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Wolves of the North (ASOIAF FanFic)

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Petyr I
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    • Petyr

    His solar at the Eryie was practically overflowing with raven scrolls and bits and pieces of parchment and foolscrap brought there covertly by those in his employ. Each and every bit of paper contained information. Most of it was little more than dross, some was powerful enough to bring down a dynasty. He had told Cersei Lannister once years ago that "Information is power." So he collected information the way a Dothraki collected bells for his hair.

    The more information he gathered, the more prepared he became for any eventuality. And the scroll in his hand contained information that was extraordinarily valuable. Thankfully, he wasn't totally unprepared for it. But it still upset his plans. Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, had been named King in the North. He had been warned this was a possibility from one of his men in Robb Stark's camp. Now that possibility was a fact.

    He had a man in the Night's Watch, a man that had been condemned to death when he had offered him an alternative: in exchange for the occasional bit of information, Baelish would ensure that he was compensated extremely well, with the Dragons he paid the man going to his young daughter to provide for her. And his man had sent him just such a bit of information in the scroll he was holding. A week ago Lord Umber and Lady Mormont had arrived at Castle Black with a letter from Robb Stark. A letter that legitimized Jon Snow as a Stark and named him King in the North. The day after they arrived, they left again. But not heading south. The entire group had headed North, beyond the Wall. His man mentioned that there was some sort of plan to allow the Wildlings south of the Wall. That made a great deal of sense to Petyr. If Jon Snow could add the strength of the Wildlings to his own army, he could begin to replenish the men that his brother had lost during the war. Obviously, it wouldn't begin to replace all of the lost men, after all, how many of the Wildlings could there be? But on the face of it, it made good military and economic sense to him.

    It was the other part of the letter that was confusing to Petyr. It was the reason given for allowing the Wildlings south. Apparently, it was not to replace the men killed in the War of the Five Kings. His man claimed that the Others of ancient legend had returned. That the Night's Watch had seen them beyond the Wall in the Lands of Always Winter. His first thought was that the man had been drunk when he wrote this. His second was that he had gone mad. His third thought was that maybe his Dragons were being wasted on a man who was clearly a fool and perhaps he should arrange for the daughter to be "encouraged" to start working as a whore in one of his brothels so he could recover some of his losses. Young girls like her fetched a premium from the man who was allowed to take her maidenhead. His fourth thought was to take the message at face value, whether it was true or not. The Watch, or rather his man, obviously thought it had merit or he wouldn't have included it. His final thought was how he could best use this information to turn the situation to his advantage.

    He was currently Lord of the Fingers, Lord of Harenhall, Lord Regent of the Vale and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. His hold on the Riverlands was tenuous however, more in name than in fact. The Freys would not be pleased when they learned that he had been named Lord Paramount, and not Lord Walder or Lord Emmon. They would view it as an insult and a slight. And the Freys had just expressed their displeasure at being insulted in a rather gruesome manner. He would have to tread carefully there for the time being and do his damndest to soothe some ruffled Frey feathers. At least until he could arrange an "accident" to usher in a more agreeable Lord of the Twins. A pity really, that Ser Stevron had died outside the Crag during Robb's failed campaign in the Westerlands. He would have been much more reasonable in recognizing him as his Lord. In short, what all that meant was that he nominally had control of two of the seven kingdoms so long as he tread softly. And until this scroll was delivered to him, he had a plan to gain control of the North through Sansa Stark.

    Now that plan had been thrown out the Moon Door that young Lord Robert loved so much. With Sansa's brother Jon being named King in the North, the Northmen already had a figure to rally around. He had planned things very carefully. He had given Jeyne Poole to Roose Bolton so he could pass the girl off as Arya Stark and "solidify" his claim to Winterfell. He then would revel the true parentage of the girl to the North, turning all the North against the Boltons because of "their" deception. After that, he would have revealed that Sansa Stark was alive and well, and under his protection. The North would rally around her and be honor bound to support him in exchange for his commitment of the Vale and the Riverlands to restore the North's rightful ruling House.

    Obviously that plan wouldn't work now. And the truth about "Arya Stark" would rally the North to Jon instead of to him and Sansa. In short, he needed a new plan. One that allowed him to consolidate his power base. The question now was how best to go about it. Focus on the Vale and Riverlands and let the North wither on the vine? That could cost him the Vale when Sansa learned of it. Throw his support behind the North? That last possibility appealed to him the most. With the North, the Riverlands and the Vale united together, the Stormlands split but largely supporting Stannis and Dorne sitting on the sidelines while "covertly" planning a Targaryen Restoration, the Iron Throne would never be weaker.

    But there were issues with that. Chief among them being that the North would not recognize his claim to being Lord Paramount of the Trident. The Starks would almost certainly support the Tullys and would help them retake Riverun. Or they would if the Stark boy had any sense. Only slightly less problematic was that supporting Jon Stark as King in the North would do nothing to help him eventually sit on the Iron Throne. Even if the King in the North did support him in his quest, he'd be doing so at the cost of over half of the Seven Kingdoms. The North alone was nearly as large as the other six kingdoms combined, though it was sparsely populated. But if you added the Riverlands and the Vale to that Kingdom, the Kingdom of the North would easily be the largest power on the continent with the ability to dictate whatever they liked to remaining realms.

    That was not a situation that would be favorable to him. He would need the North to cede the Riverlands and the Vale to him after the war, or he would need to betray the Starks and forcibly remove them. If the Stark boy willingly ceded the most fertile and populous region of his Kingdom and the region with the best heavy cavalry on the planet, he didn't deserve to rule and would likely be overthrown by his own bannermen. And if he betrayed the Starks his own reign would be in peril as his word would count for nothing with the other great houses. Whereas his betrayal of the Lannisters would likely be looked on favorably by all but the Westerlands.

    Perhaps he should cut his losses with the North and give Sansa to the Lannisters? That would incense the North and parts of the Riverlands as well, but it would show the Lannisters that he truly was their ally and they would draw him in closer and closer until he could bury his knife in them without them ever seeing it coming. As for the Vale, young Robert Arryn was easily pliable enough that he wouldn't risk losing the Vale. Oh, the Royces would object quite forcefully, but they wouldn't go against young Lord Robert if he told them to stand down. And Robert would do whatever he told him to do as long as he thought it was his idea. While that might be the safest option, it was the one he didn't want to implement unless he had to. By rights, Sansa should have been his daughter, not Ned Stark's. And as heartless as he could be, he couldn't bring himself to betray the girl that should have been his. Not to mention that doing so would entail a drastic shift in his plans while her brother being named King in the North was a relatively minor bump in the road and could be worked around with enough care and planning.

    As Petyr sat in his chair tapping the raven scroll gently against his chin he pondered his options. Vaguely, he wondered if he was playing the most complicated Game of Thrones since Aegon united all Seven Kingdoms under his rule. With four different men all claiming to be King of various versions and pieces of the Seven Kingdom, there was certainly an added layer of complexity, and danger, to the Game now. As he pondered all his options, he slowly came to the conclusion that, for now, his best position was to take no position. Instead, he would continue to solidify his control of the Vale and especially the Riverlands, do his best to undermine the Targaryen's position and make a return far more difficult, all the while publicly supporting the Iron Throne. He also needed to find a way to finally break Stannis, assuming the Lannisters didn't just get fed up with him and launch an attack of their own. He had been sure that the defeat at the Blackwater, and the loss of a large portion of the Stormlands support, would have broken the man. But he was still sitting defiantly on Dragonstone. Granted, he didn't have much of an army or a fleet, but that could change quickly should any of the Southern Houses decide that Tommen was too weak to rule. Or should Stannis decide to hire sell swords. Best not leave it to chance. Perhaps he should plant the idea of an attack on Dragonstone in Tywin's ear and let him do the rest?

    Regardless of what the other players ended up doing, Petyr was playing a very dangerous game. It was a game that would either see him on the Iron Throne, or see his head on a spike. But it was a game that he relished. And out of all the various players in the game, the only ones he even remotely respected were Tywin Lannister and Varys. Tywin for his cunning and sheer brutality when it was called for, and Varys for his extensive network and ability to manipulate people. Varys was nearly as good a manipulator as he was. And with his network, it was always a stimulating exercise disguising your true moves from him. Reaching for a Raven Scroll of his own, it was time for his next move in the Game.
     
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    • You definitely get Baelish's obsessive tendencies perfect.

    Honestly, I hope we get to see something from the perspective of the wildlings.

    Great story, and a good (if creepy) chapter
     
    Causeimboredrigh said:
    You definitely get Baelish's obsessive tendencies perfect.

    Honestly, I hope we get to see something from the perspective of the wildlings.

    Great story, and a good (if creepy) chapter
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    There is a Mance chapter soon (3 more if I remember my notes correctly). Next chapter is in the Neck, then we head north of the Wall.
     
    Reek I
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    • Reek

    His Master was angry. His Master was always angry. And as always when his Master was angry, he had taken that anger out on him. His Master had beaten him and then flayed him on the inside of his thighs and his back. Reek's screams had echoed throughout the dungeons of the Dreadfort. His Master had also taken slivers of weirwood and hammered them under the nails of his remaining fingers and toes. The pain had been so intense that he had begged his Master to cut them off. But his Master had refused. His Master was enjoying Reek's pain too much.

    Instead his Master had terrified him even further. After leaving him sobbing, chained to the cross in the dungeon, weirwood sticking out of his fingers and toes, blood flowing freely from his freshly flayed flesh, he had returned and as gently as possible, removed the weirwood from his body and bound his wounds in fresh, clean cloth. And he had done so without saying a word. After that, he had personally half carried him up the stairs, with every step bringing fresh agony from his tortured legs and feet, and brought him to his own chambers. And waiting in his Master's room, was a large tub filled with hot, perfumed water.

    As his Master looked purposefully at him, Ramsey said, "Take off your clothes, Reek."

    He knew better than to question his Master. Whatever his Master commanded, he would do. So, as quickly as his mangled limbs and hands would allow him, he removed the soiled and foul smelling rags that his Master allowed him to wear.

    "Get in the tub, Reek."

    Reek was confused. He hadn't been allowed to bathe in, well, he wasn't sure how long it had been. His stench was meant as a constant reminder to him of his place in his Master's service.

    Seeing his hesitation and confusion, his Master gestured again at the tub and said, "Reek, I want you to get in the water. You wouldn't want to disappoint me, would you?"

    "No, Master," he replied. Shaking in fear, Reek awkwardly climbed into the wooden tub, his pain wracked and broken body protesting all the while. The hot water brought fresh agony to his new wounds. His flayed flesh felt like it was burning as the hot water soaked through the bandages. His blood started to stain the water pink, while the shit and dirt that clung to his pale and drawn skin and white hair warred with the blood to change the clear water to black instead.

    As his twisted and bent body settled into the tub, his Master picked up a cloth, soaked it in the water and gently began to wash the filth from his body. While his Master gently washed him, he began to speak.

    "Reek, I need you to pay very close attention to me. I need you to do something for me. Something that will be very difficult for you."

    "What, Master?"

    "I need you to become someone. Someone very different from yourself."

    What? His Master had spent endless amounts of time and energy to teach him that he was Reek. And now he was telling him to be something else?

    "Ha..Have I disappointed you, Master? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Reek sobbed out. He couldn't take more punishment. The very thought of more pain being inflicted upon him terrified him out of what was left of his mind.

    "No, Reek. You've done exactly what I asked of you. But now I need you to do something very difficult. I need you to become Theon Greyjoy."

    Reek's mind froze and his body stiffened. No, he wasn't Theon Greyjoy. He was Reek. Only Reek. Never Theon.

