bed was already empty; the wench from last night had been sent out of his quarters as soon as he had finished. Five years ago, he could have bedded three at the same time for thrice as long, but alas, it seemed that old age caught up even to royalty.
Groggily standing up, Robert called for his servants, who quickly garbed him in his green velvet doublet and black silk leggings and handed him his golden mantle with the black-and-gold squares cloak. It was time to hear Ned's decision; a night should have been more than enough to speak to Catelyn.
As usual, Selmy was vigilantly standing outside of his quarters, although worry shone in his pale blue eyes. Moore, with his lifeless gaze and empty face, joined Selmy at the entrance of the Guest House. One could mistake the Valeman for a corpse if he were not moving. Alas, his skills with the blade had earned him the white cloak after winning a melee a handful of years ago.
The courtyard was swarming with even more guardsmen than yesterday, all tense and wary, but Ned was nowhere to be found. The rest of the royal retinue looked unsettled but otherwise undisturbed. The warm rays of the morning sun just peaked from the east; it was too early!
"There are too many men-at-arms here for a garrison," Moore noted, voice flat. "Even more than yesterday."
"Bah, Ned honours me with this level of protection," Robert waved his concern away, "but mayhaps something happened during the night?"
Even old Selmy was on edge, fiddling with the handle of his sword, "Should I find out what, Your Grace?"
Robert shook his head and gazed at the Stark men before finally spotting a familiar face.
"Cassel!" His voice boomed, attracting the attention of the man wearing the surcoat emblazoned with the ten wolf heads. The captain of Winterfell's guard, if his memory was correct. "Where's Lord Eddard?"
"Lord Stark is at the Godswood, Your Grace," Jory quickly came over, his face grim.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Barristan signalling Greenfield and Trant, and soon there were two more white cloaks behind the king. Ha, the old knight was worrying for nothing again! Winterfell was safer than the Red Keep for him.
"Well, lead us to him, Captain Cassel," Robert urged, and they soon headed towards the wall behind the Guest House. "What was the commotion in the yard about?"
"One of the singers attempted to sneak into the maester's turret in the night," Cassel shifted uncomfortably, "and then another outlaw was caught hiding amongst the bards."
For a short moment, Robert wondered why Ned was worried about a handful of pickpockets; those were always common no matter where. That was no job for the Lord of Winterfell; the bailiffs would chop a few fingers off for thievery or deliver a dozen lashes and let them go.
They reached a large iron gate, and with a nod from Ned's captain, the two sentries there pushed it open, revealing the ancient grove.
The Godswood was undoubtedly a better sight than the usual stuffy septs; the air also lacked their typical heavy smell of incense that weighed on your eyes and had none of the grating septons with their long-winded speeches and sermons.
Robert couldn't help but understand Northerners more; the olden places of worship were far more palpable than dealing with the holy men of the Faith and their endless ceremonies.
His friend was sitting nestled amidst the thick roots of the Heart Tree, but something was wrong, and it wasn't the large grey furball at his feet nor the old carved face above that had budding red sap in its eyes as if it were about to weep. Ned's face had grown even paler, and large, black circles had formed under his eyes, and his tired gaze was listlessly wandering at the still pool of black water across him. Half a dozen burly Stark guards were watching vigilantly over their lord from a distance.
"Ned," the Lord of Winterfell stood up at his words and bowed. But he looked worn out and tired; his usually well-kept hair was tangled and messy. "You look like shite. Did you forget to sleep and keep poor Cat busy all night?"
"We caught him, Robert," Ned's voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't even heard him.
"Caught who?"
"Mance Rayder! We caught him!" His friend let out a choked, raspy laugh.
"Who's that?" The name sounded familiar, but too many names had passed through the king's ear to remember even half of them.
"The King Beyond the Wall!" Ned's hand balled into a fist.
Ah yes, the fabled deserter and a self-styled king of savages; Robert vaguely remembered Jon mentioning him some moons ago.
"How'd you find him?"
"After one of the singers tried to steal something from the Maester's turret, I had the rest of the suspicious bards brought in for questioning," Ned's eyes hardened into two chips of stone. "One of them tried running but failed. Turned out he was more than a bard."
Robert tried to remember the faces of the men from the feast, but all he could recall was the thick ale, his wife's eternal sour face, and the well-endowed serving wenches. The grey furball at his friend's feet uncurled, revealing a wolf who lazily stretched and obediently sat beside Ned.
Ha, so those silly rumours had some truth in them? Mayhaps Robert should try and catch a young buck for himself during the upcoming hunt?
Barristan cautiously stood forward.
"Lord Stark, if I may?" Ned nodded at the old knight, who continued slowly, "Why did nobody recognise him at the feast?"
"Few look too closely at the jesters and the bards, Ser," his friend tiredly shook his head. "Rayder has gone grey and has grown a thick beard. I scarcely remember his face after seeing it once ten years ago. It was him running away and his weapons that gave him away. Sword and dagger both bearing the mark of Shadow Tower's smith."
"The man certainly has stones," Robert chuckled. Well, that definitely explained the scores of worried guardsmen.
"Why would he risk his hide to sneak into Winterfell?" Selmy asked, voice heavy with suspicion.
"I know not," Ned straightened up. "He refused to say a word, and my brother and Ser Rodrik are interrogating him right now. But it matters little; deserters from the Watch have only one fate. At noon, he will lose his head."
"Lead us to this King Beyond the Wall," Robert said, intrigued. "I want to see another king for myself, even if clasped in irons."
Maybe another royal presence would loosen the man's tongue?
"Your Grace, it might be prudent to get more men to accompany us," Selmy cautioned. "What if more of his ilk have sneaked in?"
"No need, there are plenty of leal swords here," the king dismissively waved his hand. "Even a chicken can't fly through this keep without alerting the guardsmen."
The Lord of Winterfell wordlessly led them in a different direction, seemingly towards the outer keep. Jory flanked Ned to the left while the adolescent wolf calmly trotted to his right, and the other six Stark guardsmen trailed behind the kingsguard.
This, this, was what Robert needed. Capable, loyal men to run the kingdom in his stead, not those stupid twats that couldn't find their arse unless someone kicked them on the bum. Jon Arryn had been such, but old age had slowly whittled away his foster father. Robert should have summoned Ned South long ago.
They eventually reached the wall and entered the outer yard through an ironwood door.
Scores of vigilant men-at-arms could be seen at every corner of the yard, and the Lord of Winterfell led them towards the enormous curtain wall where a lone tower was nestled. At least half a hundred sentries were near the entrance, all vigilant and armed to the teeth.
"These are not your dungeons," Robert observed as they climbed the narrow stairway.
"Aye, 'tis the maester's turret," Ned coughed. "Had to get Luwin to patch him up lest he bled out before we could ask some questions."
They finally arrived at a small hallway with a door on each side, guarded by a pair of sentries. And a figure cloaked in black was leaning on the wall.
The cloaked man spun, revealing a tired Benjen, who bowed deeply.
"Rayder has nought but silence and vile curses for us," the First Ranger shook his head. "Not that it matters. Without him, the wildlings would either slaughter each other or scatter to the winds."
"If he still refuses to speak, I have a skilled torturer in my retinue," Robert hummed thoughtfully. "Give Sevius a day or three, and this Mance Rayder will sing all his secrets for us to hear."
"There's no need for further indignity, Your Grace," Ned warily declined. "His words cannot truly be trusted, torture or not."
The king conceded with a shrug and motioned for the guardsmen to open the door.
Inside, a battered man garbed in only a grey roughspun robe sat on a thick, heavy chair, tied by chains and clasped with manacles on both his hands and feet. Rodrik Cassel was uneasily standing to the side, keeping an eye on the prisoner.
Mance Rayder's hair was tangled, caked with dried dirt and splattered with sweat, and his bruised face was twisted into a pained grimace, possibly because of the linen bandages on his ankle.
"Not very impressive for a king," Robert voiced his disappointment out loud.
"That makes two of us, king kneeler," the deserter spat, heaving.
The kingsguard tensed, but Robert let out booming laughter, "Insolent! You'd make for a fine jester, Rayder. Come now, tell us what are you doing here?"
Gods, it had been quite some time since someone dared to speak to his face like this, and Robert found it refreshing.
"Why would I do that?" The old deserter let out a pained, raspy chuckle. "There's nothing for me but the block."
"Come now, Rayder," the king coaxed. "Swear fealty to me and bend the knee. Speak of your purpose here, and I shall consider sparing you."
Ned and Selmy were about to object, but Robert raised his hand, and they swallowed their words. After all, he was interested to hear the reply but had only really promised to consider.
"Even if I wanted to kneel, I couldn't." Mance spat on the floor and glared at the direwolf beside Stark. "That vile mutt made a cripple out of me with a single bite. You should be wary, your direwolf lord and his progeny are all wargs, and wargs are not to be trusted."
Robert saw how everyone in the room shuffled uneasily, but he could easily see this foolish slander for the ploy that it was. Hah, and it seemed that Ned trained his wild pet very well!
"You were right, Ned - his words are not to be trusted," Robert snorted. "The cold has addled the poor man's wits. Next, he'll tell us how grumpkins and snarks are back!"
"I might have made the mistake of entering the direwolf den, but you'll all be fucked soon enough," Mance Rayder let out a hoarse, vindictive chuckle. "A pity I won't be here to see it myself."
The king glanced at his friend, who looked even paler and more tired.
"I tire of this pointless charade. Off with his head!"
The news of the upcoming execution attracted attention very quickly.
The square in Wintertown was rapidly being filled by the royal court at one side and smallfolk at the other. They stood on an elevated wooden platform, but it was only large enough for House Stark and the Royal family. Benjen was solemnly standing to Ned's other side, not uttering a word. Soon enough, the square was packed full; after all, it wasn't nearly every day that something as interesting as an execution of a wildling king happened.
Myrcella arrived, ever curious, shadowed by Arys Oakheart, and Robert considered for a moment sending her away but decided against it. If his plans were to be realised, she was to be the next Lady of Winterfell; it would do her good to see some Northern justice. Not to mention Catelyn and her daughters were already here. Even Cersei had decided to show her face, possibly out of boredom; he was more than aware of his wife's distaste of everything not Lannister.
Joffrey, who was rarely interested in the trivialities of rulership, had found his way here, followed by the Hound.
Cersei attempted to protest their daughter's presence, but a meaningful glance silenced her. Robert had no patience for her endless complaints right now.
An enormous man wearing dark ringmail and plate adorned with direwolf livery, almost the size of the Mountain, was effortlessly carrying a large granite block that must have weighed at least twenty stone. In his youth, Robert wagered he could do something like this with nary an effort; Gods, he was strong back then!
"A strong man," he noted, "Was this the man who split Lord Volmark in two after killing two dozen reavers at the battle of Harlaw?"
"Aye, it's him," Ned confirmed.
The stone slab was slammed in the middle of the square.
"What was his name again? Waldon?"
"Walder," his friend sighed quietly with a shake of his head. "A most stubborn and leal man and a devout follower of the olden way. Declined knighthood and land so that he could serve House Stark in person. His family have been leal Stark men for generations; his great-grandmother has raised at least four generations of Starks, including my children. I plan to ennoble him soon, land or not."
"Leal service must always be rewarded," Robert agreed and curiously looked at his friend, who was standing still. "Did you finally grow tired of doling out justice yourself and employ a headsman?"
"Nay, House Stark keeps to the Old Way."
At that moment, Robb Stark arrived, garbed in a fine gambeson with a padded surcoat depicting the grey direwolf on top with a white cloak waving on the wind behind him. His face was solemn, and his steps were slightly hesitant. Behind him trailed Jory Cassel, carrying the monstrous greatsword that could only be Ice.
Boos and angry yells erupted from the gathered smallfolk across as a dozen burly men-at-arms dragged Mance Rayder towards the stone slab.
