A Hero for the Maiden

by Bub3loka

Summary:

None could argue destiny has a sense of humor. Kronos blasting his grandson across space and time might have spelled doom for the prophecy, yet in a world of ice and fire, the tangled threads of fate are unraveled as the Hero awakens for the Maiden.

Chapter 1: The Marooned Hero

Notes:

None could argue destiny has a sense of humor. Kronos blasting his grandson across space and time might have spelled doom for the prophecy, yet in a world of ice and fire, the tangled threads of fate are unravelled as the Hero awakens for the Maiden.

Introducing my PJO Xover with ASOIAF Plot Bunny!

Enjoy this chapter that has been edited by Gladiusx.

This poster was created by my friend, Reiter!

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The Marooned Hero

 

Percy woke up with a gasp. Years of intense training and his demigod instincts had him on his feet instantly as he looked around, taking stock of his situation. His head was pounding, and his muscles ached. He held his head to stave off the encroaching headache as he found himself in some sort of deserted and filthy alley. It was midday, with the sun high in the sky, trying its best to scorch the earth. He could smell the scent of the sea hidden among piss and shit. Not too different from a typical Bronx alley, but the brick buildings seemed alien to him. Not to mention, something was missing in the air? Something he had gotten used to for a long time, but as he tried to recall it, his headache intensified.

 

The last thing he remembered was giving the dagger to Luke, trusting Annabeth’s words that he would redeem himself. He would never know if Luke was being genuine, as the Time Lord had managed to wrest control at the last second, unleashing a mighty roar, and then… nothing.

 

No, not nothing. He thought hard as his head felt like it was going to split. Something happened, but his memories were fuzzy. Annabeth… where was she? Instinctively, he knew that she was gone. Unreachable. He wanted to rage against such a thought, yet at the same time, he had the distinct impression that he had already had this argument with himself and had accepted the inevitable.

 

Percy wandered towards a nearby street, where he could hear loud noises. He froze as he stepped on something slimy. Looking down, the demigod was shocked that he was completely naked, although his body sported signs of healing bruises and blackened marks of fire. It confused him, as the curse of Achilles should have kept him safe from any damage. He looked around for anything to at least cover his privates, ignoring the slimy feeling on his bare feet as he didn’t even want to know what he stepped on.

 

After tearing away a curtain from its window and then tying it around his waist into a makeshift kilt, Percy made his way outside the alley… only to gawk at the scene in front of him.

 

There were people. Many people. All of them were filthy and dirty and stinky. An entire crowd of thousands of hungry and angry-looking men, women, and children dressed in rags and dirty clothes were throwing shit and debris at a well-dressed group. With his six feet in height, Percy could easily see over most of the crowd of shorter mortals. He didn’t know how, but he could tell with a glance that almost everyone around him had not a single drop of divine blood in them.

 

Almost. 

 

The folks in fancy costumes were mostly taller than the surrounding rabble, but Percy could feel a tiny, almost untraceable amount of divinity in one of them. A legacy, perhaps?

 

He observed his surroundings, and for a moment, he thought he had entered a set for a medieval movie of sorts. A quick glance, however, told him that there were no cameras, no actors, and that tall blonde kid with the punchable mug certainly had murder and hatred on his shit-drenched face.

 

“HOUND! Cut through those filthy peasants! I am their King, and they dare strike me?”

 

Gods, the brat sure had a whiney voice to match his face, and his headache really didn’t agree with it. Percy noticed a tall man in plate armor and wearing a helm in the shape of a snarling dog, immediately urged his massive black stallion forward threateningly, but the crowd would not budge. The man seemed to shrug, uncaring, the act showing half his face covered in burn scars, then he cut a swath among the poor folks with his longsword, starting with the woman who had been blocking the road.

 

It was then that Percy fully acknowledged that this was real as he stared at the bloody bodies of men and women and how the nobles didn’t bat an eye at the violent death. Except for one familiar-looking red-haired girl who gazed in muted horror at the bloody scene.

 

“What are you waiting for, dog? I said kill them. Kill the traitors. KILL THEM ALL!”

 

The crowd suddenly went ballistic at the brazen order and charged at the royal party, while others stood back and chanted the names of kings. There was a King Robb, a King Stannis, and a King Renly; whoever they were, their names seemed to incense the blonde king and what looked to be his mother or maybe older sister. 

 

Percy looked on in growing revulsion at the group as the beautiful blonde noblewoman shouted from the window of a carriage. “Back to the Red Keep, Sers. Do what you must to protect your King!” 

 

“At once, Your Grace. Men! Shields up, present spears. Make way for the King or suffer the consequences.” A man in a gold cloak and an iron prosthetic hand moved in a shield formation with his troops and shouted warnings at the crowd. They were unheeded as the crowd pelted them with projectiles.

 

Percy ignored the retreating royals as the surrounding crowd descended into a bloody frenzy. People were pushing each other to the ground as one of the nobles, either a child or a dwarf, threw a fistful of silver coins while he rushed off. Another group had dragged a short Hispanic-looking man from his horse and were in the process of clubbing him. Yet another daring group charged the man with the scarred face, only to be cut down with a horizontal slash of his longsword. Percy silently hoped his horse would buckle underneath him, and to his surprise, it faltered as it stared at him inquisitively. This caused the man to overextend on his next swing and miss. Before he could recover, he was dragged down from his massive horse by another group, cursing and swinging his sword wildly.

 

“Whoops.”

 

Instinctively, Percy called out to the impressive stallion with his mind to come to him. The horse looked at him, then back to its master, then back to him. It gave one last look to its master before shaking its head with a snort and cautiously made its way around the crowd towards him.

 

So many people were getting killed and trampled, and Percy didn’t even know where to start to help if he could. There were too many unknowns, so for now, he would focus on his own safety. It would help if he was on horseback, and that horse looked fully kitted for war, with at least one dagger strapped to its saddle. If only he had Riptide, though sadly, he would need to find pants with pockets to know if the sword would return to him from whatever happened to him.

 

Suddenly, A feminine shout grabbed his attention. The bratty king looked terrified from the shouting crowd and, even as he rode away, pushed the red-haired girl riding next to him, causing her horse to rear up in a panic and for her to disappear into the crowd.

 

Percy had no clue where he was or when he was, but he knew one thing for sure. That girl looked just like Rachel, and he could sense that drop of divinity burning brightly from her. 

 

Even before a plan formed in his head, his legs were already on the move at the sight of the girl getting dragged by a trio of men into an alley. The men reminded him of the worst drug addicts he had to deal with on the streets back home. Filthy, scummy looking, half their teeth rotten, the other half missing. Utter leeches on society whom no one would miss.

 

One of the trio was pawing at the girl’s chest as he ripped off her dress, while the other two were trying to both drag her and unbuckle their pants at the same time. The girl was a tough cookie, however, and struggled mightily, biting the fingers of the one covering her face and elbowing the bastard undressing her.

 

“Hey, assholes! Let her go.” 

 

That grabbed their attention, and Percy could safely tell that the girl was not Rachel. Not with her bright blue eyes and the lack of freckles on her face. That would not stop him from saving her, however, especially as now that he was close, he could tell that the divinity he sensed in her was burning brighter by the second. Or was she touched by the gods somehow? Even as he gazed at her, he could feel the divinity in her almost turn to him in curiosity.

 

“Whatchu want? Want a bit of noble whore cunt? Then wait fer your turn, you fooking whoreson.”

 

Horeson ? It was a strange way to insult someone. The dialect, while sounding English, was like nothing he had heard before. More importantly, how did they know that his father was the lord of horses? Wait.

 

It took him a couple of seconds to understand that the son of a bitch in front of him just called his mother a whore. For Percy, who prided himself on his talent in taunting others without resorting to such low blows, this caused him to instantly see red.

 

A*H*M

 

The Little Bird

 

Sansa Stark did not believe in heroes. Her stay in the South had shown her the hard way that beneath all the glamour and finery of Southron Chivalry, they were all deceitful and shameless; Honor and justice were simple words that were given lip service, if at all. She herself felt it as she slowly but surely turned into a monster like them. 

 

It all started when she betrayed her family near the Ruby Fork to protect her golden prince. The gods surely cursed her at that moment, for she had lost her dear Lady due to her own cowardice. It felt like a hole had formed in her heart at that moment that had yet to heal.

 

It was all her fault. She should have helped Arya instead of someone she thought she knew. No hero would come out of the woods to help her, for she did not deserve it.

 

Then there was the accursed tourney. While many disregarded her as she sat in the stands and watched the joust, she listened as the surrounding nobles conversed with each other with a polite demeanor, swearing oaths and making promises as easily as breathing. Only to curse and insult each other once they believed they could not hear, cackling with their other friends how they planned to backtrack on their words. Mayhaps they couldn’t hear, but Sansa heard it all.

 

Then, it culminated with her father’s betrayal by the men he trusted. She was unable to learn much, but she knew that the Gold Cloaks’ commander had sworn an oath to her father to obey his commands, yet he betrayed her father regardless. She was in attendance in court when the shameless cur named Slynt bragged to Joffrey about how he so easily turned his cloak on her father. Then the nobles in court praised him, actually praised him for his bravery in deceiving the dumb and barbaric brute of a Northerner.

 

Served the oathbreaker right to be banished to the Wall when he tried something similar with the Imp. 

 

It was all her fault. She should have trusted her father that there must have been a reason he needed to smuggle them out of the city. No hero would come to her father’s aid as he helplessly watched his men get cut down.

 

If only Sansa could know who else betrayed her family that day, for surely many had let her father down. Where was Lord Renly with his smiles and easy promises? Where was Ser Barristan with his stoic duty and kind words and tales of glory and honor? Where was Lord Baelish, who swore to help them as a favor to his foster sister, her mother?

 

It didn’t matter. Lord Renly was dead, Ser Barristan was gone, and Lord Baelish had done nothing as she suffered. Always there with his smirk or silly quip. 

 

Then there was her… for how would her family prepare for betrayal from within?

 

How could Sansa have been so foolish? To disobey her father’s orders and tell the queen his secrets? The gods were surely fair, for they had punished her in the worst ways possible, as she was forced to see everyone she knew from Winterfell get killed for her treachery. Her father, losing his head to Ice of all things? Oh, how Sansa longed to hold her sister Arya one last time, but she was gone. Presumed dead by all.

 

She was a kinslayer in all but the deed itself. None as accursed as the kinslayer. It was all her fault. No hero would come from the crowd to stop her father’s execution, for it was the gods' decree that she should suffer for her sins.

 

Then the humiliations came. Joffrey, in his mercy and generosity, forced her to watch her father’s head every day. Then, once court was in session, he would have her continuously swear fealty to him and curse her family publicly. She couldn’t stand it. Sansa regretted dearly when the Hound stopped her from pushing the royal bastard off the rampart the first time he showed her Eddard Stark’s head on a spike. Every time afterward, the guards had been too vigilant, and she suspected the Hound had warned them.

 

Then… Robb descended from the Neck like a winter storm, shattering Ser Jaime’s army and taking him captive. Sansa didn’t have the luxury to celebrate or feel any joy from the news, as Joffrey had taken that as a direct insult. The craven cur would not dare attack Robb himself, so he satisfied himself by having her publicly beaten when he held court.

 

It was all her fault. She could have ended this war by pushing the bastard to his death. It was the one chance for Sansa Stark to be the hero she wished others would be, yet she failed.

 

Sansa thought she could handle the humiliation of swearing fealty to the false king. The surrounding nobles must have held a smidgen of sympathy for her family and her father, for they had never harmed them and treated all honorably.

 

The beatings showed her their true worth. Knights and ladies, noblest of the lands, sycophants, and lickspittles, all of them eagerly jeered at her as she was stripped half-naked and then beaten by the knights of the Kingsguard. How the mighty have fallen, not a single noble dared to speak up in the defense of a fourteen-year-old girl.

 

It was all her fault. Her fault, Her fault, Her fault ! Oh, how she wished she could kill herself and deny the Iron Throne a valuable hostage, for surely Robb was hampered by the fact she was imprisoned?

 

However, Sansa Stark was craven. Death terrified her; it would be so easy to jump from her room's window headfirst into the ground. Would she feel any pain? Maester Luwin had described the human body to her once and explained how the brain controlled pain. If her head shattered like a melon, would she feel it?

 

She looked on in muted horror at the chaotic scene before her, her brooding temporarily forgotten. How did it come to this? They had just left the docks as Myrcella Baratheon’s large escort sailed to Dorne. The blockade had caused the price of bread to nearly triple every moon, which culminated in her current conundrum. Joffrey could have simply walked away or at least pretended to help the poor mother with the dead babe. Instead, he ordered the Hound to kill them, and the brutish dog didn’t hesitate to cleave that woman in half, her dead child abandoned on the streets.

 

Worse, Sansa was not even feeling surprised…

 

Joffrey was a monster in human flesh, and she had learned to always expect the worst from him. He surrounded himself with similar monsters, and like son, like mother, she thought as she glanced at the Queen Regent and the ugly look on her face as she commanded the retinue to return to the castle. A reckless man had then charged out of the crowd and tried to drag Joffrey from his horse, only for Ser Moore to separate his head from his body. 

 

It all descended to chaos from there. Joffrey, the craven, had panicked and galloped away screaming like a child, but not before pushing her off her horse. Why would he even do that? A scapegoat? As Sansa was dragged to an alley, she wondered if this would be her end. 

 

Raped over and over in a filthy alley before having her throat slit and then dumped in the gutters? Or would they preserve her body for the pot of brown? To feed the filthy rats they call humans who populate this wretched city?

 

Something primal howled inside her in denial. She would not accept this! Sansa struggled with all her might, biting at the filthy hand covering her mouth and tasting vile blood. She kicked and elbowed, even as she felt her dress rip and warm air hit her skin.

 

There were no heroes. None will come for her. She had to become her own hero. There were no–

 

“Hey, assholes! Let her go.” 

 

Her captors froze at the sudden shout, and Sansa couldn’t help but halt her struggling for a moment as she stared at the source of the voice that dared stop her assailants. It was a man.

 

And what a man he was.

 

The stranger was practically naked, with a single red and green kilt designed in alternating squares around his waist to cover his modesty. He was tall but not as tall as her father, yet his tanned body rippled with muscles and power. Then her eyes found his face, and she was shocked to see how young he was, he couldn’t be older than sixteen! Even younger than her brothers.

 

His disheveled, coal-black hair was swept to one side. Sansa’s eyes lowered to meet eyes that looked as green as the sea in the early morning sun. 

 

The boy, no, man , for even if his face was boyish, his body was definitely that of a warrior, met her eyes and frowned at her captives.

 

They said something to the man, but she couldn’t catch it. Whatever it was, it enraged the man, and within a heartbeat and the next, she found herself unhanded as two of her captors were struck so hard that their jaws shattered. Sansa quickly recovered and elbowed the third man holding her in the guts, using his surprise to her advantage. The raper quickly turned tail and ran, while her savior picked up a pebble and threw it with deadly accuracy at the running man’s head.

 

Sansa watched with morbid fascination as the pebble sank into his skull in a burst of blood, and the man fell like a puppet with its strings cut. Her heart beat fast as she tried to preserve her modesty and redress herself.

 

Her savior frowned slightly. “Was aiming for the legs.” He quickly turned to her. “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?”

 

“I’m fine. Thank you for saving my life.”

 

“It was no biggie.” He smiled gently, but the phrase confused her. “When I saw you being dragged off like that, I moved without thinking. My mom always said to help anyone in need, especially if it's a beautiful girl like you.”

 

Whatever Sansa was about to say was interrupted by the arrival of the massive black horse that the Hound blasphemously named Stranger. For a moment, she worried its master was right behind it. Only, the horse slowly trotted to her savior, who gently held his hand forward as he stared into the stallion’s eyes.

 

“Be careful! I’ve seen that horse bite the fingers off anyone who wasn’t its–” Her eyes widened as she saw the normally bad-tempered horse whinny softly before allowing the man to pet his nose.

 

“You’re a good horse, aren’t you? Wanna ditch Scarface and become mine instead?” Sansa was shocked to find the horse reply with a nod and another happy neigh. The man turned to her, “Sorry about that.” 

 

He had a lopsided grin that did things to her chest, and she could feel heat rushing to her face despite the situation. She shook her head furiously. No. Sansa will not be tricked by another pretty face, no matter the circumstances of–

 

“I’m Perseus Jackson, but call me Percy. What’s your name? Will you be alright out there by yourself?” She froze at the question. Was he serious? He didn’t know who she was. 

 

Schooling her face, she carefully inspected the man as he patiently waited by his new horse, while the streets beyond were ravaged by mayhem. 

 

For a short moment, Sansa almost believed this to be another trick designed to let her guard down, but something inside her told her otherwise. She had learned the hard way to properly judge people from her stay in this wretched city, and everything about the man told her he was the most genuine person she had met so far in the South.

 

“I am Sansa Stark.” His face betrayed nothing, showing absolutely no recognition of her name, which further flummoxed her. “Why do you ask? Are you offering to escort me back to the Red Keep? If so, I can promise that the royal family will pay you handsomely for saving my life and returning me unharmed.”

 

She couldn’t hide the bitterness of her words, and Perseus – no, Percy’s smile didn’t waver, but he must have noticed how reluctant she was to return to that cage. 

 

“Well, I just woke up a while ago in a strange land, in a strange time and with strange people. No clothes, no money, no food, so I wouldn’t mind a reward and some directions. Are you sure you want to go there, though? I don’t mean to brag, but I’m quite strong, you know,” his grin turned delightfully feral. “ I can take you anywhere you need, people like us need to stick together, after all.”

 

Percy flexed his impressive muscles as if giving a show, and Sansa couldn’t help but be endeared to the boyish charm of the man. She did not believe in heroes, but she needed to think about this rationally. The man saved her for a purely altruistic reason; He did not know her name, and she had never heard of a house Jackson. Could he be a foreigner? His manner of speech was odd in a manner she never heard before, along with the queer words and odd dialect.

 

“What do you mean, people like us?”

 

He blinked. “You know, like us? Got a bit of extra power? A bit of voodoo? What do you call it in these lands? Hmm, perhaps with how faint it is, you never noticed?” The man thought aloud in low whispers that she barely caught. Power? If she had any kind of power, then it would have saved her from the many times she was beaten on Joffrey’s orders.

 

Before she could formulate a response, they heard hurried footsteps from the opposite end of the alley they were in as a squad of Red Cloaks, fully armed and armored, approached. They were led by a tall man with a hooked nose and a cruel smile. His long dark hair and drooping black mustache were matted with blood and mud, and his drawn sword was still dripping red.

 

Sansa recognized him as one of those new Kettleblack sellswords that Cersei surrounded herself with after Lord Tyrion sent most of the Lannister guard out of the city. The precise name eluded her, neither did she care to know it, for her eyes were set solely on the grim visage of the man who killed her father.

 

“You!”

 

The no-name sellsword smirked, thinking she was talking to him. “Indeed, it is I, Ser Osfryd Kettleblack. We have come to retrieve you, Lady Sansa. The Lord Hand has even lent us the King’s Justice, just for you. Now, please come here, and we shall be off to the safety of the Red Keep. King’s Landing is not safe at the moment, I would suggest you avoid dealing with the riff-raff.” 

 

He sneered at Percy, who stood protectively next to her, holding a dagger she had seen the Hound use to cut his chicken. The five men slowly approached them, walking over the corpses of her potential rapers. Sansa noticed that only Kettleblack had his sword drawn, with three of his squad mates walking languidly with no worry. Ser Illyn, however, seemed unsettled as he looked at Percy and drew Ice from his back.

 

“That’s a nice blade you have there.” Percy whistled in appreciation. “Where did you get it? You don’t look very comfortable holding it, methinks.”

 

Ser Illyn remained silent, though he did twitch his arms awkwardly, obviously unused to the length of her father's blade.

 

“Silence, beggar! Leave now, and we might spare your life. Or don't. What did the king say earlier? Kill them all, eh?”

 

“Aye, let’s just kill the fucker. Do you think the king will let us rough the girl up again? Maybe he would let us have some fun for a change.” One of the men cackled menacingly as he drew his sword. They were barely ten feet away now and itching to attack.

 

“You dare?” Yet Sansa was still focused on Payne. “You dare bare the ancestral sword of House Stark at me? My father’s sword, whom you killed?”

 

The men cackled again, “Your father was a traitor, girl. Now stop wastin’ time and come here.” One of the red cloaks rushed the last few feet toward her, and Sansa flinched.

 

A flash of white, and suddenly, the hand was no longer reaching to grab her but lay on the ground instead. Severed .

 

Silence struck the alley before the guard screamed in agony. Another flash had his throat slit. Percy flicked the blood on his dagger away with a wave of his hand. Sansa could almost swear she saw the blood flow away unnaturally, but that couldn’t be.

 

“I don’t usually use a dagger.” His earlier playful voice was gone, replaced with a slight baritone full of menace. “I don’t like killing either. Mortals are much more fragile than I remember.”

 

Mortals?  

 

The red cloaks looked at Percy warily, their weapons drawn. The sellsword took a step back as he hid behind the other three guards, “Y-you! You dare kill a guard under the king’s command? You’re fuckin’ dead! ”

 

They attacked, and Percy charged at them with nothing but a dagger and a kilt around his waist. He dodged a savage slice from Payne, which cleaved into the ground from how sharp Ice was. 

 

“Sansa.” Percy turned to her, and at the same time, he threw a quick jab with his offhand at Ser Ilyn’s chin, but the old knight was wary and retreated behind the other guards. “Do you want out of this city?”

 

She gaped at him. The question was so simple, yet the answer was so complicated. Did she want to get out of here? 

 

Yes, a thousand yes!  

 

How would they do it, though? There were too many people who wanted her dead and even more who wanted her alive. No matter how strong Percy was, he couldn’t fight an entire city on his lonesome. No, there were no heroes. But the man in front of her might just be—

 

“Don’t think.” His confident voice broke through her thoughts as he effortlessly evaded the attacks from two guards at the same time. “Just answer me. Do you wish to leave this city?”

 

The answer came easily enough as she cried out, “ Yes! I want to leave this wretched city and watch it burn to the ground!”

 

Percy blinked as he dodged three attacks at the same time, almost flowing around them like water. “Well, that’s extreme, but sure, I’ll take you out of here and get you home. Do you want that big ass sword as well? Sounds like it should belong to you.”

 

“Fuckin’ cunt! Stand still already, n’ stop talking like we ain’t here.”

 

Kettleblack charged through the rudimentary formation the guards had created to box Percy in. Her savior simply sidestepped a slash from the false knight before throwing a mighty punch at his head that dented his steel halfhelm. While the knight was dazed, Percy had overextended, and the other red cloaks rushed him to capitalize.