    In fear, he stuttered, "I'm, I'm, I'm n...n...n...not Theon. I'm Reek. C...Can't be Theon. Only Reek."

    "Shhhhh, shhhhh. It's alright Reek. You're not actually going to be Theon Greyjoy. I only want you to pretend to be Theon. You'll still be Reek. But I need you to make other people think you are Theon Greyjoy. You can pretend, can't you? Think of it like a game Reek."

    Jerkily nodding his head, Reek signaled his acceptance. He couldn't refuse. He couldn't take anymore pain. His Master had promised him that he would eventually beg to be killed and Reek was so very close to that point. This could be what pushed him over that edge. He didn't know how to pretend to be Theon Greyjoy. He was Reek. His Master was still explaining what he needed him to do while continuing to wash his abused body, but what was left of Reek's mind was still reeling. He knew he would have to please his Master. It was that or be punished severely for his failure.

    Days later, as his Master's party approached the remains of Moat Cailin, his Master told him it was time for him to play his part. Reek was terrified. How would anyone ever believe he was Theon Greyjoy? He was Reek. He would never be believed, despite his Master dressing him in armor engraved with the Kraken of House Greyjoy and giving him the sword that once belonged to Theon Greyjoy. His body was so broken and weak he could barely stand under the weight of the armor and sword. His limbs were bent and twisted to the point that it was almost impossible to ride the horse his Master had told him to ride, never mind actually swinging the sword he was given. Added to all that was the sheer agony he was in from forcing his tormented and destroyed body to sit on the horse properly. Only a fool would believe he was actually Theon.

    When he finally reached the ruined walls and towers of Moat Cailin it was all he could do to keep from weeping from the constant excruciating pain radiating from every point of his body. But he still had a role to play. His Master told him to think of it as a game. His Master liked to play games. The games never ended well for anyone that he played them with though.

    When a voice hailed him from the Drunkard's Tower asking who was approaching, he had to force himself to wrench his gaze up from the ground and look the guard in the eye. It was an action that would have instantly infuriated his Master and caused him to remove more bits and pieces from him. But now, it was what his Master had ordered him to do.

    In a shaking voice, Reek responded, "I'm Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands. I'm here to parley with your commander on behalf of Lord Bolton, Warden of the North."

    "Theon Greyjoy is dead. His sister told us he was dead. That means either you or her is a liar. I know Asha Greyjoy. I don't know Theon. Why should I believe you over her?"

    Reek started shaking in fear. He was failing in what his Master ordered him to do. If he was lucky, his Master would only flay him more. He had to convince them to let him through. It was at that moment, when he was practically shaking in fear at what his Master would do to him, when something seemed to break free deep inside Reek's mind. From the deepest, darkest corner of his mind what was left of Theon Greyjoy broke free of the chains that Reek had put around him in a desperate act of self preservation. In that brief moment of clarity, Theon knew he was broken irreparably. That he was both Theon and Reek, despite what his "Master" told him. Deep within him, he could already feel the pathetic creature that was Reek begging to be let back in control, that it was the only way he could survive. But for now, Theon was able to beat him back and remain in control.

    In a much stronger voice than that used by Reek, Theon responded, "I am Theon Greyjoy. I was captured by the Boltons when they took Winterfell from me. Let me speak to your Commander and I'll see you all get safe passage back to the Iron Islands. What have you got to lose? One man against all the Ironborn here, what chance would I have?"

    As the guards holding the arrows on him considered what he said, Theon thought to himself that he would have even less chance than they knew after all that Ramsey had done to him. He was so weak that he could barely grasp a sword, let alone swing one. Above all, at this moment, he still had to pretend to be Ramsey's creature, Reek. Otherwise the best he could ever hope for was dying along with the rest of the Ironborn when Ramsey assaulted the remains of the fortress. And knowing his "Master," his death was sure to be long and exceedingly painful.

    Eventually, the guard jerked his head towards one of the three remaining towers and said, "He's in the Gatehouse Tower. No tricks or it'll be the last thing you ever do."

    Nodding his head in acknowledgment, Theon nudged his horse forward and had to stifle a groan of agony as the horse's movement brought a fresh wave of pain washing over him. Within himself, the side of him that was Reek begged to take back over, telling him that his Master would be very angry if he found out. Reek was terrified of what his Master would do to him. Theon knew very well what Ramsey would do and told Reek to shut up. But he was beginning to panic now. He couldn't keep Reek at bay for long, and Reek could never do what Ramsey had ordered. Theon had to be the one to do it. But he had to do it quickly before he collapsed back into being Reek.

    When Theon reached the Gatehouse Tower he painfully dismounted from his horse, wincing from his numerous injuries. As he hobbled into the remains of the tower, he saw the men there staring in horror at him. He had been abused and tortured so often and to such extremes that his skin was pale, drawn and tight across his bones while his eyes had a hollow, sunken appearance to them. Even his hair had gone completely white from the sheer agony and horror of what Ramsey had done to him. In short, he appeared to have aged forty years.

    Making his way up to the small group of men in the tower, Theon asked them in a now raspy voice, "Who's your commander?"

    "Who's asking," replied one of the men?

    "Theon Greyjoy. Who are you?"

    "Dagon Codd. Commander's Ralf Kenning. Not that he'll be around much longer."

    "And where is he?"

    Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, Dagon Codd said, "In there. Dying from a fucking poisoned arrow. Fucking Cranogmen."

    Nodding jerkily, Theon walked as best he could into the room where the Ironborn commander lay. The stench coming from the man was worse than even he had smelled before Ramsey bathed him. The man's wound had obviously turned and the smell of rotting, putrid flesh filled the room. Gingerly kneeling by the bed, Theon looked at the man and knew that he was looking at a dead man. And judging from the man's eyes, he knew it as well.

    With an effort, Theon pulled out Ralf's knife from the belt by his bed and held it up for the man to see. When Ralf saw it, he nodded weakly and closed his eyes, ready for the mercy stroke. Putting the knife against the man's throat, Theon muttered, "What is dead may never die," and as quickly as he was able, slit Ralf's throat and watched the black poisoned blood ooze out thickly through the wound.

    Painfully climbing back to his feet, Theon limped back out to the men in the remains of the Great Hall. As they looked at him, he saw a slight approving look in their eyes. While they would never admit it, they all knew that Theon had given their commander a merciful death instead of allowing him to linger. That small act earned him an equally small amount of respect from the remaining warriors.

    After giving the men Ramsey's terms, that they lay down their arms and he would feed them and give them safe passage back to the Iron Islands, he stepped back and let them talk. Of them all, only Dagon Codd objected. Shit, Theon thought. The man smelled a trap. If he was allowed to rally the men, his own life wouldn't be worth the shit on the bottom of his boots.

    But before Theon could even open his mouth to try and convince them, an axe slammed down into Dagon's head and split his head like a ripe melon. Looking at the man that had just killed Dagon, he asked, "Food and safe passage home in exchange for our surrender, right?"

    Replying quickly as he felt Theon slipping and Reek returning, Theon nodded his head and said, "Yes. Lay down your arms and you'll be fed and escorted to the coast to go home."

    Nodding their heads, the men dropped their weapons and began making their way out of Moat Cailin towards the waiting Bolton force where they were swiftly gathered together and searched to make sure they had honored their agreement. As Theon watched, he hung his head in shame. He knew, in his gut, that Ramsey had no intention of ever allowing these men to leave the Neck alive. But he had no other options. It was do what Ramsey wanted or suffer the consequences. As the last of the Ironborn filed out of the ancient fortress, Theon broke down and cried bitterly before surrendering himself to Reek once again.
     
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    • Smalljon II
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    • Smalljon

    Fuck it was cold up here. He felt the wind whip into the tunnel through the Wall the moment the gate was opened on the north side. The bloody wind was so cold it made his balls ache. How did those mad fuckers manage to live up here? The wildlings must be fucking mad to want to live beyond the Wall. Of course, if what Jon said was true, they now desperately wanted to live south of it. That was probably the first smart thought any wildling had ever had pass through their skull.

    He still couldn't believe he was doing this. Going beyond the Wall to talk to wildlings. Ever since he was a boy, he'd believed that the only good wildling was a dead wildling. Fucking hells, he still believed that. His King may be willing to give the fuckers the benefit of the doubt, but he wasn't so ready to let bygones be bygones. These gods damned wildlings better have one fucking good story to tell if they wanted him to willingly let them through the Wall and settle in the very lands they had raided, reaved and raped for generations.

    The King was riding at the head of the small party. He was still mainly dressed in black. The only thing he wore that wasn't black was his cloak. As the King put it, "It was the only thing he had left that still fit from before he joined the Watch."

    When Jon exited the King's Tower that morning, his hair had been freshly trimmed and his beard wasn't as unkempt as it had been the night before. He supposed that the King had wanted to look as Kingly as possible for his mission this morning. Not that he understood why he'd even bothered. They were going to talk to fucking wildlings. It's not like they gave a shit about things like that. Every wildling he'd ever come across had only cared about three things: keeping their weapons sharp, their bellies full and their bodies warm.

    Fucking hells. There was a group of Wildlings up ahead. A group that included two giants. Instinctively, his hand dropped to the pommel of his great sword, just in case. Glancing to his right out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dacey doing the same thing and tightly gripping that mace she was so fond of. Ahead of him and in front of the giants was a man on a garon with a great, bushy beard of flaming red that would have impressed even his own father, a man known for his large, shaggy beard.

    As they approached the group the man leading the wildling called out in an exceptionally strong voice, "So, the crow returns, eh?! I knew you couldn't stay away for long Jon Snow. Tired of kneeling already?"

    "Something like that Tormund," replied Jon.

    "I see you're not all in black. The crows throw you out and you've come to beg to join us again?"

    "Not exactly. It's a long story, and one best heard sitting down."

    This Tormund looked Jon over with a sharp eye before nodding and saying, "You've got a weight on you lad. I can read it in your eyes. Well, Mance wants a word. Not sure he wants one with you though. Wants to run a sword through you maybe."

    "Once he hears what I've got to say, he'll be glad I'm the one he's talking to."

    "You say so. What about that lot with you?"

    "They're with me. They're here on behalf of three of the Great Houses of the North."

    Saying that, Jon pointed to each of them and continued, "Marlon Manderly, Smalljon Umber and Dacey Mormont."

    When Tormund heard the names, his face turned serious and he could see the blood rushing to it as his face got even redder then the cold was making it. "You're a fucking Mormont?!" he asked Dacey. "Like the last Lord Commander?"

    "My uncle," she replied.

    "You're uncle slaughtered us like pigs!"

    "And what have your people done on Bear Island? Come ashore to share gardening tips?"

    At that, Tormund threw his head back and laughed heartily. "Thought you southorns didn't have spearwives Snow! What I wouldn't give for a woman with a fire in her belly like that!"

    Glancing at Dacey, Jon laconically replied, "Better be glad you're too old for her then Tormund. She'd probably cut your balls off with that knife on her belt and make you eat them for breakfast."

    That set the wildling raider into another bout of laughter. Once he finally got his laughter under control, he said, "You fought us hard here. Harder than that fool Styr thought you would. He die?"

    Nodding his head, Jon replied "Inside the Castle. Killed him myself. Never did like him."

    "Me either. Fool thought he could just waltz right through you crows and throw open the gates and let us all through and all we'd have to do is sing while we marched."

    Just then, Jon's horse half hoped over a fallen log and Jon winced and grabbed his leg when the horse landed. Tormund, and everyone in the party from both sides, noticed it immediately.

    "What happened to your leg?"

    "An arrow. I think it was from Ygritte."

    Chuckling, Tormund said, "Women. One minute they're loving you, the next they're trying to fill you with arrows. What happened to her?"