Walder effortlessly pushed the deserter's head down onto the block. Any trace of hesitation disappeared on Robb's face as he used both hands to unsheathe the Valyrian Steel greatsword that was only slightly shorter than him. Ned's heir looked at Robert, and the king nodded.
"Last words?"
"Fuck you," Rayder spat on the ground. "But you kneelers will be fucked soon enough when the Others come for you too."
A wave of dark murmurs passed through the crowd, and Robert squinted at the self-proclaimed king savage; the damned man kept making trouble.
"In the name of Robert of House Baratheon," Robb's powerful voice cut through the whispers, "the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Robb of House Stark, Heir to Winterfell, sentence Mance Rayder to die!"
The rippled greatsword rose in the air, and with a single sure strike, Mance Rayder's head rolled on the mud.
Ned's lad was good; there was no mistake about it. Although he looked a tad unsettled, his sword arm was sure, and he conducted himself with dignity. The more he looked at Robb, the more he liked his future good-son.
Robert took a deep breath, "Put that head on a spike for all to see on the main gate. Let buzzards and vultures peck it clean!"
As Robb cleaned the blood from Ice with a cloth, the smallfolk erupted into cheers, chanting 'Stark' and 'Baratheon', making Robert laugh boisterously.
Slowly, the crowd began to disperse.
"Ned, I'll be leaving for Castle Black," Benjen said. "Lord Commander Mormont must be notified."
The First Ranger seemed even wearier than Ned now.
"Send a raven, Benjen," Robert snorted. "Or at least take a good night's sleep. Why rush back to that icy Wall of yours?"
"Who knows what preparations Rayder has made, and ravens can get lost in the North."
Tsk, those Stark men spoke with far too much reason!
"Bah, you Northmen, always duty, work, and no fun." The king couldn't help but pity Benjen; the poor man had decided to swear off women and warmth at scarcely five and ten.
"Take all the horses you need, and pick ten of my outriders to escort you," Ned hugged his brother tightly and patted his back.
"Take care, Ned," the First Ranger turned to Robert and bowed, "Your Grace."
And just like that, Benjen Stark was on his way to the stables. The king looked at his friend, whose eyes were tired, and a yawn attempted to escape his mouth, only to be covered by his gloved hand. Good, Robert knew that tired men were far easier to agree to persistent requests, as this was a strategy Cersei heavily employed on him.
"So, Lord Stark, what is your decision?"
"Too many ears here. Let's head to the Godswood," Ned's tired face twisted into a grimace.
Most of the men-at-arms were dismissed; only Rodrik Cassel, two burly Stark guardsmen, and Selmy followed them into the ancient grove. Eddard's steps had grown sluggish, so their way there took far more time than before.
They reached the Heart Tree, and Robert motioned to the men to move away and give them some privacy. The Highlord's eyes hardened into two chips of stone.
"I'll accept, Your Grace, but I have some conditions."
"Conditions, Ned?" Gods, why was his friend trying to bargain like a fishmaid at the market?! "Fine, name them!"
"Halved tax for the North until the next spring."
Robert struggled to remember all those endless sums and ledgers, but his head began to pulse, and he waved his hand away in the end, "Granted!" Who cared about copper counting anyway? Soon enough, it would be Ned's problem again, not his!
"I want the Gift returned back to the North."
"Done," Robert generously declared. Let none say that he was not an open-handed king! What the dragon took, the stag would return!
"And lastly, larger support for the Night's Watch from the South."
"I can't force free men to take the Black. You should know that Ned," the king shook his head.
"Nay, there's no need for any force. I plan to reform the Watch and need your support for it."
"Why bother?" Robert asked, genuinely confused. "The King Beyond the Wall is dead, and the wildlings will continue squabbling amongst each other again. Don't tell me you believe that old wive's tale about the Others? I know the likes of Mance Rayder, and they would say anything just to spite you!"
"Aye, that might be true, but what if someone manages to gather the wildlings under a single banner again? They are already gathered in tens of thousands; even half would be a problem. The Night's Watch simply doesn't have the men to patrol the Wall, let alone beat back an incursion. And I cannot deal with them if I am in King's Landing."
Robert opened his mouth, then thought better and closed it. While Robb was a capable lad, he was too young to lead a war. And the southern banners would take at least half a year to muster and march all the way into the northern heartland. Damn his friend, he was making far too much sense!
Bah, it was not as if Robert would be the one to deal with this either, beyond stamping a few letters or decrees.
"You can have as much support as you can gather, Lord Hand," the King agreed. "But I want to see Myrcella and Robb wed before we leave south. She's a maiden long flowered. There's no point in waiting. Go rest now, and tomorrow we'll celebrate with a hunt!"
Jon Snow
They had about two or three more days until they reached Craster's Keep. The fabled earth singers were scarcely affected by the cold, slow to tire, quick to move, and did not slow their pace in the slightest. In fact, they aided them greatly; half a dozen ones with dark spotted skin were very skilled hunters, a handful of them could easily cook or forage for edible roots and herbs, and there was even a skinchanger. A thin brown-haired Singer that Jon called Deer, with a grey owl companion.
Even now, a few were of them scouting around or hunting.
Yet, for all their agility and endurance, they were quite weak. Jon estimated that a trained boy of three and ten could overpower most if not all of them. The only other downside was that none but Leaf spoke the Common Tongue; only a handful could understand the Old Tongue, and even fewer spoke it. Their names were too long and cumbersome to be reproduced in common speech, so Jon had to make up a handful of names for himself.
They cautiously rode into a settlement; the Singers of the Earth trailed warily behind them. It could barely be called a village, with a simple dilapidated hall and a handful of drab thatched huts nestled around an old, twisted heart tree with a terrified face.
"This place has been recently abandoned," Jarod ominously pointed at the dry firewood under the crude roof to the side. "It's the third settlement like this."
"We've not seen a single human ever since crossing the Wall," Big Liddle added.
As Jon had known, the Others were already adding thralls to their ranks, one group of free folk at a time.
"I'm afraid we'll meet with some soon enough," he turned to the earthsinger, "Leaf, send one of yours to scout carefully."
A short conversation in that odd, melodic tongue that sounded like a gentle song, and one of the darker-furred singers that Jon named Blackstep cautiously began to check building by building. Jon honestly doubted that there was anything here, Red Jeyne and Maude seemed far too calm, and it was not cold enough for the 'ice singers' to be here now. The unnatural chill their presence brought was not something easily forgotten.
"Has something happened to Ghost?" Duncan worriedly rubbed his thickening stubble. "We haven't seen him in five days now."
"Ghost is a few hours away to the southeast, hunting for his own food and scouting the nearby woods," a chuckle escaped his lips as he remembered looking through his companion's eyes earlier. "He has found some friends."
"Friends?" Jarod echoed, curious.
"Aye, of the canine kind." Six more wolves had begun to follow the direwolf; if Ghost kept it up, he'd have his own large pack of wolves in a few moons. There was even a young, motherless direwolf pup, weaning at one of the bitches.
After a handful of tense minutes, Blackstep returned, body bereft of tension, and nodded. Jon could understand that easily enough, even without Leaf's translation.
The Others had definitely slain the inhabitants here. There were some signs of struggle, a few broken doors, but other than that, nothing. Although hungry predators could have broken the doors in search of food, it mattered little. After a round of cleaning, they settled in the hall and hung a heavy bearskin on the open entrance to bar the cold outside. There was even a large bronze cauldron left behind, which was carefully scrubbed and used to make a stew of the pair of deer two of the singers had just caught. Despite having deer-like dappled skin, it seemed that they were not deterred from eating things that looked similar to them.
A few leafcloaks were stationed on the roof and trees outside as lookouts. Jon sparred a few quick bouts with his human companions before heading outside. Snow crunched under his boots as he restlessly walked around the small settlement while waiting for dinner to be ready. Red Jeyne faithfully trotted after him as usual, and in the end, he ended up face-to-face with the thick, twisted Heart Tree.
Jon knelt in silent prayer before the carved face that was forever frozen in agony. Long ago, he used to seek guidance, peace, and luck before the weirwood. But as time passed, those things slowly lost meaning amidst the snow and death. Now, he prayed not for himself but for his kin's and kith's wellbeing instead.
Now that Jon was here, beyond the Wall and not alone, things changed. Should he continue on his planned course or try something completely different?
For a short moment, he sensed someone silently approaching behind him and tensed. Yet Red Jeyne turned, and he could easily see through her eyes; it was no foe.
"No wonder the gods chose you," Leaf's soft, sad voice sounded behind him. "In all my life, I've seen few as genuinely devoted as you."
Was it truly devotion? In the end, he had little but duty, and the Old Gods left, and Jon had latched onto both like a drowning man to a straw.
He turned to look at the short, child-like being behind him. As always, sadness and melancholy clung to her closer than her cloak of leaves.
"You mentioned me being chosen before?"
"Yes," the singer was heavily amused. "The Gods picked you as their champion."
Jon rubbed his brow in confusion. This was the second time Leaf mentioned this.
"And what does being a champion of the Old Gods entail?"
"Nothing more than a blessing, a mark for potential greatness, or even a reward for a grand deed," her cat-like eyes blinked curiously, "Raw weirwood sap from a Heart Tree is very strong, very poisonous, without any preparation, lethal to even greenseers. Only those chosen by the Gods can survive it; your eyes, nose, and mouth bear its bountiful mark. Your skinchanging powers have been altered. I assume you can only slip into the mind of your direwolf and hounds?"
"Aye," he confirmed. "I attempted to bind a raven or a snow shrike but 'twas in vain. Though it could be my inexperience more than anything else."
"It is as I thought," Leaf tugged on a tangled strand of her hair. "I might be mistaken, but your powers are forever bound to warging. Your talent for it has increased a thousandfold, but your ability to connect to other beasts is gone in exchange."
"How do you know all these things?"
"I have lived a long, long life, and seen many things, Jon Snow," a forlorn sigh tore from her. "Mayhaps too many. The True Tongue lets you connect to nature itself if you delve deeper into it. We singers have very sharp senses, and I have learned to see and to hear."
Jon couldn't help but imagine that if the Old Gods had deemed to choose priests, Leaf would be one of them.
"Is that why Ghost grows so quickly?"
"Perhaps. I am not too well-versed in the art of skinchanging, but I do know a few things. Just as the beast bleeds into the man, so does the man bleed into the beast," her liquid golden eyes inspected him with great interest. "More so with such a strong connection like yours, Jon Snow. And even without the Old God's blessing, you're… more, and in turn, so is your direwolf."
"Stew's ready," Jarod's cry echoed from the shabby hall.
The waxing moon softly illuminated the night sky as Jon stood vigil on the hall's roof. Sleep had not come easy, and he had decided to take the first watch with two other Singers; after all, he couldn't let them handle all the trivial tasks forever. One was nestled on a sentinel tree to the North, and the other had climbed an old oak to the southwest.
Suddenly, the air became a familiar deathly cold, and his hand instinctively found the pommel of Dark Sister. Red Jeyne whimpered below, and Jon agilely jumped to the ground and entered the hall where his followers slumbered.
"To arms! They are here!" Jarod and Duncan immediately jumped at his cry, and so did the Singers. "Light your torches. The wights will burn like kindling at the smallest flame. Archers to the roof, the rest retreat to the hall and avoid fighting the Others up close."
Author's Endnote:
Mance Rayder has nothing to lose as his life is forfeit, no reason to speak, and every reason to dislike House Stark right now. We already saw that he's a stubborn fuck. And right now, he's not feeling very generous, either. Ned has no reason to trust a deserter's word who curses and tries to deceive.
Well, Ned finally buckled, and the celebratory hunt is now on the table.
We see some light shed on Jon's situation, but as with everything arcane in ASOIAF, I decided to make it rather ambiguous. Maybe Leaf is correct, maybe she's biased, but hey, that's the only explanation we have so far *waves his unreliable narrator t-shirt*.
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!