 

Only for Percy to jump many feet over them and stomp feet first on their faces, bringing the two guards to the ground with a shattering crack. The pouring blood, broken helms, and the gory remains of their brains - they were dead before they even knew it. Sansa could even see a stray eyeball rolling on the ground. 

 

Ser Ilyn tried to cut Percy in half, only for him to jump again, contorting his body horizontally and delivering a powerful kick to the King's Justice’s right shoulder, breaking the armor through sheer strength and rendering the bones to pieces. The man gave a rasping scream yet still held onto Ice with his offhand despite being knocked into the brick wall to the side. Yet, Percy followed relentlessly, stabbing Payne’s left shoulder, cutting through tendons and ligaments, then backhanded his face, knocking a few teeth out. The King’s Justice collapsed on the ground, dead or not, Sansa did not care.

 

Kettleblack had recovered enough to back away, although he kept stumbling along the wall. “S-stay away, you-you monster! What kind of demon are you? N-no, don’t come near. Please, just spare my life. I swear I won’t tell anyone I found you.”

 

Percy ignored the bumbling man as he picked up Ice . He lifted it with one hand and gave a few experimental swings. “Good sword. Much bigger than I’m used to, but also a lot lighter than I thought.” He turned back to her as he walked after the sellsword. “Would you mind if I use it for a while? I promise to take good care of it.”

 

Sansa stared in disbelief as the man who came out of nowhere and saved her from a terrible fate, easily and effortlessly beat five veteran warriors, just looked at her expectantly. It was almost as if he believed she would refuse him.

 

“You can’t expect me to use it myself,” Sansa forced her weary body to do a curtsy that would probably make even Septa Mordane tut with disappointment. “Please, wield it in my name and the name of House Stark.”

 

Percy gave her that crooked grin of his that she was really starting to like. “As you command, princess.”

 

A swing of the sword and Kettleblack’s screams were cut short, his head rolling uselessly on the ground, paving the dirty cobblestones crimson.

 

Sansa gazed impassively at the bloody scene in front of her. She should have been horrified at the strewn guts and cut limbs in the alley, yet she felt nothing at all as she stared at the sellsword’s horrified face etched into his decapitated head.

 

Except for a primal sort of satisfaction.

 

“Are you alright, Sansa?”

 

She turned to Percy, no, her savior , “I’ve been better. Are you alright? You didn’t hesitate to kill all these men.”

 

The man shrugged as he ripped Ice’s fur-lined half-scabbard, the same one that belonged to her father, from Payne’s body and tied it around his back. “While I’m not used to killing people, I have learned to live with it. Death and struggle come hand in hand with people like us.”

 

People like us , this is the second time he mentioned that. She wanted to ask him what he meant, but she didn’t feel this was the right place or time for this.

 

“By the way, this guy’s still alive.” She turned to find Percy pointing to Ser Ilyn Payne. Indeed, he was still breathing, yet with his crippled arms and broken jaw, he would never be able to harm anyone.

 

“Leave him. The fool doesn’t even know how to read or write, and without a tongue, he won’t be able to tell anyone what happened here.” Her cold voice echoed in the alley, yet a part of her was disgruntled. It called to have the man suffer in life instead of enjoying the mercy of a quick death. Without a word, she grabbed a brick from the ground and shattered the man's kneecaps in two savage blows.

 

She breathed heavily for a moment before throwing the brick away. Sansa wasn't sure if her father's murderer could still recover from this. Perhaps she should–

 

“A bit overkill, don't you think?” Percy's calm voice broke through her thoughts.

 

“He killed my father, an honorable man who always taught me to treat people well and in the same way I want to be treated. Yet the people in these lands still betrayed and killed him in a sham trial.”

 

“Wow, cold much?” She turned to glare at Percy only to see him grinning in jest. Sansa couldn’t stop the grin that appeared on her face.

 

“Your father sounds like a good man.”

 

“He was the very best the North had to offer.” She moved to the still patiently waiting stallion; noticing Percy's confusion, she gestured to his half-naked body, “Maybe you should get some actual clothes to wear?”

 

“You expect me to dress in dead men’s spoiled underwear?”

 

It didn’t take a genius to translate that to small clothes, and now that he mentioned it, all the men he killed had soiled their clothes before expiring.

 

“At least grab a cloak or something. Also, help me get on this horse.”

 

Percy chuckled, “Your wish is my command, princess.”  

 

Swiftly, he grabbed one of the red cloaks from the ground and wore it around his shoulders, then moved to hoist her on the stallion’s back before sitting behind her. Sansa blushed when he held her waist with one hand, the other holding Ice.

 

“Alright, uhh… whatever your name was,” Sansa bit her tongue in amusement as Percy was talking to the horse. “Okay, I will name you after an old friend of mine. Take us to the docks, Blackjack.”

 

The horse whinnied, and they galloped away from the alley towards the docks. The further they rode, the more chaotic the streets were, with fighting and looting everywhere. Stra – no, Blackjack was amongst the most powerful horses she had seen, and the Hound was not frugal in armoring him in the best barding he could find. Idly, she remembered that he had won the joust in the tourney of the Hand. Clearly, some of that gold was spent on his horse as it easily trampled anyone foolish enough to obstruct them. Percy did not hesitate to ruthlessly kick away any grabbing hands or slash at them with Ice, quickly clearing a bloody path as the rest of the crowd decided to take their chances elsewhere.

 

They had been riding for a while now, and they could already see the gates leading to the Blackwater Rush and the harbor. Cersei Lannister might have insisted on sending a large portion of the Royal Fleet of Kingslanding to escort her daughter, yet there were still many ships moored at the docks. The gates were thankfully open, as the rioting had not yet spread here, and the harbor was always busy, yet its defenders were clearly on high alert.

 

“It's the Stark girl. She’s escaping!”

 

The shout caused terror to rise in her heart as she saw a company of red cloaks led by another one of the Kettleblacks, supported by nearly a hundred gold cloaks, block their only way to the gate through Fishmonger’s Square.

 

“Keep going, buddy.” Sansa fidgeted as her savior didn’t slow down and urged Blackjack to continue galloping.

 

“Percy, they have crossbows and pikes! They will easily kill us.”

 

Sansa couldn’t hide the fear in her voice. The only reason she wasn’t truly panicking was Percy’s confident demeanor.

 

“Do you trust me, Sansa?”

 

The red-haired girl looked forward as the guards called for the gate to close and shouted at them to halt. 

 

“In the name of King Joffrey, halt. Halt, I say, or we shall shoot!”

 

The gate would take at least a few minutes to close due to its massive size, so she wasn’t worried about it. No, her fear stemmed from the archers and crossbowmen on the walls and the shield wall that was forming to block their path. There was no way they would be able to get out of this unscathed, yet she was well beyond stopping now. 

 

Sansa swore to herself right then and there. She will get out of this wretched city, or she will die trying.

 

“I do!”

 

Percy closed his eyes for a moment of concentration before they snapped open, and Sansa could swear his eyes gleamed with power. She even thought the air started to shake around them with the sound of rushing water, but it must have been her imagination.

 

“Then hold tight. Things are about to get bumpy.”

 

The twanging sound of bows and mechanical clicks of crossbows interrupted whatever question she had. Time seemed to slow down as she found a veritable rain of arrows heading to them. Before Sansa could even breathe, Percy swung Ice multiple times in quick succession, causing all the bolts and arrows to either shatter on the Valyrian Steel blade or be deflected to the ground.

 

The guards stared in shock at the inhuman strength and reflexes the black-haired rider showed, yet they did not have the time to call for another volley before Blackjack crashed into their lines, Percy swinging Ice in devastating arcs. Heads were separated, including Kettleblack’s, and limbs flew everywhere, yet Blackjack didn’t stop. And neither did Percy’s swings.

 

Sansa was covered in blood and gore, but she did not care one bit. Her eyes fell on some of the surviving guards, and their shocked faces caused her to burst out in hysterical giggles.

 

Gods, the world was going crazy, and she felt just as mad!

 

“Onwards, my loyal steed. To the docks!” Sansa pointed at the harbor… just as a resounding roar came from upriver. She stared in utter bewilderment as the forty-foot-tall walls were drowned in a large shadow. Slowly, Sansa looked up to find a sight so ludicrous that she could do nothing but continue laughing.

 

It was like a wall of brackish water. A massive wave, easily over fifty feet high, crashed into the top of the wall dousing the braisers and dragging dozens of gold cloaks and other guards along it as it rushed back into the river. Blackjack flinched for a second, but a soothing, “Keep going,” from Percy urged the horse to gallop through the wide open gates and into the rushing water.

 

For a moment, Sansa held her breath, only to find herself dry and capable of breathing normally. She looked around and found herself inside some sort of bubble, Blackjack riding through the water like it didn’t exist for a few more seconds before the water receded back to the river. 

 

They were met by a scene of utter chaos.

 

“W-what was t-that?”

 

She hated how her voice quivered, but none could blame her for the sight in front of her. The harbor was utterly wrecked. Of the dozens of ships that were still docked a few hours ago, barely a handful were still intact while the port facilities themselves were washed away. She could see cranes and crates and many other things floating downriver.

 

Along with dozens of dead guards and dockworkers.

 

“Something people like us can do, though it had never tired me so much before.” Came the exhausted voice of her savior. She turned around the saddle and gasped. Percy was breathing heavily, but that wasn’t what worried her. It was the two bolts sticking out of his left shoulder.

 

“You’re hurt!”

 

“It looks worse than it actually is,” her reckless savior chuckled. “I guess my protection really is gone.”

 

She wanted to ask what he was talking about, but the sound of groaning caught her attention. There were many dead, but even more still alive.

 

“We need a ship.” Percy’s voice was weakening, and Sansa feared for the worse. 

 

“There’s no way any crew will accept us when all the city is after us.” Sansa refuted, but she still searched for any ship that looked seaworthy.

 

“I don’t need a crew. I can pilot any kind of ship by myself.”

 

Another queer word, but the meaning was pretty clear. Sansa would have wondered if he was crazy, but after seeing in person his prowess and the seeming power he held over water, she decided to trust him.

 

He was her only hope to get back to her family.

 

“Does it matter the size of the vessel?” Percy shook his head, “Then what about this one?” Sansa pointed at a massive Carrack with two main masts, one smaller front mast and a similar one in the rear.

 

She was sure they had proper terms, but she never had to learn what those were. The only reason it grabbed her attention was the name. The Silver Lady . She wasn’t sure who its owner was, but it appeared empty enough.

 

“Good choice,” Percy nudged Blackjack towards the ship that was moored the closest to the sea, which allowed it to avoid getting damaged from the flash flood.

 

They rode onto the open gangway to find the ship deserted. Once they dismounted, Percy sheathed Ice and pulled out the quarrels from his shoulder.

 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” She asked hesitantly.

 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just give me a sec,” He raised his hands and closed his eyes, and instantly, Sansa could see the whole ship come alive with ropes untying themselves. The anchor miraculously ejected itself from the river, the sails unfurled, and the ship started moving away from the destroyed harbor.

 

They could hear alarmed shouts from deeper in the ship, and a door burst open to allow a dozen sailors led by an officer clad in the split colors of House Baratheon of Kingslanding. To think the one intact ship was a part of the Royal Fleet.

 

“Who the fuck are–”

 

That’s as far as he went before Percy waved his hand with an annoyed grunt and caused a wave of water to splash onto the deck and wash the men away into the sea. Another wave had the water splash on his injured shoulder, and Sansa was shocked to find his wound visibly knit itself together.

 

“Sorry about that. I should have checked to see if the ship was empty.” He gave a strained smile as he looked at his visibly healing shoulder, “not sure why it’s so slow to heal.”

 

Oddly enough, Sansa couldn’t muster any sympathy for the sailors that were just washed into the river. 

 

“You call that slow !?” She was more surprised at her unexpected bout of calmness despite the insane magic that she had seen Percy casually use. Yet, for some reason, she felt like this was completely normal. As if some part of her had always known this was possible, and she ought to accept it as a commonplace.

 

“Uh, yeah? I’m built different, you see.” Another one of his crooked grins caused her to blush, despite the completely nonsensical explanation. “Let’s get out of here. Got any directions?”

 

The ship was quickly sailing away from the city, although as they passed by the Red Keep, a few catapults started firing at them. They were too fast for anything to reach them, however, and soon they were out in the Blackwater Bay.

 

“North,” seafaring was not a part of her education, but she tried her best to remember the maps Luwin had taught her with. “I think if you could just sail to the north-east, we should be able to leave Blackwater Bay. From there, we just follow the coastline northward until we reach my home.” 

 

Any of her knowledge of the coastline was rudimentary at best. Her curious looks over the occasional maps of Westeros only gave her surface knowledge of the land and its coasts.

 

“But we should be fine so long as we sail in that general direction for a couple of days?”

 

“Yes,” Sansa nodded as the ship turned north-east.

 

“Good.” Percy sighed wearily, “I’ll check the captain’s quarters later to see if they have a map or something.”

 

That… seemed like a great idea, and she couldn’t help but berate herself for not thinking of it first. It was also soothing to know that the man before her knew what he was doing.

 

“Percy?” The Stark princess hesitantly called out to her savior, causing him to turn to her from where he was unbuckling Blackjack’s barding.

 

“Yeah?”

 

She ignored the strange phrasing, there were a million questions warring in her mind right now, but Sansa settled on the most important ones. “Why did you save me? Who are you really? What did you mean by us being the same?”

 

The man’s smile turned forlorn, “I don’t think I’m from around here… But I feel that you’re my only hope to figure where the Hades am I. There’s a sliver of divinity in you, but it feels like it’s been dormant for a long time.” Sansa was struck speechless at her savior’s words which only confused her further. “As for what I am? I’m a hero.”

 

It was said so matter-of-factly that Sansa could do nothing but wholeheartedly believe it. At that moment, nothing really mattered anymore, and she burst out into a bout of hysterical laughter once more.

 

Heroes did exist after all.

 

The world suddenly shook as a massive shockwave reverberated through the bay, causing the ship to slightly list before stabilizing. Sansa and Percy quickly moved to the stern of the ship to witness the River Gate that they just escaped from be covered in a conflagration of green flames that consumed all of the harbor. So high was the green mushroom cloud that it even dwarfed the Red Keep, though sadly, the fire didn’t reach the cursed castle where her prison was, nor did it spread to the rest of the city. There were, however, plenty of rocks and debris falling on those who had oppressed her, and she watched with glee as the city that was her nightmare was shattered like never before. It was a few minutes later that the cloud dissipated, but the flames raged on, and Sansa could see the massive gap along the walls that was once the River Gate.

 

“Well,” Percy’s voice was full of mirth as he turned to her. “You did want to burn the city.”

 

Sansa’s uncontrollable giggles and cackles echoed across the bay.

Notes:

Some may wonder why Percy can so easily kill people, and I will reply that by The Last Olympian, Percy had already bloodied his hands with demigod blood. Essentially, this is an AU Percy who does not need to worry about his books getting cancelled for an adult rating.

Which brings me to a bit of headcanon towards Percy’s mindset, Percy had stopped seeing mortals as fellow humans. Not in a derogatory way, but rather in a realistic and fatalistic way. They are just too fragile compared to him or other demigods.

Wildfire was placed under all the gates of Kingslanding and we know that the older it gets, the less stable it is, though not necessarily more powerful. Its a miracle that no one bumped into any of the jars causing an explosion and I’m starting to think earthquakes aren’t a thing in Planetos. If Daenaerys could revive magic by hatching dragons a million miles away, what do you think Percy’s presence would cause? His stunt caused structural damage that caused one of the jars to explode, taking the whole cache under the River Gate with it. At least I didn’t cause a chain reaction, lol.

Chapter 2: Setting Off

Notes:

Well, that was quite the reception. Here’s another chapter, then, with a much slower pace. More to my style, I suppose.

I will reiterate that this is firmly AU. Not everything will be similar to canon; in fact, a lot of things will be rewritten due to the way Martin butchered the war. Tywin outpacing the blitzkrieg comes to mind.

I will leave a timeline of events post-chapter to get an idea of what to expect.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

1st day of the 7th moon, 299,

Streets of Kingslanding,

Tyrion

 

The day was turning out worse by the minute, but not half as bad as being thrown into the sky cells. The omens were all there – he had awakened with a headache, and there had been no wine in his room to boot. Normally, Tyrion did not give credence to such signs, having never attended a sermon of his own volition, but when it came to his wine, he was willing to see the light. 

 

His musings were cut short as the baying of the smallfolk nearly had him jumping from his tailor-made saddle. The surrounding streets were drowned in chaos as he urged his horse to gallop through the rioting peasantry. The Hand of the King had seen that rabble dragging Ser Aron Santagar from his palfrey and were already clubbing him to death. He would have faced a similar fate if not for his blessedly short legs and large steed. It only bought him seconds before he threw his coin sack at the crowd, instantly dispersing them.

 

The fools did not realize that it was all stags and not the kind that could be eaten. 

 

Tyrion snickered again as he glanced around, only for his smile to vanish and his heart to nearly drop. His foolish nephew had just pushed the Stark girl off her mare, urging his destrier towards him. 

 

“Make way for your king! Make way or die, damn you.” Several white cloaks joined their king and echoed his warnings, cutting down anyone foolish enough to get in the way. 

 

Tyrion was forced to continue riding in their wake lest he join the Hound on the ground. Only time would tell whether the shorter Clegane could survive the surging mob. With a grimace, he motioned for Bronn to guard his rear. The sellsword quickly circled him with a few other sellswords he recruited, warding off attacks.

 

Once they had made it out of the Hook and regrouped at the foot of Aegon’s hill a few minutes later, the Lord Hand rounded on his nephew. “You damn fool! You just lost us our most important hostage!”

 

Predictably, Joffrey’s unblemished face reddened with rage. “How dare you speak to me like that? I am the king! I should have your tongue ripped out for this.”

 

Seven above, Tyrion had no time to deal with this pointless petulance now! Before he could retort with a well-placed slap, his sister’s wheelhouse stopped beside them, the queen dowager sticking her head from the window. “Why are you dawdling about? We must make way for the Red Keep!” 

 

“The Stark girl is missing,” Tyrion hissed out, looking at the riot down the hill. “Without her, what stops Robb Stark from killing our brother?” Cersei might have been proud and arrogant, but she loved Jaime even more than he did. 

 

Realization quickly dawned upon her face, judging by her widening green eyes. “Osmund!” She barked out. “Take the guards and your brothers and find the little wolf harlot, preferably before she’s dead or despoiled. Bring her back to me no matter what, or I shall be greatly displeased!” 

 

The three Kettleblacks, shadowing Cersei's wheelhouse as her guards, nodded before commandeering squads of red cloaks and gold cloaks. Tyrion noticed the King's Justice refusing to relinquish command of his Lannister men to the sellswords. 

 

“Ser Ilyn, join the men. That's an order from the Hand.” The mute man looked reluctant to follow the commands of a lowly sellsword. Yet the Payne knight knew better than to displease the son of Tywin Lannister and nodded stiffly after a few heartbeats. Tyrion glanced at Bronn, who subtly inclined his head. They had matched any coin that Cersei had given the sellsword brothers, and the Hand was certain they were firmly in his pocket.

 

Soon, a few squads were formed and split up, searching for the Stark girl. Joffrey had already ridden ahead, his Kingsguard in tow, before Cersei urged her coachman to hurry. Tyrion wasted no time to follow as he could see a mob approaching from a side alley. 

 

The Red Keep was just a few hundred feet away. 

.

.

.

Tyrion finally sighed in relief as the bronze gates of the Red Keep closed behind them. After dismounting and ensuring all the gates were closed and the men-at-arms were on high alert, Tyrion found Joffrey and his mother atop the ramparts. 

 

“I will have all of their heads on spikes! All those stinky, dirt-ridden traitors–” His nephew’s outraged shrieks were predictable but annoying.

 

Yet the fury did not seem to die off, and Tyrion growled in annoyance, “You set your dog on them! What did you imagine they would do?” Joffrey shook with rage, but his mother held his shoulder.

 

“They dared to strike their king – their lives were already forfeited!” Gods, did his foolish sister lose her wits entirely?! For the first time ever, Tyrion found himself speechless at this imbecilic behavior.

 

The Imp rued the day his nephew would turn six and ten and officially ascend to the Iron Throne. Sadly, that day was getting closer than any of them could prepare for. 

 

Yet, for good or for bad, his words gave Joffrey some pause. “Yes,” the future king looked at the churning city curiously. “Where is my dog anyway?” A small mob had already gathered under the gates, hurling insults and curses up the curtain wall.

 

“Why are those traitors still alive? They dare insult their king, archers, take them down!” 

 

For a painfully long heartbeat, Tyrion seriously considered smacking some sense into his foolish nephew, but his attention was drawn by the nearby guardsmen. Many were pointing south, and Lester, a petty captain in the Lannister guard, had taken out a Myrish Fareye and was looking at the River Gate, nearly a mile away. Tyrion commandeered one for himself and stood atop a chest box to see what the fuss was all about.

 

Being a dwarf had its downsides – even with the crate beneath his misshapen legs, the most he could see was the roofs of the houses, and he had to stand up on his toes, only to glean a lone man riding atop a very familiar horse. The Hound’s steed was easily recognizable with its size and unique barding, but the rider was new, with the crimson cloak he had clearly stolen and the naked body underneath. Not only that, but he was holding a small slip of a thing with red-haired curls that suspiciously reminded him of Sansa Stark. 

 

A platoon of soldiers formed a shield wall in the center of the square, with archers and crossbowmen on the gate and walls aiming at them. A volley of steel-tipped projectiles was released, making Tyrion curse out loud. 

 

The Stark girl was useless to them dead! 

 

Yet, under his disbelieving gaze, Sansa and the rider did not turn into a pincushion filled with steel. 

 

The rider swung the oversized greatsword with a single arm so fast eyes could not track and somehow managed to deflect the rain of arrows. The enormous horse below charged through the gold cloaks, crushing and trampling its way through while the greatsword danced through the air, it’s unique dark ripples obvious even from this distance, relieving any who dared come near of their heads. 

 

The rippled steel glinted through the sun, yet there was only one sword of that size and make in the city. What happened to Ser Illyn?

 

Tyrion’s fareye was snatched, and he glared at his nephew as he watched the rest. 

 

“They’re getting away,” Joffrey seethed, jaw clenched.

 

“They will never be able to make it past the gates.” Tyrion sighed at his petulant nephew. He admired the rider’s valor, but such things were fleeting in the end. No matter how skilled, the man would tire sooner or later, and the lack of armor would prove to be his undoing. Only he worried the doltish gold cloaks would kill the Stark girl in the process.

 

Alas, there was not much he could do but wait.