    "She's dead. I burned her body myself."

    "Shame. She was a woman. If I was younger... Well, no use crying over her now."

    Pulling a wine skin from his saddlebags, Tormund proclaimed, "To Ygritte, kissed by fire!" And then he proceeded to drink deeply before handing the skin to the King who repeated the phrase and if possible, drank even deeper.

    "Was it you who killed her?"

    "No. I don't know who did. I found her with a knife buried in her chest and her bow in her hand."

    "Well, a better death than some."

    "Aye."

    After that, the two men lapsed into an almost companionable silence. Who was this man that they had proclaimed King? Jon and the wildling seemed to be almost friendly with each other. This was all very odd to him. Hells, the fact that he was riding north of the Wall was strange all by itself. That he was riding to offer peace to fucking wildlings was damn near mind blowing.

    As they crested what passed for a ridge, the Wildling camp appeared before them. The sight caused Smalljon to suck in his breath for the merest fraction of a moment before his mind caught up with his eyes. The Wildling camp was large. Far larger than he had ever expected it to be. If anyone had told him that there were this many wildlings beyond the wall, he would have laughed them out of the room then called for the Maester to have him examine the man's head.

    But as he looked over the camp, he began to realize that not everything was as it seemed. For as large as the camp was, there was no organization to it, no plan and nothing more than the most rudimentary defenses. Tents and lean-tos seemed to be set up wherever their owners decided to stop walking with little regard for keeping paths open between tents or for how they could defend the camp. There were piss pits dug haphazardly next to almost every tent instead of a single latrine dug outside the camp. Horses, goats, sheep and pigs wandered throughout the camp. Gods, if he had a thousand heavy horse he could sweep through the wildlings like a heated blade through soft butter. Whoever this "King-Beyond-The-Wall" was, he better thank the gods above that they were only coming to talk, not to attack.

    As they entered the camp, most people ignored them and went about their day. But enough gave them hostile looks that Smalljon's anxiety levels were steadily climbing. On any given day, he wouldn't have cared. One Northern warrior, properly armed and armored, could kill a dozen or more wildlings without any real trouble. But here, there were just so many of the fuckers that they'd get swamped by sheer numbers.

    Some of the people were also openly glaring at the banners that were flying above them. His and Dacey's in particular. There was certainly no love lost between the wildlings and the Umbers or Mormonts. They hated us, and we hated them, Smalljon thought to himself. At least the wildlings had good reason to recognize their banners. As the two Houses most exposed to their raids we did tend to react strongly to them. The numbers of wildlings that had been killed and their bodies hung over the Wall as a warning to the rest had to number in the thousands over the centuries. That's what was making this so damn difficult. All he ever knew was fighting the wildlings. Now he was being told to make peace with them. If Jon hadn't been Robb's brother, he wasn't sure he could go through with this.

    As they neared a large white tent atop a small rise in the ground, he noticed a man in a black and red cloak with grayish brown hair standing outside it, seemingly waiting for them. He was surrounded by a group of wildlings that were as diverse as they terrifying. One was a short, broad man wearing bones for armor and what looked like a giant's skull as a helm. There was also a woman who had a pole in her left hand with a dog's head mounted atop it. These were the people that Jon wanted to let through the Wall? What in the seven hells was the man thinking? There was no way that this would end well for anyone, Northmen or wildling.

    As they approached the tent, arguments were shouted back and forth between everyone. It looked like Jon and the wildling that had escorted them (Tormund? Was that his name? Fuck if he knew.) were mostly arguing together against the other three. Two of those three had practically drawn steel on the King already while the man in the red and black cloak seemed like he was trying to make up his mind.

    Eventually, the man in the cloak shouted, "Enough! We wanted to talk, they're here to talk. Jon Snow came in good faith. We'll hear what he has to say then decide whether he leaves the camp alive or not."

    That seemed to at least shut everyone up for the moment. Which, judging by the way the rest of the camp sounded, was an accomplishment in and of itself. When they entered the tent, Smalljon's breath was taken away by the sight of the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, wildling or not. She was dressed in bearskin of pure white with long honey colored hair, a slender body, a full bosom and blue, almost grey eyes. She was enough to make the blood of any man race through his veins. He didn't realize that he'd been staring until Dacey, who was right behind him, practically punched him in the back to get him to move forward into the tent. For fuck's sake, what was wrong with him? He'd seen beautiful women before. Shaking his head gruffly, he moved into the tent and sat on the stool next to Jon while Dacey sat on the other side of Jon with Marlon next to her.

    Smalljon sat and watched as the King in the North and the King-beyond-the-Wall sized each other up. This was likely the first time since the Age of Heroes that both Kings had been in the same room and hadn't tried to kill each other. At least they hadn't tried yet, he corrected himself. As the two Kings talked, Smalljon tuned out most of it. It had more to do with Jon's time in the Watch than anything else. His attention was fixed on the girl in the tent. He'd heard her called Val. While he looked at her, he started to wonder if she would be as impressive out of her clothes as she was in them. It was only when the two Kings in the tent turned to the real reason they were talking that Smalljon finally pulled his attention away from the beauty before him. Ah well, duty calls.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Mance I
  • Threadmarks
    • Mance

    He almost found himself liking Jon Snow, despite him being a turncloak bastard who had betrayed him. Which presented a bit of a problem for him. The boy had only been doing what he had been ordered to do when he joined up with his camp and then later betrayed them to the Watch. But he'd lied to him and by extension, the Free Folk as a whole. And to the Free Folk, that was a worse crime than just about anything else. North of the Wall, a man's word had to stand for something. Any man who failed to live up to what he'd promised wasn't worth the food to keep him alive. So those men, and women, were killed out of hand. For him to keep the respect of the Free Folk, he really had to kill the boy. But gods damn him to all the seven hells, he liked the lad.

    Jon hadn't tried to dodge what he did once since Tormund brought him to the camp. Instead, he'd simply said that he'd been ordered to do it, so he'd done it. Of course, the boy hadn't been that great a liar at the time. He'd seen through most his charade almost immediately when he'd first joined them. But Mance had felt sure that buried deep within Jon, some part of him actually wanted to join with him, and that not everything he'd said was a lie. Not that it would matter to those around him. He'd given the lad a chance to prove himself, and he'd failed. And now that he'd returned the clan chieftains, Rattleshirt and Harma Dogshead in particular, were being vocal about wanting to gut the lad. Only Tormund seemed willing to give him another chance.

    He was still unsure why Jon had come back beyond the Wall to begin with though. While it was true he wanted to parley with the Watch, Tormund hadn't even had a chance to deliver his message to the Watch yet. Jon's party had found Tormund's before he'd even reached the Wall. That made it curious to him. And things that were curious were things that were worth exploring. So he made a show of being angry, one that wasn't entirely faked, then sat and argued and talked with Jon about what he'd done while he'd been in his camp and on his climb over the Wall.

    That was when Val had interrupted and asked about Jarl. Jon at least had the good sense to look saddened when he told his goodsister that Jarl had fallen from the Wall when the patch of ice they were on had given way. Jon had sadly told her that if the men could be spared, they'd likely find his body below the Wall outside Greyguard. Val had thanked him, then turned back to caring for her sister. Then there was that giant of an Umber with Jon. Mance would have to have been blind not to notice the looks that the Umber fellow was giving Val. Or how he perked up when she spoke and how he paid attention to the reply. Something to watch there. It could be trouble down the road or it could be something to use to his advantage. Only time would tell there. Time and how he would react to a certain piece of information.

    After that, they moved onto the real reason why Jon was here. To parley. Unlike most in his camp, Mance understood what the banners flying above the small party meant. As a Man of the Night's Watch, Jon was not entitled to fly the banner of any House or wear any sigil. Yet he had approached them under a Stark banner. And the lad was not dressed all in black. He had a pretty good idea what that meant, but he wanted to hear Jon say it aloud. Just as he thought that, Jon started to speak again.

    "Mance, you were raised south of the Wall," he began. At hearing that, Tormund, Harma and Rattleshirt all bristled slightly. The fact that someone raised in the south and that had been a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch had become King-beyond-the-Wall still rankled them a bit. It was something Mance knew they would always hold against him. Not that it mattered. They had all agreed to follow him because he was the only one who had a plan to get them south of the Wall ahead of the bloody Others and their wights.

    Continuing on, Jon said, "You know what our banners mean. The fact that I rode to your camp under the banner of House Stark won't be lost on you." It was at this point that Jon took a deep breath and looked down at his lap before looking back up with a hard glint in his eyes and saying, "By decree of my brother, Robb Stark, the King in the North, I've been legitimized and named as a Stark. He did this so that I could be his heir."

    It was here that Jon's voice broke for a moment before he could continue. And when he did, the voice that came from the boy was far different. It was no longer the voice of a lad who had only seen one winter. It was the voice of a very hard and dangerous man. Something that everyone in the tent immediately picked up on.

    In a voice harder than Valyrian Steel and filled with a fury colder than ice, Jon said, "But my brother was murdered. He was betrayed by some of his own bannermen and killed while attending a wedding under Guest Right. And now the Throne of Winter is mine. I'm here to make peace between our peoples so I can deal with the traitorous scum that killed Robb. And beyond that, I know what's coming for us. I've seen them, just as you have. The North can't fight the Free Folk, the Southorns, and the dead. So for the sake of my people, I'm willing to make peace."

    Mance actually rocked back on his seat at hearing that. He had figured that Jon had been named a Stark, but hearing that he was actually King in the North was a shock. And it was an even bigger shock hearing that he was willing to make peace with the Free Folk. Part of him wanted to dance with joy then break down sobbing in relief. But another part of him whispered that caution would be needed. He had to negotiate terms that would be suitable for all the tribes and clans following him. And they were a diverse lot that rarely agreed on anything. Well, perhaps that was getting too much into the details right now. What he needed to know was what Jon was offering. Because some things, he could not accept.

    Leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees, he asked Jon, "What are you offering?"

    "Your people will be allowed south of the Wall. I'll allow them to settle on and farm the Gift and New Gift. In return, your people will agree not to raid, rape or reave any of the lands south of the Wall. In exchange, the Northern Houses will agree not to attack your people. The Free Folk will be required to garrison the castles along the Wall and to fight the dead when they come. Many of those castles are in very poor condition. They'll need to be repaired or rebuilt to be suitable to live in.

    "Every chieftain in your camp will surrender one son, or daughter if they don't have any sons, to be held as a hostage to ensure their clan's good behavior. Additionally, you and your people will surrender half your gold and silver to the Night's Watch.

    "If called upon, your people will assist mine in fighting and killing the Northern Traitors and any Southorn armies that try and come North. These are my terms. You can either accept them and come safely south of the Wall, or you can reject them and stay here to become fodder for the Night King and his Army."

    Mance dropped his head and slowly shook it before replying. When he did he said, "Lad, you know I can't accept that. The Free Folk would tear out my guts and make me eat them if I did that. You're demanding too much and offering too little."

    Turning to Tormund Mance said, "Go get the horn. We'll wait here."

    Nodding in reply, Tormund got up and left to go to his tent. While he was gone, a deadly quiet ruled the air inside the tent. No one said a word, instead the tense silence hung heavily over them. The only noise that could be heard was the crackling of the fire near the center of the tent.

    When Tormund reentered the tent, he carried a long object wrapped in furs in his hands. Handing it to Mance, he took his seat to Mance's right again and shot an intense look at Jon, silently imploring the King in the North to listen to what Mance had to say. The look was not lost on Mance. Gods, Tormund really did like the poor bugger.