As usual, Selmy was vigilantly standing outside of his quarters, although worry shone in his pale blue eyes. Moore, with his lifeless gaze and empty face, joined Selmy at the entrance of the Guest House. One could mistake the Valeman for a corpse if he were not moving. Alas, his skills with the blade had earned him the white cloak after winning a melee a handful of years ago.
Jon just needs to go become the next King Beyond the Wall. I mean, as far as qualifications are concerned he'd be able to intimidate and inspire most of the Freefolk into following him. Plus, His wildling woman was the best of them!
Despite doing it a thousand times, stringing his horn and yew bow suddenly became a very arduous task for his shaking hands. After many northern winters, Jarod thought he knew cold.
He was wrong.
The frigid air became heavy, oppressive, and almost painful to breathe. Not even amid the worst winter had he felt such a dire chill. Even he, a veteran of many a battle, felt his stomach turn into knots like a green summer boy. The two hounds on watch, Maude and Helicent, slunk fearfully into the hall, whimpering.
"Six of our best archers to the roof," Jon's steely voice brooked no disobedience as he calmly strode half a dozen yards before the hall's door. Just a little shy of six feet, the young man had a lithe frame that had room to grow still, but his cloaked back looked impossibly large.
For the first time, Leaf's song-like speech sounded dire like an autumn storm as she quickly repeated the words to her kin. Jarod and five more Singers quickly climbed the crude thatched roof and carefully positioned themselves on the wooden beams to avoid falling through the straw. Although it was more about him than the leafcloaks - Jarod reckoned most of the Singers barely weighted more than six stone.
The moon had waned, but no clouds barred the starry sky, shining scarce light upon the haunted forest around them.
"Duncan, hold the entrance," the dragonblade remained on his belt; instead, Jon had a burning torch in his right hand and a leather-bound buckler in the left. "Save the obsidian for the Cold Ones. Wights tire not but are slow and clumsy. As long as you are careful and stay away, you have nothing to fear from them."
Fear wrenched his insides, and Jarod had to push down his desire to flee. Liddles did not flee. The silence stretched painfully as the frigid air stung in his eyes, and every breath bitterly raked at his throat; the only sound that could be heard was the cracking crowns of flame atop the torches. He strained his ears to the limit, and he finally heard them. Footsteps ominously crunched through the snow, and half a minute later, Jarod saw silhouettes approach in the darkness. Next, he saw the eyes shining through the night, all blue like a cold, akin to baleful stars.
True to Jon's word, they slowly approached as if in no hurry at all, and soon he could make out some details. Men and women, garbed in furs and crude leathers, young children and old crones, all came like a slow, tidal wave of rot and flesh towards the hall. Face and skin all deathly pale, with darkened, bloated hands. The sight of a young girl, barely six, with half of her face slashed off and her guts cut open, made his stomach churn.
Jarod's hands began to shake even harder, and he wondered if he had not been a fool to come here. His gaze found the Singers at his sides, and he found them pale and shaking like lone leaves in the wind.
Were they all going to die here? The old clansman bit the tip of his tongue, shook his head furiously and squeezed the bow in his arms with all his strength.
He was no craven!
Below, in front of the hall, Jon Snow stood undaunted. Spine straight like a spear, an icy gale made his cloak flutter, causing the white wolf's sigil to dance amidst the encroaching darkness.
Laughter bubbled in Jarod's throat, but the cold choked it; here he was, a man of nearly one and sixty, feeling fear on the roof, while a lad of six and ten bravely faced off directly against the icy darkness of old on his lonesome.
As his foes approached, Jon Snow did the unthinkable.
He took a step forward, and his body blurred.
The only thing Jarod could see was the torch tearing through the darkness like a falling star across the skies. The flame danced, and two heartbeats later, the snowy clearing was finally illuminated as the corpses began to burn like a hungry bonfire.
Hah, like a kindling indeed!
Jon Snow moved faster than the old clansman thought possible, staying out of reach of his foes while his torch lightly tapped the bloated limbs. Jarod pinched his leg to check if he was asleep, but the pain was very much real as he watched their young leader methodically and ruthlessly eliminate the shambling corpses. Clustered too closely together and pushing against each other, the fire began to spread among them.
A small handful of wights wandered towards the hall, and at that moment, a battle cry tore through the quiet of the night. Duncan slammed his torch in the face of the first corpse before ramming his shield into it, knocking it straight into the two behind.
The flame hungrily devoured them, and his grandnephew struck down the final foe before quickly returning to his post at the hall's doorway.
Less than a minute later, Jon Snow stopped moving amidst a fiery clearing; the snow had melted where the burning corpses had fallen on the ground, and a soft, steamy mist rose in the darkness. In the dark, they had looked like a tide, but his wayward glance told him they were less than three dozen. The hungry flames quickly fizzled out, leaving nought but embers, bones, and muddy ash in their wake. The sour smell of rot and charred meat was heavy in the air.
Jon Snow's torch flickered, and Jarod's gaze was drawn northward into the dark woods.
A weak gasp escaped his lips as he finally saw. A shadow finally stepped into the clearing. Tall, gaunt, as if its limbs had no meat, pale, bereft of any colour. The Other radiated cold, icy hardness and wore an odd, translucent armour that changed colour with every step. One moment, it was black as a shadow; the next - white as snow, dappled with brown and green from the trees and slushy mud. It all danced like a shadow on a moving torch with every step the being took.
Jarod's hands were stiff with cold, and he could hardly bend his arms to reach for the quiver on his belt. With gritted teeth, he grabbed an arrow, but the shaft broke in his stiff grasp. It took him a few precious heartbeats, and a new arrow was finally set on the bowstring. Yet his hands weren't steady enough, and he couldn't aim well enough so far away in the darkness.
The leather-bound buckler was thrown aside, and the flickering torch was sharply stabbed into the slush, and with a single, graceful motion, Jon Snow threw his cloak over his shoulder and unsheathed his blade. Its dark, smokey ripples looked like they sucked in the dancing light as the blade was finally released into the open.
The Cold One had an impossibly thin, translucent longsword as if made of glass in his hands. Its eyes were blue, so deep a blue unlike anything he had seen before; there was something malevolent to them, and they burned like ice. Jarod's heart faltered as one, two, three more shadows emerged from the darkness behind the first. Yet they stood at the end of the clearing like icy statues, looking on with their cold blue eyes and making no move to approach the confrontation.
The one in front swept its cold gaze across the clearing and to the hall before pinning Jon Snow. It opened its mouth, and a sinister, sharp sound escaped akin to icicles escaped its blue lips.
The language was sharp, jarring, unlike anything Jarod had ever heard, but he recognised the following sound.
It was laughing at them mockingly.
Fury awoke in Jarod's veins, and his hands finally stopped shaking. He notched a dragonglass arrow, pulled the string, and aimed at the one facing the young son of Winterfell. He was still unsure about hitting true in the dark, especially as Jon was too close, and he could move too damn fast. And the other Cold Ones were too far for Jarod to aim true in the darkness. He was not the only one, as the Singers next to him had all aimed. Yet just as he was hesitating, Jon Snow raised his hand in a fist, and the old clansman slowly released the tension in the bowstring.
Suddenly they both moved; the dark, smoky blade met the crystalline sword, and an anguished high-pitched sound, as thin as a needle, painfully lingered in the frigid air.
The cold, blue eyes were no longer mocking, only malevolent, and the Other stirred into action, inhumanely quick.
Jarod's heart beat like a furious drum as the pitched, keening sounds rippled in the air, making his head pulse painfully. Both Jon and his foes moved so inhumanely fast that his eyes strained to keep track of them in the darkness of the night. Striking true now seemed impossible, but he still held the black-tipped arrow notched on his string just in case.
The minutes dragged on painfully, and neither figure appeared to slow, yet Jon's lightning-fast silhouette seemed faster and faster. His movements became less and less choppy, and the dragonsword became more and more savage as its fierce slashes cleaved through the air from one strike into the next like a raging river.
Eventually, the icy blade was too slow to parry, and the dark, smoky sword bit into the pale neck.
Something sizzled; the sound of ice breaking clearly echoed in the night, followed by a screech so sharp and heartrending that Jarod dropped his bow, and his gloved hands instinctively covered his ears. Under his surprised gaze, the Other had stilled, and like a spiderweb, cracks quickly spread across his body, which quickly began to melt. Dark Sister sizzled softly as a small, smoky cloud surrounded it. Pale bones, and crystalline armour, were all gone in a matter of heartbeats, leaving only a cold pool of freezing water at Jon Snow's feet.
He had done it!
Yet Jarod's joy was short-lived, as three more pale shadows rapidly moved through the darkness towards Jon Snow, icy swords all drawn. They did not run, yet were almost as fast as a horse, their steps graceful, leaving no footprints in the snow. The young Northerner below turned towards them and stepped forward, sword poised for another fight.
The old clansman cursed and quickly fumbled; thankfully, his bow lay at his feet and had not fallen from the roof. Twangs sang through the air, and the other five Singers deftly began shooting with their weirwood bows, raining black-tipped arrows at the incoming Cold Ones. It took him a moment to join them in the effort as he released arrows as fast as he could at their gaunt faces.
The Others were hardly deterred but quickly slowed down; Jarod could see a spark of apprehension in their cold eyes. Still, they were quick, agile, and hard to hit, and the obsidian tips struck at the glass-like armour, producing a keening sound as if an animal cried out in pain but seemed to do no damage to it. The thin, crystalline swords danced through the air, striking most arrows away.
Yet under the persistent hail, a shard of sharpened obsidian found a piece of unprotected pale flesh. One of the Cold Ones cracked with a pained screech before melting away. Less than fifteen yards from Jon, the last two foes stopped still in their tracks, hesitating, but the rain of arrows began to wane. Jarod reached into his quiver, but his hand found it empty. Alas, the amount of dragonglass was limited, and none of them had more than a dozen obsidian-tipped arrows at any time.
Under the old clansman's surprised eyes, they turned around and dashed away.
Yet Jon Snow charged after them, like a wolf pouncing after its prey.
For a moment, Jarod thought that their young leader had been led into a sinister trap, but then two cracks rang after each other, and a pair of wailing cries tore through the night.
The horses were still very scared and neighing in fright, and it was pure luck that they had not managed to tear through their bindings and run away. One of the Singers, with grey eyes and reddish-gold hair, began to sing a slow, peaceful tune that calmed the steeds down.
Jarod couldn't help but whistle; the little Earth Singers proved more and more useful with every passing day.
"Fuck!" Duncan released a sharp, shuddering breath and wiped away the pooling beads of sweat from his brow. "None would believe this. Not without seeing with their own eyes."
They edged closer to the giant bonfire Jon had ordered to be set alight in the middle of the clearing. More than a third of the stashed firewood in the settlement had been spent on it.
His nephew looked as if he had run to Red Hill and back, and Jarod felt the same, despite the fact he had sat still on a wooden beam for the entire battle.
"Indeed," Jarod agreed grimly, "I'm still unsure whether this is some bad nightmare…"
"A few charred bones are hardly proof of anything, nor is a puddle of frozen water," his nephew shook his head.
He looked to the side, where Jon Snow stood placidly as if he had not just slain three foes of legend. There was a deep, purple gash beneath his left eye and another, lesser one on his forearm, and a leafcloak with white hair that Jarod had called Snowy was fussing over his wounds with some dark-green paste while sadly uttering sad words in her quaint tongue.
"She says that both shall leave a scar," Leaf added from the side. He only grunted disinterestedly at the news. "You fight very aggressively."
The old clansman had noticed as well but decided to hold his tongue. The shame of being frozen in fear while a lad scarcely a quarter his age was bravely fighting was still fresh in his mind; it made his blood boil. Not to mention that their chosen leader clearly knew what he was doing even in his daring boldness; two small wounds fighting such mighty foes were a small price for a victory.
"Fear is their greatest weapon, and someone has to break it," Jon hummed. "How much did we salvage?"
Jarod couldn't help but agree; he himself managed to overcome his fright due to the young bastard's unending valour.
"Twenty-three arrowheads and forty-seven shafts," the Singer said. "The rest is too damaged for a proper rework."