 

A terrible rumble came from the Blackwater Rush and drew everyone’s attention. Tyrion blinked in confusion and rubbed his eyes, but the enormous wave that formed above the river did not go away. Shouts and cries of awe and panic filled the ramparts as the water rose and crashed into the city walls, washing away the defenders as if they were rats in the gutter.

 

For a painfully long moment, everyone grew quiet as the impossible unveiled before them. Yet the silence was pierced by an angry yet terrified shriek. 

 

“I-It’s her! The d-damned witch, I saw her! Sansa Stark called that wave!”

 

Joffrey’s exclamation woke Tyrion from his stupor, and he stared at him incredulously. “Give me that.”

 

Tyrion snatched the fareye back and looked at the ruined docks. Not a single ship was intact after that flash flood, and he lamented the failure of his plan before it could even take hold. How would he lure Stannis’ fleet with fire ships now? 

 

No, wait. There was one ship left, and it was already sailing away. Looking through the fareye, Tyrion glimpsed the dark-haired man looking towards the bay, his face hidden from him, but another figure was clear to him. The womanly figure of Sansa Stark, her tattered dress showing her nubile form, with her red hair and blue eyes, glared murderously in his direction, and the Hand of the King knew what had to be done.

 

If they couldn’t capture Sansa Stark alive, she was better off dead. Robb Stark could not be allowed to forge another alliance to strengthen his position against House Lannister.

 

Thankfully, to enter the Blackwater Bay from the city’s harbor, any ship would have to pass under the Red Keep’s walls, giving him the perfect opportunity.

 

“Man the Catapults. Sansa Stark is escaping on that ship, man those catapults, damn you!” The shocked men-at-arms finally started moving, but not fast enough for his taste. “Faster, damn it. I want that ship at the bottom of the bay!”

 

The men fumbled in a hurry, and Joffrey, of all people, was the one to support him. “You heard my uncle. I want that witch dead!”

 

Alas, by the time the catapults were ready and hurling stones, the ship was already too far. Tyrion gritted his teeth in frustration while Cersei comforted Joffrey as he bemoaned the evil witch’s escape.

 

“Don’t worry, sweetling. Your grandfather will bring those mutts to heel, one way or another.”

 

Tyrion tiredly rubbed his temples. Doubtlessly, his dearest sister would foist the honor of informing their Lord Father of today’s events to him.

 

Gods, the day had turned into a disaster. Too many nobles went missing from the royal retinue, including his cousin Tyrek. Did the Seven finally decide to strike down House Lannister for their numerous sins? 

 

It mattered not; gods scarcely cared for mortals. He needed to revise his plans for the defense of the city, and he needed to-

 

Boom!

 

The world shook, causing many to fall painfully, including Tyrion. A few were clinging to the merlons, while a handful of guardsmen had lost their footing and fell off the parapets, only to meet the cobbled ground with a nasty wet crunch .

 

His ears were ringing, and it took Tyrion a couple of moments to struggle back to his feet, cursing inwardly. Nobody even bothered to help the poor dwarf. 

 

Yet the moment he climbed atop the wooden crate, his mind went blank.

 

The River Gate was replaced by a steaming whirlwind of dust and fire as poisonous jade-like flames danced atop the water. Tyrion watched with morbid fascination as the massive green mushroom cloud climbed to the heavens before raining slagged rocks and debris down on the city. 

 

He snorted at the rioting rabble that looked like rats trying to run away from the flash flood and the falling stones that smashed through houses as if they were made from straw. Alas, his amusement was short-lived – the city’s curtain wall looked like some enormous giant had ripped off a hundred-foot-wide hole, leaving behind green flames dancing atop the water. The harbor was completely gone.  

 

Defending the city from Stannis Baratheon had become far more challenging all of a sudden… 

 

“Green piss! Didn’t you plan to beat Stannis’ fleet with that stuff?” Bronn’s words caused everyone to stare at him, and Tyrion groaned at his guard’s loose tongue.

 

A*H*M

 

Percy

 

He stood on a beach, unsure if he was awake or asleep, only that he came to be on the shoreline. The sky was roiling with tension as if someone had provoked Zeus, and the island he found himself on was rocky and barren. 

 

Staring at the raging waves, Percy felt a deep sense of hostility, as if the sea itself loathed his very being. Looking around the beach, there was nothing of note but a single man sitting by a cliff's edge, dressed in a tattered green robe. He was holding a fishing rod with a line falling deep into the turbulent waves.

 

This was definitely a dream; with a sigh, Percy gathered himself and approached the desolate figure. Almost immediately, the demigod recognized him – even old, frail, and gray, his father was unmistakable.

 

Poseidon turned to face him and gave him a tired yet warm smile that filled Percy’s heart with joy.

 

“Dad!”

 

“Percy, my son.” Poseidon's voice was as tired as he looked. “I'm so glad to see you, hale and hearty.”

 

Percy hugged his father tightly before letting go as he noticed how impossibly thin he was. “Why are you so…old?”

 

Even that was mildly phrased – the god of the sea was all but skin and bones.

 

“I am but the spark that resides in you, in all of my children,” his father’s voice was filled with something dreadfully heavy. “Even so, I barely survived your crossing to this world. I am all that remains from your father, Percy.”

 

Despite already suspecting, the words knocked the strength from his knees, and Percy had to sit down. Being in a different world altogether was daunting enough, but… His powerful father, who seemed so unstoppable, smashing his way through hordes of Oceanus’ minions, looked like a pale shadow of himself. Percy shook himself; his demigod instincts kicked in, helping him focus on the present.

 

“So I really am in a different world?”

 

“Indeed,” Poseidon grimaced. “I do not feel the connection to my divinity, and it took all I had just to protect your mind from the eldritch horrors of this plane.”

 

“Eldritch?”

 

“See for yourself,” Poseidon pointed at the stormy skies, where Percy could feel, if not see, a malevolent being glaring at him. It took him a moment to focus, but he finally saw what his father was pointing at. A malicious golden eye glared murderously from the heavens, and even as he watched, a face seemed to coalesce around it before dispersing. It was as if the being was trying to remember what it was like to have features.

 

“He reminds me of Zeus, but far more malicious,” Which was something that Percy never thought possible…

 

“Might be because it is the closest equivalent to a sky god in these lands.” Percy's father shrugged as he checked the line of his fishing rod. “Another twisted one lurks in the seas, hungering with greed. If I were not a part of you, I would have been long devoured.”

 

Percy grimaced – seeing his father wasting away was one thing, but hearing it felt like the last nail in the coffin.

 

His father tapping into his own powers to survive didn’t matter to him – the demigod had received indirect aid from his sire more times than he could remember. It was only natural for a son to support his father, just as the father had supported his son.

 

“Anyway, forget about me. How do you feel, Percy?”

 

“I'm not sure?” Percy shook his head as his mind wandered towards the last hour… or was it day? His memory was all jumbled up. “All I remembered was waking up in some back alley, rescuing a girl before sailing away on a ship. Typical demigod adventure, except everything else was a haze.”

 

His father chuckled, the voice coming as a wheeze, but it gradually gained strength to his familiar full belly laughter. A lopsided grin made its way to Percy’s face – it was heartening to see his old man looking so cheerful despite everything.

 

“What happened on Olympus?” Percy asked once his father finished laughing. “In the throne room, after you sent Typhon on a one-way trip to Tartarus, what happened? The last thing I remember was giving the dagger to Luke. He was about to stab himself, but then… nothing.”

 

“I can only guess, my son,” Poseidon smiled wanly. “I could tell my father had somehow blasted you to Chaos. Yet such a move cost him his very being, as my main self could not sense him anymore. I can confidently say that we won the war.” 

 

“That’s…good.” Percy was not sure how to feel about it, and he still ended up sacrificing himself for Olympus despite believing in Rachel’s words.

 

You are not the hero.

 

But it was nice to know his efforts ultimately helped secure victory.

 

“Unfortunately, Chaos is not to be underestimated. Through a combination of your protection, your sword, and a last-ditch effort from my main self, you managed to survive. How you ended up here, however, shall forever remain a mystery. I just woke up myself, you know. I was hoping you would tell me more about what you've seen earlier.” 

 

His hand automatically reached for his pocket but found it empty. A deep sense of loss drowned him like a tidal wave, and Percy’s shoulders slumped. Achilles’ curse was as much a burden as a blessing, and he would not miss it. Invulnerability paled before skill and personal strength. Not to mention, sleeping for a good part of his day was not worth it. Anaklusmos, on the other hand…

 

Flashes of the events of the past day flooded his mind, and Percy grabbed his head as he recollected himself.

 

“I remember now.” Poseidon’s sea-green eyes gleamed with interest. “I woke up in a city alley but knew something was off. I couldn’t tell at the time, but I don’t think there is Mist in this world.”

 

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

 

“I had better senses for once.” Percy grinned at his father. “I could even recognize a spark of divinity in a girl I mistook for Rachel. Although, now that I think about it, it might not have been divine at all.”

 

Poseidon hummed as he flicked his rod upwards as something bit. After another moment of silence and visible struggle, the weakened god of the seas handed him the rod. “Your turn, Percy. I’m afraid your old man isn’t as strong as he used to be.”

 

The son of Poseidon hurriedly grabbed the rod and pulled. Whatever had bitten was strong and feisty. He felt his father place a hand on his shoulder, “Focus on the catch. I will scan your memories and see if you missed something.”

 

Normally, Percy would be appalled at allowing anyone into his mind, but this was his father. A heartbeat later, he could feel Poseidon’s presence in his mind as he recalled the memory of his escape from that city.

 

“I see. So that’s how it is. Nice catch, Percy.”

 

“What?” Percy distractedly replied, as whatever bit into the fishing rod was tougher than he expected. “I haven’t even reeled this thing in yet.”

 

“Oh, I’m not talking about that. Red hair? Blue eyes? And no freckles? Such a rare specimen, as expected of my son.” Percy could feel the smile on Poseidon’s face, and he groaned at the old lecher.

 

“Really, Dad? I barely know the girl. Isn’t it bad enough that I flirted with her barely a minute after knowing her?”

 

“Is that the only thing you feel embarrassed about? How about the hundreds of people you killed in your escape from the city?” His father’s voice quickly turned cold and Percy felt like a bucket of ice dropped on his back.

 

“I… I did kill them…didn’t I?” It was all Percy could do to hold on to the rod and not let his prey escape. “Oh gods, so many people…” Percy took a deep breath to calm himself. It was not the first time he had seen dead people, nor was it the first time he had killed. It had never been so close and personal before, and never had he caused the death of an innocent and so many of them at once.

 

“It is okay, my son. I’m glad you are at least feeling remorse.” His father’s voice returned to gentle and kind. “You would not believe how many people I would kill in a simple tantrum. When you have so much power at your grasp and little accountability, it is so easy to forget how fragile mortals truly are.”

 

“That doesn’t make it right.”

 

“No, it doesn’t. All you can do is to be careful in the future. Life is precious, but don’t be a fool about it. If someone threatens you and yours…”

 

“I’ll beat them down, of course.”

 

“Good lad. Still, you are taking this surprisingly in stride. Perhaps because the lovely lady you saved seemed a bit on the… ruthless side?”

 

“Perhaps. From my understanding, she was a hostage. Forced to watch her father’s murder,” Percy resumed his struggle against his prey with a vengeance, and he could feel it losing its strength. Soon, he would catch whatever it was living in a sea in his mind.

 

That sounded weird… also why the heck was his mind a barren island? Whoever decided that had forgotten to at least place some seaweed. Percy could almost hear Annabeth sighing seaweed brain in exasperation.

 

“Well, I’m afraid I won’t be of much help, son. I cannot reinforce your powers, nor can I speed up your healing in the water anymore. I can’t even help you to navigate this foreign sea, although I will certainly help you along with matters of knowledge, particularly when it comes to ships and navigation.”

 

“Thanks, Dad. You’re finally living up to the old mentor archetype.” Percy grinned as he pulled one last time, and a shadow sprang from the ocean. They both stared at the strange creature that was not a fish at all as it let go of the line and landed on the rocky cliff, hissing and spitting at them.

 

It was a cat.

 

“Well, I was never the best at explaining omens, but I think you might come upon a kitty soon.” Poseidon grabbed the admittedly large golden cat as it yowled loudly and patted its head, causing it to quickly calm down, close its green eyes, and purr. “A feisty kitty who is really a softy inside.”

 

“I see.” Percy dropped the rod and looked at his surroundings, noticing that they were getting a bit blurry. “I think I’m waking up.”

 

“That you are. Now, remember Percy. I am here if you want to talk, but I’m afraid to say I’m more powerless than a piece of steak in front of a hellhound. You are the one with all the power here, so don’t be afraid to use it, but know that it will drain you more than usual. I’m sure you have already noticed that.” 

 

“Duly noted,” Percy nodded, the memory of the exhaustion from the flash flood still fresh.

 

“You are already in the sights of the divine in this world. If you try to hide your powers, they will think you are weak. Better to show off and make them think twice before causing you trouble.” His father petted the purring cat as he sat on a rock and threw him one final smile. 

 

“I see, go on with life, kick the butt of anyone who bothers me, and cause storms and tsunamis. Got it.” Percy grinned at Poseidon, and he thought he saw the fading world gain a bit more color.

 

“Basically, yeah. By my mother, I was never a great planner. That was usually my dear Amphitrite.” Poseidon’s face fell as he thought about his wife.

 

“You too, huh? I miss Annabeth already.” 

 

“Who knows, Perseus? This Sansa girl is a princess. Might as well stick with her and see where destiny takes you.”

 

He did not comment on using his true name, and Percy idly wondered if his father was trying to warn him against living up to the name. Perseus did mean destroyer, after all.

 

“I’ll talk to you later, Dad.”

 

Poseidon nodded, and Percy felt the world fade away as he woke up on the deck of a ship, face-to-nose with a large horse.

 

“Hey, boss. You're finally awake. You don't have a carrot on you, do you?”

 

The demigod of the sea sighed at the horse. He might have been concussed when he named him Blackjack, but it appeared he was correct on the name choice. This horse preferred carrots to doughnuts, although he was sure if he got the chance to try baking some, the horse would love them as well.

 

Or maybe he should look for peanuts instead?

 

“Let me check the hold.” He stood up and stretched before he grabbed the overly large sword with a fancy rippled blade and tied it to his back.

 

Looking around the ship, the son of Poseidon realized he had subconsciously put the vessel on autopilot, heading northeast. The problem was, as his father mentioned, he had no idea where exactly he was going. Nor did he know where the girl went.

 

“Sansa?” He called inside the galley. Percy remembered the events of the day so far, but he was not sure why he was sleeping on the deck instead of one of the cabins he was checking right now. If he had to guess, the ship was reserved for high command or perhaps nobility – he was unsure of the hierarchy of these lands. Still, the cabins looked clean and comfortable despite being a military vessel; clearly a flagship to lead other ships of a fleet but not expected to engage in combat.

 

“Sansa? Are you here?” He called again as he checked the fourth cabin room he came across. There were more cabins here than expected and little to no armaments to be seen.

 

“In here. Don't enter, I’m cleaning myself,” came the muffled voice from a cabin down the hall.

 

“Okay, once you're decent, come meet me on the deck. We need to discuss some things.”

 

A short pause before the girl replied, “Understood.” 

 

Was the language barrier still confusing her? Percy recalled how she would stare blankly whenever he used modern slang, but there was no way he could bring himself to talk like he was in a drama play.

 

Shrugging, he went to check the hold and the pantry. Percy should have done that straight away once they were on deck, but they were busy sailing, and him sleeping.

 

Once he was in the hold, He groaned in annoyance. Of course, it would be empty of food or any supplies. It would make sense since they absconded with the ship while it was not even moored in the harbor proper. The Silver Lady must have been waiting for a chance to find a pier and resupply. Weren’t those people rioting because of lack of food as well? Thankfully, he did manage to find a bag of hard tack, salted meat, and some dried fruit. Too little for an actual crew, but enough to last the two of them for a few days. 

 

Percy still needed to find something for his horse to eat.

 

After further investigation, he finally found an old bag of horse feed in a section of the hold that must have doubled as a stable. More of a stall than a stable due to its small size, probably built to host the steed of some noble. Judging by the extensive cobwebs, it had been quite a while since it had seen any use. Checking the bag of feed, it looked edible enough, but Blackjack would ultimately decide.

 

Stopping by the Captain's cabin, Percy checked inside, finding a large and comfortable swinging bed, a square table, and by the wall, a wardrobe, causing him to grin. Finally, he could wear actual clothes instead of the ridiculous make-shift… skirt.

 

A few minutes later, he abandoned his kilt for a white wool shirt that he left the top unbuttoned to bare half his chest in an attempt to fight the heat. He also had brown linen pants, a belt with a steel buckle, and weird leather sandals. Sadly, none of the boots fit his feet, but he definitely rocked the swashbuckler outfit well. Something was missing though and as he looked over himself he realized the problem. Not enough blue. Checking the wardrobe again, he found a blue sleeveless vest and wore but left the buttons untied. Much better.

 

Hesitantly, Percy placed his hand in his pants pockets, hoping to be wrong. A sigh of sorrow flew out of his mouth as he could not find Riptide. It appeared his sword truly was gone forever.

 

Shaking his head, the son of Poseidon tied Ice around his back again. He was glad for the special half-sheath that allowed him to easily unsheathe the blade one-handed without pulling the whole thing from his back. The wolf fur was comfy, but he could feel it fraying slightly from the sea air. A moment of focusing later, and Percy had sucked all the salt from the fur, making it good as new. 

 

Once dressed, the demigod of the sea noticed one of those old-fashioned desks with a wooden cover; he was unsure what they were called, but he was happy to find maps and ledgers inside it. His happiness was cut short, however, when he realized he could not read a single thing!

 

It was not just his dyslexia at work, for the language looked like English, but it was such an odd dialect that he could barely make sense of it. Ironically, it reminded him of when he first met Zoe Nightshade. The Huntress of Artemis had spoken in a strange, antiquated way. His mind drifted towards Anaklusmos again, which housed Zoe’s immortal essence. Gods, Percy had irreversibly lost another part of his friend…

 

Shaking his head, he did what a demigod did best – pushing the sorrow away to a deep corner of his mind. Sadly, no matter how he focused, Percy failed to make tails or ends of the maps. Well, it seemed like he would have to rely on his new friend – at least Sansa Stark seemed like an intelligent girl.

 

Returning to the deck, Percy gave his horse the bag of feed he found, receiving an unamused look from Blackjack. 

 

“That's the best I could find, boy. Unless you want to try moldy bread or dried fruit.”

 

The horse snorted something that sounded suspiciously like ‘ cunt’ as it lowered its head into the bag, but nah. There was no way… right? Percy looked on as it grumpily ate, wondering if he got saddled with a foul-mouthed steed. 

 

Looking around the deck, the son of Poseidon took in the vessel they found themselves in.

 

It was strangely designed, as while it looked like a Carrack, It was missing the most obvious detail of a ship from his world with the same design. 

 

Cannons.

 

Instead of a gun deck below, the ship used the space where the cannons would be placed for more cabins and storage rooms. There was a large empty room with plenty of folded hammocks where Percy guessed the sailors would sleep. He wondered about the technological level of this new world, for it seemed to combine elements of medieval, renaissance, and that fancy word Annabeth mentioned… 

 

Bark? 

 

Barack?

 

No, Baroque. 

 

The maps he just saw were highly detailed, which hinted at a high level of cartography, and yet, he recalled most of the ships that were in the harbor were medieval galleys. Impractical things that required a lot of manpower to row and inefficient sailing designs.

 

The ship nerd in him wanted to redesign the whole thing, supported by the ship god in his head. Unfortunately, the fact he was dyslexic and did not know the language stopped him from using some of those parchment rolls and ink he found in the captain's cabin.

 

Shaking his head, Percy shuffled that for later, now – now he had to speak with Sansa and set a proper course.

 

Something stirred to the south, making him whip his head that way. The weather was beautiful, with no clouds and the sun shining brightly. Yet far to the south, where he could barely glimpse a shoreline, he could feel a storm brewing. Something inside told him it was not natural, as if something was actively forming that storm. Something divine.

 

Considering the discussion with his father, He had a solid guess on the culprit.

 

“Perseus? Are you here?”

 

“Over here.” He turned to the beautiful red-haired girl he saved, who might possibly be his ticket to some semblance of a stable and peaceful life. The girl had abandoned her tattered gray dress for a simple white shirt, where she was forced to leave the top half unbuttoned due to her ample chest. She also wore leather pants that were a tad on the longer side, clearly not meant for women. Her long hair was let down, reaching her elbows in slightly messy curls, and she had a dagger secured on a leather belt. 

 

Give her leather boots, some freckles, green eyes, and Sansa could easily be Rachel's sister.

 

The thought had come like a blow, almost knocking the air out of his lungs. Would he ever see or speak to his mother again? Or his friends?

 

Was he lost to his world?

 

Or was he…? His dad had not raised the topic, and the demigod had not asked…

 

Regardless, Percy had promised to return Sansa to her home. If the titan war had indeed been won, getting back to Earth could wait a bit.

 

Only… he had to figure out how to do it first.

 

“What is it that you wished to discuss?” The girl leaned on the railings as she looked at him, speaking in what he would call a posh accent despite her attire. He felt Sansa did not know how to behave around him, though he was sure she liked him. At least enough to trust him with her father’s sword.

 

“Well, first, would you mind reminding me what happened after we sailed away from that city? My memory is hazy, and I might have gotten my head knocked too hard. Why was I asleep on the deck?”

 

The girl looked at him strangely before smiling slightly, forming cute dimples in her cheeks. “You said you were going to check the captain’s cabin but suddenly changed your mind and declared it was nap time. Do you expect a lady such as I to be able to drag you to a cabin? You seemed comfortable enough, and Str– Blackjack hovered over you protectively.”

 

Percy scratched his head as he nodded. Honestly, he already guessed all of that, but it was as good of an icebreaker as he could get. “Alright, second thing, there are hardly any supplies on the ship. Food is limited, and while there is a stove and oven in the kitchens, there isn’t anything fresh to use.”

 

His eyes were glued on the girl as she bit her lip in thought, and his demigod hormones started acting up at the sight. Sansa was beautiful, easily more so than any of the demigods he had met due to how natural her beauty was, but now was not the time; he averted his eyes from her curves as he buried his emotions. 

 

Percy had no idea how far their destination was, but from what he knew of sea travel, their trip could take weeks, if not months. Even with his powers, he could only have a ship of this design sail at 15 knots an hour in the best-case scenario. Maybe 20 knots if the wind was on their side, but considering his limited powers, the son of Poseidon doubted he would be able to pull such a stunt off continuously. On the contrary, judging by that storm he felt earlier, the local sky god hated him more than Zeus. 

 

“Do we have salt?”

 

“No, but that wouldn’t be a problem for me. I can separate sea salt from seawater. Same for fresh water, we will never run out of either so long as we are on sea.”