    Weighing the fur wrapped horn in his hands, Mance looked down at it gravely before slowly and almost reverently unwrapping it. Holding the unwrapped black horn up, the torches in the tent began to reflect off the gold bands that were wrapped around it. Looking Jon in the eye, Mance said:

    "Do you know what this is lad? This is the Horn of Joramun. Also called the Horn of Winter. With one blast, this horn could level the Wall and then what's to stop me from bringing my people south? Either you let my people south of the Wall, or I tell Tormund here to blow his heart out."

    On hearing that, Jon looked at Mance with a sly look in his eyes and said with a chuckle in his voice, "No, you won't. You need the Wall between your people and the Others. If you blow that Horn, what's going to stop them from marching right on south and slaughtering you as they go? So you won't blow that horn Mance. Not now, not ever."

    "Aye, they'll still come. But I'll buy my people months to live. Years even, maybe. Why shouldn't I blow it if it buys my people years to live?"

    "Because you don't want the chance of your people living for years. You want to know that your people will survive for generations. And the only way that happens, is if the Wall still stands. Now, if that's all you have to offer, a threat to blow down the Wall with a magic horn, which may or may not work, then I'll lead my men back behind the Wall and we'll prepare as best we can to face the Long Night without you.

    "Call my naive if you want to Mance, but I don't believe that you actually want Tormund to put those lungs of his to the test and blow that Horn. What if it doesn't do what you think it does? Then your bluff is just that. A bluff with nothing to back it up. And what if it does do what you think it will? Then there's nothing between your people and the Others.

    "So, now that I'm calling your bluff, what are you really after? Because we both know that you don't want to fight your way south of the Wall. It would cost you and me too many men and women. Warriors that will be needed to fight the Long Night. So what's it going to be? Make a deal that gets your people south, or wait here on the wrong side of the Wall for the Others to come and slaughter you all?"

    "No, Jon. That's the wrong question. What are you offering to keep me from blowing this horn? Or from sending my people to fight our way through?"

    "Phrase it anyway you want. But if you and your people want to get south of the Wall, we'll have to make a deal."

    "Alright. You let us south, I'll turn the Horn over to you, no more threat of knocking the Wall down. And I'll ask the Free Folk not to raid."

    "Mance, you know that's not enough. You turn over the Horn, and the Night's Watch and the various Houses of the North will send builders, carpenters, stone masons and blacksmiths to the various Castles to help your people rebuild them so that they're in a fit state to live in during the winter and to fight from during the Long Night.

    "Have each Chieftan surrender a son or daughter as a hostage, and my bannermen will treat them as they would any other Highborn hostage. No chains, no dungeons, no being locked in a cell. They'll be taught to read and write and how to fight. They'll be given a Lord's education. After the Long Night, they'll be returned to their families, unharmed. But if any of their Clan's breaks their vow not to raid, reave or rape the North, they'll be executed.

    "Surrender half your gold and silver to the Nights Watch, and they'll use the money to purchase arms and armor, lumber and stone, food and drink. Those items will be used to arm and armor your people to fight the Long Night, to repair and rebuild the castles along the Wall, and to fill the larders of those castles so that we can all eat while we hold off the army of the dead.

    "And if called, your people will answer the call to fight any Southorn armies that march North to attack us."

    Shaking his head again Mance said, "No lad. That won't work at all. I'll agree to turn over the Horn of Joramun to you in return for aid in rebuilding and repairing the castles on the Wall. But in no uncertain terms will I let you use my people as soldiers to fight your wars in the South."

    "Fine. I won't ask you to fight my wars so long as your people agree to return north of the Wall after the Long Night. If any clan wishes to remain south of the Wall however, they'll have to swear an Oath of Fealty to me and abide by the laws of the North. The clan Chieftan will be made a Lord, given a keep and his people allowed to settle the lands around that Holdfast. But that clan will be required to fight for me should I ever call my banners and they will have to obey all the Laws of the North."

    That last comment made some heads jerk upright. Particularly those of that Umber fellow and the Mormont girl. So. That was apparently something that the King in the North hadn't discussed with his Lords. Huh. That was interesting to learn as well. This King in the North had some balls on him to make decisions like that. And it was a pretty big concession.

    "Alright," replied Mance. "That will be up to each individual and clan. If they want to stay in the south and become a kneeler, they can. I won't stop them. But unless and until they decide that, the Free Folk won't bow to your laws lad. We'll agree not to raid the Northern Lords. But that's the extent of it."

    "I'll take that. I know that's about the best I can hope for on that count. What about the rest?"

    "We'll talk. Those are decisions that need to be made by the all the Chieftains together, not by me alone. It's going to be a long day and night Jon Stark."

    Turning to Val Mance said, "Goodsister, will you please bring some ale along with some of that bread and salt. We've got a long discussion ahead of us."
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Olyvar I
  • Threadmarks
    • Olyvar

    Where is it? Where is it? It had to be here! Olyvar was frantically ransacking Ryman's rooms in The Twins looking for King Robb's crown. He knew it had to be here. He had heard Ryman boasting of how he had his whores wear it while he fucked them. He liked to call the whore he was with "The Queen of Whores." He didn't have long to find it before Ryman returned.

    Where in the seven hells was it? He had torn apart the chests and dressers in here and still couldn't find it. It may only have been made of beaten bronze and iron, but it had still been worn by a King. And that made it valuable. Surely Ryman would take care not to misplace it? So where the fuck was it? He was about to tear his hair out looking for it.

    As he bent over to rummage through the discarded pile of clothes on the floor, out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of light as the sun coming in through the window reflected off of something. Dropping to his knees and peering under the bed, he let out a gasp and with trembling hands, slowly reached out and picked up King Robb's crown. He'd found it. Finally. As he reverently held the crown in his hands, he felt a tear fall from his eyes.

    Fuck his Gods damned family. He had been treated like shit ever since Robb's wedding to Jeyne Westerling, all because he wanted to remain by his King's side as his squire. And ever since he'd learned about what his family was planning for Lord Tully's wedding, he'd been kept separate and under guard because they thought he would warn them. They were right. He would have betrayed his family if it meant doing what was right and honorable. It was only desperation on his part and sloppiness on the part of the guard that saw him break free.

    Looking down at his chest, he saw the Twin Towers of his house on his doublet and was sickened by them. He had worn his family's sigil with pride and honor. But after what his gods damned father had done, he would never wear these colors again. His House used to be respected. Now, anyone seeing him was as like to spit on him as greet him courteously. And that went for highborn and small folk alike.

    He had heard some of the men around the castle talking about how Robb had named his bastard half brother his heir. Robb had often talked of his brother, about how close they had been and how his brother had chosen to join the Night's Watch. If the Gods be good, he'd get to meet that brother soon. He was determined to take Robb's crown to his brother. He would head first to Winterfell, then to Castle Black to find him.

    Well, it was time for him leave. He had what he came for. Now he just needed to get out of the Twins and head north. The last he had heard, the Ironborne still held Moat Cailin, so he would need to find a way past it. He had heard that there were paths and trails through the swamp to the east of the ancient fortress. Perhaps a single man could slip through where an army would drown? Only one way to find out.

    As Olyvar slipped out of Ryman's room and made his way to the stables, he stopped and thought for a moment. He needed coin and food. He had a small purse on him with a few Dragons and Stags in it. He knew where more was, but by the time he got there and back, the alarm would likely have been raised. He'd just have to stretch what he had then. Food was just slightly more vital though. Alright, a short detour to the kitchens to grab what he could through in a sack, then he would be on his way.

    Bluffing about his business to the kitchen staff, Olyvar was able to quickly fill a sack with a haunch of mutton, two pies, some venison and a small sack of apples. Throwing the now full sack over his shoulder, he hurried to the stables to make good his escape. The Gods must have been with him as he made it there without trouble. While he saddled his horse, he glanced down the stable and there, at the end of the stables, was Robb's horse. For a brief moment, he considered taking Robb's destrier, but soon decided against it. His own courser would be a better choice for the journey he had to make.

    As the sun began to set in the west, Olyvar pulled on a heavy traveling cloak with a large cowl to hide his face, mounted his courser, and rode out of The Twins forever. Once again the Gods were with him as no one challenged him or saw him leave. Taking one last look at what had been his home, he was revolted by what it now represented. The bile rose in his throat as his gaze dropped to the northern battlements. For there, suspended in a cage for all the world to see and for the crows to feast on, was what remained of King Robb's body with Grey Wind's head still obscenely attached to it. "A traitor's fate," his father called it. What would his father say, he wondered, when he realized that to the North, he was the traitor? What fate would he expect then?

    With his eyes once again facing the North, Olyvar spurred his horse on and left the Twins behind. When he reached the King in the North, he would ask the King's permission to abandon his family name and to found a new House in the North. Mayhaps he could find a nice Northern girl to wed and establish himself there. Smalljon Umber had talked often of his sisters, and he and the Smalljon had been friendly in a way.

    While Olyvar dreamed of the House he would found, the woman he would marry and the sons he would raise, the miles fell away behind him. Staying off the roads, he slipped through the brush and forests just out of sight. Twice he saw parties of men sent out by his father, likely out searching for him. His father may be a coward, but he was no fool. His taking of Robb's Crown would have telegraphed his intentions to everyone in The Twins. Ravens had probably already flown to Moat Cailin, the Dreadfort and every castle between here and the Neck. He had considered trying for Raventree Hall, but given what his bloody father had done, the Blackwoods would have little reason to trust him. In the end, he decided it would be safest for him to stay out of sight and raise as little suspicion as possible.

    Six days after leaving The Twins, he found tracks. Tracks that were traveling in the same direction. Whoever it was, they had tried to conceal their numbers by walking in single file, but here and there a footprint didn't line up just right or the gait seemed to falter a bit. Looking about carefully, he casually dropped a hand to the sword attached to his saddle and loosened the blade in the scabbard. Should he need his sword, he would need it in one damn big hurry with no time to mess about.

    Riding forward cautiously, he saw his horse's ears suddenly prick and before he could quiet his mount, it let out a soft whinny. Fuck, he thought. If they're bandits I'm fucked and if they're from my father I'm dead. As he reached down to scratch his horse's neck and try to quiet him, an arrow flew by his face and with a solid thwack embedded itself in a tree right next to him.

    "The next one flies true lad. That was just a warning," a voice said from somewhere off to his left.

    Raising his hands slowly away from his weapons, he slowly turned towards the voice that had called out. Replying to it, he said, "I don't want any trouble. I'm just passing through."

    "People who don't want trouble use the road. People who are avoiding trouble ride up here. If you were just passing through as you claim, you'd be down on the road minding your own business, not looking all about to see how many men are around you. And the answer is eighty lad. So don't even think of trying something stupid, you'll be cut down before you could make it five paces."

    Cursing under his breath at being caught checking for others, Olyvar nodded and said, "Alright, have it your way. I am avoiding trouble. You say you have eighty men around me. Yet not one shows himself. I think you're bluffing. A force of eighty wouldn't hide from one man."

    Chuckling, the voice told him, "From one man, no we wouldn't hide. From a scout, we surely would. You're wearing fine clothes, relatively well groomed for a man who's been traveling, mounted on a well bred horse and carrying castle forged steel. You're either High Born or a scout. And I'll lay my money on high born."

    That voice! I know that voice! Olyvar thought to himself. But from where? Suddenly it dawned him. "Lord Glover! I knew I recognized your voice. You have nothing to fear from me My Lord. We fight for the same cause, you and I. I fought beside King Robb at the Whispering Wood and at the Crag."

    Slowly pulling the cowl back from his head where it had been keeping him mostly dry in the light drizzle, he showed himself to the Lord of Deepwood Motte. Hearing a grunt of recognition, Galbart Glover stepped out from he was concealed and strode up to Olyvar. But there was no warmth in his eyes and his hand never left the hilt of his sword. While all around him, bowmen silently appeared, all with arrows knocked and drawn.