"So we lost a sixth of our arrowheads, but we have no casualties," he summarised. "Quite lucky that they attacked a somewhat defensible position. If we are forced to fight in an open field, we'll be hard-pressed to avoid deaths or heavy wounds. And we might need to find a new source of obsidian."
"We know a few deposits of frozen fire around the Frostfangs and the hills and caves of the Haunted Forest," Leaf shrugged, and Jon Snow's head whipped towards her in surprise. Snowy, trying to bandage Jon Snow's wounded forearm, sighed in exasperation. "Why so surprised? The Singers have used what you call obsidian since the Dawn of Days before you men walked the land. We are adept at finding it and even better at working it."
The clearing descended into silence, and the red hound lazily trodded in and curled by her master's feet.
"Can't we catch some of the walking corpses?" Duncan asked hoarsely. "Bring it to the Watch. Let the Northern Lords witness what stirs here, Beyond the Wall. With the North behind us, we shall not lack for swords to aid us!"
"It's far harder than it sounds," Jon's voice was forlorn. "The wights rarely, if ever, wander off without a purpose alone. Their masters always keep them close. Horses can't bear the smell of the dead; even if we capture one, it will forever struggle with its full strength. And the magic that keeps them going fades if you slay their master, so you'd not only have to capture one but either run away or let the Other flee. Not worth the risk."
"Aye, and they were not beyond fleeing when the tide of battle turned against them," Jarod noted. "Even when seemingly outnumbering us, they struck in the darkness of the night. Cunning, yet lacking in courage, just like a band of Dornishmen. If too big a force comes, they would probably avoid engaging in an open battle."
Duncan thoughtfully nodded.
"Even if we capture a wight, what's to stop them from claiming it's just some vile sorcery?" Jon's voice was slow yet heavy and bitter. "The learned men of the Citadel are sceptical of the old tales. Some still believe the Singers, Giants, and Others to simply be extinct wildling tribes," Leaf snorted in amusement while Jarod rubbed his brow tiredly. "And there are plenty of records of sorcerers capable of raising the dead as thralls, and it is not something unique to the Others. A handful of the more arcane sects in Essos can still do it to this day. If the opportunity presents itself, we should grab it, but there is no need to place ourselves at risk needlessly."
The old clansman couldn't help but look at Jon in a new light. Not only was he a fierce and daring fighter, but a man of words and learning. And while his goals and plans did not look very formidable at first glance, he seemed well-prepared to handle all sorts of trouble that came with leadership or fighting in enemy territory.
"Are we still headed for Craster's Keep?" Jarod asked.
"Aye, we're only two days away."
3d Day of the 5th Moon
Eddard Stark
He looked through the opened window; the sun was scarcely peaking through the eastern horizon, yet the yard was already buzzing with men eager for the coming hunt. It seemed that time had only made Robert's appetites for entertainment greater, but Ned welcomed the distraction with everything that had happened.
For good or bad, his son was to marry Cersei's daughter, and while he felt somewhat torn about the choice of bride, Ned could find no qualms in the princess herself, nor were there any unsavoury rumours following in her wake. Catelyn was happy with the match; Howland was supportive, but he still held a waning grain of doubt from Jon's letter.
But it mattered not now; the deal was already struck and would soon be sealed in blood.
With a sigh, he closed the shutter and pulled the heavy tapestry back in its place before returning to his bed, where his wife had finally stirred from her drowsiness. It was a surprise to find Cat next to him as he awoke, but not an unwelcome one.
"Isn't it too sudden?" She asked. "Less than a moon! Wouldn't it be better to wait and give them time to know each other? Many lords would want to attend the wedding of the northern heir and a royal princess."
"The king commanded it," Ned shook his head. "I've sent ravens to my bannermen, and it's plenty enough for them to arrive at Winterfell should they wish. Besides, the royal retinue already strains our stores, and you want to wait for moons and invite the whole realm?"
Catelyn finally nodded in agreement before humming.
"Which children shall we take to King's Landing with us?"
The Lord of Winterfell stilled and gazed at his wife. He grimaced inwardly; it was a normal thing for the Hand's wife to accompany him in the capital.
Yet he could not afford to do so.
"All of them shall stay here, in Winterfell, and so shall you," he said.
"No," Cat's face had gone as pale as snow, and her blue eyes shone with fear.
"Yes," he sighed. "The South is too dangerous for us Starks, I'd rather not risk you or our children."
"If you think it so dangerous, why accept?" Her voice was as weak, barely a whisper.
"I'm willing to take the risk," Ned hardened his heart. "But you shall stay. It would be cruel to leave our children without both a mother and a father. Robb would need your experience and advice to govern the North."
"Robb is a man grown now, and he scarcely needs his mother to coddle him at six and ten," Cat softly countered. "You have filled his head with endless lessons, and while he might lack experience, he is more than capable of ruling Winterfell. The princess's wit is not inferior to her beauty. I have little doubt that Myrcella can be a worthy Lady of Winterfell in my absence."
"My decision is final," his wife's shoulders sagged in defeat. "But fret not, I don't intend to linger long in the south."
Or so he hoped. Eddard Stark would do his duty but had no desire to stay in the pit of vipers for too long nor quarrel with his hardheaded childhood friend.
The room descended into silence as Ned stretched his stiff limbs; it was rare that he'd sleep for so long but even rarer to forego sleep for a whole night.
"What will happen to Arya, Ned? Our daughter told Mordane that she shall no longer attend the septa's lessons as you'll find her a different tutor."
He looked at his wife, who gazed at him hesitantly from the bed.
"I have summoned Maege's third daughter; she should be here within a fortnight."
"Lyra Mormont?" Catelyn's blue eyes were filled with doubt. "She's barely a maiden of twenty, and has training at arms, Ned!"
"Aye, the opposite of the Septa in almost every way," he agreed, "Mayhaps she will have an easier time teaching our daughter. And I promised Arya to allow her practice with a bow should she behave during the Royal visit."
"So that's why she's so obedient," his wife murmured quietly. "But training to fight? It will be hard to find her a husband later on!"
"I know," a sigh escaped his lips. "But the wolfsblood is not so easily tamed. She will be quick to rebel against anything she considers injustice. For now, let her struggle with the bow; it is not something easily mastered. If Arya fails, she will have no grounds to complain."
To be a marksman requires a grown man's strength, a trained man's endurance, and years of dull, repeated training. Yet, even if she managed to master it, it would be fine, as fighting foes from afar was acceptable, just like Alysanne Blackwood. But, deep inside, Ned had given up on finding a great match for Arya. He'd be willing to let her take her pick from the North, as long as they were leal and worthy.
"She's soon to grow into maidenhood and find boys more interesting than swords," Catelyn said, sounding hopeful, like she tried to convince herself more than him. Her eyes hardened with resolve. "Ned, I shall teach our daughter."
"When? Your duties are bound to keep you busy, especially with the Royal Retinue here and the arriving guests."
"Arya can shadow me, watch and learn the duties of a Lady of the keep," his wife's voice was soft, pleading. "I can set aside some time each day to teach her the rest."
"Fine," he agreed. "But she's still to attend lessons with Lyra Mormont when she comes. And I stand by my promise; should Arya behave, she can begin training in the bow. But only the bow."
A soft smile danced on Catelyn's face as she put aside the covers, revealing her bare body, and pulled him into the bed.
They slowly gathered in the yard before the Hunter's Gate, preparing to ride into the Wolfswood. Only the king was yet to show up, and much to Ned's dismay, if the chatter of the royal retinue was correct, his tardiness was a common occurrence. Alas, his favourite tent was gone, taken by his boy, and now the Lord of Winterfell had to settle for another, lesser one. Ah, that myrish silk cot! He just hoped Jon was faring fine, whatever he was doing now.
Winter trotted faithfully to his side; the Lord of Winterfell wanted to see if the direwolf would follow his commands in the wilderness. The presence of the young wolf seemed to unnerve almost all of the nearby horses.
Ned's gaze slid to the younger group, which was split in two. On one side, there was the Joffrey, excitedly inspecting a gilded crossbow, shadowed by the Hound and surrounded by older squires and younger knights from the royal retinue. The Lord of Winterfell found it odd that the crown prince lacked a Kingsguard, but it was none of his business if the king preferred his heir to have Clegane for a sworn sword over a white cloak.
On the other side was Robb, accompanied by Grey Wind, Theon, the younger Stark men-at-arms, and northern huntsmen. For the first time in a while, his son looked absentminded, even hesitant.
Gods, Ned did not have the chance to speak with Robb since the feast! His son knew he had to marry one day, but probably did not expect to be so soon…
"Jory," Eddard turned to the younger Cassel, that followed him along with half a dozen men-at-arms. "Bring me Robb."
The Captain of the guard quickly spurred his horse towards the younger group, and soon his heir was before him. Winter and Grey Wind curiously began to chase around each other, unnerving most of the Southron horses that were still unused with the scent of the direwolves. Even the northern ones were still eyeing the two wolves warily after more than two moons.
"You summoned me, Father?" Robb's voice was absentminded.
"Aye," Ned nodded with a sigh. "What troubles you so, my son?"
"My wife-to-be," his heir whispered.
"Is she not to your liking?"
"No, it's not that, but, ah…"
"Princess Myrcella is courteous, pretty, with wit to spare, and I can hardly think of anyone better suited to be your bride," the Lord of Winterfell admitted. None of his northern maidens came close to the princess in bearing, grace, or courtesy.
"I shall do my duty," Robb sighed. "I just look at the bitter queen, with her cold eyes and scathing glances and wonder if Myrcella would take after her mother."
"Fret not, my son. Your mother and I were two strangers wed together, yet we grew to love each other."
"How did you do it?"
"It takes time, effort, and understanding, but do not despair; you will have all of a lifetime to know her. Most importantly, do not dwell on things that could have been yet failed to happen. As long as you respect your lady wife, she shall warm up to you. Did you have a chance to speak with her yet?"
"Aye, but only shortly. Myrcella is indeed beautiful and courteous, although a sliver of pride hid underneath," a ghostly smile found its way to Robb's face.
"Pride oft comes with royalty, Robb," Ned chuckled. "But so what? There's no finer match for a princess than my son and heir. The North is as large as the rest of the kingdoms together, and there are no other suitors in Westeros with a pedigree as ancient and mighty as yours nor any other heirs as skilled and well-trained as you. Do not sell yourself short."
Much to Eddard's amusement, Robb's cheeks reddened, and he ducked his head.
A few moments later, his son shook his head and coughed. "Any other words of advice?"
"Well, the wedding might be in less than a moon, but that's plenty of time," the Lord of Winterfell found himself smiling. "After the hunt, court her as is due. Show your betrothed around Winterfell-"
"I know how courting works," Robb interrupted with another cough.
"Well then, I don't have much advice left to give you," Ned snorted.
"What if I make a mistake?"
"Everyone makes mistakes, Robb. It's inevitable. Do not be afraid to make one. Learning from them is what counts," his son nodded thoughtfully, most of his earlier hesitation finally gone. At that moment, Robert finally appeared atop his destrier. "Take care and clear your head from distraction. A hunt is a serious endeavour, not to be underestimated; the cornered animals are the most dangerous ones."
Author's Endnote:
We're back with some action. Someone continues being reckless. Or maybe it's daring/bold since it worked?
Back in Winterfell, Ned finally managed to get some sleep. Some important conversations are had.
Robb hesitates a bit, but who wouldn't when told they were to marry a stranger with a disfunctional family in less than thirty days, no matter how pretty.
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!
The princess knew she had to marry but did not expect the wedding to come so soon and so suddenly. Back in the south, the knights and lordlings of all ages from every corner of Westeros had attempted to court her, but the king and the queen were quick to not only dismiss but forbid it. One of the rare few things they both seemed to agree on with ease. Her uncles' heavy glares and sharp tongues were quick to dissuade and chase away any errant attempts as well.