 

The girl’s brilliant blue eyes widened before sighing. “I nearly forgot how… magical you are. Why don't we catch fish and salt them?”

 

“Sure. We can keep the dried fruits for Blackjack while we settle for the tack and fish.” Eating fish was odd for him, especially since Percy could understand and talk to them, but he would do it if nothing else was on hand, just like now.

 

Then again, no marine life here owed him any allegiance, and he would admit to having a taste for his father’s subjects.

 

“Anything else?” The girl was taking their survival seriously, and Percy grinned at her earnestness.

 

“I found maps and other ledgers in the captain’s cabin.” The girl perked up in interest. Even that was done with grace – Percy had to admit the somehow haughty facade looked good on her. She didn’t even seem to notice as it came so naturally to her. “Unfortunately, I could not understand a single word written on them. I could identify the letters, but I couldn’t read anything. I was hoping you would look them over and make sure we are on the right heading. I will help with navigation, of course.”

 

“Sure, that is acceptable. Thank you, Perseus, for all you have done for me.” Sansa smiled at him warmly, causing his grin to widen even as he acknowledged how beautiful the sight looked on her.

 

“Call me Percy, and don’t mention it.” The girl’s face scrounged in confusion, accentuating her full lips and causing him to sigh at the language barrier. “Now, I think I am due for an in-depth briefing on this world I find myself in. Tell me everything.”

 

“Everything?” Her impossibly blue eyes blinked in confusion.

 

“Politics, geography, history,” a feral grin found its way to his face, “and most importantly, the religions and gods of this world.”

 

The girl nodded solemnly and made her way to the captain’s quarter, Percy following her for a long-overdue lesson, trying to steer his gaze away from her lithe hips and perky butt. Hades, his mother had taught him better than this!

 

A*H*M

 

An island in the Cinnamon Straits,

The man who would be god.

 

The sun had set hours ago, but the soft glow of the moon eerily fought with the darkness of the night. 

 

Euron Greyjoy stood on the beach of the small island that he had conquered. It was so small that it only had one village, which now lay in ruins. His men had the surviving villagers and their families trussed up in binds and dragged to an altar, where one of his captive warlocks was preparing the ritual. His crew slit their throats, allowing pools of blood to fill the carved runes on the stone platform.

 

This was it. He had sailed all the way to Asshai and trekked the treacherous road to Stygiai for this ritual. This was a major step on his path to godhood, and nothing would stop him from succeeding. In his hands laid the treasure that would pave the way to immortality.

 

A dark gray gemstone with swirls of golden tentacles.

 

He could feel the heat and the life inside it even as he approached the altar. It had been a fossilized egg when Euron found it. His previous attempts to hatch the thing had all failed, but something had changed . 

 

The world sang from two flux points, one somewhere near the Red Waste, and another, more recent far to the west – the ripples could be felt all the way even here. And just like that, his last attempt to hatch the thing had breathed life into it.

 

With luck smiling upon him, now, all he needed was to hatch it. But to do so required sacrifice, yet he wouldn't do it with the crude ways of the Valyrians. Sacrificing thousands of unwilling slaves to hatch a single dragon egg just because he did not have Valyrian blood…

 

Euron did not lack patience, but if he had to wait to collect those thousands of sacrifices, his egg would have turned to stone again.

 

He stopped by the warlock as his men dragged the last sacrifices – a father and his daughter.

 

“P-please, have mercy, at least for my daughter! You have already killed everyone else. What have we ever done to deserve this?” The man fell to his knees, head touching the sand in a position of absolute submission. The words were spoken in the regional common tongue of the Jade Sea, an amalgamation of Qartheen, Yi-tish and Lengii. It was vindicating for all the time Euron spent learning the myriad tongues spoken in every corner of the world.

 

After all, how could he truly enjoy reaving when you could not fully understand the victim’s despair and loathing?

 

Euron smiled. Ah, such a sweet opportunity. There was power in kinship, one of the long-forgotten reasons kinslaying was frowned upon. 

 

“Your weakness is your sin, but I’m not merciless to deny the plight of a distraught father… So long as you show me your sincerity, I promise your daughter will live. Now, are you willing to die for your daughter? Such a beautiful lass, I guarantee she would become an excellent courtesan or even rise high in the court of the Shan of the Isle of Elephants!” Euron allowed the words to sink into the weathered man as he beheld his daughter, for she truly was a beauty with her olive skin, long locks of raven hair, large teats and even larger arse. Her eyes that were of the darkest amber stirred a heat in his loins for he could not wait to break her in. “No matter her fate, she will become the woman of someone powerful, this I swear.”

 

The girl’s eyes were wide with terror, and tears flowed freely down her cheeks to her half-naked form. Those savages were barely dressed in clothes, and a bit of rough handling from his mutes, probably one of his own get, had the girl naked. 

 

The man gazed at his gagged daughter, struggling in vain in the hands of his mutes before turning back to Euron resignedly, “How can I trust you?”

 

“A blood pact, with my dear Qartheen here as a witness. May the gods strike one of my sons down if I go back on my word.” Euron pointed to a few of his bastards for emphasis. They stood silently on the side, looking like younger twins of him, albeit with no eyes covered. 

 

The fisherman sighed before nodding, the girl struggling mightily as muffled screams came from her gag. The men released the father while the warlock beckoned them to a large empty basin set on an open fire that Euron placed his egg in. Soon, all three of them had cut their palms and grabbed each other's hands as they swore their oaths.

 

“I, Euron Greyjoy, swear to take care of Parawara’s daughter and to see to her wellbeing so long as he completes our bargain. He shall slit his own throat and feed his blood to the dragon egg until the gods claim his soul.”

 

The fisherman looked at the egg in the bowl in disgust, but a whimper from his daughter had him straighten his shoulders. “I, Parawara, accept this bargain, and if Euron Greyjoy reneges on the spirit of this deal, then may all the divines in this world and beyond feast on his soul.”

 

Euron simply grinned, his lone eye gleaming as the oath took hold. The fisherman grabbed the offered obsidian dagger, gave one last look to his daughter, and then stabbed himself in the jugular. Parawara fell forward, and as the lifeblood of the most noble of sacrifices filled the basin, Euron’s grin widened as the dragon egg vibrated. He looked on with bated breath as the egg’s vibrations increased until it stopped for a moment, causing him to freeze in worry. 

 

His fear was unfounded, for a gray wing burst out of the eggshell, and a soft screech heralded his success.

 

Euron’s manic laughter as the dragon broke free of its shell and jumped to his shoulders reverberated over the beach. The pirate could feel heat in his loins rising from the sheer power he now held and turned to the fisherman’s daughter. He grabbed the nubile girl and took her right over her father’s still-warm corpse. Even as the sound of gurgling came from one of his sons, Euron did not care as he removed the gag from the girl’s mouth, allowing her screams to sound out. 

 

The sound of someone falling on the ground had him glance sideways, finding one of his whelps bleeding from all seven orifices before succumbing to death. Euron grinned in ecstasy. It was so easy to fool the arrogant gods, and one like him would not care about curses or his countless get; He could always make more, just as he was doing now. 

 

His dragon jumped from his shoulder to the corpse of his son, belching small streams of dark golden flame at the carcass and biting into the flesh. All the while, Euron rutted into the girl, and his crew watched on as he preferred them to be.

 

Silent. 

 

He seeded the crying girl, knowing it would quicken before pulling his knife. It would not do to have a talkative woman onboard.

Notes:

Poseidon shall be along for the ride, but don’t expect any sort of powerups from him. He is but a shade in Percy’s mind, there for advice as well as knowledge.

The first ripples of Percy’s appearance are here! If Daenerys can bring magic back by hatching eggs, then what the heck do you think would happen if a demigod of the sea drops in to say hello and decides to stay permanently?

Our favorite insane pirate did not have to throw away that dragon egg he claimed to have gotten.

Now for the timeline, we know that GRRM planned for a five-year time skip but had to scrap it. If any of you read my editor, Gladiusx’s, story, Shrouded Destiny, you would get an idea of what I’m trying to write here. So, here goes:

My main motive is to make some sense of the times needed for armies to muster and travel. Even with my adjustments, the times are still unbelievably fast. I probably won’t get everything right either, but I will do my best.

One important thing to note about the Westerosi calendar in my story (complete headcanon and mainly for my own sanity). It's thirteen months of twenty-eight days instead of the confusing mess that is the Gregorian calendar. It comes out to 364 days, which is pretty close to the 365 days we have.

Robert’s Rebellion starts two years early, and every event that could have happened in those years and were relevant to the story is pushed back by those two years. For example, the fight with the kingswood brotherhood happened in 277 instead of 279, and the defiance of Duskendale was in 275 instead of 277. Rhaegar marries Elia in 278 instead of 280, and Rhaenys is born that same year, 278.

Anyone born before 283 shall remain the same age, which means that Jaime was 13 when he fought the Smiling Knight (Good for him, the badass he is), and Lyanna was also 13 when she was kidnapped (Doesn’t look so good for Rhaegar, eh?)

Here are other events of importance; some of them are earlier due to shenanigans (my whim), and others might pop up later in the story.

279: Tourney in Harrenhal. Year of False Spring
280: Robert’s rebellion starts. Loras Tyrell is born. Winter
281: Rebellion ends. Jon Snow and Robb Stark are born. Spring
282: Daeneyrs Targaryen is born. Summer
283: Margery Tyrell and Joffrey Baratheon are born near the end of the year. Summer
284: Sansa Stark is born. Fall
285: Winter
286: Shireen Baratheon is born. Spring
287: Arya Stark, and Myrcella Baratheon are born. Summer
288: Brandon Stark and Tommen Baratheon are born. Summer
289: Greyjoy rebellion begins mid-year. Fall
290: Greyjoy rebellion ends six months later, with Theon becoming a ward of Ned. Winter
291: Winter
292: Rickon Stark is born. Spring
293-303: Long summer begins (lasts ten years).
297: Jon Arryn dies early in the year. Robert makes his way to the North, and Ned becomes Hand.
298: Jon Snow arrives at the Wall. Ned arrives in Kingslanding and is arrested barely two months later. War erupts, and Robb takes a few months to muster his troops and march south.
299: Ned is executed on the first day of the year.

These are the most important events to be aware of before reading the story. It combines both the timeline of the show with the aged-up characters but incorporates them into the book timeline and its events. I will not be using anything else from the show, neither events nor characters, for that matter.

Chapter 3: A Maiden's Resolve

Notes:

Remember the aged-up characters? Well, Sansa is older here and much more observant of her surroundings and the geopolitical nature of Westeros…even more than her canon self.

Then again, she was considered a prodigy in her studies; numbers, geography, history, heraldry…she knew them all. With a few more years under her belt, as well as having to survive Joffrey and Cersei for nearly a year, and you get a much more interesting and mature character.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

Dawn of the 2nd day of the 7th moon, 299.

The Silver Lady , Blackwater Bay. 

Sansa

 

“… And the Greyjoys had been silent since then. At least, until recently, for I’m sure those pirates would take the chance to raid and reave with the realm in chaos.” Sansa concluded the history lesson of Westeros. She didn’t go into details, just the basics; there used to be seven kingdoms, some dragon-riding incest-ridden foreigners conquered them with fire and blood, and then those same sister-fuckers lost their dragons and their wits and ended up going mad. The result was the current political map.

 

Sansa giggled to herself. It felt good to have a coarse and uncouth tongue for a change without worry of anyone looking at her strangely. That she did not actually say all those insults out loud was ignored, as she did not want Percy to think lowly of her. Then again, he did not seem all that bothered with learning that their former royal house was so inbred, muttering something about royals everywhere being the same. 

 

“I see.” The green-eyed man frowned as he looked at the map of Westeros spread on the table in the captain’s cabin, an oil lantern lit for them to see in the darkness. He had finally regained his wits when Sansa first explained the seasons and, by the gods, if that wasn't a surprise for both of them! Just three moons for every season? And consistently? How did they ever get anything done with so little time before winter? 

 

The Stark maiden shook her head inwardly and focused on her protector. It had been a day since they escaped from Kingslanding. They left the city yesterday at noon and spent the day, after Percy woke up, fishing and salting their catches. Sansa learned the hard way how to gut and clean a fish, which gave her a surprisingly satisfied feeling as she relished the sense of purpose the action gave her. 

 

The feeling of stabbing and bleeding something strangely resonated with something deep within her.

 

Percy ended up taking over, however, after she ruined the fourth fish, for no matter how enthusiastic she was, Sansa had only ever held a knife for eating. He seemed queer about it, mumbling about disrespectful fish and how he shouldn’t have worried about them. 

 

It was as if he could talk to them.

 

The rest of the evening was spent trying to teach Percy how to read which seemed like a futile endeavor. The boy had some sort of eye malediction that prevented him from reading properly, even the fact her language was similar enough to his own did not help. Sansa was glad she at least managed to teach him the basic geography of the lands as well as the names of cities and castles. In that field, he seemed to be a savant as he easily memorized them all. 

 

They had gone to sleep when night fell and had woken up an hour before dawn. After a fishy breakfast, they continued their lessons.

 

“And this landmass to the east?” He pointed at the small strip of land that was visible on the eastern side of the map.

 

“That’s Essos and its…” Sansa proceeded to summarize the land for him. Wealthy, cultured, and sophisticated, yet slavery and barbarians were aplenty, causing the land to be in near constant strife. Percy hummed and nodded, only interrupting for clarification. It was a few minutes later when he clapped his hands in affirmation and grinned.

 

“I can now honestly confirm that this world is nuts!”

 

Sansa blinked, and the Stark maiden was reminded that he truly was from another world. Moreover, “Nuts? As in those things squirrels like to eat?”

 

The dark-haired young man grimaced, “It’s a figure of speech, meaning crazy.” At her blank look, he sighed, “When something is incredibly strange and mad, it would be nuts. Because squirrels can fit so many nuts in their cheeks that it's strange and mad?”

 

“I… see.” Sansa hummed and flicked a loose hair away from her eyes, gazing at the boy who stared at her hair. It brought a smile to her face; it was always good to be appreciated, so long as he remained a gentleman about it. “So why do you think it’s nuts ?”

 

“This world is both alien to my own, yet so similar, reminding me of the Middle Ages. Have you discovered the steam engine yet? Cannons? Gunpowder?” At her confused look, he continued listing strange and fantastical-sounding things. He couldn't explain how they worked, but the more Sansa heard, the stranger it sounded than even godly powers. 

 

“What about magic? Or the gods? Do you know anything about them? Are they active?” 

 

“Gods? Bah. If the gods exist, then they would not have left me to rot in that wretched city.” Sansa scowled at the bitter reminder. “They would not have let my father die, even when he was the most pious of us. I lost count how many times over the past year I've prayed to them for salvation in the Sept, yet all I received was silence.”

 

The very idea that the gods were true and watched upon them in apathy caused Sansa to feel so betrayed. She jerked when she felt Percy place a gentle hand on her shoulders and squeeze in assurance. Sansa could not help but lean into the warm touch; the gesture felt soothing after all the abuse she had gone through, and it surprised her she did not shy from a male’s touch after what Joffrey had his guards do to her on a daily basis.

 

“Not sure what a sept is, but from my experience, the gods prefer not to involve themselves in matters of the mundane no matter how much we mortals wish they would.” Percy smiled sadly, and she couldn’t help but think she preferred his lopsided grin. “After all, if all your problems could be fixed with a wave of the hand of some big guy in the sky, then what would life be worth?”

 

“But not a single answer? Not even a sign that they heard me but couldn't help?” The Stark maiden insisted, her blue eyes looking into the other boy's sea-green eyes, unconsciously pleading for an answer.

 

“I'm not sure, as I don't know the divines here, but maybe you're praying to the wrong gods?” Percy shrugged, but the question rang with her. Sansa had been raised on the New Gods by her mother, but she was not ignorant of the Old Gods for Eddard Stark never neglected teaching all of his children about the old ways. 

 

She bit her lips in thought as she unconsciously moved closer to the boy. “You sound so confident that the gods exist. Almost as if you know them personally.”

 

“That’s because I do. I am the son of one of them, after all.” Sansa’s heart skipped a beat as she thought she had misheard him. But no, the words had been spoken in utmost seriousness, and his face did not possess even a shred of deception, and Sansa found herself believing the unbelievable. 

 

She knew he was special, she would have to be blind and daft not to believe so, but this? Percy had shown powers that had never been seen nor heard of since the Age of Heroes for him to be a mere sorcerer. Not to mention that since she woke up, there had been this niggling feeling in her mind when she looked at the boy. It was a strange and heavy feeling that reminded her of the soothing waters of a spring yet the unstoppable waves of a storm.

 

Percy, with a rueful smile on his face, proceeded to explain his side of the world to her; and what a strange world it was! Towering buildings that would make the mightiest of castles look like a pebble, gods, and goddesses bedding mortals wantonly, creating offspring like Percy. Monsters hunting those demigods and them fighting back. In all that fantastical explanation, one thing stood out the most to her.

 

“You’re a bastard?” Sansa’s eyes widened before she could stop herself.

 

“Hey, now, that’s uncalled for.” Percy’s eyebrows scrunched into a frown as he folded his hands defensively. The Stark maiden lamented her misstep and worried she offended him. “I might not be the best guy around, but I like to think I treat people well enough.”

 

Sansa was confused for a second before realizing it was probably another word lost in translation. “I-I meant, you were born out of wedlock.”

 

“Ah, that kind of bastard. Yeah, I suppose I was. My Dad was infamous for siring children on anything that could move,” the boy paused as he smirked. “According to him, his immortal wife was mostly cool about it, but I wouldn’t know. My mother had nothing but respect when she spoke of him, and he gave her his blessings when she married another mortal. He also gave me these awesome powers, too, so I give the god a lot of leeway when it comes to judging him.”

 

Sometimes, the deluge of words that escaped from her protector’s mouth confused Sansa greatly. Many meanings overlapped, making her unsure of what exactly he was saying.

 

“So, what kind of god was he?” This was all so surreal to her, and the more answers she got, the more questions she had. Still, Sansa was entranced with the topic and edged even closer to the demigod, that feeling she sensed from him becoming even stronger as he spoke. It was as if confirming his divinity was making it more real. 

 

“God of the sea. I can swim fast, dive deep, breathe underwater, and control ships and the waves. I can even cause storms, mist, and fog because my father was also known as the storm bringer. Basically, I’m virtually unstoppable so long as I’m in the sea.” Percy grinned as he flexed his biceps jokingly. “Oh, and I can speak to horses as well.”

 

A list of impossible things that no human should ever be capable of, and Sansa was seriously wondering if the tales from the Age of Heroes had more credence than she thought. “Horses?”

 

“Is that what caught your attention?” The handsome man’s lopsided grin caused her face to heat up as she unconsciously smiled. Gods, that smile would turn any insipid maiden to mush, yet she was stronger than that. Good looks no longer deceived her! “My father created horses from sea foam, or at least a breed of horses in my old world. Anyway, what about you? I can still feel power from you. At first, I thought you were also a demigod, but now I’m not so sure. It’s not as obvious as divinity, but it's certainly some sort of power.”

 

And there it was again. Sansa never had any sort of powers, or at least nothing she could feel, though she would admit to having sharper senses lately. “I know magic existed in the past, and it's a taboo topic, but Westeros has two major religions. The Old Gods are mainly worshiped in the North, and the Faith of the Seven in the South. There’s the Drowned God of the Ironborn too, I suppose, but no one cares about them.”

 

Percy’s face turned thoughtful as she explained. “Drowned God, huh? Tell me as much as you can about all three of them.”

 

And Sansa did. The simplistic practices of the Old Gods, the overly elaborate and wasteful ceremonies she witnessed in the Septs of the South, and what she could remember from Theon’s boasting and some of the men-at-arms’ tales about the Drowned God. Percy seemed overly interested in the whole matter, especially the sea deity, which would make sense considering his father. 

 

For a moment, Sansa worried that he was a liar and secretly just another reaver pretending to be a savior, but she discarded such a notion immediately. She had gotten very good at discerning lies from the truth during her stay in the Red Keep, and all her instincts told her that Percy Jackson was the most honest man she had ever met.

 

“What about beasts and creatures? Anything mystical?”

 

The Stark maiden told him what she knew – the Children of the Forest, Giants, the Others, Dragons, the mythical griffins, selkies, and all the others big or small she could remember.

 

“I see.” Percy’s eyebrow was scrunched as he took his time processing what she said. “Were there any people known to have magical powers? Specifically, people from your family?”

 

“There are tales of the Children of the Forest and the First Men intermarrying. The Starks of old were said to defeat their magical rivals and take their daughters for wives.” Sansa recited from her teachings with Luwin. “Tales of skinchangers and wargs still prevail, and…” She choked a sob as her thoughts went to the most obvious sign of magic she had experienced.

 

“What is it, Sansa?” Percy’s hands grabbed her when she faltered, and she easily leaned on him for support.

 

“My family, we all received a direwolf pup. They were beyond loyal and would follow our commands as if they could read your mind. My half-brother claimed it was a gift from the gods, that the Old Gods thought highly of the Starks and gave them a gift for protection. There was a dead mother direwolf, killed by a massive stag, whelping six pups in the process. Oh… Oh gods! Was that…”

 

She looked up at the resident expert in the arcane to see his solemn face and belatedly realized she was hugging the man tightly. Percy didn’t shy away from the hug and placed his chin over her head as he thought deeply. “I think that was indeed an omen. I’m still too ignorant of the world here to be confident, though. What happened to your wolf?”

 

“… She died because of me. I betrayed my family, my pack, and the gods took her away from me. What they can give, they can so easily take.” Sansa’s eyes misted, and she allowed the tears to fall freely as she hugged the demigod closely, inhaling his scent and enjoying how he rubbed her back in comfort. Unbidden, she recalled her loyal direwolf; Lady was so obedient and innocent of any wrongdoing, yet her father was forced to kill her because of Cersei Lannister. 

 

The fucking queen! It was all her fault. Cersei Lannister caused this whole mess, and Sansa would not rest until she ripped her head off with her own bare hands! Something savage was growling deep in her mind, and Sansa heaved through her sobs as the idea took hold of her. To watch Cersei Lannister scream in despair as she gutted her precious Joffrey and hung his entrails on a weirwood, even the idea of killing kind Myrcella and innocent Tommen, who had never done her any ill, appealed to her. If only to watch the bitch wail in grief. 

 

Yes! Yes, that was what she should do. 

 

Sansa’s lips widened into a manic grin as she hugged her savior closer and sank deeper into his muscled chest, tasting something delicious yet metallic but ignoring it. Cersei would be the last, dying only after seeing her ill-bred spawn perish before her eyes. Then, maybe she could have Robb send Jaime Lannister to her, and he could follow in the footsteps of his cursed progeny. If the loss of her children would break Cersei, then her lover would send her to the pits of despair, and only then would Sansa give her the mercy of death. 