    With iron in his voice, Lord Glover said, "Get down off that horse you Frey bastard. One small move that we don't like and you'll end up so full of arrows you'll be mistaken for a hedgehog."

    His fucking family. Olyvar had been loyal to King Robb, yet his family was likely to get him killed because of their actions. Easing down to the ground, he told Lord Glover, "Lord Glover, look in my left saddle bag. You'll see the reason I'm heading North. I had no part in what happened to the King. I tried to warn him. My fucking family kept me under guard in my rooms so I couldn't warn His Grace."

    "I don't fucking care. You're a Frey. The Frey's betrayed us. The Freys murdered us. We all heard about what happened. Some of these men were there and only got away by chance. So you can save your lies. I'll save the King the trouble and behead you mysel..."

    Galbart's voice trailed off as he saw what was in Olyvar's saddlebags. Reaching in, he pulled out King Robb's crown. His brother's crown now.

    "I was riding North to bring that to Robb's brother. He's the King now and that crown is rightfully his. I had nothing to do with the Red Wedding. I despise my family for what they've done, and I won't be associated with it."

    Without ever taking his eyes off the crown that he held in his hands, Galbart replied, "That makes no difference lad. You're still a Frey, and no Frey will ever be trusted by another Northman. We're all trying to get home. You'll come with us under guard as a prisoner and I'll let King Jon deal with you."

    Turning to his men he told them, "Strip his arms and armor, check for any hidden blades too. Then tie him up so he can't run off and bring him into the camp. We leave for home tomorrow."

    It had taken nearly a month, but they had finally reached Winterfell. A month of dodging roving patrols of men from the Riverlands, the Westerlands and the Reach. A month spent crawling through the mud and ooze of the Neck. A month of hard night rides over the Barrows to avoid any prying eyes.

    And in all that time, never did any of the Northmen change their attitude to him in the slightest. To them, he was nothing more than a vermin to be exterminated. His family named condemned him to death, regardless of any past actions. It was unfair. He had never once betrayed Robb. Hells, he had betrayed his own family in trying to bring Robb's crown north. But none of that mattered to those cold hard bastards from the North. He was Frey, and thus was damned.

    Riding through the gates of the massive fortress, Olyvar marveled at eighty foot tall outer walls and the even taller hundred foot tall inner wall. How anyone could ever take this castle was beyond him. All his life, he had thought that The Twins were impressive. But here, the Inner Castle alone was larger than both towers of his ancestral home. From the walls above him and draped from several of the largest buildings were the grey and white banners of House Stark. The King in the North had returned.

    As Lord Glover's party, now numbering over two hundred, had entered the courtyard, they were met by the new King in the North. Upon seeing him, all in the party dropped to one knee in recognition of their King. While he was kept separate and guarded, Lord Glover received bread and salt from King Jon and the two men swiftly made their way inside the castle. Meanwhile, he was left to stew in the yard. At least they hadn't executed him yet or thrown him straight into the dungeons.

    After what seemed an interminable wait, he was marched into the Great Hall of Winterfell. Seated at the far end on the Throne of Winter was King Jon Stark. Flanking him were Smalljon Umber, Dacey Mormont, Galbart Glover and several other Lords and Ladies. None looked pleased. On the table in front of the King was the crown that he had risked his life to bring North.

    As he was led up to the throne, he dropped to one knee before his King and didn't even raise his eyes until he heard the voice of the King.

    "Look at me," Jon said.

    Raising his eyes, he saw the cold grey eyes of Jon Stark boring into him. And perhaps shockingly, the red eyes of a huge white direwolf as well. Where in the seven hells did that come from, he wondered. It wasn't there when he was led in here.

    "Why?" asked the King.

    "You're Grace?"

    Jon replied, his voice rising with every question, "Why? Why risk your life coming all this way to bring my brother's crown to me? Why, when you and your family murdered our families in cold blood after offering them guest right? Why?!"

    "Because I had no part in that, Your Grace. I tried to warn King Robb. But I was kept locked up and cut off from anyone who could get a message to the King. The only people I saw until after the wedding were Black Walder and Lothar. No one else was trusted to see me. I hate my bloody father for what he's done. I came because that crown is yours now, Your Grace. I came, because it was the right thing to do."

    Continuing in a whisper, Olyvar said, "I came because I owed it to Robb."

    Several of the people flanking the King muttered at that. He heard Smalljon say that he had shown bravery at the Whispering Wood and had fought side by side with Robb several times. Even Dacey grudgingly agreed with that. But judging by the hard looks being sent his way, all that mattered to them was that he was a Frey.

    After was likely about a half hour or so of discussion, some sort of agreement was reached and he was finally asked some questions.

    "What happened to my brother's bones?" asked Jon.

    "He was beheaded Your Grace and his head was sent to King's Landing. His body was mutilated by Black Walder and then hung in a cage from the northern battlements."

    "Grey Wind?"

    "Killed, Your Grace."

    "Lord Umber?"

    "He was killed while defending the King, Your Grace. I heard the servants talking about how he killed a dozen men before finally falling."

    There was a grunt at that from Smalljon. "Be like him to go like that. You know, he always knew he would fall in battle one day. Gods rest him."

    "Aye," Jon replied. "Father often talked about him, how he'd never seen a man drink so much ale and still be alert. My condolences, Lord Umber."

    After the Smalljon nodded his thanks, King Jon continued, "Who else fell?"

    "Wendel Manderly, Your Grace. He fell fighting. Lady Stark. Lothar slit her throat."

    "What happened to Lady Stark's body?"

    "At first, nothing. They were too busy celebrating. Then search parties were sent out looking for Lord Umber and Lady Dacey. After that, most of the bodies were gathered up and thrown in a mass grave. I heard that they kept the bodies of Lord Umber, Lord Wendel and the other highborn separate to return their bones to their respective Houses in an attempt to keep them from rebelling."

    That drew a snort from both Dacey and Smalljon. Dacey said, "Not fucking likely. The Boltons and Freys are traitorous scum. We'll never submit as long as they're still alive."

    "Continue Olyvar," the King said.

    "I heard my brothers laughing at what they had done to Lady Stark's body. They said they stripped her naked and threw her into the Trident."

    At that, a wave of anger rippled through the Great Hall. Lady Stark may not have been born in the North, but she was much loved by these Northmen. And the way her bones had been treated only served to add to their anger.

    Holding a hand up for silence, the King asked, "Anyone else? Anyone captured?"

    "Lord Tully was captured. Along with Patrek Mallister and Donnel Locke. Lord Tully is being held at The Twins. Patrek Mallister is being held at Seagard. I don't where Donnel Locke is. Owen Norrey, Robin Flint, Lucas Blackwood, Ser Marc Piper and so many more were killed, Your Grace."

    "Thank you Olyvar," the King said. Reaching down, he picked up the crown off the table, looked at it for a long moment, then slowly raised it and placed it on his head.

    "As King in the North, I find no reason to believe your words. Your House has proven through their actions time and time again that it cannot be trusted. However, Lord Umber spoke of your bravery in fighting by my brother's side. That fact alone warrants some small consideration for you.

    "Olyvar Frey, I Jon, of the House Stark, Third of my Name, King in the the North and of the Trident, sentence you to die. However, in recognition of your prior service to my House, I will grant you to chance to redeem your name. Should you wish, I will allow to join the Night's Watch, where you will spend the rest of your days on The Wall, guarding the realms of men from the threat that lies beyond. Your decision?"

    Olyvar blanched. The blood drained from his face. This was so unfair! He had risked everything to travel to the North and pledge his fealty to the King. And this was how he was being thanked? By being given the choice of losing his head or his freedom? What had he done to so anger the Gods this way? Even as he asked himself that, a small voice in his head whispered the answer to him: he had betrayed his family. Even considering that his family was cursed in all the Seven Kingdoms, he had still betrayed them. He was a fool. He had abandoned his family and the only thing he had to offer the King in the North was a circle of hammered bronze and iron. His father was right about him. He was a worthless idiot.

    It was only when the King spoke again that Olyvar realized that he had been silent for quite some time. Jon said, "Olyvar Frey, I will take your silence as your decision." Turning to the guardsmen that were in the Great Hall Jon said, "Take him out to the yard."

    "Your Grace, wait," Olyvar practically shouted! "I'll join the Watch, Your Grace. I'll join."

    Nodding sharply, King Jon Stark turned to one of the men by his side and said, "Ser Marlon?"

    "Your Grace?"

    "Olyvar Frey once provided honorable service to the North. But, as no one can speak to his actions since then, I am left with no option but to sentence him to death. However, he has asked for the honor of joining the Night's Watch instead of death. Therefore, you will anoint Olyvar as a Knight, then see that he is escorted to Castle Black, where he will live out his days serving the realm with the Night's Watch."
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Though a time on the Night's Watch will be a short one, for good or ill, with wildlings upon the Wall and cast as feudal lords within its shadow. But this probably saved his life: There is nowhere north of the Neck where he could have slept safely even if given Jon's full pardon and forgiveness.

    Its a choice between a black wool cloak and a grave marker. This was mercy, though none will recognize it.
     
    Modus_Tollens said:
    Though a time on the Night's Watch will be a short one, for good or ill, with wildlings upon the Wall and cast as feudal lords within its shadow. But this probably saved his life: There is nowhere north of the Neck where he could have slept safely even if given Jon's full pardon and forgiveness.

    Its a choice between a black wool cloak and a grave marker. This was mercy, though none will recognize it.
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    Exactly this. Even if Jon wanted to grant him his wish, Olyvar would be dead within a month and Jon's own bannermen would turn on him for being weak and not punishing the Freys.

    Then there's the fact that they only have his word for what happened. This is from Olyvar's point of view. He knows he's innocent. But he needs Jon to believe him. And that means taking his word for it. And as the Freys just demonstrated, their word doesn't count for shit. They just murdered Robb and a bunch of Northern Lords while under Guest Right. No one in the North is going to believe a thing any Frey says. At this point in the North, if a Frey tells you that the sky is blue, people are going to go outside and check.

    This also isn't our judicial system where you're innocent until proven guilty. This is a fuedal system where you're assumed guilty until proven innocent. They also don't have the "beyond a reasonable doubt" standard that we do. Olyvar's only real option here would be to request a Trial by Combat. But that's really pointless here since he would likely have to fight Jon. That kind of defeats the whole purpose of him coming North.

    So Jon did what he could. He put him under sentence of death, but offered him an olive branch by giving him the option of joining the Night's Watch. For what it's worth, he actually thinks Olyvar might be telling the truth. But his hands are tied. So he tried to reward him while punishing him. Thus, having him Knighted before sending him to the Wall.
     
    Last edited:
    Theon II
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    • TRIGGER WARNING: near the end of the chapter is a brief rape scene. If that is an issue for anyone reading, I apologize and suggest you not read this chapter. I will be happy to provide a summary of the chapter to anyone who does not wish to read this chapter due to the scene mentioned above.

    Theon

    He was cowering in the corner of Lord Bolton's solar in the Dreadfort. Lord Bolton and his Master were standing and discussing the capture of Moat Cailin. Reek had been quaking in fear ever since Theon had made an appearance at Moat Cailin. Fear that his Master would know he was still Theon. Worse still, his Master was in a good mood. Whenever his Master was in a good mood, he liked to "celebrate" by taking pieces of him.

    "You did well to take Moat Cailin," Roose told his son. "What happened to the Ironborn that were there?"

    "They were enemies of the North. I treated them as such," Ramsay replied.

    "You flayed them?"

    "That is our banner for a reason, Father."

    "My banner. You're a Snow. Or have you forgotten?"