Oh, Myrcella knew well enough that she would probably wed someone important, but she had always thought that Joffrey would be the one to wed a Stark, not her. Not that she minded, but the suddenness had caught her flat-footed. Although it seemed that she was not the only one surprised. Her royal father had probably been heavy-handed about this, as her future family were just as surprised as she was, although Robb Stark had been hard to read.
Winterfell was a grand keep, easily bigger than the Red Keep itself, built in solid granite instead of pale red stone. The smell of privy was absent, replaced with clean, fresh air, slightly scented with pine and sweet smoke. There wasn't any excess luxury on display, and the northerners seemed quite practical, but her future family did not seem to lack wealth. The insides of the Great Hall, Great Keep, and Guest Hall seemed to be more oriented towards the practical display of martial prowess, as there were plenty of hunting trophies and carefully-woven tapestries depicting victories and heroic feats of old lined plenty of walls. And in the Great Hall alone, she managed to see more ironwood than ever before in her life.
All of the Starks wore silks and velvet with ease, aside from Lady Stark and her younger daughter, who seemed to prefer plainer clothing. Her future good family was far different from what she expected. Sure, they lacked the usual pomp and annoying sycophantic flattery, but that was not all. It took Myrcella a few days to finally put her finger on the difference - they had something that had been missing direly in the interactions of both House Baratheon and Lannister.
Warmth.
There was no love lost between her Baratheon side of the family. Stannis was gruff, always scowling and grinding his teeth. Her cousin Shireen was a small, sad thing marked by greyscale and was almost always stuck on Dragonstone, out of sight and mind of the royal court. Renly might have always had a smile on his face, but it was a distant, frivolous thing, just like the rest of him. The Lannisters… were cold and quite reserved, even to each other. Her Grandfather seemed incapable of smiling, let alone joy and happiness, and the rest of his House seemed to follow his example one way or another.
While the Starks… were warm like the rays of the midday sun, despite, or maybe because, they ruled the vast lands of ice and snow. It was a subtle thing that was not easy to notice, but if you looked closer at the subtle gestures, Lord and Lady Stark loved each other dearly. Even the First Ranger Benjen, Lord Stark's brother, seemed well-loved by his kin. Her future good brother and sisters seemed so different from each other as the night and day, yet there was so much familial affection and warmth in their interactions.
All things considered, Myrcella did not mind being wedded to the Stark heir. But there was a problem - her betrothed was hard to read. To her chagrin, unlike the others his age in the royal court, Robb did not seem smitten with her beauty, and she could feel a trace of hesitation under his impassive face. Myrcella did not want a cold, distant marriage like her parents, full of hateful quarrels and indignity.
She had tried to pry out some details from her future good-sister Sansa as they did their stitches together with the Septa the day before, yet the red-haired girl had only provided a few polite, cautious words revealing nothing of import. Her options of knowing more before the hunting party returned were rather limited, so she decided that a visit to her uncle was due. Despite his short stature, his eyes and mind were sharp, and he always knew all sorts of interesting things and provided sound advice.
Thus, after breaking her fast in her quarters, Myrcella headed to her Uncle Tyrion's room on the floor below, shadowed by the ever-silent Ser Arys. Her mother would throw a fit as she did every time Myrcella visited her uncle, but what Cersei didn't know wouldn't hurt her.
As she entered the lower hallway, a small, short figure almost crashed into her. Under her stunned gaze, a familiar young red-haired boy, scarcely reaching above her waist, barely managed to stop half a yard away from her. The boy was clad in a dark cotton tunic and grey pants and had a small, ermine mantle behind him.
"Hullo!" Rickon Stark breathlessly beamed at her with his bright blue eyes. Behind him trailed a shaggy, pitch-black wolf with a wagging tail, lolled-out tongue and green eyes, along with an exasperated burly Stark guardsman who bowed respectfully. The boy urged the wolf forward and declared proudly: "This is Shaggydog!"
His minder groaned while she could hear Ser Arys snicker silently behind her. Yet, looking at his wide, genuine smile, Myrcella was not offended by the lack of decorum at all; when Tommen was younger, he was much the same. In fact, faced with the adorable sight, she barely resisted pinching his little red cheeks.
Myrcella settled for tussling his wild auburn hair with a smile, "Where are you headed in such a rush, little wolf?"
"I'm not little," the boy protested weakly for a short moment. "I'm going to see Tommen. I promised to show him the Godswood yesterday!" A moment later, Rickon mumbled abashedly with a slightly bowed head, "Princess."
"Oh, none of that. We're going to be family soon; you can call me Myrcella when we're not in public," she reassured the boy, who smiled happily at her. Her gaze moved to the black wolf, now calmly sitting beside the boy. "Your companion is very well-behaved."
If Myrcella was to believe her mother's words, the direwolves were nothing more than uncontrollable savage beasts good only for their pelts. But looking at the black wolf in front of her, which was scarcely larger than an ordinary hound, there was no trace of feral savagery.
"Robb and Sansa helped me train him," Rickon proudly stated, puffing up his chest adorably.
Indeed, a wondrously close-knit family, Myrcella couldn't imagine Joffrey helping Tommen with anything other than trying to terrify him with cruel jibes or derisive words. Nor her mother getting along with her uncle Tyrion. And it would be a cold day in the seven hells if Stannis and Renly could stand each other. But Rickon's words gave her an idea.
"Oh, what can you tell me about your brother?" Myrcella asked slyly. "He seemed a bit too quiet."
"Robb's just sad!"
"Sad?" she echoed curiously.
"Aye!" Rickon bobbed his head adorably. "Ever since our two brothers are gone, he's been sad."
Myrcella knew about Bran Stark's untimely death, but Eddard Stark had three sons, not four, according to her studies. But, well, that would explain why her betrothed was still wary. Grief was a powerful thing.
"Your brothers are gone?"
"Uh-huh," the boy's countenance saddened. "Bran fell from one of the walls and is now sleeping in the crypt, and they say he won't wake. Jon fell sick and disappeared afterwards. Ever since, nobody would play with me but Shaggy!"
Who was this Jon? Perhaps a friend or even a bastard? Something to be investigated later on.
"Go, run along now, Tommen would love to play with you," the princess urged, and the cheer returned in Rickon's blue eyes as he rushed towards her youngest brother's room, followed by the eager black wolf and the burly guard. Tommen was in dire need of proper companions, and, despite being more than a year younger, the youngest Stark son seemed suitable.
Hopefully, he'd manage to bring her brother out of his shell.
A minute later, she arrived in front of her uncle's room. Hopefully, Tyrion would be here and awake. She hesitantly knocked a few times.
"Who is it?" her uncle's muffled voice through the wooden door.
"It's me, Myrcella."
"My favourite niece!" the door swung open, showing a drowsy Tyrion below, garbed in his usual red doublet stitched with gilded lions. His visage was horrifying to behold, as always, but it meant nothing; the so-called imp was always kind and generous to her, much to Cersei's chagrin.
"I'm your only niece, uncle," she dryly pointed out.
"Doesn't make my words any less true, little Cella," he tutted as he looked up at her face. Her uncle didn't reach her elbows in height. "Ah, it was only yesterday when you were a wee little thing, shorter than your poor uncle. Yet here you stand now, tall, grown, and about to be a woman wed. How can your short uncle be of service to the future Lady Stark?"
"You might be short of stature, but your mind is sharper than any other," she snorted at Tyrion's penchant for theatrics and lowered her voice to a whisper, "Do you mind if we talk inside?"
He nodded and led her into his quarters. The room wasn't particularly big, and the only thing that stood out was the messy bed and the heavy desk laden with candlesticks and piles of books, accompanied by a silver goblet and a pitcher of wine. Ser Arys dutifully stood guard outside the door.
Tyrion sat on one of the small chairs and turned to her, "So, Cella, what troubles you?"
"Well… I am unsure how to feel about Robb Stark," she admitted. "He is charming and courteous on the outside, but there's some distance. Everyone has only good things to say about him, yet it's his family or servants speaking."
"Well, by all accounts, they aren't lying," Tyrion smirked. "Distance is normal; the upcoming marriage seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. Your husband-to-be is squeaky clean. He treats his lessers well, there isn't a single cruel bone in his body, and he isn't lusty or greedy. According to the whores in Winter Town, he visited only twice for all the times he was in town, both times dragged by the Greyjoy boy. He hasn't bedded any of the maids or servants either. Well, there's always that with him chopping heads off. Though, the lad doesn't seem to revel in the butchery either, according to a drunk guard I overheard. Ah, if my father could see such a well-raised heir, he would go green with envy!"
She couldn't help but imagine the sight, and a giggle escaped her lips.
"Mayhaps you have a point," Myrcella agreed after a few moments, "I just… don't want to end up angry and bitter like Mother."
"Never," her uncle vehemently shook his head. "You're the sweetest girl, and Robb Stark would be a fool not to treat you like the treasure you are. Alas, I know little of happy marriages, so if you want advice on that particular topic, you should look for Lady Stark. After all, she's the one happily wed to the Starks despite her own sudden marriage."
She bobbed her head in agreement; as usual, her uncle was sharp and to the point and gave insightful advice. Just as Myrcella was about to leave, she remembered Rickon's words.
"Does Lord Stark have bastard sons?"
"Well," Tyrion hummed and thoughtfully scratched his jutted forehead, "he was rumoured to have sired a bastard, Jon Snow, if my memory is correct. Supposedly the boy was raised here in Winterfell along with his trueborn siblings."
Myrcella couldn't help but wonder how Lady Stark managed to be so agreeable with her husband after he brought his bastard to live in his own keep. Even the honourable Eddard Stark had a moment of weakness in his youth, yet for some reason, that did not make him any lesser.
"I met Rickon in the hallway," she hesitantly began, "he said his brother 'Jon' fell sick and disappeared after Bran fell."
"You think he died?" her uncle squinted his mismatched eyes. "Well, it could be a thousand things, niece. Rushing to conclusions like that is not wise, as young children are not exactly known for their sharp wit or concise speech. You can always ask your betrothed about his bastard brother. He would probably start courting you when he returns from the hunt."
"What if-" the words choked into her throat.
"What if your husband-to-be brings his own bastard home to be raised?" Tyrion finished for her. "I don't think you need to worry, niece. Supposedly Jon Snow was the fruit of Eddard Stark's first flame, Ashara Dayne, who died birthing him. And, while charming, Robb Stark has not found himself a paramour just yet. Besides, House Tully is not powerful; half their bannermen are stronger than the trout. Yet in Westeros, there's nothing mightier than the union of the Lion and the Stag right now."
Her mother was not in her quarters, and after nearly an hour of searching through the stone maze that was Winterfell, Myrcella finally managed to find Cersei.
Apparently, she was exploring a squat and round drum tower that looked ancient and, according to the pair of sentries outside, was named the First Keep. An old seat that had gone out of use centuries ago, evident by the disrepair. Even the gargoyles decorating the ramparts above looked quite worn.
After a short hesitation, Myrcella ordered Ser Arys to remain at the old keep's entrance. After all, neither her mother nor uncle would harm her, and Winterfell was swarming with guards. Even the elusive King Beyond the Wall met his end while trying to sneak here.
Myrcella climbed a flight of stairs, and when she neared the top, the voices of Cersei and Jaime echoed.
Curious, she suppressed her desire to announce her arrival and carefully approached, minding her step so she was not overheard. Myrcella stopped as soon as she was able to make out their words.
"- too many guards everywhere. We can't, Jaime," Cersei's voice was uncharacteristically soothing.
"Well, they did catch that deserter-gone-king along with a few petty thieves," her uncle jested as usual.
"That's not a laughing matter; even this old, abandoned keep is well-guarded. I would say Stark was planning treason, but I don't think the wolf has it in him," her mother's derisive tone returned, making Myrcella sigh inwardly.
"It's good. If nothing else, Myrcella will be well-protected here," Jaime Lannister's voice grew serious.
"Damn Robert!" Cersei's sudden screech made the girl wince. "Damn him for taking my daughter away!"