 

A slow, agonizing death, of course.

 

But no, why stop there? The whole cursed lineage of Lann the Clever should be obliterated from the lands. That wretched line that dared to provoke the Direwolf. They shall receive the same treatment as the Dragons! The more she thought about it, the more the idea–

 

“Sansa… you're starting to make me itch.” A hand flowed through her hair before gently pulling her away from the warm flesh she was clinging to. Breaking out of the trance she was in, Sansa looked up to see Percy’s blushing face twisted in discomfort. 

 

It was then that the Stark maiden tasted liquid in her mouth and instinctively gulped, suddenly feeling warmth run through her. She noticed the bite mark on the demigod’s flesh and how it was slightly bleeding. Sansa recoiled from the horror of her thoughts and looked at her gentle hero, who was trying to look everywhere but down… and she noticed that at some point, her shirt had unbuttoned itself, allowing her generous cleavage to be nearly exposed. 

 

Sansa separated from her protector and distractedly fixed her clothing, but couldn’t bring herself to feel embarrassed. What was that? Why did her thoughts get so… brutal? Percy idly waved his hand, allowing a stream of seawater to flow from the open porthole and splash on his chest. She looked in wonder as the bite marks quickly healed, barely leaving a mark. The demigod had done something similar yesterday yet it was still as magical seeing it for the second time. 

 

“Are you okay?” Percy's sea-green eyes finally met her gaze, but his face was still flushed. Sansa should have felt happy about the powerful warrior looking so flummoxed by her beauty, yet the maiden could only think about the fact she practically marked him. 

 

Gods, that was embarrassing!

 

She shook her head as she remembered that Percy was trying to comfort her. It was sweet and Sansa was grateful for the gesture.

 

“I’m sorry. I just…” she struggled for a moment to remember the prior conversation, but she found herself lost in the demigod’s sea-green eyes. “I just haven’t gotten over the loss of Lady, my direwolf.”

 

“You called your direwolf, Lady ?” The boy grinned, his lips crooking lopsidedly, causing her to giggle in return.

 

“Better than my brother, he called his Shaggydog .”

 

“No, that’s still better than Lady .”

 

They continued to banter for a few more minutes, and Sansa was glad for the distraction. While there was no doubt in her mind that she wanted to see both Cersei and Joffrey dead at her feet, her thoughts had taken a strange path. 

 

Once there was a lull in the conversation, Percy looked like he had another question for her, and Sansa merely smiled at him, encouraging him to ask away. 

 

“So, you mentioned Northmen hate going south, right?” Sansa nodded, “then what brought half of your family to that city?”

 

It was a fair question, and for the next hour, Sansa explained to her new friend the happenings of the last two years. From Jon Arryn’s death, the King’s visit to Winterfell, and her father’s appointment as Hand of the King. What happened afterward was unclear, as she wasn’t privy to her father’s dealings, but she knew he was betrayed by everyone he knew. Including herself. 

 

Before she realized it, Sansa was in Percy's arms again as she had to relive all those moments of pain and betrayal as well as the very real possibility that her sister was most likely dead. 

 

“I would not lose myself to guilt if I were you.” Percy soothed after she confessed to her treachery. They had long abandoned the maps and the table, simply sitting on the wooden floor, while leaning their backs to the wall. Sansa enjoyed the demigod's warmth as he placed a hesitant arm around her shoulders. “You messed up, and now you gotta live with it. Instead of moping and brooding, you should look to the future and make amends. You have a clear target of your hatred, that bitch queen you mentioned and the pansy ass sissy boy with the punchable face.”

 

It took Sansa a moment to understand the insult, and couldn’t help but snicker. She smiled at the young man and his simplistic approach to life and how he did not judge her moment of weakness.

 

A gentle squeeze from the demigod had Sansa blush slightly. Percy looked more confident as he held her, unlike earlier when he blushed like a maid, and Sansa couldn't help but feel endeared to him. As she stared into his sea-green eyes, Sansa was again reminded of their proximity. Gods, what would her mother think if she saw her so close to a man? 

 

She shook her head inwardly. Her mother was who knew where and what Catelyn didn't know, wouldn't harm her. 

 

A comfortable silence overcame them, and they simply enjoyed each other’s presence. At least until a gust of wind came from the open shutter, threatening to damage the maps. They stood up, Sansa shut it close, but noticed Percy staring curiously at the map.

 

“What’s this straight line here?” 

 

“That’s the Wall.”

 

“…The Wall? Come on, Sansa, I haven’t a clue whether that’s a name or a place.”

 

Giggling, the red-haired girl explained to her companion about the seven-hundred-foot Wall hewn out of ice and the ancient order protecting the realm from the savages living beyond it. 

 

“Let me guess, those savages have giants and other monstrous animals with them?”

 

“I… believe so? My uncle Benjen would tell tales of them and other fantastical creatures he found beyond the wall.”

 

“Hmm, sounds like Canada.” She had no idea what Canada was, and judging by Percy’s distaste, it was probably nothing good. “So your uncle is there?”

 

“And my half-brother, Jon.”

 

“Oh? Half -brother? You were so surprised about me being born out of wedlock, yet your father didn’t seem to have problems doing the same, huh?”

 

Normally, such a vile comment would elicit retribution for questioning her father’s honor, but judging by his teasing smile, Percy did not mean any offense. Then again, she was the one to insult him earlier, even if accidentally. He was from a different world, and she would need to teach him how to properly behave with nobles even if they're mortals.

 

… Mortals . That fact still surprised her and Sansa had to revise her mindset. She needed to acknowledge the fact that a man with Percy’s powers could not, and should not, be treated as a regular human. He had no peers, and all the etiquette and courtesies of the nobility would not apply to him. The Stark princess needed to do everything in her power to keep Percy on her side, whether through promises or friendship.

 

Or more. The idea of taking him as a husband to solidify his loyalty to her came suddenly, and Sansa shook her head. Regardless of her budding affection for the demigod, she was still a noble daughter of House Stark, one of the oldest and most powerful Houses, hailing from a storied lineage of kings and heroes. Sansa’s hand was a valuable commodity, and it would be up to Robb or her lady mother to decide who her husband would be. Considering the North’s current woes, it would make more sense to use her hand and virtue for alliances that would benefit Winterfell. 

 

“Uh, Sansa? Are you sure you’re alright?” Percy’s voice seemed to come from a hundred miles away, yet her mind was even further.

 

The Stark maiden had learned the hard way not to fall for shallow flattery and good looks, as her father had warned her when he tried to convince her to leave the city. 

 

What had he said? A high lord worthy of her, brave, gentle, and strong. Percy might not be a high lord, but so far, he encompassed all three other descriptions perfectly.

 

Was it… was it so bad for her to be selfish once more? For her to choose her own husband and at the same time make sure he would strengthen her House?

 

A hand settled over her forehead, causing her to flinch.

 

“You keep dozing off, are you sure you’re alright? You didn’t catch a cold or something now, did you?” The concern in the boy’s voice as she stared into his kind eyes had her heart skip a beat, and Sansa knew what she had to do. 

 

The Stark princess would have loved to have more time to judge the situation better or even talk to her mother, but needs must. The opportunity was here, and if her family complained about Percy’s bastardy, then the very fact his father was a god would have to placate them.

 

Not that Robb would have a problem with that, considering how high he thought of Jon. Now, how to even begin to discuss this with the demigod?

 

“I’m fine,” she shook her head and faked a yawn. “Just a bit tired, but I am sure the morning breeze will wake me up.” 

 

“If you’re certain.” Percy shrugged and stretched, and without thought, she mirrored the action, subtly pushing the prodigious teats she inherited from her mother out. She grinned when the boy’s eyes fell on them and drank them in, his jaw slack as he gulped before shaking his head as he noticed her grin. 

 

Baby steps, Sansa. 

 

“I-I think we’re done here.” The demigod coughed in an attempt to regain some of his dignity. “Unless you have anything else you want to add? I want to take a look at our heading.”

 

Sansa shook her head and packed away the maps. Following Percy to the deck, they witnessed the sun trying to shine through the slight fog of the early morning. As expected, the breeze did in fact refresh her, and the red-haired maiden enjoyed the cool air for a few minutes as she looked around the rough waters of Blackwater Bay.

 

Gazing across the bay, Sansa froze at the strange scene, frowning as she saw the dark clouds brewing in the south. It was far away, yet those clouds… something felt off about them.

 

“You can feel it too, huh?” Percy’s voice came from where he was brushing Blackjack’s coat. The horse was forced to sleep on the deck as they couldn’t access the small stall in the hold without the use of a crane. Percy made sure he was comfortable and had some cover from the cold, yet she sensed the massive destrier was not amused at his accommodations.

 

“What is it? That storm… it feels like something is staring at me.”

 

“I’m surprised you can feel it, but it would make sense. Yesterday, you barely had any uhh… magic was it?” She nodded, as that seemed to be the closest equivalent to whatever powers Percy spoke of. “Yeah, that. Now, though, I can feel it has grown.”

 

“Oh? By how much?” She couldn’t hide her curiosity, as the idea of her gaining any sort of power appealed greatly to her. If she was ever to gain her vengeance and protect herself and her family, Sansa would need all the power she could get. Having Percy on her side was her most important goal, yet any personal powers would do as well.

 

“If yesterday was the spark from a flint, then today your powers are like a lit tinder.”

 

“So, not even the size of a candle?” It was a bit disheartening, but it was progress. “What about you? How large of a flame would your powers be in comparison?”

 

The dark-haired man stopped his brushing of the horse and frowned in thought. It was almost as if he was having a conversation with himself. After a minute, he seemingly shrugged to himself and continued brushing Blackjack. “I never thought about it, and I honestly don’t have anything to compare it with. I need to see more of what this world has to offer to judge.”

 

“Fair enough. I suppose with your confidence in the existence of gods, then that storm must be the Storm God’s doing.”

 

“The who now?" Percy paused and turned to her confused. 

 

“The Storm God? The enemy of the Drowned God from Ironborn Legends? I didn't mention him?"

 

“I'm sure I would remember you mentioning–”

 

Percy stiffened and moved swiftly to the forecastle of the ship, his brush abandoned and Blackjack whinnying in annoyance. Sansa quickly followed him as they stared at the misty horizon, the fog slowly clearing out by the sun’s rays.

 

“What is it?”

 

“There’s a fleet up ahead. At least a dozen ships.”

 

Sansa’s blue eyes widened as she strained her newfound senses to look as far as she could. After a minute of staring, she could almost imagine seeing a ship’s mast, “How could you tell?”

 

“I can feel their motions on the sea. Are there any ships you could think of that would be on our way? Would they be friendly?”

 

Sansa’s first thought would be the Royal Fleet under Stannis Baratheon’s command, but from what she gathered from the small snippets of conversation in court, he was still besieging Storm's End. That narrowed it down to one other option, and it was so obvious she nearly groaned at her lack of foresight.

 

“Myrcella Baratheon. The court had sent her to Dorne for a betrothal in return for their support in the war. This must be her escort.” Suddenly, a savage grin bloomed on her face. “This is our chance! We can destroy that alliance before it has a chance to develop. Percy, you said you were unstoppable in the sea. Can you destroy that fleet?”

 

Instantly, Sansa knew that was the wrong thing to say, for the kind man in front of her grimaced heavily. “I know what I said, but there must be hundreds, if not thousands of people on those boats, Sansa. I… I don’t think I have it in me to kill so many people, not when they have not done anything wrong to me.”

 

“You didn’t seem to mind killing those people in the city, seven hells, you caused that flash flood that killed dozens if not hundreds! Not to mention the Wildfire explosion!” She insisted as she got closer to him, her hands grabbing his shirt as she looked imploringly up at him. Deep down, she knew this was not the right way to convince him. Yet, the chance to put a massive wrench in the Lannisters’ plan and cause as much suffering to Cersei as possible clouded Sansa’s mind.

 

“That was different. We were fighting for our lives, and I was not in my right state of mind. How would I have known they had Greek or Wild Fire stored at that gate? Sansa, please. Don’t ask me to murder those people in cold blood.” For the first time, the demigod she had known to be strong and reliable looked distraught and vulnerable. He would not meet her eyes even as she held him, but she could see in his eyes that they were vacant and haunted by the death and destruction he caused. 

 

That, more than anything, sobered Sansa up. She couldn’t help but feel even more endeared to the man she had chosen to pursue. It was easy to forget with his amazing powers that Perseus Jackson was still a kind and gentle man, something that was obvious even when she had only known him for a day. Even Sansa would hesitate to kill so many people personally, for it was easy to wish or order their destruction, but to do it with your bare hands…

 

The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword.

 

“I’m sorry, Percy. Forget I asked that. Let’s just… sail around them, I suppose.” It was beyond frustrating for Sansa to admit it, but she would rather keep Percy on her side than force the issue. Was that what the old First Men wisdom meant? It was easy to order so many deaths with a word, making them… worthless. 

 

Myrcella would go to Dorne and bring them to the Lannisters’ side. Robb would be hard-pressed to fight so many kingdoms with just the North and the bickering Riverlands, which made her even more resolute to court Percy to her side.

 

If only her treacherous aunt had not forced the Vale lords to stay neutral. Sansa would remember. How easy it was for the people in court to forget her existence as tongues flapped and gloating remarks were thrown around about the so-called honor of the Valemen.

 

The memory caused Sansa to grit her teeth and for her eyes to mist.

 

“Hey now. I didn’t say we could leave them be.” Percy’s words broke her from her brooding as he held her cheeks, wiping a stray tear with his thumb. She stared at him confused, and a small spark of hope ignited within her. 

 

“You mean to do something still?” Sansa couldn’t hide the smile that bloomed on her face when Percy nodded.

 

“You were there earlier that day when they sailed away. Do you remember the exact composition of that fleet? Which ship was that princess in? What did she look like? Tell me everything you can remember, and I’ll see what I can do.”

 

For once, Sansa was glad for her excellent memory as while it caused her to remember every moment of pain in her life, it now allowed her to strike a major blow at her nemesis.

 

A*H*M

 

Time unknown,

Far to the North of the Wall,

 

WE ARE THE SHIELD THAT GUARDS THE REALMS OF MEN!

 

The backlash sent Bloodraven’s mind hurling straight into his body. 

 

“It's no use. I can't connect anymore.” An old man rasped out to the underground cave. His head pulsed painfully, even though the sap running through his veins was supposed to take away the pain. “It’s like the Wall had been slumbering before, and has now awoken.”

 

“What does this mean, Brynden?” A melodic voice inquired as a multitude of other voices murmured to each other in their song-like tongue. Even after decades of living with them, Brynden Rivers had yet to master the tongue of the Earth Singers. 

 

“… I do not know, Leaf.” Staying in the dark grated on him, having grown so reliant on the powers of the weirwood which had turned helpless before the magic of the Builder. “I thought the Wall was strong before… but now it simply blocks everything.” Brynden grunted as he tried to halfheartedly connect to the Weirwood roots under the Wall leading south only to recoil painfully. “The song has gone silent. Things just… changed today and I know not why…”

 

The Earth Singers stopped their murmurs and looked at each other in silence. “What of your successor?”

 

“Brandon should be safe in Winterfell still, but I can no longer provide guidance, and his future is clouded. I couldn't divine the future of a squirrel if I tried.” A sardonic chuckle echoed through the cavern, and Bloodraven gave a tight smile to the Earth Singer as she placed a comforting hand on his bony shoulder. “At least the Reed lad shall no longer be plagued by my visions." 

 

“If the future has changed, then so must our plans, Brynden.” Leaf's determined tune held a soothing quality to it that helped ease his worries. “If the other side of the Wall is out of reach, we should focus on our side. The True North.”

 

“Aye, you have it right. Alas, Brandon and his younger brother are the only ones who have shown potential to become greenseers, yet now they are far from our reach. Mayhaps we could change the fate of the other two direwolves and receive their aid in return.”

 

“They could help you adjust the protections on the Wall as well. I confess my knowledge is meager, but surely a brother of the Night's Watch would be capable of doing something about that problem?”

 

“It is not that simple, but it is as good a path as any. Now, whom to approach first? Benjen Stark is beyond even my sight, and I am not sure if he is even alive or not. Jon Snow, on the other hand…”

 

“Mayhaps I could search for the elder Stark with our ranger? The Weirwood is not infallible, and our target might need help from the Enemy if he is alive. If not, we would still gain valuable information on the Cold Ones.” Leaf’s normally calm eyes had a challenging glint. The Earth Singer had been cooped in the cavern for the last few weeks as they attempted to guide young Bran. Sadly, all that effort would be wasted.

 

“Not yet. Let me see to the younger one first, for the fate of the Watch rests on his shoulders. Then we shall see.” The greenseer finally replied after a few minutes of introspection. The Earth Singer nodded and retreated with the rest of her tribe to their alcoves, leaving the ancient ranger to dive into the Weirwood network.

 

It did not take long for him to find Jon Snow with the rest of his Black Brothers on their way to the Fist of the First Men. An ambitious endeavor from the old bear to search for his missing First Ranger and wipe out the perceived wildling threat before it could have a chance to amalgamate. It was something Brynden would also undertake, but it was a risky endeavor with the dwindling Night’s Watch. One that would backlash heavily if the Enemy still commits to their planned ambush.

 

First, time to pay a visit to the son of Ice and Fire. 

 

Brynden looked through the eyes of a raven perched on the Weirwood the young Snow used for prayer, unwilling to interrupt the sacred rite. The boy was focused, but his direwolf looked at Brynden coldly, and he had to do his best not to provoke it. The Old Gods were as apathetic as they were whimsical, but they had taken a shine on this generation of Starks. 

 

The white wolf got bored and looked away, making Brynden sigh with relief. Now, how to approach him? Should he use the mysterious mentor facade that he tried with his cousin? Brandon Stark did not seem overly impressed, and Brynden would admit that he had gone a bit overboard with it and ended up not teaching his potential successor anything of note. 

 

Bloodraven was also wary of making the same mistake as with that Greyjoy. He was younger and too excited to connect with someone with potential, but the follies of haste had taught him patience, albeit at a bitter cost. 

 

Shaking his head, Brynden Rivers chuckled to himself. He had been thinking too much. Jon Snow was a fellow brother of the Night’s Watch. There was no need for that nonsense, especially as he could already feel the spark of magic in the boy growing stronger as he prayed. A direct approach seemed to be the best option.

 

He just hoped the lad was not a lackwit as his dreamer of a father.

 

Once the lad was done, Brynden pulled him into the weirwood.

 

“Hello, Jon Snow.”

Notes:

Sansa brings Percy up to speed on the world he finds himself in and plans for her future. The girl is observant and understands her position, more importantly, she understands the benefits of ensuring the loyalty of a man of Percy’s powers.

That she is crushing on him definitely has nothing to do with it /s.

The storm is getting closer, but a golden opportunity awaits them.

More ripples of Percy’s appearance are happening as the Wall’s protections have gotten stronger from magic going haywire. Unfortunately, that did not work well for Bloodraven, and without his sight, he now has to look closer for help rather than to Bran.

Chapter 4: A Feisty Kitten

Notes:

I know Rosamund only vaguely looks similar to Myrcella, but here they are essentially twins except for the hair.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

 

Onboard the Seaswift,

Blackwater Bay,

Myrcella Baratheon

 

“Princess, it's time to awaken.”

 

The only daughter of Cersei Lannister woke groggily as Septa Eglantine shook her friend awake. She was having a good dream. A kind, grandfatherly man with sea-green eyes had her on his lap as he brushed her long mane of golden hair.  

 

Yawning, the princess grudgingly untangled herself from her bedmate’s arms, hugging Rosamund to sleep always soothed her. The Septa didn’t like Myrcella’s penchant for warm hugs, even hugging Tommen was not appropriate for some reason, even though her mother said it was fine. Then again, that was probably the only thing the Queen approved of, as not a day would pass before Cersei Lannister would admonish Myrcella for something. Her love of gardening, her desire for friendship, her interaction with those her mother would deem unworthy, or even the one rare moment she attempted to protest Sansa’s mistreatment in court.

 

Myrcella shivered as she remembered the cold look her mother gave her, as well as Joffrey’s face twisting in rage. She tried to forget the daily scenes of her first friend getting tormented for her father’s crimes. The Starks had accepted them in their home to be treated like honored guests, while Myrcella could not look at the red-haired girl before feeling shame and embarrassment now. The Seven-Pointed Star was clear – a parent’s sin did not pass onto the child.

 

Rosamund stirred, interrupting her musings. Her companion had straight, golden hair, which was very similar to Myrcella’s curly ringlets that were silky and lustrous. They had only known each other for less than a year, ever since Lord Stark was arrested, but Rosa and Cella, as they called each other in private, had instantly bonded on how similar they looked and their shared habits. As the days passed, Myrcella found herself growing closer to her new companion and tried to forget about Sansa’s woeful existence. But the more she tried to forget, the more vivid the memory of the red-haired girl getting beaten by the white cloaks appeared in her sleep. Her uncle had decided that Rosa would join her to Dorne as a handmaid, though Cella understood that Rosa was meant to be body double. Myrcella would admit she had welcomed the idea of having a friendly face in an unknown land.

 

Shaking her head, the princess focused on her yawning bedmate. Fully awake, she noted that the Septa had mistaken Rosamund for her again. It was dark outside as they stood up and started pulling up their gowns. Was it Stannis?

 

The thought instantly had her fully awake and alert, while Rosamund still looked queasy, the rocking of the ship not agreeing with her stomach. It was such a piteous thing, as her companion had been so delighted at the mere idea of sailing, only for the joy to be snuffed out when Rosamund struggled to hold her meal.

 

“Septa, I’m not Cella.” Rosamund muttered groggily as she rubbed her eyes. 

 

Septa Eglantine clicked her tongue in annoyance, but the Princess knew the old woman was secretly glad she and Rosamund looked so alike. Today, they were supposed to dye her hair brown, much to Myrcella’s chagrin. This would ruin her lustrous curls, but needs must. Rosamund could wear her clothes; even if her friend was captured, they had no reason to harm her as a hostage. At most, Rosamund would be married off to some knight, the fate that was expected of her companion anyway.

 

But Myrcella didn’t want to be separated from her new friend and prayed they were never dragged into such a dreadful scenario. Still, the Princess knew her duty; she was to be wed to a young Dornish Prince, sealing an alliance to secure her brother’s throne. At least the Water Gardens were said to be beautiful. 

 

“Come now, Princess, Lady Rosamund, it is time for our prayers.”