    "No, Lord Bolton. I would never forget that."

    "Good. But you need not remember it any longer." Taking a scroll from his desk, Roose held it out to Ramsay. "This is an edict from the King. You are a Snow no longer. By order of King Joffery Baratheon, from this day until your last day, you are Ramsay Bolton, my trueborn son and heir."

    Ramsay seemed to almost swell with pride before replying, "Thank you, Father. This means a great deal to me."

    "There's more as well. If we are to secure our claim to the North, we need to solidify our claim to Winterfell over Ned Stark's bastard. So, I have something else for you as well."

    Saying that, Roose gestured to the guard inside the door with his chin who nodded and stepped out of the solar before returning a moment later. With him was a girl with brown eyes and dark hair. Reek felt his eyes widen in recognition. He knew her. Well, Theon had.

    "Ramsay Bolton," Roose continued, "I give you Arya Stark, your bride."

    Wait. Arya? That wasn't Arya. That was Jeyne Poole, Sansa's friend and the daughter of Lord Stark's steward.

    Ramsay gave "Arya" a smile. Reek knew that smile. It was predatory and anticipatory. His stomach churned. He knew what his Master would do to Jeyne. Gods, what would he do to her if he knew she wasn't really Arya? Reek kept his head bowed and his eyes fixed solidly on the floor at his feet. He couldn't let his Master know the truth about Jeyne. Not until Ramsay ordered him to tell.

    "Lady Stark. Welcome. I look forward to getting to know you better. I know this is likely as much a shock to you as it is to me. But I promise, I will make you happy."

    "Th-Thank you, My Lord. I-I will do my best to make you happy," "Arya" told Ramsay.

    "You'll wed tonight in the Godswood," Lord Bolton said. "Lady Dustin and Lord Ryswell will be here later today to witness your wedding."

    "Thank you, Father. I look forward to it."

    "Go prepare for your wedding. I'm sure Lady Stark has much to do before being wed tonight."

    Nodding to his father, Ramsay turned to Reek and said, "Come along Reek. You must prepare me for tonight."

    In a broken voice, full of terror and subservience, he replied, "Yes, Master."

    As his Master strutted down the corridor with his chest puffed out, his new station making him even more arrogant and self-assured, Reek meekly followed behind him with his eyes cast down on the floor. Did the Bolton's really think that Jeyne Poole could pass for Arya? Especially with Jon alive and laying claim to Robb's crown? Did Lord Bolton know that the girl wasn't Arya?

    Ramsay suddenly stopped and turned to face him and said, "Reek. I've just had a wonderful idea. Why don't you help Lady Arya prepare for tonight? I can manage without you, but this is a strange place for my bride and she would take comfort in having a familiar face to assist her in her preparations for tonight."

    "Yes, Master," Reek replied while bobbing his head. As Reek hobbled off towards Jeyne's, he meant Arya's, chamber, he could feel his Master watching him. Reek started to tremble in fear. His Master must sense Theon inside him. Finally his Master turned and walked off towards his own chambers.

    Hobbling along until he reached Jeyne's, no, that's wrong. He must always think of it as Lady Arya's chamber/cell, he knocked on the door before opening it and limping his way inside. Jeyne was sitting on the edge of the bed and sobbing quietly. Reek felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: anger. What did she have to cry about? What could she possibly have suffered through compared to him? She had no idea what true torture was.

    "My Lady," Reek said in his broken voice with his face turned towards the floor.

    Jeyne looked up quickly, startled at the interruption. The distraught girl had been so absorbed in her own misery that she hadn't even noticed when Reek had entered the room.

    "My Lady, my Master has commanded me to help you prepare for your wedding this evening. He...he felt that a familiar face might make things easier on you."

    A familiar face? Hah! He looked to have aged forty years since Jeyne had last seen him. His own flesh and blood wouldn't recognize him now. How in the seven hells would Jeyne, someone he barely knew, recognize him? And even if she did, why would she want anything to do with him? It was then that realization dawned on Reek. This was meant to be the start of his Master's torture of the girl. Even his own wife would not be spared his sick and twisted attentions. Idly, Reek wondered what bits and pieces he intended to remove from Jeyne.

    He could see the confusion on Jeyne's face. She clearly had no idea who he was. He would have to tell her. But how? He wasn't Theon. He was Reek. And she didn't know Reek, only Theon. He began to quiver in fear of what his Master would do to him when he discovered that he had failed. And his Master would find out. He always found out.

    From deep within him, Theon awoke and shoved Reek aside. Theon was disgusted with Reek. Ramsay had broken him so thoroughly that he was completely incapable of doing anything beyond what Ramsay ordered him to. Now that he was in control again, he would have to see the mewling wretch of a creature that Reek was through yet another crises.

    Looking up at Jeyne, Theon said in a soft voice lest others hear, "My name is Theon Greyjoy, Lady Poole. I was the Ward of Lord Stark. Now I'm the prisoner and servant of Lord Ramsay. He intends to torture you much as he did me. He believes you to be Arya Stark. What better way to torture you than forcing you to accept help from someone you have every reason to want dead? And it won't stop here. Ramsay is a monster and he will make you wish for death every day that you remain alive."

    For a brief instant, Theon saw a fire burn in Jeyne's eyes as she remembered who he was and what he had done to her childhood home. But it was quickly extinguished and she hung her head. In a whisper so soft Theon had to strain to hear her, she said, "Then he can do nothing that hasn't already been done to me in Littlefinger's whorehouse. I already wish for death every day and I've already been subjected to more torture than you will know. I've been raped, with my mouth and my ass used to provide pleasure for anyone that Littlefinger forced on me. And if I refused, I was whipped until I was bloody and passed out. And then I would be used anyway. I know what monsters are. Ramsey can do no worse to me than has already been done."

    Theon slowly shook his head. Jeyne truly had no idea what was coming for her. For as awful as her life had been up till now, it was about to get far, far worse. Ramsay was a horrible monster far beyond anything Jeyne could ever imagine even in her worst nightmares. Ramsay would likely spare her face, he would need that intact, it was the supposed face of Ned Stark's daughter. But the rest of her would be endlessly and mercilessly tortured.

    "Lady Poole, I know this will not be comfortable for you, but Ramsay has ordered that I prepare you for your wedding tonight. I'll draw a bath for you. You can wash while I prepare your clothes and help you dress."

    Jeyne just meekly nodded her acquiescence. Gods, Theon thought. She really had been broken by Littlefinger, hadn't she? What would Ramsay do to her now? He couldn't kill her. At least not until she gave him an heir. But gods, her life would be hell until then. Theon really didn't know what he could do to help her. He tried to think of ways he could help as he prepared her bath, but everything he thought up only got them killed or required him to do things that he was no longer physically capable of. Like swing a sword or draw a bow.

    As he hobbled his way back into Lady Poole's bedchamber, Theon felt his breath catch in his throat. Jeyne had partially disrobed and had her back turned toward him. Her back was nothing but a mass of scars. She truly had been whipped mercilessly. There was not a single piece of unbroken skin on her back.

    "My Lady," Theon said. "Your bath is ready."

    "Thank you," Jeyne said softly.

    The rest of the preparations for the wedding tonight went by in a blur. Mostly because Theon was waging a war within his own head to keep that disgusting creature Reek out. While still having to act like Reek. It was tearing him apart inside. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to remain as Theon before Ramsay finally completely broke him and turned him into Reek permanently.

    And Ramsay's torture of Jeyne only got worse as the night progressed. At her wedding, Ramsay had forced him to give Jeyne away. The Northmen present, well, they all agreed that Ramsay had given him exactly what he deserved. If only they knew. Even these hard bastards would be revolted by what Ramsay had done.

    It wasn't until the dinner feast that Theon began to feel a glimmer of hope. While serving Ramsay and "Arya" at the head table, he overheard Lord Ryswell tell Lord Bolton that Jon had retaken Winterfell. Apparently, the castle had been left abandoned after Ramsay burned it. If he could get Jeyne away from Ramsay, they could run for Winterfell. But he would need to do it quickly, before Reek could take him over again.

    Shortly afterwards, Ramsay had him escort his bride to his bed chamber. As Theon brought "Arya" to Ramsay's chamber, he could hear the girl sobbing softly. She knew that she was about to be raped again. This time, he felt compassion for her. He couldn't imagine what she was feeling now.

    As Theon brought Jeyne into Ramsay's chamber, he heard his "Master" enter right behind them. No bedding ceremony for Ramsay then.

    "Ah, My Lady," Ramsay said. "It pleases me to see you here. Do you know what is expected of you tonight?"

    "I...I've had training, My Lord," "Arya" replied.

    Theon could guess exactly what kind of training she'd had, being forced into one of Littlefinger's whorehouses. Hells, the poor girl had already told him that she'd been forced to give her mouth and her ass to anyone Littlefinger told her to.

    "Good," Ramsay told her. "Take off your clothes."

    Jeyne darted a worried glance at Theon and then slowly, with trembling fingers, began to disrobe. Theon took the hint and slowly turned and took a step towards the door.

    "No, Reek," Ramsay said. "You stay. I need a witness to me taking Lady Arya's maidenhead and putting an heir in her belly."

    "Arya" froze at hearing that. Theon had warned her that she didn't know what Ramsay was capable of. Now she was learning first hand. Theon too froze. This was a new low, even for Ramsay.

    "Yes, Master," Theon told him, using Reek's broken and miserable voice.

    Turning back towards "Arya" Ramsay said, "Well, girl? I told you to remove your clothes. I'm not in the habit of repeating myself."

    "S...S...Sorry, My Lord," Jeyne told him.

    As she started to remove her garments again, Ramsay gave a frustrated huff, stood up from the chair he had sat down in, walked over to the terrified girl and sliced her clothes away from her with his knife, leaving her naked and trembling in the light from the fire. Roughly forcing his hand between the girl's thighs her groped her most intimate parts before pushing her away from him to land on the bed behind her.

    "Gods girl," Ramsay exclaimed. "You're dry as a bone. Reek. Get over here 'Prince of Winterfell.' Why don't you use your right of first night with the bride?"

    "M...Master? I...I...I have no...no..."

    Slapping Theon across the face, Ramsay said, "Idiot. Prepare her for me. She's drier than the Dornish desert. Put that mouth of yours to work, Reek."

    Giving Jeyne an apologetic look, Theon lowered his mouth to her sex and began to pleasure her. Despite Jeyne's obvious horror and fear, she began to get wet and an occasional moan even escaped her lips. Theon always had been good at this. Just as he was about to make Jeyne climax, Ramsay ripped him away from his bride, grabbed her hips and thrust himself inside her with one cruel, savage stroke, tearing her maidenhead and fully impaling her on his manhood.

    Turning his head away, Theon saw that he had landed next to the pile of clothes that Ramsay had discarded. And among the clothes, was Ramsay's belt with his knife in it's sheath. Jeyne's screams as she was savagely and brutally raped seemed to stir something within him. Looking quickly at Ramsay, he saw that the sadistic bastard was fully engrossed in the rape of his bride.

    Easing the dagger from its scabbard and slipping it into his rags, he stood slowly. As he stood, the tip of the blade pierced his flesh and the brief flash of pain seemed to galvanize him and let him keep Reek away, despite the wretch's mewling and begging him not to do this, to let him take over again. Instead Theon got shakily to his feet. He was only a foot or two away from where Ramsay was furiously rutting in Jeyne's cunt.

    Slipping the knife from what passed for his pants, Theon lunged at Ramsay and slammed the dagger into the side of Ramsay's neck. Ripping the blade forward with every ounce of strength he had left in his ruined body, Theon felt his tormentor's throat split open and his hot blood gush out over his hand. On the bed, Jeyne had a horrified look on her face as Ramsay's blood sprayed over her naked body, staining her skin red.