"A daughter was always going to be married off unless you planned for Cella to become an unwed old maid."
"Maybe she should!"
The princess found it odd, for a moment, that her mother was so reluctant to give her away when scarcely showing a sliver of affection for years. But she quickly realised that it was not out of love for her daughter but rather possessiveness more than anything else. Myrcella knew better than anyone that there was not a single shred of love in the cold heart of Cersei Lannister.
"There's nothing you can do," there was a hint of warning in Jaime's voice. "Stark has at least four swords for every blade the royal retinue brought, all of which would answer to Robert Baratheon anyway. Once the king has made up his mind, there's no changing it. And Robb Stark is a respectable match for Myrcella. Just accept it; there are worse things than this."
"I can write Father!" Cersei's words petulant words made Myrcella wince again.
"And he would laugh at your face, dear sister," Jaime snorted. "Who would be a worthy match for the Realm's Delight? The Martell second son that would inherit no lands? Edmure Tully, who is almost twice her age with his troublesome vassals and small castle? Robin Arryn, a sickly boy of six? Or maybe that crippled steward Willas Tyrell?"
The silence was deafening, as apparently, her mother had no answer.
"The Starks are little more than savages, Jaime," Cersei finally found her voice again. "They don't even employ a proper headsman!"
"There's nothing wrong with doling out justice by your own hand," Jaime's voice grew steely. "Myrcella's blood would rule half the kingdom now."
"What about that ridiculous dowry Robert agreed to? He's out of his mind!"
"Well, she deserves at least this much!"
The princess had had enough of the silly arguing and continued climbing as loudly as possible to announce her presence. The voices immediately ceased.
Myrcella entered an old, abandoned hallway and saw the Queen and her brother tensely looking at her. Jaime's hand was coiled on his sword's hilt but quickly eased.
"Mother, Uncle," she curtsied.
"What are you doing here, sweetling?" Cersei's smile was a tad forced.
"Looking for you," Myrcella replied. "The Baratheon maiden cloak would not arrive on time for the wedding. Lady Catelyn and Sansa generously offered their assistance in making a new one, along with the best choice of black and gold fabrics Winterfell has to offer. Do you wish to aid us?"
The Queen's face twisted and reminded Myrcella of curdled milk.
"I shall," her mother nodded through gritted teeth, much to the princess' amusement; Cersei looked like Uncle Stannis for a short moment. "Let's go find Lady Stark."
They quickly made their way down the stairway and were joined by Ser Arys as they left the First Keep., Finding the Lady of Winterfell turned out far easier than expected. She was waiting in a courtyard facing the northern gate, followed by Arya Stark and two scores of Stark guardsmen. The sight reminded Myrcella of the ugly young duckling wobbling after her swan mother.
"Your Grace, Princess," Catelyn Stark curtsied, followed by her younger daughter, who looked rather stiff in her courtesies.
At that moment, a large party rode through the gate, explaining why the Lady of Winterfell was waiting there. For a short heartbeat, Myrcella thought that her royal father returned from the hunt early, but none of the banners were familiar. Buckets, knives, trees, cones; a motley heraldry cobbled in white, blue, green, brown, and a rare smidgeon of yellow.
The men were burly and rugged, with plenty of weathered, shaggy faces. All of them were clad in boiled leather, ringmail and armed to the teeth. Warhammers, spears, axes, shields, and swords were aplenty. It was akin to a river of steel, beards, hardened leather, and muscle flooding through the gates. The last to enter was a large wooden two-wheeled cart drawn by four horses. They looked to be more than a hundred riders, quite a formidable force of mounted men.
The men at the front quickly dismounted and headed towards Lady Stark with smiles on their faces. Myrcella saw her uncle Jaime tense as two of the men approached. One, as tall as her father but wiry and no less dangerous, had a surcoat depicting three pine cones, one white and green, while the other, half a head shorter, had broad shoulders and a belly bigger than the one her royal father sported bore three buckets on dark blue as his heraldry. The second man's hands were as large as hams and looked like fleshy hammers.
"Lady Stark!" Both bowed deeply in front of Myrcella's future good mother, not paying a single whit of attention to the Queen.
It made for an odd sight, as even the shorter, stout man was a head taller than the Lady of Winterfell and thrice as wide. Even odder was how a lady commanded so much genuine respect that even her royal mother lacked.
"Wull, Liddle," Catelyn Stark's voice was a bit strained as she turned to Cersei, "This is Her Grace, Queen Cersei Lannister." They all bowed their heads, but Myrcella noticed it was not nearly as deep or respectful as the one Lady Stark received. Her mother noticed it as well, judging by her thinning lips. "What brings nearly half of the Clan heads here? Is there some issue?"
Ah, so that's why the heraldry was unfamiliar, the northern clansmen were mentioned in her studies, but as they were not considered nobility, they were little more than a few cursory lines.
"We're here to speak with the Stark and to attend the young Stark's wedding, of course!" Wull's voice boomed across the courtyard as he slapped his bulging stomach, and then he looked at his tall companion, gaze heavy with envy. "The rest of the chieftains are on their way too, a few days behind us! And well, old Liddle here has a special gift for the Stark."
"My lord husband is on a hunt in the Wolfswood with His Grace the King," Catelyn explained, then signalled to a servant who brought trays with bread and salt. The chieftains were quick to accept guest right with a wide smile. "If I might be so bold to inquire, what gift would Lord Liddle have personally for my husband?"
"Ah," the Liddle chieftain coughed uncertainly as everyone in the courtyard gazed at him. Most of the clansmen's gazes alternated between envy and admiration.
"C'mon, old pinecone, shadowcat got your tongue?" Wull clicked his tongue as he shook his head.
"Damn it, Big Bucket," Liddle muttered and waved to the back, "Morgan, bring it."
Four strong men removed the shroud from the carriage and lifted an enormous furry white wrap.
"What is this," Lady Stark asked with apprehension.
"Ah well, it's easier to show than explain," the tall chieftain coughed, looking mighty uncomfortable. The so-called Big Bucket slapped his shoulder with a wide grin. "Need some large and clean place."
"To the Great Hall then," Catelyn said with a sigh while she tiredly rubbed her brow.
Myrcella was not the only one that eyed the enormous white fur roll that took four people to carry. Arya, Ser Rodrik Cassel, and even her uncle gazed at it with undisguised interest.
Sometime later, they finally arrived at the Great Hall.
Everyone watched on with interest as the long tables and chairs were pulled towards the wall, clearing a wide berth of space in the middle.
Then, the four burly men placed the wrap there and carefully unfurled it. An impossibly enormous, perfect snow bear pelt revealed itself. It was… pristine; there was not a single tear on it! It was easily long as tall as three grown men and half as wide. Easily a priceless gift, as Myrcella hadn't heard, let alone seen, anything approaching it in size or quality.
The silence was interrupted as someone whistled, impressed. Even her mother was eyeing the fur with interest.
"This," Catelyn struggled to find her words as she cautiously eyed the enormous pelt, "This is the gift?"
"Aye, for the Ned!" Liddle proudly declared.
"You honour us with such a priceless gift, Chief Liddle," she bowed her head. "I'll be sure to place it on display for all to see."
"Alas, I cannot claim credit for such a gift, for it is not I who slew the beast," the Northman bowed his head, and the clansmen erupted in cheers. "The Ned's son slew it alone, saving my daughter Lysara from certain death!"
"Gods, Lord Stark has been holding out on us," Jaime snorted.
"Ned's son?" Catelyn's voice was faint, and her face had grown pale.
"Aye, the Jon!" The clansmen erupted into cheers, and Myrcella noticed that Arya Stark leapt with joy while Lady Stark looked as if she was about to faint. Gods, were they speaking about Lord Stark's bastard? "He even refused reward or spoils for his deed. But I'm no cur to repay grace with ingratitude and keep such a magnificent skin that I had no hand in the slaying. The Jon reluctantly accepted it, only to send the pelt as a gift to his father!"
Craster's Keep
Duncan Liddle
"Mance Rayder?" Craster spat on the mud. "What do the free folk want with kings? Much I can tell you o' Mance Rayder and his doings if I had a mind for it. But why would I? You're not even crows, I have a good deal with the crows. You Southrons don't belong here in the True North. Begone now."
At that moment, the old burly wildling froze, and his cruel smile filled with rotten brown teeth was replaced with horror as he gazed behind them. The pigs began to squeal in terror from the pigsty to the left, the sheep went wild, while all of Craster's dogs began to whimper.
Duncan turned and saw Ghost standing behind them, silent as a shadow. For the dozen days he had not seen the direwolf, he had grown enormous, almost as tall as Jarod. But the towering beast was not alone; aside from the four hounds, there were two slightly smaller grey direwolves, one on his left and the other on his right, and at least a score of smaller grey wolves behind him, all eerily gazing at Craster in silence.
"Now, now," Jon Snow's voice was as smooth as silk as he picked a sharp yet heavy woodsman axe from their supplies from one of the saddles. "There's no need to be so brash and rude. Tell us what we want to know, and we'll be out of your hair. In return, I'll gift you this nice axe, the finest northern make."
The young Snow moved, and with a loud thunk, the axehead effortlessly sank into a thick tree stump next to him. The strike was so powerful that the stump itself cracked.
If he was afraid before, Caster was terrified out of his mind now.
"Ah, I'll tell you-"
"Why didn't we just kill the bloody kinslayer," Duncan groaned as they camped three leagues away from Craster. "You were right, no boys at all, and he beds his daughters. And one of the girls fearfully said that their sons are given to the cold gods while he was showing you on the map."
"One of his wives' is heavy with child," Jon said while he effortlessly carved a straight wooden branch with Dark Sister. "I'd rather wait for it to be born. If it's a boy, we can strike down more Others; Craster can meet his gods in death afterwards."
"And if it's a girl?" Jarod asked.
"He dies regardless."
It was an amazing thing to see Jon effortlessly shape simple arrow shafts so quickly with only a sword. Sure, they were a tad crude, but far better than anything they could make here otherwise. Even the leafcloaks seemed impressed with Jon's work. Duncan couldn't help but wonder how many their leader had made to get so good at it. Gods, he was scarcely six and ten and was unnaturally skilled and knowledgeable at many things, including fighting.
The battle at the small village would be forever seared into Duncan's mind as he witnessed a struggle belonging straight to the tales of olde. But it was a good thing; it was a great honour to follow such a formidable man who daringly led at the front, even more so if the Stark blood ran through his veins.
"I'm no midwife to know of pregnancies and birthing babes, but can we afford to wait for moons for the child to be born?" His uncle sighed as he was checking the arrow fletchings. "What if the wildlings move away?"
"Well," Leaf chimed in, "I have some knowledge in that field. The woman will give birth in less than a moon if there are no surprises. A fortnight most likely, so we won't wait too long."
"Is there anything you don't know?" Jarod looked curiously at the Singer.
"Plenty," she snorted. "But if you live as long as me, you're bound to pick some things here and there along the way."
Duncan still had trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that the little deer-like being could live more than five times a human could. The small clearing grew silent as Jon gazed at the campfire, lost in thought.
"According to Craster, Mance Raider's people have begun to gather at one of the Milkwater's western sleeves," the young man slowly began to draw in the soft mud with a stick. "We're about sixty leagues away from there, give or take a few. But they will take quite some time to gather, and tens of thousands of men are not so quick to move, so we can afford to wait for Craster's child to be born."
The mud map was odd, but if you squinted enough, it looked accurate with what he remembered about the Lands beyond the Wall back in Little Hall.
"What shall we do while we wait?" Duncan straightened up as he continued to slowly knap the piece of obsidian in his hand into a crude arrowhead. The Singers were far quicker and better than him at shaping dragonglass, but he didn't want to feel useless. "Sooner or later, the daughterfucker will spot us if we linger around."
"What can the old wildling do?" Jarod snorted. "Ten years ago, the man might have been formidable, but he's older than me, and his strength is waning with every next moon."