 

Both girls blinked, confused as morning prayers were to happen only every seventh day, but followed after the Septa, too sleepy to argue with the stern woman. They had to wash each other in a lukewarm basin quickly, no maids had come because Uncle Tyrion had decided additional men-at-arms were more important. She was sure her mother would disapprove of her helping her handmaid instead of the other way around, but Cersei was not here. They quickly combed each other’s hair and were finally ready.  

 

The pious were to present themselves clean before the gods and garbed in their finest garments, according to the Septa. Septa Eglantine had them face the statues of the seven she had placed by the cabin’s window, where they could see the sun just starting to rise on the horizon. 

 

The most pious and the sinners prayed thrice a day – dawn, noon, and dusk. Usually, it was done in a Sept, but simple statues would do, and even they were not truly necessary – the Seven-Pointed Star claimed the gods could hear your prayer at any corner of the world. Then again, neither Robert Baratheon nor Cersei Lannister were particularly pious, and it was a miracle if they showed their face in a Sept twice a sennight. Yet it seems the Septa had decided to elucidate them with the Light of the Seven daily. 

 

“Who will you pray to, Cella?” Rosa whispered as they approached the altar with the small marble statues. It was up to the devotees to decide whom to dedicate the prayer to, and traditionally, an unmarried princess like her would pray to the Maiden. Yet, Myrcella remembered her dream that morning, a kind old man who had a grandfatherly bearing and a handsome young man with a powerful physique looking on from the side. She couldn't remember their faces or the dream itself, only the soft sea-green eyes and a warm smile. 

 

“The Father. I feel like having a father's guidance today.” Cella smiled as she lit a candle for the Father, and then they kneeled with the septa and began their prayers.

.

.

.

Myrcella left her cabin with Rosa and the septa in tow, and turned to the guardsman standing vigil outside with a friendly nod. “Rolder! Any troubles in the night?”

 

His eyes shone and his tired frame straightened up at the mention of his name and eagerly slammed a fist to his breastplate in greeting. “Nay, Princess, the sea was calm.”

 

It was something she had heard from Lord Stark… not many remembered the names of the guardsmen, but when you did, they would fight harder for you. Traitor or not, Lord Stark sounded like a wise man, and Myrcella had found herself chatting up the guards and learning more about them.

 

“Is Ser Arys still asleep?”

 

“He’s doing his morning prayers, princess, and bid me tell you he’ll take his post as soon as Godwyn has helped him get into his armor.” 

 

She had noticed Ser Arys had begun praying far too oft recently, doubtlessly seeking absolution from the Mother and the Maiden. The kingsguard were sworn to obey the king first and foremost, but beating an innocent maiden like Sansa Stark broke their knightly vows given before the Seven. 

 

A glance at the weary guardsman had Myrcella frowning. “Go get some rest, Rolder, the ship is full of leal men, and Ser Arys will be here soon enough.” 

 

“I would never! The Lord Hand had insisted we never leave you out of sight.”

 

“Oh my, Rolder. Are you saying that you have been watching a royal princess in her sleep?” Myrcella couldn’t help but ask, causing the guard to pale significantly when the septa scowled at him.

 

“I-I w-would never!”

 

Before Cella could tease him more, Ser Arys Oakheart arrived, heralded by the sound of his steel greaves and clinking chainmail.

 

“Princess.” The kingsguard bowed, his helmet in one hand and his other resting on the hilt of his sword. Myrcella gazed at him for a moment before turning to the red cloak.

 

“You may go rest now, Rolder. That is an order from your princess.” The man nodded gratefully then excused himself and Myrcella turned to the Kingsguard. “Walk with me, Ser.”

 

The knight followed as Myrcella led the way up the deck and beheld the still-foggy morning. She knew she was not subtle in her distaste of the Kingsguard, their beating of Sansa Stark still fresh on her mind. Which true knight would dare strike a maiden? Yet defying Joffrey was not… easy, she knew that all too well. Yet it didn’t decrease her mislike for the white cloaks. 

 

She nodded and smiled pleasantly to the various sailors and oarsmen on duty, even as her Septa not so subtly coughed with disapproval behind her. 

 

“Septa Eglantine, perhaps some more bedrest would be in order? It would be unfortunate if you catch an ailment,” Myrcella turned to jab at the old woman, knowing she would never rebuke a royal openly.

 

“How thoughtful of you, Princess. But my duty is much more important than a mere affliction of the flesh.” Judging by the angry flush creeping up the Septa’s woolen collar, she knew it too, as she lagged behind with a sour face as if she had sucked on a lemon. 

 

Still, Myrcella would not be pushed around by some crotchety old priestess. Showing her face to the crew would surely shore up their morale, propriety be damned! 

 

Myrcella’s gaze wandered around the sea; silhouettes of the escorting ships could be seen through the morning fog. A soft breeze dispersed a part of the mist, allowing her to take a proper look. The Boldwind , a galley similar in design to their ship sailed close; the marines on deck were all armed and ready for a fight, and the Crimson Gale , a bigger galley where her dowry was stored. Naturally, the dowry of a princess would be worth a king’s ransom, as her mother had declared. Yet Myrcella had no idea of the contents in question, but they somehow required a whole ship to ferry.

 

Further in the distance, she could almost see the mighty shapes of the war galleys assigned to protect her; King Robert's Hammer, Lionstar, and Lady Lyanna . There were other smaller galleys and longships in her escort but they were hidden somewhere in the soft, cotton-like veil of mist. 

 

They stopped by the Captain, who greeted them with a clumsy salute. “Yer highness.”

 

“Captain Rogar.” Myrcella nodded with a smile, “A good morning to you.”

 

“Uh, you too, princess.” Rogar glanced nervously at the intimidating visage of Ser Arys before bowing deeply.

 

“You mentioned this vessel was quite fast yesterday.” Myrcella started talking before the Captain grew too intimidated to speak properly. “Tell me more of the ship.”

 

A smile bloomed on Rogar’s face as he took the opportunity to heap praise on his pride and joy. The Seaswift was a small galley but had massive square sails on its only mast. The single lower deck housed the hold and the cabin bar for the captain’s quarters which were on the stern. The only other rooms were reserved for her guardsmen. On the main deck, teams of oarsmen rowed at the call of one of the officers, as they sang one of their catchy songs, sea shanties, the captain explained. 

 

The mood of the crew was joyful, with sailors cracking jokes and singing merrily. All of them were glad to leave King’s Landing, it seemed. 

 

It was all very fascinating in the beginning, but the princess regretted starting the conversation as Captain Rogar only grew more and more enthusiastic as the flood of words left his mouth. She could hear Rosa shuffling her feet, and could almost feel the Septa’s glower at the man as well as her own stomach rumbling. They were supposed to have breakfast, and Myrcella tried to look for a chance to excuse herself without causing offense but the chance was taken from her at the sound of clanging bells from one of the nearby ships.

 

Immediately, everyone grew silent as the joy of the ship drained, replaced with anxious caution as the captain halted mid-speech and turned to Ser Arys. 

 

“Princess, we must retreat to the cabin,” The white knight offered her his hand as chivalry dictated, but she straightened her back and looked at the captain.

 

“What is happening?” 

 

The ring of the bells echoed ominously all across the fog, as Myrcella strained to look through the persistent veil, only to see blurry shapes moving through the mist while the nearby ships were getting ready for… a fight?

 

“These are the warning bells. Enemies have been sighted, and we are preparing for battle, princess.”

 

Myrcella nodded imperiously, “Then do what you must, Captain. I shall remain here until we know what the fuss is about. Ser Arys, rouse the rest of my guards and ready them for combat.”

 

The kingsguard grimaced as he lowered his arm, her commands clear. Myrcella would not be hiding in a tiny cabin until they were certain of what they were facing. Was it stubborn of her? Mayhaps so, but anyone who could command her was left in King’s Landing, which meant she was in charge here!

 

“Very well, princess.” The white cloak left to gather the rest of her red cloaks while she calmly waited on the deck, showing her lack of fear to the men onboard. 

 

“Princess, I must protest! Your safety is paramount. You should retire to your cabin until the matter is over.” Septa Eglantine, however, did not shy away from speaking up. 

 

“Your counsel is duly noted, Septa, yet you cannot command me. If the men see their princess running away at the earliest sign of trouble, what would they think of the royal family?” All the sailors knew who she was, so dyeing her hair would be useless. All it would take was a cowardly oarsman for the stupid ruse to fall apart. 

 

“They will do their duty regardless,” Eglantine scoffed. 

 

“I have said my piece, and my word is final. If you would like to retire to the cabin, do so. I shall not begrudge you for it.”

 

The old woman stiffened, her face twisting in worry and hesitation before sighing. “I shall remain by your side, Princess.”

 

“Thank you, Septa.” Myrcella smiled kindly at the elderly woman. She might have been an annoying nag over many things, yet she knew Septa Eglantine’s worry was genuine. “You too, Rosa. I would not force you to stand here while you could be safe in the cabin.”

 

“I'm staying with you, Princess.” A smile bloomed on her face at the decisive reply as Rosa straightened up, trying to imitate her own posture. 

 

Soon, her full contingent of guardsmen, all six red cloaks commanded by Ser Arys as the seventh number, a holy number, were standing protectively around her as the Seaswift had all hands to the oars. The Captain glanced at her hesitantly before shaking his head and busying himself with barking out commands. As the morning fog slowly dissipated, Myrcella found the Seaswift sailing away along with the Boldwind and the Crimson Gale trailing a little behind. The rest of the fleet had turned around, yet she could not understand the bell clanging and the waving flags from the other ships.

 

It was later after breakfast was served to her and her companions on the deck, that Myrcella finally understood what the commotion was about. A single ship was sighted behind them, and it did not answer any of their commands to change course, forcing the fleet to treat it as hostile. The Princess wondered about the wisdom of sending nearly a dozen ships, three of them warships, after a single vessel while they sailed away, but the Captain had his orders from her uncle. 

 

Her ship, the Boldwind , and the Crimson Gale are to avoid engaging any foes, but any who approach must be defeated swiftly by the rest of the fleet. 

 

It was a whole hour later when the morning sun finally banished the last vestiges of the lingering mist. 

 

“Captain! Behind us, something strange is happening.” The call came from one of the cabin boys clinging like a monkey on a branch onto the top of the mast. The princess frowned, surely there was a safer way to place a lookout?

 

Rogar stiffened and hurriedly produced a Myrish Fareye before moving to the stern of the ship with his first mate. Myrcella followed with her group, and she did not need any glass tube to see the oddness before her. 

 

Their escort, visible a moment ago as they confronted the lone ship, was suddenly swallowed by a wall of mist. It did not look natural, even to Myrcella's inexperienced eyes, for fog was not supposed to stay in the same spot and look like some enormous veil-like box, for the sky was clear above it. The princess could almost hear bells and worried shouts in the wind before the last of the ships was swallowed by the fog, and then… silence.

 

“Father above! This is not normal.” The captain rubbed his eyes several times before looking again, only to find the same sight. Giving the Fareye to his first mate, the man had a similar reaction.

 

“All hands to the oars! On the double, row faster, damn you!” The Captain looked worried, and so did the oarsmen. Myrcella could be wrong, but she felt as if their ship was going slower. Over by the Boldwind and Crimson Gale , the crews seemed to be doing the same. 

 

“Princess! I must insist you retire to the cabin.” Ser Arys’s words were full of steel, and Myrcella couldn’t find her tongue to voice an objection, so she nodded obediently.

 

Yet before they could move, a loud crack from wood splintering came from the left.

 

“What in the seven hells…” The princess would agree with Godwyn’s exclamation as everyone onboard the Seaswift stared with wide eyes at the other escort ship. 

 

One moment, the Boldwind was rowing a hundred feet beside them, and then the next, all fifty oars were cut cleanly in half, causing it to tilt heavily towards them.

 

“By the Warrior, only Valyrian Steel could be so sharp to inflict such clean cuts!”

 

Ser Arys had barely said the words before another similar sound came from the opposite side of the ship. Myrcella turned, holding Rosamund’s hand in worry, as the Crimson Gale’s oars received a similar treatment. 

 

“Retract oars!” 

 

The Captain's order barely came in time for the men to retract the line of oars from the right side before a shadow flew from the water, cutting at the space the oars were in but missing by inches. Myrcella could have sworn it was a person, but that was–

 

“A merman!” Rosamund exclaimed, even as she pointed at the shadow. 

 

Myrcella stared at the murky sea as the shade agilely circled their ship before disappearing into the depths. 

 

“All hands, abandon oars. Weapons out. Call for the escort to join us!” 

 

The captain's roar finally roused the man on the bell, who quickly rang the clapper several times. The oarsmen abandoned their paddles in favor of axes and long knives, though a few of them had crossbows as well.

 

“Stay behind me, Princess.” Ser Arys moved before them, with the rest of the red cloaks drawing their weapons and spreading in a tight half-circle of steel around her. 

 

Before anyone could react, the water behind exploded in a mighty splash, dousing all of them in seawater. Something heavy smacked on the deck with a thud, and a powerful hand clasped her shoulder, causing her to freeze. 

 

Fingers sank into her skin like iron clasps, and her mind was bound by terror as another hand grasped Rosamund’s shoulder.

 

“Alright, chumps! I don’t want anyone to move a muscle, or else your princess might take a dip in the sea.” The amused voice spoke in heavy baritone from above, but Myrcella did not dare to move even a finger, limbs all feeling as heavy as lead.

 

The Septa and all the guardsmen in front slowly turned, all looking tense. Ser Arys’ face was twisted halfway between anger and worry. “Unhand the princess at once!”

 

“No can do, hotshot. My Princess has bid me to retrieve her bosom friend from the machinations of her evil family.” Her captor spoke in a queer dialect and the way he overly exaggerated the words made her think his only reference to noble speak was from mummers.

 

Also, princess? Friend? Myrcella nearly laughed at calling her family evil, despite the terror creeping through her veins. 

 

The kingsguard looked… mutinous. “I do not know how you sneaked onboard, but you are heavily outnumbered. Surrender the princess at once, and you shall be given a fair trial.”

 

“I don't know, man,” the baritone voice sounded… more amused than frightened despite being outnumbered heavily. There was also a hint of… dismissal? “Surrendering is just not my style. Although you keep saying princess, I have no clue which one of them is the real one. I was told she was blonde, cute, and had green eyes. I gotta say, both of you match that perfectly.” Myrcella was… confused, even more so when the hand on her shoulder tapped her for a moment. “How about you guys drop your weapons until my ride gets here, and I'll be off your hair. With these two cuties, of course.”

 

The princess froze as the odd meaning finally sank, despite the whimsical tone. He did not recognize her from Rosamund. She risked a glance at her friend and bit her lip when Rosa looked at her with a sad smile before narrowing her eyes in determination.

 

“Unhand me, you knave! Do you have any idea who you–”

 

Before Rosamund could continue, Myrcella jabbed her elbow as hard as she could at the closest part of the man’s body, which ended up being his groin.

 

“Fuck!”

 

The princess didn't think, the moment her captor grunted in pain and inadvertently let go of her, she grabbed Rosa and hurried to the protection of her guards. Grinning giddily, Myrcella could not believe she had succeeded! That she managed to–

 

Ser Arys rushed in, his sword raised for a powerful two-handed strike at the bent-over form of the intruder. Myrcella couldn't help but stare morbidly as the white cloak’s sword descended on the man’s head.

 

Only, for a hand to spring up like a snake, grabbing the hilt of the blade, halting it with ease. 

 

“Feisty little kitten, aren’t you, princess?” The man’s pained groan turned into a chuckle that echoed deeply, the sound seeming to reverberate to the sea, causing the waves to rise and the wind to howl. Myrcella stared in shock at the handsome dark-haired man with familiar sea-green eyes who couldn’t be much older than her brother. 

 

“Get back, princess!” Rolder and the Septa grabbed her and Rosa as they retreated to the deck. Myrcella couldn’t help but notice that the escort ships were also quickly approaching, doubtlessly having spotted the intruder. 

 

“Let go of me, cur!” The scene before her would have been amusing if not for the seriousness of the situation. The man had grabbed the hilt of Ser Arys’ sword, gripping both of her sworn sword’s hands in the process and pulling him effortlessly as if he were a Fleabottom boy, all with one hand. 

 

The white cloak tried to pull away, but it was futile, for the intruder’s hand was as if made from steel. The sound of metal denting echoed in the wind, and Ser Arys’ grunts turned painful. A twanging sound came from behind her, and Myrcella blinked. She blinked again, but no, the scene didn’t change. 

 

Only, the green-eyed fiend held a crossbow bolt in his free hand, looking even more amused than before.  

 

The red cloaks charged forward, but a long-drawn-out sigh came from the man as he dropped the bolt and threw Ser Arys like a rag doll at the three guards, sending them toppling down right by her feet.

 

“I wanted to do this the easy way, but you medieval schmucks just don’t understand how outclassed you are.” The man stepped towards them and unsheathed a great sword from his back, causing Myrcella’s eyes to widen. 

 

Longer than most people were tall, with a blade wider than her palm, the dark rippled steel glinted ominously in the sun. Ice . 

 

“Attack, it doesn’t matter how strong he is, he’s still human. Attack, damn you!” 

 

Ser Arys’ cry galvanized the men. Crossbows were aimed, even from the newly arrived escort ships, and a hail of steel rained upon the intruder.

 

Only, under her disbelieving gaze, he did not turn into a pincushion but swung the enormous greatsword with one arm so quickly and effortlessly as if he were a babe waving around a toy sword. The crossbow bolts were swept away, the man impossibly smug and unharmed.

 

A brave sailor charged forward, axe in hand, only to be grabbed with a single hand and easily tossed overboard like some errant pup.

 

More of the crew attacked, yet Ser Arys held back the red cloaks as they surrounded her and Rosamund protectively. Myrcella couldn’t help but notice that the attacker seemed to treat this as some sort of game. Valyrian Steel could cleave through flesh and bone with nary an effort, yet the man was dancing around them, using the flat of the blade with an amused smile on his face, as if he was treating the sailors like errant children. Any attempts to strike him were thwarted with effortless finesse, and Myrcella couldn’t tear her gaze from the sight. 

 

By the time the man had reached the midpoint of the ship, there were dozens of groaning men on the deck, suffering from bruises or even broken bones, yet there were even more who had been thrown overboard. The green-eyed warrior had eyes only for her when he stopped in the middle of the deck.

 

“Will you come quietly, princess?” The voice turned as soft as silk. “Or… should I kill every living soul here? I find myself feeling lenient now, but my companion seems to have run out of mercy for your family.”

 

Myrcella couldn’t help but believe he could easily fulfill his threat. How could she not, when the man treated grown men as errant children, and it did not look like anyone was truly a threat to him? 

 

“Silence, knave! I will have your head.” One of the red cloaks, Dake, cried out as he advanced with a mace supported by a new wave of sailors that boarded from the escort ships. They all rushed the last few feet, only for the warrior to finally use his sword and slash it horizontally. Myrcella stared in silence as five heads were separated from their bodies, their blood gushing from their necks. Dake’s head rolled on the ground and stopped in front of the Septa, who cried out in horror, before collapsing bonelessly on the deck. 

 

“I ask you again, Myrcella Baratheon. Surrender, or will you watch as all of these good men die?” His voice had gone chilly, face hardened like a piece of granite, and Myrcella gulped. 

 

The ship rocked heavily as the waves splashed onboard, the wind roiled, and through all of that, the Princess could only stare at the severed head of her guard. The newly arrived sailors were now cautiously watching the man, gazes locked on Ice , black blood dripping freely from the blade. The ship continued rocking heavily as the waves licked at it, spraying salty water onboard. The wind roiled harder, but the Princess could only stare at the severed head of Dake.

 

Poor Dake, who always smiled kindly at her. Who had a wife in Lannisport and three young boys who were now fatherless. 

 

“We are no cravens, Demon! Men, attack, shoot him to death.” Ser Arys’s cry tore through the heavy silence, and at his signal, crossbowmen aimed at the warrior, who simply sighed and sheathed his sword.

 

Just as she heard the twangs of the bows, the man raised his hands, and the sea rose with it!

 

The world… fell quiet as everyone had just halted at the mystical sight. Even Myrcella’s mind felt as if it had fallen into a quagmire. Deafening silence, as the curses, insults, groans of pain, or even the errant prayer halted in terrified wonder. 

 

The sea itself rose high into the sky, blotting out the sun and casting a terrifying darkness as it surrounded all three vessels, dwarfing them like ants. A few thuds echoed, and many a sailor had started dropping their arms on the deck, and Myrcella could see they had all lost their will to fight. 

 

“Seven above.”

 

“Storm. It’s the Storm God!”

 

“No, it’s the Drowned God.”

 

“It doesn’t matter who it is, he will kill us all!”

 

The murmurs were getting louder by the moment, and even Ser Arys’ hands were shaking. One shout, however, caught her attention.

 

“The sea! It’s splitting, and… a ship is coming through…” They stared at the pointed finger where indeed a ship was sailing through the massive frozen wave like it didn’t exist.

 

“Time is running out, princess. My ride is here, and I might just accidentally drop the sea on your heads. What will it be?”

 

How could anyone fight against this ?! 

 

What good were valor and skill at arms against such a powerful warrior – nay – sorcerer?

 

Still, Myrcella was surprised at the sudden calm that overtook her mind despite the raging terror in her breast. Glancing at Rosa, she found her friend breathing heavily, her eyes wide with fear. Glad she wasn’t the only one feeling afraid, the princess straightened her back before stepping forward, pushing away Ser Arys’ halfhearted attempt to hold her back.

 

“So long as you guarantee the safety of everyone on all three ships, I shall surrender into your custody. Provided you introduce yourself.” Myrcella stopped in front of the sorcerer, whose face finally softened into a gentle smile that looked strangely familiar. Up close, she saw a few beads of sweat on his brows, and it occurred to her that the show of force might not be as easy as he made it out to be.

 

“Good choice, you’ve certainly got guts, I’ll give you that.” The warrior lowered his hands, allowing the sea to lower with it, causing several people to lose their footing, but the man held her by the shoulder. “Name’s Perseus. Now,” He suddenly squeezed her shoulder painfully, causing her to grimace. “Did you really have to hit me in the balls?”

 

Before she could form a reply, the other ship finally arrived adjacent to them, the sea somehow pushing the Boldwind away from their ship to give it space to moor. 

 

Myrcella stared in confusion as there was no one on board except for an oddly familiar black stallion. Suddenly, a gangway stretched from the ship to theirs, seemingly by itself, and a familiar figure with red hair came from the hold and crossed over to their ship. No one dared to approach her, for Perseus had dragged her towards the end of the gangway as they greeted the unbelievable sight of Sansa Stark landing onboard and gazing coldly at the surrounding men.

 

“You probably know my companion, Princess Sansa Stark.”

 

Suddenly, Myrcella was not sure about her prospects, especially when her former friend’s cold eyes settled on her, and a vicious grin bloomed on her face.