    Ramsay, clutching at his ruined throat fell to his knees, his rapidly deflating cock falling from Jeyne's abused sex. With a shocked look on his face, the evil bastard tried to grasp at Theon. Instead, Theon spat in his face before burying the dagger up to its hilt in Ramsay's eye. His "Master" fell to the floor, dead before his head hit it.

    Ripping the dagger free of Ramsay's eye, Theon threw clothes at Jeyne and grabbed Ramsay's belt. Wrapping it around himself, he slid the knife back into the scabbard. Looking back at the shocked girl, Theon told her, "Get dressed. Hurry. We have to run. They'll kill us both if we stay."

    Finally coming out of her stupor, Jeyne began to dress while Theon tied the bedding into a rope. Fortunately for him, Ramsay's chamber was on the wall of the Dreadfort. His father had not yet moved him into the inner keep as would befit his new station as the heir of the Dreadfort. Throwing the improvised rope out the window, Theon urged Jeyne to hurry, that they didn't have much time.

    As the two struggled out the window and down the rope, Theon was in agony. His broken body lacked the strength for this. What strength he did have had largely been expended in killing Ramsay. That thought at least brought a smile to his face. The look of shock and betrayal on Ramsay's face as he died would be a cherished memory for the rest of his days.

    Halfway down the rope, Theon's strength gave out. He fell the remaining distance to the ground. Hitting the ground, he felt the air rush out of his lungs. While he was struggling to suck in a breath, Jeyne reached the ground beside him. Fighting his way to his feet, Theon pointed to the woods in the direction of Winterfell. Wheezing, Theon said, "That way. We have to run. They'll turn the hounds out soon."

    Hobbling as fast as he could, Theon and Jeyne fled into the woods, leaving the Dreadfort, and Ramsay's rapidly cooling corpse, behind them.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Boltons without commander and Jon as King.I think,that he would win,if he act before Rose Bolton come with rest of his people.
    He would be worst enemy then Ramsay.
     
    Orion Scimatarii said:
    A bolton lays dead.

    A grand celebration must be had. Jeyne, be brave little soul.
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    Jeyne has truly been through hell. Of all the characters in ASOIAF, she's probably the truest victim in the story. While the Great Houses played the Game of Thrones, she was an innocent bystander and was simply swept up in events and learned first hand how cruel the world really is.

    ATP said:
    Boltons without commander and Jon as King.I think,that he would win,if he act before Rose Bolton come with rest of his people.
    He would be worst enemy then Ramsay.
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    To be honest, Ramsay wasn't really much of a Commander. The show built him up far more than the books did and really turned him into some evil super genius. In truth, he was really no more than your garden variety psychopath. I thought it fitting that he should die at the hands of the one creature he thought he had nothing to fear from. And in truth, he had nothing to fear from Reek. But Ramsay so thoroughly shattered Theon's mind that he's, at best, two people in one body. He's both Theon and Reek. And he's constantly fighting a war within his own head for control.

    And absolutely, Roose is the more dangerous battlefield Commander. Unlike Jon, he's led armies in the field and is a more than sound tactician. Where Jon has an advantage, is that he should be able to muster between two Ave three times as many men as Roose can.
     
    Mance II
  • Threadmarks
    • Mance

    He never thought he'd be on this side of the Wall again. Yet, here he was. He was standing in the place that had been his home for many years. Not much had changed at Castle Black since his departure those many years ago. Well, maybe it was a bit more run down than the last time he'd seen it. But it still looked like home.

    He was standing by the tunnel going through the Wall and watching his people stream through the tunnel and into safety. He was struggling to contain his emotions watching history unfold before his very eyes. The black brothers were watching too. Though their emotions were very different from his. Most wore scowls as the Free Folk moved through the castle. Not that Mance blamed them. The Free Folk and the Watch had fought each other for centuries. And if he was being honest, the Free Folk were scowling at the Watch just as heavily. There was enough bad blood between the two groups to fill every river in the North ten times over. He was going to have his hands full trying to keep the peace.

    Outside the castle, just to the north of the Wall, men from the North were directing the Free Folk where to go. One great old cunt of a man in particular stood outside the gate with his hands on his hips glowering at the people passing through. He was giving them curt, gruff orders and directions. Hother "Whoresbane" Umber was a man that commanded respect. No man with his reputation grew old unless he was very good at killing. So the Free Folk listened to him. They hated him, but they listened. Some people were heading east, some were heading west, some were told to head further south into the New Gift. But all were heading to safety. The land they were being allowed to settle on was largely overgrown, but at one one time it had been some of the most fertile land in the North. There would be mountains of work ahead of them to prepare to survive the winter. But everyone was in agreement, the work was far preferable than being turned into slaves of the Others.

    He and Jon had spent days negotiating the terms under which the Free Folk would be allowed south of the Wall. They'd had to drag in every clan Chieftan as well just to keep the camp from erupting into violence over one clan or another feeling slighted at being left out. What surprised him the most was just how bloody difficult it was to decide what clan would be given which piece of land. You couldn't settle the Hornfoots next to the Nightrunners or the Ice River clans next to the Cave Dwellers. The Giants needed wide pains of grass for their mammoths while the Thenns wanted the mountain valleys to call home. More than once he and Jon had been forced to settle a matter with their fists rather than their words. He'd say this for Jon, for a little man, he could sure fight. It had impressed more than a few of the clans that he had been willing to settle things in the Old Way. Several had already bent the knee and been sent south beyond the Gift to settle on lands further south. But that still left the rest of his people and the terms that they would have to abide by.

    One part of him was still rankled about the conditions he'd had to agree to to get the land for his people. A full ten percent of their harvest had to be surrendered as a tax on the land. All ten percent of it was to be sent to Castle Black or to the other castles of the Night's Watch as they were rebuilt to fill their larders and provide wood and stone to repair the ruined castles. And he'd had to fight hard to get it that low. Jon Stark had originally demanded twenty percent of their harvest. In the end, it had been agreed to settle on the lower number. Jon had made the not unreasonable argument that, since his own people would be fighting from the castles along the Wall, they really weren't losing much, if anything. It still rankled though.

    As each clan passed through the tunnel under the wall, they were met by a different Umber. Mors Umber, the man called Crowfood. He was a man that the Free Folk knew well. Mors was a bitter old man with an undying hatred for Wildlings. Jon placing him where he had was no mistake. Thirty years ago, his daughter had been taken in a raid. The man wanted her back if she was still alive. Or the head of the man who took her if she wasn't. That condition had been non negotiable. Mance had reluctantly agreed. Mors was in for a shock when he found out the truth about his daughter. He wasn't sure how the man would take it when he found out that they were kin by marriage now.

    While Mors was waiting to learn the truth about his daughter, he had another job to do. As each clan came through the tunnel, he took a hostage from each chieftain to ensure that clan's good conduct. Normally he chose one of the sons of the chieftain, but occasionally he would take a daughter if the chief had no sons or if their only son was still a babe nursing from his mother's teat. For a man who hated Wildlings, he was surprisingly gentle and kind to the children. To their parents however, he was the same gruff old bastard that the Free Folk had heard tales of.

    He was also ensuring that the clans turned over half their wealth to the Night's Watch. Well, half of what they had brought with them. The Free Folk weren't fools. About a third of their gold, silver and gems had been buried and hidden north of the Wall. It was a risk, but it was a small risk. How much gold would the kneelers south of the Wall really think the Free Folk would have, anyway?

    All along the Wall, the scene at Castle Black was being repeated. Black Brothers and Northern nobles were at Queensgate, Deep Lake, Oakenshield and Woodswatch-by-the-Pool to open the gates there and speed the passage of the Free Folk through the Wall. Everyone knew time was of the essence. The Others would not want to lose their future army. Mance just prayed that everyone would be through the Wall before they came. Not least because his family had yet to come through the tunnel. He wouldn't be able to relax until they did. He had hated leaving his wife and unborn child on the other side of the Wall while he was safely in Castle Black, but he had to show the Free Folk that he was no different than they were and his family would have to wait their turn just as they were.

    Finally, his family came through the tunnel. Dalla was on his horse to ease her journey as she was heavy with his child. Val stood protectively in front of her, daring anyone to so much as think of touching her sister. Behind them, came their mother, Rowan. Mance smiled warmly at his family. Thank the Old Gods that they had made it safely. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mors Umber stiffen. Crowfood was staring at his family. Fuck. He should have known that the old bastard would recognize his kin. Well, best get on with it then.

    Striding over to Mors, Mance told him, "Mors, you demanded the return of your daughter. Well, your daughter is my mother-by-law. Those two young women there, those are your granddaughters, Crowfood. The one walking is Val. The one on the horse, is Dalla. Dalla is my wife. And she is soon to give birth to my child and your great-grandchild. We've lived up to our end of the agreement. Your daughter is home."

    In truth, Mors hadn't recognized his daughter. She had lived a hard life in the lands of always winter, and it had worn her features away. He had recognized Dalla. Dalla, to hear Rowan tell it, looked just like her when she was younger, other than her hair that is. Mors was almost overcome with emotion. His daughter, after thirty years, was home.

    Mance was starting to get slightly worried. Mors hadn't said a word yet. He just kept staring at his daughter. Just as Mance started to say, "Lord Umber," Mors' fist connected with Mance's jaw in a vicious uppercut, dropping him to hard ground while stars swam before his eyes. Instead of staying to fight him though, Mors took off running towards his daughter. Skidding to a stop, Mors reached out with a trembling hand and brushed his daughter's cheek gently.

    "Rowan," he croaked in a voice choked with emotion. "Is that really you, daughter?"

    With her eyes full of tears and her lips trembling, she said, "Yes, Father. It's me. I'm home."

    Mors then broke into tears and pulled his daughter to him and wrapped her up in an embrace. The two of them were openly sobbing at being reunited. This was a first for Mance. He'd never seen Rowan cry before, not even when her husband was killed by that snow bear. The woman was as tough as they come. But now, in the arms of her father, she could finally let go of everything she had been feeling since the day she was taken from her family home. Mance had a decent idea of what she might be feeling.

    Getting back to his feet and rubbing his jaw where Mors' fist hat connected with it, he strode up to his family. When he reached them, Mance reached up and helped Dalla down off her horse. He smiled lovingly at his bride. She was safe now. They'd both live to see the birth of their child, Gods willing. They were safe from the threat of the Others. For as long as the Wall stood, the Others could not pass.

    "You, Rayder," he heard Mors practically shout at him.

    Taking a deep breath and bracing himself for the fight he was sure was coming, Mance turned to confront the weathered face of the man called Crowfood.

    "Half of me wants to beat you half to death for not returning my daughter to me sooner. The other half of me wants to embrace you and tell you that I owe you a debt I can never repay for keeping my family safe. I don't know which part should win out. So for now, you'll all come with me to the Last Hearth. We'll feast your arrival and then discuss whats to be done with our family."
     
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    • Great chapter.What kind of Thenn we have here ? dyscyplined warriors from book,or savage cannibals from show?
    And how many giants ? 200 from book,or 3 from show ?
     
    ATP said:
    Great chapter.What kind of Thenn we have here ? dyscyplined warriors from book,or savage cannibals from show?
    And how many giants ? 200 from book,or 3 from show ?
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    These are the book Thenn, not the shows version. In the show, they seemed to call the Ice River Clans the Thenn. These are the more disciplined versions. Same for the giants. 200 per the books.
     
    Just the giants bringing full herds of mammoths is a godsend. Civilization effectively stops in winter but those are creatures that can actually move in it and operate without shelter. Without them the Wall would be isolated when the snow grows deep, ill news seeing as they just don't have enough time to fill their larders or finish shoring up their defenses. Those alone will buy humanity well needed time.