"We shall head to this deposit of obsidian Leaf mentioned near the lake to restock. It's the closest, less than sixty miles away," Jon decided as he looked at the lines drawn in the mud and stabbed his stick into the nameless lake, which flowed into the shivering sea through a river. "Leaf, pick out a handful of suitable Singers to watch on Craster without being noticed."
Author's Endnote:
We see what Myrcella is up to, and certain people get really close to an aneurysm. The Liddles finally arrive, but they're not alone; Ned's vague warnings and requests have roused the otherwise reclusive Mountain Clans.
And Jon and Co finally arrive in Craster's Keep.
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.
The men were burly and rugged, with plenty of weathered, shaggy faces. All of them were clad in boiled leather, mail, or even hauberk, all armed to the teeth.
I should note here that a hauberk is a garment, not a material, specifically, it's a long mail shirt. Perhaps you had something else in mind. Given who's arriving, plate seems unlikely but various combinations of metal stitched to leather are possible.
This was the life he had always been missing. Ned by his side, enjoying everything the kingdoms had to offer together! Well, almost everything - his friend seemed to take his marriage vows quite seriously now; Robert would have thought him made out of stone if Eddard hadn't sired a bastard all those years ago. Ah, his Ned was lucky: Catelyn had a heart of gold to accept another woman's child under her roof; Robert still remembered how Cersei subtly threatened to do away with Mya should he bring her to court.
Alas, the Quiet Wolf seemed somehow troubled, but Robert couldn't blame him; many things had happened in the last fortnight.
At least the hunt proved quite successful. The Wolfswood was a far more primal, feral place than the Kingswood; the harshness ever present in the North had left its undeniable touch here. The beasts were a tad bigger, faster, and generally harder to catch - but that only made the hunt more meaningful.
As they made it to the top of the hill, the grey walls of Winterfell finally peaked above the tree line in the distance - it seemed that in less than half an hour of riding, they'd be back and ready to gorge themselves senseless on venison! Few things were as appetising as the meat that you had caught and killed by your own hand.
As the king, Robert was at the head of the procession, his friend and Howland Reed to his right, and the kingsguard trailed behind him, followed by everyone else.
The crannoglord was observant as usual - ever since Robert had arrived, he had scarcely seen a single word escape his mouth; it seemed that the Lord of Greywater Watch was content to simply watch impassively. If he was a tad bigger with a white cloak, Howland could easily be mistaken for a kingsguard. In fact, with his green and brown garb, he almost merged with the surrounding forest, and Robert found his eyes oft passing over the short man.
"It seems that your skills have only sharpened with time," Ned said from his right. "Clean kill; the second stag you speared is one of the biggest I've seen."
The first one he slew was nothing extraordinary. But the second… it might not have been the largest Robert had slain, but the antlers atop its head were the most majestic he had seen. Perfectly symmetrical, with no cracks, chips or any flaws. The curve, the size, the pale colour, everything was magnificent and just right; they would look even better mounted atop the Iron Throne itself. If only the damned royal chair was more comfortable, he would be more inclined to hold court…
"Nowadays, I wield the spear far more than the hammer," Robert lamented. "You've not gone rusty yourself. A wild shaggy mountain horse, I haven't seen those since our days in the Eyrie."
"They're a rare sight here, too," the northern lord agreed.
"Poor old Selmy, he looked like his heart was about to burst with worry when the shadowcat leapt out of the bushes," the king barked out in laughter, remembering the old knight's reddened face.
"Shadowcats are no jape, Robert, you know that," worry simmered in Ned's grey eyes.
"Hah, twenty years might have passed, but I still remember how that crotchety old knight, what was his name Margot, Margrave?"
"Morgen Tollett," his friend supplied gruffly.
"Aye, Morgen Tollett got raked to death through his ringmail and arming doublet in his sleep during that hunt," Robert patted his belly with a chuckle as Eddard sighed. "You fret too much, old friend; that's what my kingsguard are for. And your wolf made short work of the damned overgrown cat before it could do anything. Only a pity, the pelt is too savaged, or you could have gifted Cat a shadowskin cloak."
"Some of it can still be salvaged," Ned waved dismissively, "Enough to fit a cloak for my Arya for her next name-day."
They finally entered the open plains between the Stark seat and the wolfswood.
The king wanted a direwolf of his own. But alas, for eight thousand years, the Starks were the only ones that had managed to tame direwolves consistently. Even if Robert managed to procure himself a cub, he was far more likely to get himself mauled or savaged sooner or later, just like all the others that had attempted before.
Robert's only consolation was that his grandchildren would have direwolves of their own.
His thoughts drifted to his future good-son, Robb Stark. Just like his father, the lad turned out to be a capable hunter; he had slain an enormous moose, albeit with the help of that direwolf of his. Those beasts were a hundred times better than hunting hounds. The young man reminded the king of his joyful youth, especially with those laughing blue eyes, the strong body, and the charming disposition. The boy did not favour the warhammer but seemed to be a far better rider than Robert had ever been.
He would have been envious if Robb Stark was not about to become his good-son in less than a moon.
Ned sure knew how to raise his children; all of them were a credit to House Stark, even that wild hellion Arya. At first glance, the young girl seemed rather subdued, yet Robert could see the defiant glint in her eyes and the restlessness bubbling underneath.
From behind, Joffrey's guffaw entered his ears, souring Robert's mood. Ah, where did he go wrong with that boy? Against all rules of the hunt, the little shit had killed a young doe and bragged about it for all to hear. And none dared to speak out because it was the crown prince, although many a man began to sport frowns when looking at Joffrey.
Truthfully, the king knew where he went wrong. His heir had a cruel streak and was arrogant and vain but no more different than some other noblemen his age. It was that shrew, his mother the queen, whispering with her poisonous tongue in the boy's ear. To this day, Robert regretted taking Jon's advice to wed the old Lion's daughter.
Sadly, it made too much sense back then to marry the gorgeous 'Light of the West' and bind her formidable father to the throne. But under the pretty face and the generous pair of teats hid the blackest of hearts.
Now, her influence in court was great, and even if Robert wanted to get rid of his wife, it would be too damn difficult even without the proud Old Lion. He could find some reason to disown his eldest son, but Cersei would raise hell and would focus on moulding the spineless Tommen to suit her own image. His youngest was sweet and kind but craved his mother's attention.
If Robert truly set his mind to it, he could do it. He could get rid of Cersei. Yet would it be worth it? No, the following fallout would leave him bereft of feasting, wenching, and drinking for a long time, the only things making rulership somewhat bearable. Maybe one day, his wife would choke on her spite.
Hah, wouldn't that be amusing?
Robert shook his head; thinking of Cersei always soured his mood. Hopefully, with Ned by his side, things in the capital would take a turn for the better.
"I've been thinking," the king hesitantly began, "Tommen and Rickon seem to be getting along very well. Why don't I leave my boy here to foster."
And get him away from the influence of his shrewish mother and the court's useless lickspittles.
"That would be too much favour for House Stark, Robert," Ned shook his head.
"Piss on that; I'm the King! If anyone has any problem with it, they can take it to me!"
"Still, it would be unfair for Robb to look after the boy when newlywed," the northern lord persisted, "How about this - I'll take Tommen as my page when we leave south, and arrangements can be made for Rickon and Tommen to foster together at a trusted lord when your son reaches ten name-days."
"Fine," Robert begrudgingly agreed. If Eddard taught the youngest prince even half as well as any of his own children, Tommen would benefit greatly.
The rest of the short way to Winterfell was spent in silence.
Inside the courtyard, they were greeted by a surprise - it seemed that Cerwyn and a good part of the northern clansmen had arrived. Wull, Burley, Norrey, Liddle, Harclay, Knott, Irondam, Redhill, and many others Robert did not remember anymore.
Knowing Ned, he probably invited the whole North to attend his heir's wedding, but the road from the furthest Northern mountains was at least ten days, and the marriage had been decided scarcely five days ago. They were here for something else, although if Robert were to wager a guess, they would definitely be staying for the wedding celebrations anyway. It didn't matter much - the more, the merrier!
And well, there was Cerwyn, who was definitely here for the latter - his seat was only a hard day's ride from Winterfell.
For some reason, Catelyn seemed somewhat uneasy, but Ned's children all looked happy.
The courtesies were quickly exchanged, and the Lady of Winterfell approached her husband with a hint of reluctance and whispered in his ear.
The long tables were laden with food and drink, and the merriment was going full force. To the side, the bards were playing 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' as half the younger clansmen sang along, and Robert was ravenously devouring the roast venison of his own kill. In the absence of northern lords other than Cerwyn, Reed, and the Manderly heir, most of the chieftains of the larger clans were clustered near the head of the highseat.
"-and the lad speared the beast clean through the eye!"
This was the third time Torren Liddle was retelling the tale. The Stark daughters were leaning forward, listening on with interest, and they were far from the only ones as Robb and his royal children were paying rapt attention as well. Oh, and what a tale it was; valour, bravery, and skill, a hero victorious against all odds in saving a damsel in distress!
Yet none could dispute it - the enormous pelt was pristine - not a single tear. Morgan Liddle had brought the thick skull the size of a hound - the crack at the hole where the right eye was supposed to be was unmistakable. And most important of all, the Northerners were straightforward, honest folk, and if the Liddle Chieftain said Jon Snow slew the gigantic beast and saved his daughter - it had surely happened.
The fact that Ned's bastard boy was willing to send the priceless pelt as a gift to his father spoke volumes of the respect and loyalty to House Stark and his father. And humble to boot, requesting no reward for saving a lord's daughter.
And well, Ned's face was a mask of ice, but Robert could read it well enough - there was a hint of relief in his countenance, and he had the feeling the Lord of Winterfell was bursting from pride on the inside.
Gods, the lad must be quite strong to crack one of the thickest parts of the skull with a spear, and the king idly wondered if he could take down such a beast on his lonesome. He snorted inwardly; of course, he could - there was nothing Robert Baratheon couldn't slay!
The king had half a mind to reward the boy himself - a knighthood and even a generous strip of land somewhere in the Stormlands or Crownlands, along with more honours. But Jon Snow was nowhere to be found.
"Hey Torren," the king took a generous gulp of wine from his goblet, "Where's the boy now?"
"He seemed to have his mind set on travelling," Liddle shrugged and took a swig of ale from his tankard.
"Ah, a free spirit," Robert nodded wisely. He couldn't blame the young bastard; being free like the wind to wander where his heart desired was a dream come true.
Wine and ale flowed like a river; the clansmen did not shy away from drinking at all. The king could even see a few of the younger clansmen crowded around one of the long tables below, where Morgan Liddle, Jeor Harclay, Tyrion Lannister, and Rogar Wull were competing to see who could drink the most.
Robert looked around the high table - none of the chieftains seemed too eager with their cups, and Ned was never one to indulge himself with baser pursuits like drinking. Ah, damn all those bores, where was all the celebration!?
With a loud burp, the king stood up and swaggered towards the table where the young clansmen were drinking.
Eddard Stark
Joffrey was oft charming and polite, especially in public, but now that Eddard had seen his cruel streak with the young doe for himself, he could see the mercurial nature hidden underneath the pleasant veneer. The Lord of Winterfell was glad to have declined that betrothal; the thought of the blonde boy as his good-son made his skin crawl.
And he had earned himself a young page to watch over while dealing with the mess that was going to be King's Landing.
Today was far too eventful for his liking.
He sighed; at this rate, Winterfell's stocks of wine and ale would be finished before the wedding even took place. Alas, such was the cost of hosting his bannermen and the royal court for nearly a moon. At least Ned had more than twenty days to procure more - while difficult, it was still possible. On the bright side, food would not be a problem - Winterfell's larders were filled to the brim, and harvest was around the corner. At most, a few large herds of cattle would have to be butchered, but replenishing those at the height of summer was not an issue either.
What was most important was the news about Jon - alive and well, albeit rather reckless.