 

A*H*M

 

Somewhere south of the Wolfswood,

A few days later,

Asha Greyjoy

 

She watched impassively as Cromm, one of her more brutish crew members, took a screaming peasant girl from the village they sacked to one of the standing shacks, all the while sporting a broken nose from another wench. The Northmen might have been sparse along the Stony Shore, but it seemed they were as rabid as a cornered dog when confronted with death and humiliation. The surrounding men laughed in approval as they enjoyed their well-earned booty, though Asha scoffed at the term, for they had yet to sack a single keep or walled town. 

 

It’s been a moon since they landed on the Stony Shore, and Asha couldn’t help but wonder about her brother, Theon, who had taken time to acclimate to their ways. The years of being forced to act like a Greenlander had made him forget his roots, yet he was eager to prove himself worthy of the Old Ways.

 

That eagerness turned into zealotry a few days ago when he nearly drowned fighting a Northman by the Great Lakes of the Rills. It was before they separated to each reave on their own. They were all fighting for their lives against the sudden attack by a Ryswell force supported by a motley group of Tallhart riders, but they had managed to prevail, albeit barely. The men might rave about it being a great victory, but Asha knew the truth, it was a fucking embarrassment! 

 

A thousand reavers to be ambushed by a measly force of a hundred horsemen and only slaying a mere third before the enemy escaped, leaving scores of Ironmen dead. Granted, they expected an attack by the Ryswells, the closest House to the Stony Shore, and they were even gaining the upper hand on those Barrow Knights. Who would have thought some green Tallhart fool to be so daring as to charge into their rear, and allow the Northmen to escape? 

 

Nuncle Aeron had dragged poor Theon from the lake where he was drowning from the dead weight of a slain rider, and gave him the kiss of life. Theon had been stuck underwater for at least ten minutes, yet against all odds, the only living son of Balon Greyjoy lived . Her last brother had awakened with a manic glint in his eyes, and Aeron had not wasted time proclaiming Theon as The Drowned God’s Champion. 

 

Since then, her brother had taken to their ways with a vengeance, almost like a spirit possessed. First in every battle, and fighting for every scrap of booty won, no matter how meager. None could begrudge him paying the Iron Price, although the men were beginning to grow… annoyed with the lack of meaningful loot. Turnips and cabbages, shovels and hoes; none was of any good for a proper Ironman. 

 

An unbidden snicker came to Asha as she remembered her brother’s vow to take every Northern cunt they came upon as a salt wife. It did not work out as well as Theon hoped, as many a Northern woman preferred to die fighting or slit their throats than get captured. Something that Asha could not help but respect, even as she heard the sound of curses and meaty smacks from the house Cromm dragged the girl in. Still, the daughter of Balon felt nothing for these wretches. They were weak, and the weak endured, while the strong took whatever they wanted.

 

Regardless, word had spread, and despite not showing much success aside from a few skirmishes against hunters and villagers, the other raiders had started to band behind her brother – swelling the numbers under Theon’s command from eight ships to twenty. Asha did not know how to feel about the matter; she was glad her brother was not lost to the Greenlander ways, but that also meant her chance to be heir slowly but surely sailed away.

 

She felt restless, and the only daughter of Balon Greyjoy turned to look at the foreboding woods of the Wolfswood. She had planned to take Deepwood Motte by sea, but that plan had failed before it could even begin, as her attempts to recruit the other captains failed once they threw their lot behind her brother’s. That, and the fact they were discovered at the Flint cliffs and attacked by the Ryswells made their only advantage, the element of surprise, null. No raider wanted to attack a prepared castle, especially one so deep in the woods. 

 

It was incredibly annoying, as she did not have the men to take any of the holdfasts and castles they came across, only ten ships and their crews followed her command, with the rest following Theon. There were about two dozen more ships who refused to follow anyone aside from their own captains, and Asha was unsure which part of this wasteland they had decided to reave. Even with the majority of the North’s fighting force in the South, they still had enough men to defend their castles, and the Ironborn were never good at storming big keeps. Taking it by surprise was one thing, but attacking a prepared holdfast? Only fools would do that.

 

So far, all they got from this fruitless endeavor was death away from the sea, with the only loot for the men were dead women, nuts, salted pork, and a myriad of farming tools. A few useful fishing nets here and there and a handful of hunting bows and lumber axes were the finest loot one could stumble on.

 

Asha hoped Uncle Victarion would succeed in taking Moat Cailin, or else this entire invasion would be the biggest joke in Ironborn history. Her uncle had the full force of the Iron Fleet, nearly fifteen thousand Ironborn compared to their paltry two thousand, and he was the only one who could do any sort of damage to this frozen wasteland. If she was in her uncle’s place, she would take the Moat and garrison it before moving to Barrowton with its wooden walls and sack it for all it was worth. Unfortunately, her uncle wasn’t the sharpest axe around, and Asha could never predict what he would do.

 

More curses came from the hut, and the sound of something shattering and a man’s gurgles broke her from her musings. Motioning for one of the men to check on Cromm, she groaned in frustration when he reported the fool got killed by a chamber pot to the head and the woman he was taking slit her throat with a broken piece of clay.

 

“How many does that make?”

 

“Six in as many days. These Northern whores do have a bite to them, eh? I guess they know they won’t even survive to be salt wives, considering how deep inland we are.” Qarl the Maid snickered, not caring for the loss of their crewmate.

 

Before Asha could retort, Droopeye Dale called a warning, and she looked at where he was pointing. Riders approached, causing her to stand and her hand to trail to her axes, yet she relaxed when she recognized the Greyjoy kraken of her brother’s doublet, riding that silly horse he got from Lordsport. Theon’s hair was a wild mess, yet it paled to the bloody mania in his eyes, which looked almost black from how large his irises had become.

 

She counted at least a thousand men following her brother, a lot more than the last she had seen him. Had Theon managed to recruit the rest of the captains reaving blindly between the Great Lakes?

 

The rest of the men looked on curiously, forgetting their dead crewmate, as her brother stopped before them, followed by Dagmer Cleftjaw and Uncle Aeron. “Brother. What brings you here?”

 

“Asha, dearest sister. The Drowned God has given me an opportunity that would only ever come once in a lifetime, and I am here to offer you the chance to put our names in history!”

 

She looked askance at her brother, “What sort of opportunity?”

 

“Why, taking the heart of the North, of course!”

 

The declaration caused a lot of interest, and Asha’s eyes widened. Taking Winterfell? That had never been done in history, the closest was when the Boltons burned sections of the castle and the town. The amount of hidden wealth in one of the most ancient citadels of Westeros just waiting to be taken, nearly caused the daughter of Balon to immediately agree, but she managed to control herself. Her frustration with the lack of worthwhile loot was not high enough for her to blindly follow her still green brother into a foolishly dangerous endeavor just for the promise of treasure.

 

“Tell me more.” Theon’s smile sent shivers down her spine as he relayed his plan. It was ambitious, it was reckless, nay, it was mad.

 

Yet, it might just work.

 

 

Notes:

It would have been so easy for Percy to drown the fleet, but what would be the point? Getting Myrcella’s escort lost in magic fog was simple for him, raising the damn sea to get his point across was a bit too much for the poor mortals, lol. Still, it might not have been obvious, but it certainly tired him out to make that stunt.

Cella still gave him something to remember not to be too cocky.

The Wild Hares actually save the day this time, instead of getting wiped out thanks to a Ryswell force that was in the area for some reason. It was not enough to change much though, as Theon now has even more troops and they are all concentrated in one spot.

Now, why was Asha with Theon instead of attacking Deepwood Motte? Because logically, practically, and realistically, attacking the Motte makes no fucking sense, and taking it makes even less, let alone holding it. The castle is about 20 miles away from the Bay of Ice and is an actual castle, not some walled town. Wood or stone, walls are walls. Motte and Bailey is its description, and they are difficult to take even if they only have a handful of troops protecting them. Asha supposedly had a thousand Ironborn in the books yet that was inconsistent with the amount of ships that attacked the Stony Shore and the amount under Victarion. Right now, she barely has 300 or 400 raiders, what hope does she have in taking a castle, even a wooden castle, when she has no siege equipment, no terrain advantage, no supply lines, and no element of surprise because there is no fucking way no one saw them coming all the way from Sea Dragon Point, past Bear Island and all along the Wolfswood, let alone the Flint Cliffs! Ravens exist for a reason.

So, Asha shall join Theon instead, and I will be writing their invasion as realistically as possible. This means I will role-play them and decide how they could reach their goals of bloodying the North with their meager forces while still earning a profit. I’m warning you guys now, this isn’t a fix it fic, and as a wise-ass ginger once said, people die when they are killed.

Chapter 5: An Imp's Lament

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx

---

3rd day of the 7th moon,

Small council chambers,

The Hand of the King.

 

The youngest son of Tywin Lannister stared at the pouring rain crashing onto the glass windows. When the king had complained about the unexpected rain, the Grandmaester had explained that due to the sudden heat of the wildfire, the hot winds had brought the cold winds of a nearby rainstorm. The old councilor was dozing off in his seat next to the Spider and across from his sister, and Tyrion scowled at the sight. It still irked him when he reported his findings to his father regarding Pycelle’s involvement with Jon Arryn’s murder, but Tywin Lannister insisted not to imprison the old lecher, for he provided valuable information from the Citadel that even Varys would not be capable of acquiring.

 

“…mostly under control, with the storm forcing most rioters off the streets. Many have fled the city after the wildfire explosion.” Tyrion gulped his wine as he idly listened to Bywater’s report. With the lack of a Master of Laws, most of the duties of the position fell on the newly appointed commander of the city watch. Even then, Ironhand was not allowed to sit alongside the small council, despite being a noble.

 

“Who cares about those filthy traitors? The less rats in my city, the better!” Joffrey was still pale and lacked his usual petulant assertiveness. The boy king had confined himself inside Maegor’s Holdfast, refusing to step outside until all the traitors were gone, but he seemed specifically scared of the storm. Tyrion had thought he would get some peace, but his nephew insisted on attending these meetings, though now the towering form of the Hound and half a dozen other guards always accompanied him in addition to the white cloaks. 

 

It was a shock when the younger Clegane made it back to the keep, battered and missing his left eye but alive, with Tyrek Lannister and Lollys Stokeworth in tow. The scarred man was beyond pissed over the theft of his horse and cursed anyone who asked how he survived. His cousin Tyrek was happy to elucidate as he and the Hound found themselves fighting their way out of the mob, but not before stumbling on the Stokeworth woman held by the rabble behind a tanner’s shop. Tyrek had insisted on saving her because it was the chivalrous thing to do and was promptly knighted for his valor, yet the Hound looked ready to vomit blood when offered the same. 

 

The loss of Preston Greenfield could already be felt as the order had dwindled to just three: Mandon Moore, Meryn Trant, and Boros Blount. Technically, the Hound was also one, but he refused to wear the cloak. Attempts to recruit replacements were stifled by the lack of good prospects; many nobles had been missing since the riots, and no one knew if they were dead or had just chosen to flee from the city rather than face Stannis’ impending siege. 

 

Speaking of his cousin, Tyrion laughed inwardly when Joffrey had taken Tyrek to join his personal guard. Judging by the boy’s unsteady stance by the wall, he was not yet accustomed to the long hours of doing nothing expected of the guards.

 

“Well, the fewer hands in the city to work, the slower we can plug that gap in the city walls somehow,” The Grandmaester coughed a few times as he leaned on his armchair. The old lecher was quite disturbed a couple of days ago at the tale of that massive wave and the ensuing explosion but had seemingly returned to normal.

 

“Fewer fools to riot and mouths to feed, too,” Varys pointed out. “Although this can impact the customs and tariffs that can be levied.”

 

“Copper counting is for fools,” Joffrey scoffed.

 

“Wise words, Your Grace, but coin is still necessary to keep the city running. It's needed to pay the guards, ensure you get the finest food, and commission repairs and projects to show your grandeur.” As always, the eunuch’s titter made his skin crawl. Did Varys have to always keep up with the damned mummer’s farce?

 

“Any word from my father, Grandmaester?” Tyrion had sent a raven to Harrenhal right after the debacle and had expected a reply by yesterday morning. Hopefully, he caught Tywin and his army before they departed for Riverrun.

 

“Ehm. The raven arrived in the morn. The birds fare badly in such tumultuous weather. Let's see here,” Tyrion stifled a groan as the doddering old fool seemed more intent on playing his act than usual. Pycelle continued to fumble with his rolls of parchment until he finally found what he was looking for. “Ah, here. It's short and concise as would be expected of Lord Tywin–”

 

“Before we die from old age, Grandmaester.” Tyrion ignored the offended look of the old fool as he took a swig from his goblet, idly wishing he was in his manse with Shae between his legs. The last thing he needed was to hear his drowsy prattling.

 

“Don’t keep us waiting, Grandmaester.” Cersei's scowl finally had the old man stop with his dawdling.

 

“Sending reinforcements. Hire troops and rebuild defenses posthaste. If incapable, evacuate the king and his brother to a safe castle of your choosing. The Hand has full authority but must hold the city.”

 

“I will not run away from my castle!” Joffrey smacked the table with his fist, sounding more petulant than anything. Tyrion ignored him as his mother and the other counselors worked on convincing his nephew of the necessity of retreating to fight another day. 

 

“Ser Jacelyn, report on the damages to the city and the city guard.” The imp was busy gulping his wine before refilling his goblet. His father had more or less signed his execution. Maiden’s teats, how would he defend the city with no fleet, a breach, and few men? 

 

“The port facilities are gone, completely wiped out, along with the ferries, all the shipyards, and the dry docks.” The man’s bluntness would be popular in the North or the Wall, but judging by the grimaces on everyone’s faces, not so much here. “Aside from the gaping hole in the wall, Fishmonger Square has turned into a flooded pit, some shops on the Street of Steel were destroyed from falling debris, and nearly half of the buildings on River Row are gone.”

 

“Who cares about the damn peasants,” Joffrey’s grating voice broke the somber silence in the chamber. “What about my army?”

 

“What army , Your Grace? The City watch?” Tyrion scoffed as the last drops of the pitcher spluttered weakly in his cup. 

 

“Yes, yes, them. If I will have my uncle’s head, I will need my own, personal army. No more depending on traitors to give me troops.” The boy was barking mad, though Tyrion wondered if that wasn’t such a bad idea. Having your personal standing army was done before in the east to great success, but the expenses would make even his father balk, especially in times of peace where there was no promise of loot. 

 

“A hundred of my men, along with the score of red cloaks stationed by the gatehouse, are dead.” The one-handed knight replied stiffly. It might be a large loss for the City watch, but most of the dead were still poorly equipped and ill-trained townsfolk, and finding replacements would be simple enough. The red cloaks’ loss would be felt more, and he regretted sending most of them with Vylarr to Riverrun as Cleos Frey’s escort. The few that remained in the city were now all dead. 

 

“And the smallfolk? How many have died in this tragedy ?” Everyone looked at Varys with some befuddlement; why was the foolish eunuch still speaking such drivel?

 

Jacelyn Bywater’s face grew even grimmer. “We’ve found over five thousand corpses so far. It’s hard to give any numbers; digging through the wreckage and the flooded streets is impeded by the unceasing rain. If any sailors, fishermen, or shipwrights survived, they have long fled the city by now.”

 

Well, it seemed like his plans were ruined for good. No new ideas on how to deal with Stannis’ fleet came to his mind, especially with no ships of his own. What had Wisdom Hallyne said earlier? Two hundred jars of green piss were found under the Great Sept. Probably, a similar cache had resided under the River Gate to obliterate tons of solid stone with such ease. Tyrion couldn’t help but wonder if there was more green piss hidden around the city for some reason, and who would be mad enough to do a folly so big?

 

“Lord Varys, have you finally uncovered the identity of that wretch who spirited away our dear Sansa Stark?” 

 

“Spirited?” Tyrion snorted, “It’s a tragic love story of elopement with a hedge knight from a cruel tyrant if you go by what the bards say.” 

 

“I will have their tongues. All of them.” Cersei stared coldly at Bywater until he reluctantly nodded. “Slandering their king is treason, and Sansa Stark was treated as befitting of her station .”

 

“Dear sister, you had her entire household put to the sword, and the girl was stripped and beaten before the whole royal court by the Kingsguard, making a mockery of the knightly order.” Tyrion smiled at the increasingly red faces of his sister and her son. “Many said nothing but still had eyes to see. Unless you could rip off the tongues of all those who are now out of the city, the word will spread to the four winds”

 

“Not everyone is a traitor to speak ill of their king,” Cersei scoffed dismissively. Tyrion just shrugged; nothing mattered as long as they won at the end. “Spider?” 

 

“Yes, yes, tell us eunuch. Who was that brigand daring to abscond with my accursed betrothed ?” Joffrey’s face alternated between angry and terrified. The last word seemed to send the young king into some sort of frenzy; gone was the toy that could be beaten on a whim, replaced with a fearsome witch . Worse, Tyrion wasn’t sure if he could even dispute Joffrey’s theory; anyone who knew what had caused the wave was dead from the flood or the wildfire.

 

Everyone looked expectantly at the eunuch, who wore the same kind, harmless smile he always did. The same question had been asked yesterday, but Varys had begged off more time to investigate, “Even a skilled cook cannot roast fish before catching it, Your Grace. My little birds hear many a song, yet it is difficult to know what truly happened in the chaos.”

 

“So you don’t know anything?” Joffrey’s brow scrunched up with displeasure, making the Spider bow deeply.

 

“Oh, I know plenty, Your Grace. Rather, it’s all tales, each more fanciful than the last. From a rogue red cloak scorned by Your Grace to the Warrior himself coming to claim the girl. The remains of the King’s Justice were found in one of the alleys, along with one of the Kettleblack brothers. The small folk seemed busy cutting them for their pots of brown, I fear.” Tyrion’s eyebrow twitched; That explained how Ice found its way to Sansa Stark’s possession. To think he had wasted so much coin on those foolish brothers – the youngest Kettleblack brother had disappeared in the night with the rest of his brothers’ gold. “The loudest of the songs say that Sansa Stark was… kidnapped by a tall, powerful man with hair black as coal and stormy green eyes. Others sing of his prowess with a blade.” 

 

“Lone man slicing a hail of arrows before charging through a platoon of spearmen is quite hard to miss.” Tyrion acquiesced, “What of it?”

 

“The likeness to Renly Baratheon is quite strong.”

 

For a moment, the council chambers grew quiet as the words sank in before a fist smacked on the table. “You said my uncle is dead!”

 

“I believe he is, yet I confess to have not seen the corpse. Dreadful affair. Dear me, kinslaying of all things. Yet even a sorcerer cannot be in many places at the same time, Your Grace.”

 

“What use are you then, Varys?” Cersei stared at the eunuch.

 

“Your Grace, I am a master of whispers, not the arcane! Words and hearsay are my trade. There is little doubt that Renly Baratheon is dead, yet he is far from the only one with such looks. Our good king Robert spread his seed far and wide.”

 

“You mean a bastard half-brother of mine dared to abscond with my bride?! ” Joffrey’s pale face was flushed with pulsing veins on his forehead. It was as if he had forgotten about his fear of the witch . 

 

“Indeed.” Varys clasped his soft hand with a flourish. “Your uncle Renly had a penchant for gathering Robert’s bastards. Sansa Stark is the key to the North, and he doubtlessly knew that. If she could be spirited away and be wed to Willas Tyrell, Renly could attempt to pull the North and the Riverlands by his side-”

 

At that moment, Tyrion realized the Spider had no idea what was truly going on. The eunuch’s demeanor was slightly more tense despite his usual act, and there were too many… inconsistencies. If Varys had known all of that before the riots, then why didn’t he inform them or disrupt the kidnapping in the first place? Yet, Tyrion had bigger problems than exposing the only councilor who had been nothing but helpful to him.

 

This meeting had already dragged on enough as it was, but he would have a talk with the Eunuch.

 

“Bah, it doesn’t matter. I want all of their heads on a spike. Write to my grandfather, Imp!” Joffrey stood up and hastily fled the chambers, followed by his gaggle of guardsmen. By the time Tyrion had put his goblet down, Varys had also left. Cursing his short legs and the councilor's impatience, the Imp hurried out, too.

 

Entering the crowded throne room, Tyrion was stopped by the queer scene of the rest of the counselors looking at a soaking-wet guard. Varys was nowhere to be seen.

 

“A fleet has been sighted.”

.

.

.

It seemed that misfortune had taken a liking to their cause. Tyrion knew something was wrong when Myrcella’s escort had returned so early, led by the downcast Ser Arys Oakheart.

 

Worse, when the grudging words started coming from the knight, Tyrion could only groan with exasperation. It was as if the gods themselves had decided to abandon their cause. And what a tale it was! An hour passed as the councilors listened to a truly mythical tale that could only belong to the Age of Heroes. 

 

“You allowed your princess to be kidnapped by some sorcerer under the command of Sansa Stark ?” Tyrion had always prided himself on his wits and calmness, but this was too much.

 

“It is, and shall always be, my greatest failure and dishonor, and no words would ever absolve me of it.” Ser Arys’ head remained bowed in shame, yet he raised his hands, showing his dented gauntlets. The dents looked as if someone with inhuman strength had squeezed them, leaving their finger imprints on the castle-forged steel. “Yet no words could ever describe the sheer power and magic the devil wielded. Three hundred of us couldn’t even put a scratch on him, and that was before he threatened to drown us all if the Princess did not surrender herself to him. The merciful Princess Myrcella ordered us to stand down before surrendering to the fiend, just as Sansa Stark came with her own ship.”

 

“I told you!” Joffrey shouted from his tapered seat, his wild eyes looking fearfully at the shadows as he shook in his seat. “I told you the damn witch would come for us!”

 

“I fear that sorcerer more than any tales of that feeble girl being a witch,” Cersei growled between gritted teeth. His sister had nearly collapsed when the white cloak first announced the kidnapping of her daughter, but her shock slowly turned into rage.

 

“Don’t you get it, mother?! That sorcerer was under the thrall of that witch. What more proof do you want?”

 

His nephew’s surprising clarity gave them pause. Tyrion had to admit that it was far more impressive for the Stark girl to take such a powerful man under her thrall than any tale of her moving rivers or seas. More feasible, too, as he would admit that no man could resist the temptations of a woman, especially one with Sansa Stark’s beauty. Even now, the Imp’s mind drifted to the girl’s womanly curves that would probably blossom even further, considering her mother. He truly ached for Shae still waiting for him in that manse.

 

Shaking his head, he wondered when Sansa ever got the chance to enthrall such a sorcerer? If she truly had such powers, then why didn’t she use them before?

 

“Magic has been gone for hundreds of years, not since the death of the last dragon!” The Grandmaester insisted with surprising steel in his words, his feeble act forgotten.