    The Thenn still have an old pact with the Giants, it seems, so you would need to keep them close. Just south of the Gorge is a fine tangle of mountains with grasslands between the Shadow Tower and Queen's Crown, all conveniently inside the Gift. It seems perfect.
     
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    Tyrion I
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    • Tyrion

    "You know," Tyrion thought to himself, "the Black Cells really aren't that bad. Well, once you get over the existential terror of being locked in a room that even he couldn't stand up in and being enveloped in complete and total darkness anyway." At least he still had a pot to piss in, some straw on the damp stone floor for a mattress and every so often one of the guards would throw in a crust of bread or pan of stagnant water. He could still be locked in one of the sky cells at the Eryie. Given the choice, he would much rather be confined here. Now if only he had a candle and a book, he would be quite content. At least his bitch of a sister would hopefully forget about him down here and he was finally free of Joffery's various cruelties. He was still curious how the boy had been poisoned so easily, though in truth the world was better off without the brat. Regardless of how horrifying his death was.

    While Tyrion sat with his back against the rough stone wall, he wondered if this was how Ned Stark felt when he was locked away down here awaiting his fate. Did he fear for his life and the lives of his family? Now that was a stupid question. Ned Stark had been a warrior all his life. He knew he was a dead man the moment he was locked away down here. He would never fear for his life. The lives of his daughters, however? Oh Tyrion would wager quite a bit that Ned Stark feared for his children.

    Tyrion's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the door. The lock was quite old and very stiff, it squealed as the key was turned in it. It sounded frighteningly similar to the noises a man made while he was being disemboweled. Probably left that way intentionally. Unlike most who would turn toward a door being opened, Tyrion had been down here long enough to know to look away or he would be blinded by the torch of the guard.

    As the door swung inward, Tyrion heard his father voice saying, "Tyrion."

    The fact that his father had come down to talk to him honestly shocked the hell out of him. Jamie had visited him a time or two, but he never expected to see his father again except at his joke of a trial. But now he was here.

    Turning towards the door, Tyrion looked through squinted eyes, and with his hand held over his face to further shade his eyes, toward where his father's voice was coming from. He could just make out the outline of Tywin Lannister through the door.

    Responding to his father, Tyrion said, "Ah, Father. How good of you to come see me. I would stand and greet you properly, but well, my present accommodations do not allow even one such as I that luxury."

    "Save it," Tywin replied. "Get out here. We must have words."

    Well now, this was interesting. Not only did his father wish to speak with him, he apparently didn't want others, or rather, he didn't want Cersei, to know about it. Why else would the great Tywin Lannister deign to come down to the Black Cells? He was the Hand of the King. Anyone he wanted to speak to, he could have brought to his chamber in the Red Keep. He was half tempted to tell his father to go to hell and stay right where he was out of spite. But Tyrion did still love his family and despite what his father often thought, he never wanted anything but the best for it. So he moved towards the door in a crouch until he reached it and, for the first time in days, stood erect. Despite himself, Tyrion couldn't resist the urge to stretch. Every bone, muscle, joint and sinew in his body popped, crackled and stretched at once. It hurt but it felt so good at the same time.

    "If you're quite done?" Tyrion heard his father say.

    "Almost. Until you've been locked in one of these, you don't really appreciate the simple joy of being able to stretch."

    "Even now, you're an insolent wretch."

    "Yes, as you never cease to remind me."

    Tyrion could see the ire rising in his father's eyes. Normally, he wouldn't care. But given his present circumstances, he really should. Just a bit, anyway.

    "My apologies, Father. This is the first conversation I've had in, well, I'm not actually sure how long it's been. I seem to have forgotten my manners."

    "You never had them to begin with."

    Gesturing towards the stairs, Tywin ordered Tyrion to start climbing.

    It wasn't long before Tyrion was out of breath and his legs were burning from the exertion. How much more did they have to go before they could stop? Finally, they came to a guard room with a table and two chairs in it and his father told him to sit. Thank the Gods, he thought. He was seriously winded.

    "Did you kill Joffery?" his father asked.

    Ah. So that was the conversation his father wanted to have. It helped that Tyrion actually had the truth on his side in this particular matter, but given his father's distaste for him and the lies he was certain that Cersei had been feeding him, he wasn't sure that it would help much. Nevertheless, he would do his best to convince his father of his innocence.

    Putting as much strength and conviction into his voice as he could, Tyrion responded, "No. He was an obnoxious, sadistic, malignant terror and he was an awful King. But I didn't kill him. He was still my family, my blood, no matter how much he hated me. I may not be your ideal son, and as you've pointed out to me numerous times in the past, I tend to embarrass the family with my whoring and overall boorish behavior. But I would never betray our family like that."

    For long minutes after Tyrion stopped talking, Tywin sat in his chair, as silent as a tomb, staring at him. Finally, and without so much as acknowledging what Tyrion had just said, Tywin asked:

    "And Sansa?"

    Here, Tyrion actually paused. His wife was innocent and naive. Well, at least as far as anyone that had been engaged to Joffery could be. But she also desperately wanted Joffery dead.

    "Possibly, though I doubt it. Her absence does seem to cast suspicion on her, and by extension onto me as her husband. And it was no secret that Joffery had humiliated her and that she wanted him dead. But I don't believe that she actually had it in her to kill him. Not yet, anyway. Another few years in the den of vipers that is King's Landing and she would have done it without hesitation had the opportunity arrived. But she isn't there yet. So no, I don't believe she had any part in Joffery's murder, but as she is not here, I cannot completely rule it out."

    Tywin sat in silence for what felt like ages. Eventually he said, "You've been a disease and a blight on my House since the day you were born. By rights I should be overjoyed at the prospect of you loosing your head and finally putting you out of my misery. But you're still my son. Killing you does nothing to advance my House. And unfortunately, out of all my children, you're the only one that seems to have inherited even half of a brain. So your death would leave House Lannister weaker. Which leaves me with a problem. Joffery's death can not go unpunished or the Throne, and by extension me, will look weak. Not an auspicious start to Tommen's reign.

    "This is where you're in luck. Joffery's fool was found floating face down in Blackwater Bay, filled with arrows. He likely played some part in Joffery's murder. Several servants reported that he and Sansa met in secret in the Godswood several times. It's convenient enough to lay the blame on him and Sansa for now. After all, Joffery humiliated the both of them often enough and he nearly drowned his fool on his name day with wine. Out of everyone in King's Landing those two probably wanted him dead more than anyone.

    And the story will play well with the Smallfolk. The treacherous daughter of a traitor, given a chance to prove her loyalty out of his love for her by King Joffery, betrays him and murders him on his own wedding day. The conniving bitch then kills her accomplice to keep him silent with the aid of men sent from rebellious Northern Lords, leaving her husband to take the fall for her. Convenient, wouldn't you say?"

    "Very. Perhaps a little too convenient, though?"

    "The smallfolk will believe what they're told to believe and the Lords will believe it as it serves their purposes.

    "With that in mind, I have a task for you. It will get you out of the City and far away from Cersei who is so blinded by rage and grief and her own delusions of power that she doesn't care who burns for Joffery's murder as long as someone does.

    "Eddard Stark's bastard has been named King in the North. His brother apparently legitimized him and named him his heir in his will. The Freys and Boltons failed to intercept that will before it reached Castle Black. Therefore, I am sending Jamie to the North with a relatively small force to reinforce Roose Bolton. You will go with him and serve as my representative. Once you arrive in the North, you will meet secretly with Stark's bastard and offer him a deal. If he submits to the Iron Throne and swears fealty to Tommen, we will confirm his legitimization, name him Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. Then Jamie and his men will join with him and help him to dispose of the Boltons."

    "Betraying our gallant friends and allies so soon, Father? Not that I blame you. The Bolton's are not exactly what I would call trustworthy. Not after that nasty business in the Riverlands."

    "Save your japes or I'll throw you back in your cell myself. In addition to offering him the Lordship of Winterfell, you may also offer him your cousin Joy as a wife. I'll ensure she is legitimized prior to the wedding and her hand in marriage to him will cement our alliance."

    "Didn't you already promise Joy to one of Walder Frey's sons?"

    "Yes, and I can unpromise her just as easily."

    Tutting to himself, Tyrion said, "I wouldn't be so sure of that. Look what happened to the last man to break an engagement with House Frey."

    "Shut your insolent mouth. So are you going to do as I tell you or do I have you thrown back in your cell to await your fate?"

    Rubbing the back of his neck as he thought everything over, Tyrion eventually said, "You realize of course that making that offer to Jon Snow is more likely to get me killed than it is that he'll accept the offer? What am I saying? Of course you realize it. That's why you want me to make the offer instead of Jamie. On the off chance that he refuses, but lets me keep my head attached to my body, what then?"

    "Then Jamie will lead his men against Winterfell and forcibly remove the boy from the castle. He will then install Roose Bolton as Warden of the North as previously promised. And you happen to be overlooking one key factor. Your wife is his sister. By law and tradition, you are now his kin. Killing you would be kinslaying. And of all the Kingdoms, the North is least likely to engage in that."

    "And what of Sansa? What if Jon demands the girl be returned to Winterfell? If the so-called King in the North is unwilling to acknowledge our wedding, what then?"

    "Then your failure to get the girl with child will come back to haunt you even more than it already has. Did you think I was so insistent on you taking the girl's maidenhead because I was concerned about the legality of your marriage if it remained unconsummated? No, you needed to get her with child so that she would be forever tied to us and so that she would never wish to leave, even if for no other reason than to remain with her child. But you weren't even man enough to do that."

    Tyrion opened his mouth to object, to ask his father what he really expected him to do, rape her? Sansa was not willing to bed him, even after their wedding. Tyrion knew that, deep down, he was an evil man. He had seriously considered raping Sansa on their wedding night. But he had mustered every last scrap of honor he had and refused to do it. But when examined coldly and brutally, his father was right. He should have had his way with her and put a child in her belly. It was the surest way to advance the goals of his House. Instead, as a last act of defiance and admission, he told his father:

    "You're right. I failed in that. I'm sure our House would be much stronger had i simply raped her and gotten her with child. And when her brother found out about it, I'm sure he would have been so thrilled at having a niece or nephew that he would ignore how that child came to be."

    It was here that Tyrion stopped. He could see his father's jaw was clenched and a vein on his forehead was beginning to pulse. Tyrion was still on very thin ice here. And while it may have given him a perverse pleasure to drive his father into a stroke, it wouldn't do much for his long term prospects of survival. Abruptly changing tack, he continued:

    "At any rate, on the very small chance that Jon is foolish enough to accept your offer, what then? Snow will be dead within a fortnight. His own bannermen would murder him. And what happens to me after all this?"

    With a visible effort of will, his father unclenched his jaw and said in an eerily calm and icy voice:

    "Then we name Jamie Warden of the North until a suitable family is found to take the Stark's place. You will return to the Westerlands and will be given a suitable keep. Where you will remain for the rest of your days, far removed from my sight. Should Sansa ever be found, she will be given the choice to either be executed or to join the Silent Sisters for the rest of her days. If she joins the Sisters, your marriage will be annulled and I will find a suitable bride for you from the Westerlands. And you will live out your days in that keep, far away from me."

    So, in a way, he was still going to be executed, only the method had changed. From a simple blow by Ser Illyn Payne, it would be a long drawn out execution without even a crowd to witness his passing as he wasted away, for all intents and purposes a prisoner within his own walls. On the other hand, he supposed that with enough books and whores he could at least make it more enjoyable than the Black Cells. And the food and wine would be immeasurably better.

    "When do I leave?"
     
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