His children were ecstatic to hear of the brother they thought lost, Catelyn - not as much. As usual, she said nothing, but Ned could recognise the conflicted reluctance brewing in her eyes. She had made her dislike of Jon's presence in Winterfell known to him long ago, but it seemed that his absence suited her even less.
Thankfully, the feast was finally over, with plenty of people passed out drunk. Robert, Tyrion Lannister, and Rogar Wull were the only ones on their feet after that drinking contest, though all three were swaying unsteadily. All those passed out on the benches and tables would regret it the next morn.
Ned shook his head; he was already feeling quite tired, but before returning to his sorely missed feathered bed, he had to deal with the belligerent mountain chieftains first, so he led them to a guarded chamber behind the great hall, where they could speak in private.
Although they seemed to be far less quarrelsome and oddly united, not that he'd complain. The last thing he wanted to do was settle petty disputes over hills, creeks, poaching, and the like now. At least no challenges of single combat were issued tonight.
"We're all scouring the mountains for obsidian and mining every deposit we find as you ordered, Lord Stark," Hugo began with a bow as soon as the door closed. "Is it true that you received a warning of dark things stirring Beyond the Wall?"
The chieftains began to murmur, but there was no sign of surprise in any of them - it seemed that they had already heard about this.
"Aye," Ned's throat felt dry, "I have, and supposedly obsidian is their weakness. Better to wait for all the Northern Lords to come before speaking further of this."
"What shall we do with all the black rock, though?" Ronard Burley grunted out.
The old chieftain had greying hair and a thick white beard and was one of the most crotchety chieftains. As his name would suggest, he was quite tall and burly, his back was beginning to hunch forward, and his neck was incredibly short and thick.
"Fashion it into spearheads, daggers, and arrowtips and begin sending it to the Watch; they will know what to do," Ned rubbed his brow. "As long as you keep doing this, you can consider a quarter of your yearly due forgiven."
The promise of reduced taxation seemed to catch their attention far better than any vague threat of legendary foe stirring. That seemed to satisfy their curiosity, so they began leaving the chamber.
Ned signalled to Liddle to stay behind; he wanted some more details about Jon's stay in Little Hall.
"Yes, Lord Stark?"
"Tell me, where did my son head to?"
A tired sigh escaped Torren Liddle's mouth, and he tiredly ran a hand through his hair.
"Beyond the Wall to see if he can see the threat with his own eyes, or at least that's what he told me," the chieftain's words made Ned's insides twist into an icy knot. "I do think he was holding a few things back, though. I sent Duncan, my firstborn, and my uncle Jarod Snow with him."
The Lord of Winterfell didn't trust his voice right now, so he nodded gratefully instead.
"What was your impression of Jon Snow?" Howland asked from the side, brow heavy with thought.
"Valiant, resolute, and sad," Torren replied without hesitation.
"Sad?" Ned found himself echoing.
"Aye, sad. The lad got on well enough with everyone but rarely smiled or laughed, and even then, it scarcely reached his eyes as if he was grieving. I know most young men are usually proud, angry, or hot-headed. Yet there was not an ounce of any of those in him, only peace." A languid yawn escaped the chieftain's mouth. "If there's nothin' else, may I be excused?"
Eddard nodded and wished him a restful sleep; Torren Liddle promptly left the chamber, leaving him alone with Howland Reed.
"What do you think Jon is aiming to do Beyond the Wall?"
His friend shook his head, "I have no idea. But it seems my earlier conjecture proved true - he's indeed grown dangerous. Fret not, Jon should have little trouble with his skills even Beyond the Wall, and he is no longer alone."
8th Day of the 5th Moon
Salladhor Saan
Salladhor's idea of trying to trade with the locals and receive aid and directions from them was met with failure as soon as chopping down weirwood was mentioned.
Screams and cries echoed through the small settlement as Denzo's men did their job. This was the second not abandoned village they found along the lake's coast, and the Lyseni sellsail grimaced as the air was filled with cries of pain and anger. The first one barely had a handful of old crones and greybeards left - nobody useful.
While savage, the locals could do little against Denzo's manhunters - bone and stone weapons could barely scratch the tyroshi slaves, who were a dab hand at fighting unprepared and unarmoured foes. Using shields, nets, staves, and clubs, they methodically subdued the fighters and hunted down the women and the children. Out of little more than a hundred inhabitants, less than two dozen seem to be fighters, so they were easily overwhelmed.
None of the savages were wasted but the wounded and the old - the former were put down instead of spending their scant medical supplies, while the latter brought no coin - so they were done away with.
A nasty business, but hopefully, Magister Sarrios would pay a hefty coin for their efforts. Salladhor shook his head and signalled his own men to bring their axes and begin processing the enormous weirwood tree in the middle of the village. Nearly thirty feet thick at the trunk, the gigantic tree that towered with its ominous red leaves above was everything they would need. On the bone-like bark, a grotesque face twisted in a fury was carved as if it were gazing at them angrily.
Salladhor snorted and made his way to the Tyroshi manhunter. He was inspecting the prisoners one by one before sending them back to the ships. It reminded the Lyseni sellsail of a man inspecting horses at the market. All clasped in chains, they were forced into a long line, and any who dared to struggle or make trouble was smacked on the shins - which quickly dissuaded the savages from resisting. The most troublesome ones were already put down at the initial fighting.
Ah, what a tragedy - to be born at the wrong place and time. But that was their lot in life, and Salladhor would finally retire in luxury with their involuntary aid.
"With this, we will have enough weirwood," he said. "Only the ivory is left now."
"Will still take at least half a day to chop it down. I've had my men looking around. There are no traces of mammoths nearby," Denzo grunted angrily and struck down a thin greying woman with his cutlass. Blood coloured the snow as the body tumbled down helplessly. The next slave was carried in, and manhunters quickly removed the manacles and carried away the corpse to be tossed to the side.
Too old to be worth the effort to feed her all the way to Tyrosh, that one. Aside from the fighters who would do well in the fighting pits, the finest slaves were those that had not seen twenty name-days yet. Young enough to be pliable to training while not old enough to be ruined by the harshness of the northern wasteland.
"Can try asking one of these poor sods here," the sellsail proposed and nodded towards the short, mousy woman with a weathered face and brown hair that the Tyroshi was inspecting.
"Woman, do you know where we can find mammoths?" The words were spoken in westerosi; Denzo grabbed the chains and pulled her close. Next to his hulking figure, she looked like a small, helpless child.
"Fuck you!"
Her defiance earned her a brutal smack on the face and made her tumble in the snow bonelessly.
"I think you killed her," Salladhor observed the unmoving body.
"Worthless, that one," the manhunter snorted, stabbing his spear into her back.
There was no movement or grunts of pain; it seemed that the earlier strike had indeed finished the wildling.
"I tell ye where to find the mammoths," a woman down the line yelled.
Denzo motioned for a pair of his men to bring her over. Pale skin, long, tangled dark hair, amber eyes, and long legs made for a tantalising sight even through her furs. Once washed and groomed, she would easily be a beauty.
"Tell us," Denzo's voice was menacing. Ah, the subtlety of an elephant, that one.
"Take me as yer woman, and I shall tell ye where to find the mammoths," her mouth twisted into a crooked grin, revealing two rows of pearly white teeth.
The Tyroshi man stepped back and critically inspected the woman before him from top to bottom.
"Fine, I shall take you." he nodded half a minute later. "Now tell us!"
At that moment, Salladhor's men began chopping the giant weirwood.
One of the captured savages began yelling and pointing towards their sacred tree. Yet he received a smack upon the head, knocking him out. A few more tried to struggle but could do little against the manacles.
"I tell, but only you," the woman's face became impassive as she glanced at the weirwood.
Denzo Hartys impatiently leaned in closer. She was just about to whisper in his ear when her face suddenly twisted into a feral snarl and bit the Tyroshi's ear.
The slaver pushed her away, and two of his men began to beat her with their clubs. Denzo's right ear was almost completely gone, replaced by a torn, bloody stump. The tall man heaved over and moaned in pain for a moment before standing up, furious.
With a nod, the two slavers moved away from the woman. Aside from her bloody mouth, her face was untouched, but judging by how she trembled and heaved, her body had been heavily battered.
"You fucking bitch! I'll break you!"
Undaunted by Denzo's roar, she spat a bloody piece of flesh at him and cackled.
"Kill me if you wish, but yer already dead."
That stilled the furious manhunter for a moment.
"No, you shall live," Hartys wiped off the blood from his face and slowly shook his head. His dark eyes glowed with fury, but he remained still. "You'll be our whore, spreading your legs for my men as they desire."
"So be it," she showed a feral, bloody smile and twisted her head towards the weirwood tree where Salladhor's men worked tirelessly. "The gods will strike ye down for this."
Salladhor looked at the weirwood tree. From the carved face, red sap ominously wept as if it were blood, making him feel rather uneasy.
"Foolish savage," Denzo guffawed and grabbed her chain, yanking her closer. "What is the tree going to do to me? Pick up a sword and fight back?"
An owl hooted somewhere in the distance.
Jarod Snow
As promised, the Earth Singers had led them to the obsidian deposit. For good or for bad, their journey here had been uneventful - travelling, sparring, and even hunting.
"That will make for a fine cloak," Leaf said while effortlessly knapping a piece of obsidian. Under her dark claws, the black stone was quickly shaped into an arrowhead.
"Aye," Jon agreed without stopping his own work.
The shadowcat was one of the largest Jarod had seen, nearly the size of a large pony. It would make for a fine pelt, be it as a gift, cloak, or cover, and Jon was almost done skinning it.
It seemed that their leader was indeed a master huntsman; he had tracked down and taken the beast with ease. A spear through the eye, just like the snow bear. Even now, he was quickly skinning the carcass with such ease and skill that would make one feel envious.
Jon Snow was like a cabbage - there were always more layers of surprising skills underneath.
Jarod shook his head and returned to fletching the new arrows.
Their camp was bustling with activity - three were roasting a boar over their fire - one of the leafcloak hunters had caught it. A dozen Singers were working on the obsidian just like Leaf; a few were scouting the surroundings or keeping watch. Duncan was to the side, chopping stakes for spear shafts.
At that moment, one of the Earth Singers ran in, his dappled face filled with worry and anger. Jarod recognised him as the one with the grey owl pet.
Instead of the usual soft, melodic sound akin to a summer breeze, his speech was harsh and choppy, like a blizzard amid the coldest winter. Leaf's sad face became even more forlorn. Duncan and the other singers crowded around them, and Jarod could see the faces of the leafcloaks alternate between sadness, anger, and acceptance.
Jon just finished skinning the shadowcat, cleaned his hands and dagger in the snow and patiently waited.
"What is it?" He asked as soon as the worried singer finished.
"Dark-skinned men are putting wildlings in chains in a village near the lake and are chopping down an old Heart Tree," Leaf sighed.
"Essosi slavers," Jarod spat. The only thing a Northman hated more than slavers were those who dared to chop down the heart trees.
"And their numbers?" Jon's face was impassive, but his hand was on the dragonsword's hilt.
"Less than four scores."
"We can take them!" Duncan angrily brandished his greatax.
Ah, to be young and hot-tempered. Jarod felt just as furious but knew things were not as straightforward. Less than half of the Earth Singers could fight and were more hunters than anything else. Although the slavers were not really trained fighters either, they usually fought unarmed smallfolk caught by surprise. Still, a battle could prove costly.
"And we will," the young bastard agreed and turned to Leaf. "How far is the village?"
"Less than two leagues to the northeast," Leaf said, her golden eyes heavy with feeling as she looked at Jon Snow as if seeing him for the first time.
"Good," he hummed thoughtfully. From the forest, Ghost, followed by his newfound retinue of wolves, padded over. They were nearly three dozen now. "Here's what we'll do-"
Author's Endnote:
The hunt is finally over. Bobby B loves drinking.
Our not-so-favourite Tyroshi slavers are finally checking some of their goals but also attracting the wrong sort of attention.
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.