 

“Well, how would you explain the sudden flash flood that drowned our harbor?” Tyrion scoffed, wishing he had more wine, but he had already finished the decanter an hour ago, and the servant had yet to return with another.

 

“This could very well have been a freak act of nature and–”

 

“The river rose a hundred feet inland all of a sudden, before climbing the walls to drag the men from them, Grandmaester. Just because you were in the privy and did not witness it does not mean we are all delirious.” Tyrion growled, and he was surprised when his sister and nephew nodded along, glaring at the old man. 

 

“B-but still–”

 

“The sea rose with that man's hand. Three hundred men would attest to my claim.” Ser Arys asserted, the sailors behind him nodding, their eyes wide and their fear clear.

 

The Grandmaester opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again before letting out such a sad and tired sigh that the Imp almost felt bad for him. Almost .

 

“What happened after my niece surrendered?”

 

“The Stark girl bid her and her handmaid join them on their ship. The sorcerer had everyone on the Swiftwind, and the Crimson Gale moved to the Boldwind before magicking the empty ships to follow him. All three ships then sailed away, and the fog dissipated, freeing the rest of the fleet lost in it.”

 

“That harlot stole my daughter's dowry?” Cersei shook in her seat from the sheer rage before turning to him, “This is your fault for sending Myrcella to Dorne in the first place!”

 

“Father approved. You were the one who insisted on packing such a costly dowry when the royal coffers were empty.” The shortest son of Tywin Lannister shrugged and grabbed a newly arrived decanter, pouring wine into his goblet. “What do you know about this sorcerer?” 

 

“He said his name was Perseus.” The strange name gave them pause, with Pycelle stroking his beard in interest.

 

“Grandmaester?”

 

“It is a strange name indeed. Could be either Valyrian or Rhoynish, maybe even Ghiscari. What did he look like again?”

 

“About my height with a powerful physique that spoke of years of training. Sun-kissed skin that wouldn't be out of place on a Marcher with green eyes a bit darker than His Grace, and hair as black as the night sky. He was also young, no older than six and ten.”

 

They stared at each other, the description mostly matching Varys’ claim, but something was off. “What about his character?” 

 

“Despite his prowess, he seemed hesitant to kill. Surrender was offered more than once. The sorcerer only killed five men after we peppered him with crossbow bolts. Not that it did any good, he simply snatched the bolts before they struck him or swatted them away with his sword like one would swat a fly.” The reverence in the knight’s words was heavy. “Perseus spoke in a queer dialect and was clearly not highborn. He did not act like one nor speak like one. He asked the sailors many questions regarding the kingdoms as we moved ships.”

 

“What sort of questions?” Tyrion leaned forward on his high seat.

 

“The gods and tales of legend, specifically the Storm God of the Ironborn and the Sea God of the Stormlands. He let slip he had never been in Westeros and was particularly interested in questioning the Stormlanders about their home.”

 

The Imp clenched his teeth. He already knew Varys was spewing horseshit, but now the rest of the council had reached a similar realization. If the master of whispers was telling the truth, and he seemed overly confident about it, then why would the sorcerer be asking about the kingdom he was supposedly born in? There went his chance to repay the Eunuch for the favors he owed him. 

 

“Where is the Spider?” His sister barked at the guards, who remained silent.

 

“Probably out of the city by now. I always told His Grace the Spider served nobody but himself.” Pycelle coughed feebly, looking the harmless old man again. 

 

“My Master of Whispers lied to me? All that drivel about a half-brother acting against me was a lie?” Joffrey’s face turned a shade of puce.

 

“Apparently so, Your Grace.” 

 

“I want Varys’ head on a spike!” Joffrey slammed both fists on the oak table, his face so red he looked like a lobster. “I want all the Starks dead, and that sorcerer as well!”

 

“You heard the king, Grandmaester.” Cersei clenched the arms of her chair tightly, “I want ravens sent immediately to all corners of the land, from Sunspear to the Wall! Sansa Stark is a traitor, practicing the vilest of witchcraft to incite unrest and collude with slavers. Kidnapping a royal princess, human sacrifice, blood magick… Half a hundred thousand dragons for her head and that of her pet sorcerer. Twice as much should they be brought alive and a lordship with the promise of a highborn bride.”

 

“And a hundred thousand Dragons for the return of the princess.” Tyrion stared incredulously at his sister’s wide eyes as she nodded hesitantly. To think she would forget about her daughter in a fit of rage… 

 

The Grandmaester turned to Joffrey, who nodded imperiously. Excusing himself with a deep bow, the old lecher hastily left the rooms with surprising vigor.

 

“Ser Arys.” His nephew looked at the kneeling white cloak as if he was a maggot. “I shall have no cravens in my kingsguard-”

 

“Perhaps… give him a chance to prove himself, Your Grace,” Tyrion hastily interrupted. “Every sword would matter in the city’s defense, and I am sure Ser Arys would want a chance to redeem himself from his failure. Let the whole realm know that Joffrey Baratheon is a just and merciful king, just like his father!”  

 

Joffrey’s face was scrunched up as if the mere idea of mercy galled him, yet his mother whispered furiously in his ear until he finally nodded.

 

“Fine. You shall be placed under the Imp’s command as he holds the city.” 

 

The Oakheart knight immediately knelt again, head bowed deeply, “You honor me with your mercy, Your Grace. Lord Hand.”

 

Another problem averted, Tyrion finally left to meet with the Wisdom, newly recruited guard in tow. Cersei left for her little games with the ladies in court, or mayhaps to meet with one of her boy toys, while the Hand still had more work to do. Tyrion had entertained the idea of politicking behind his sister’s back and sending Tommen to a different castle but dismissed it quickly. Joffrey and Tommen would remain in the city unless an attack by Stannis was imminent. Even then, their evacuation would be done in complete secret, though he wondered if the troops would fight as valiantly without their king. As the thoughts swirled in his mind, his gaze trailed towards the blonde head of his cousin, Tyrek. While not as handsome as his nephew, they were both of the same height and with similar features. Tyrek trained far harder than Joffrey, of course. A plan began to form in his mind. 

 

Shaking his head, Tyrion focused on the present. With Varys gone, Tyrion would need to send spies to see what Stannis was up to, or mayhaps follow his father’s advice and have Pycelle communicate more with his fellow maesters for information. The Grandmaester would not be able to refuse him thanks to the leverage he held over him. Shagga and his men would have to do for now, and perhaps those poachers that his nephew wanted to be tortured? Surely, a new lease on life would buy their loyalty. Stannis would need time to take Storm’s End before marching to King’s Landing, which would hopefully give Tyrion a couple of moons to get things moving. 

 

He still needed to find a nearby port for the damaged fleet to dock, though he could probably use the sailors elsewhere. So much to do, but hopefully, fortune would finally smile on his efforts.

 

Tyrion scoffed to himself, his kin had dragged the realm into war, and the gods had always been a bunch of mercurial cunts. Otherwise, why would someone like him be cursed at birth?

.

.

.

The day was finally over, and Tyrion whistled a jaunty tone as he made his way to the manse near the Iron Gates, accompanied by his new guard. Bronn was sent to recruit more sellswords and begin his budding spy network, and the white cloak was more than enough to discourage any foolish or hungry beggar. Ser Arys Oakheart kept his attire, but the man had a morose frown on his face. The imp offered him a night at the brothels, but the young kingsguard’s stiff rejection had him shrug; the white cloak was welcome to wait outside his rooms as he had Shae screaming with pleasure.

 

The manse and its guards were all provided by Varys, which made Tyrion wonder what happened to the Eunuch. Surely, he wouldn’t truly abandon decades of service for one mistake? Joffrey and Cersei might have called for his head, but the Spider was much more resourceful than people believed. The Hand of the King was certain Varys would reappear when the crown most needed his talents and offer them something of great value in return for a pardon.

 

Arriving at the manse, Ser Arys placed a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Something is not right.”

 

Tyrion quirked his head as he looked closer at the gates. The rain had finally abated, yet the sky was still overcast, and the darkness of the evening made it difficult to see properly. “What is it?”

 

“You said there were many servants and guards in that manse?”

 

“Aye, about a dozen guards and half of that in servants.”

 

“Then why is the manse completely dark? It’s not yet the hour of the eel, yet I do not see a single candle, lantern, or movement.”

 

Tyrion’s heart beat like a drum, and he moved to the gates, but Ser Arys held him back. Glaring at the kingsguard, he froze when the white cloak unsheathed his sword, his eyes hardening under his helmet.

 

“Stay behind me, Lord Hand.”

 

The Lord Hand regretted not having a larger escort, but this side of the city had not seen any rioting and was the furthest from the River Gate. It was also where the more affluent merchants lived, and despite Fleabottom being near it, the city watch would usually patrol these streets for no reason other than the donations they would get from the merchants. 

 

They reached the manse’s gate, finding it unlocked, and Tyrion started feeling a tinge of worry. Walking to the slightly ajar door, Ser Arys motioned for silence as he grabbed a discarded broom and took off his helmet. Then, he hung the helmet at the end of the broom and slowly edged it through the door as if it were his head. 

 

A mace landed heavily on the helmet, crushing it to the floor, and Ser Arys instantly kicked the door and charged in. Tyrion could do nothing but hide behind a column as the sounds of steel clashing and broken furniture echoed out in the manse. Curses and pleas for mercy were ignored as, with a final squelching sound, silence.

 

Wondering if the white cloak was dead, Tyrion hesitated to check on him or flee. His decision was taken from him when the door slowly opened, and the grim visage of Arys Oakheart greeted him. The Kingsguard was covered in blood, with his armor missing some of its filigrees and the plate scratched and dented. Yet, he stood steadily as he wiped his bloody sword on a rag.

 

“It is safe now, Lord Hand.”

 

They entered the manse, the white cloak at the front, lit lantern in hand. The foyer of the manse was strewn with corpses, and the smell of shit and blood had him gagging. All of the corpses were the guards gifted by Varys. Dread filled his heart.

 

“Shae?”

 

Ser Arys shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lord. I found them in the kitchens, but…”

 

Tyrion followed his guard in a daze as they entered the kitchens, finding his mistress with the servants he hired, naked and undoubtedly dead with their throats slit. The white bird he gifted her, plucked clean on a counter, and the Imp felt like his world was spinning. His instinctual thought was to blame Cersei, but he quickly realized only one man could have planned his assassination. 

 

Why?!

 

A*H*M

 

Unknown time,

Harrenhal,

“Arry” 

 

She ran through the woods chasing her quarry, a strange black and white horse. Its rider had made a mistake when it killed one of her own, and now, the beast chased the group of two legs. Seven had dwindled down to one after the hunter of her pack abandoned his own pack mates to survive. With a lunge, a single swipe of her paws tore through the leg, sending the steed sprawling on the ground, with the pack tearing at the horseflesh. The two legs that smelled of goat shook himself and tried to run. Nymeria pounced, bit through the cold, crunchy rings, and tore out his throat. 

 

Once her prey had stopped twitching, she let go and howled victoriously at the moon. Tearing away the cold metal, she had a proper feast on the innards. Once satisfied, she made her way to the nearby stream. After drinking, Nymeria stared at her reflection, a glint of silver flashed in her yellow eyes. Her two-legged littermate was with her again; she could feel her at the back of her mind now.  

.

.

.

Arya awoke, the taste of blood and raw flesh fresh on her tongue. The dreams she shared with Nymeria had become even more vivid lately. The bedtime tales of wargs and skinchangers that Old Nan spoke of turned out to be as true as the sun. Mayhaps due to the cursed castle? Or the God's Eye? Nymeria had oft dragged her in her dreams so they could hunt together; This time, their prey was not a stag or a doe, but a human. Vargo Hoat was running away from men with a red stallion on their banners, and the direwolf had held a grudge against the sellsword for killing a member of her pack.

 

The girl stood up from her bed of straws and stretched, ignoring the sleeping figures around her. It was still nighttime, but she could hear activity in the castle. Sneakily looking through a hole in the masonry, she found many soldiers forming ranks by the main gate. Her eyes narrowed as she found the regal form of Kevan Lannister on his destrier, talking to that fiend, Amory Lorch. What was the Lannister Knight doing here? He had left nearly a sennight ago with his lordly brother, but now he was back? 

 

A cat was lounging nearby, and Arya stared at it intently, trying to force herself into its skin. She had succeeded with mice and other small animals in the past few days, but a cat would be the largest animal aside from Nymeria she would slip into. Suddenly, the cat turned to her, and Arya was looking at her thin, malnourished form slumping back into her straw bed. She worried as she looked at her form, for despite being thin, Arya had flowered, and her body had started to show she wasn’t actually a boy. Cutting her hair could only do so much, as her face turned soft girly, yet at least she didn't have to worry about her teats ballooning like Sansa. Still, she grinned at her success, her feline lips stretching. The cat’s body was agile as she stalked through the thousands of troops in the castle’s expansive yards before stopping near the horse holding the Lannister Knight.

 

“… hold the castle at all costs. I am leaving a thousand men under your command, and my brother expects you to continue training the levies that the Riverlords send.” 

 

“Of course, my lord.” Lorch lowered his head to the lesser lion, who nodded before turning to the no longer fat form of the heir of White Harbor. Arya had seen him multiple times, but it took her some time to recognize him from his last visit to Winterfell.

 

“Ser Wylis, we have treated you well as my brother’s prisoner.” 

 

“Aye, you have, my lord.” Wylis Manderly nodded, though she could see the barest hint of anger in his eyes.

 

“Lord Tywin’s offer still stands. Think it through, or he will look elsewhere for more agreeable lords. My brother is not known for his mercy, Ser.” The thin form of Wylis Manderly clenched his teeth before bowing his head in resignation.

 

The Lannister Knight rode on to inspect his troops, and Arya sneaked around as she listened to the gossiping men. The army definitely was marching to Riverrun earlier, but apparently, something happened in the capital that forced Tywin Lannister to send his brother back to Harrenhal. Arya had entertained the idea of escaping the lightly defended castle, but with a thousand more men defending the castle, that would be difficult. 

 

Arya continued to listen to the troops before finally she got a tapestry formed in her mind of what happened, and she couldn’t help but feel ecstatic. Sansa had somehow escaped from the Lannisters and some sort of disaster struck the city, felling its walls. That knowledge galvanized her and made her blood boil in excitement. If her Lady-like sister could escape from the Lannisters, why couldn’t she?

 

New plans will have to be made, and her eyes fell on the form of Ser Wylis Manderly being led back to his comfortable cell. There were many Northmen held captive, not enough to form any kind of threat, but if she were to escape, Arya would need as big a distraction as possible and hopefully release her brother’s bannermen in the process. 

 

The She-Wolf cut the connection to the cat and woke up with a wolfish grin; new plans could be made, and she still had the two names that Jaqen had promised. She scowled at the thought, she should have used it on Tywin Lannister instead of some no-name fool. Where was that killer when she needed him? It didn’t matter; Tywin Lannister was beyond her now, but Arya had a long list of names.

Notes:

One of the few ‘pre-Percy’s arrival’ changes that I made to the story to make sense and flow better. Pycelle was not imprisoned since he is too high profile for Tyrion to act alone. Yes, as Hand of the King he has the authority to do it, but it is known that Tywin is the true Hand, and in this case, Tyrion opted to be on the side of caution and asked from permission from Daddy Dearest first.

News takes a long time to travel, even with ravens, as you can only put so many words in a tiny raven scroll. With the walls breached and no port facilities, King's Landing is ripe for the taking… if Joffrey’s enemies knew the full details.

Varys is a victim of his own success. A disliked foreigner who never bothered to create actual allies but only opportune ones… I have no idea how such a creature managed to survive Aerys’ downfall. When put on the spot as to why he could not predict Percy's presence, he does what anyone in his place would do. Bullshit your way out of the situation, fake it till you make it, and hopefully they will forget about it. Tyrion might have caught him, but he owes Varys a lot, and the Imp had made too many enemies as well. Varys would have gotten away with it if not for Arys Oakheart ruining his day twice.

As for why Varys would kill Shae and try to kill Tyrion; for the former, think of it as tying up loose ends and him growing careless and panicky, while for the latter that’s a bit spoilery. He did not expect a kingsguard to be protecting Tyrion, especially after all the times he inflamed the conflict between the Lannister siblings.

We get an Arya segment. 12-year-old Arya would naturally be more mature and observant than her 10-year-old counterpart. Tywin should never have left Harrenhal undefended, especially not have some sellswords garrison it! Mercenaries are the worst kind of defenders you could think of. Here, he is committed to protecting the only castle he has taken in the Riverlands. Yes, he did not attack a single castle, for that is the only way to explain his blitzkrieg campaign. As a result, some Riverlords pledged to him instead of Edmure, and we shall see how divided the Riverlands truly are.

More will be explained next chapter.

Chapter 6: Family Matters

Notes:

Starting from this chapter, POVs will not be chronically accurate. I might start the chapter with a character POV and end it with another that is a few days earlier.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

 

17th day of the 7th moon. 

Riverrun.

Edmure

 

“Tywin Lannister is marching south? Not here?”

 

“Aye, he isn’t even bothering to loot or burn and is force-marching his army like the hounds of hell are behind him.” Martyn Rivers, commander of his outriders, reported as Edmure stood by a window of his solar overlooking the war camp outside his castle. It was the same camp the Lannisters had built for their siege, but now the Riverlanders had turned it into a walled town dedicated to training the levies. A few of his friends and lords were with him when Martyn arrived with some of his riders from the east.

 

“Strange.” Edmure idly tapped the window sill, “A sennight ago, his outriders were chased away by Bracken near Stone Hedge. What could possibly have him change course and head south of all places? Renly Baratheon is dead, and I doubt the Tyrells would be raring for a fight with no king to rally behind.”

 

“Mayhaps that’s the point?”

 

Edmure turned to Tytos Blackwood, seated on a couch with his magnificent raven-feather cloak spread on the armrest. He was one of the few lords staying in Riverrun with the bulk of his troops, as his castle and lands had remained unharmed from the war due to their location between the Blue and Red Forks. “As you all know, Tywin Lannister’s lightning-quick campaign in our lands had been devastating to the smallfolk, yet he dared not attack any of the castles, fearing getting bogged down in a siege. Especially after the disaster that was the Kingslayer’s siege of Riverrun.”

 

Many nods and chuckles sounded out as they remembered Jaime Lannister’s fate as he lounged in a comfortable cell in one of the castle’s towers, treated well for one of his station, yet not allowed to exercise in the yard. Edmure, however, frowned inwardly, for it was a reminder of his foolishness and recklessness to crave glory instead of victory. “Aye, but that also showed some of my lords’ colors.”

 

His friends Karyl Vance and Marq Piper scowled at the reminder. Maidenpool surrendered without a fight once Tywin Lannister accepted Harrenhal’s surrender, followed shortly by Goodbrook. The cunning lion had perfectly used the carrot and the stick by burning and trampling their fields, thus forcing the smallfolk to retreat to their lords’ castles with tales of horror and butchery by the Mountain and his men. Many of those castles were well stocked from the years of summer and could easily hold back a siege for years, but with thousands of smallfolk sheltering in or around them, that number would be cut back drastically. Edmure himself was guilty of that, but if that was the price he had to pay to take care of his people, then so be it.

 

Lord Tywin was also careful with the treatment of the noble captives, as Robb had received letters from the Northern prisoners in Harrenhal speaking of their good treatment. Whether they were true or not, it had worked as word spread that Tywin Lannister would accept anyone who would bend the knee, with young Lyman Darry following through once the Mountain’s troops were sighted a day’s ride from his castle. Even though that same monster had killed the young lordling’s father, fear was a strong motivator, as the former Targaryen loyalist House pledged their meager forces to the bastard king on the Iron Throne. 

 

All Riverlands Houses east of Stone Hedge and south of the Crossroads had surrendered to the King's Peace and joined their forces with Tywin Lannister’s army, swelling his numbers to twenty-five thousand. Yet, those numbers meant little as they were poorly trained compared to the Westerlanders. The Lannister Lord cared more about the supplies surrendered from those keeps that would allow him to campaign for longer and further away from his main base of Harrenhal without wasting time to forage.

 

“Despite the few losses we suffered, many of the Riverlords could easily muster a large number of troops if we were allowed the time to rally the smallfolk into levies and train them. All we need are a few moons to train enough levies into spearmen that would hold the line against the Lannister horse, yet with Tywin’s foragers running rampant, that has proven difficult.” Tytos continued, causing Edmure and his friends to nod along. 

 

“It’s also why I sent Jonos to his lands to recruit his fabled horsemen from the many holdfasts they are garrisoned in. They have done well so far in beating back those sellswords. Tywin unleashing the Bloody Mummers as his outriders but not deigning to let them know of his change in plans worked well for us.” At the mention of his rival, the lord of Raventree Hall narrowed his eyes but shrugged. The infamous enmity of the two houses was legendary, but it spoke of the common disdain the Rivermen had for the Lannisters that the two lords seemed to tolerate each other more in favor of bloodying the lion instead.

 

“Aye, that blustering fool does know how to ride, I suppose.” Or maybe Edmure was being too optimistic. “And no one would trust a sellsword company not to switch sides. Those glorified bandits are scum that need to be put down. Regardless, with Tywin abandoning his march here, it is clear that something grave had happened in the Crownlands. Something that would make him desperate enough to seek more allies despite being in a current position of strength.”

 

“We did send an envoy to Lysa in the Vale, and I heard tell some Vale lords were already mustering.” Edmure scratched his growing beard as he remembered the last reports they received from some distant relatives of the lords in the region, though he was upset with his sister’s silence. Who would have thought the ladies of the realms gossiped so much using their castle’s ravens and that Tytos’ Redfort wife kept in communication with her maiden house? Edmure had hurriedly asked his bannermen to request their wives to gather information from any family from the rest of the realm. “Last I’ve heard from Cat, she was returning through the Gold Road after Renly’s death, but Stannis should still be sieging Storm’s End. Even if he took it today, he would need at least a moon to march to King’s Landing.”

 

Suddenly, Edmure’s eyes widened as a worrying thought came to him. He turned to Lord Blackwood, who nodded knowingly. “With Renly dead, the Tyrells suddenly find themselves with the most valuable bride in the realm as well as a hundred thousand swords doing nothing but eating their stores. There is no doubt in my mind that Tywin Lannister is rushing with his troops to meet with the Reach force in Bitterbridge.”

 

“I recall the Northmen under Bolton reporting plenty of ravens flying south from Harrenhal over the past sennight.” Martyn Rivers accepted the wine goblet Edmure poured for him gratefully, taking a generous gulp. The Frey bastard had done well in commanding his outriders instead of his uncle, the Blackfish, who had joined Robb in the west.

 

“So the Lannisters aim to ally with the Tyrells? While worrying, it is still not like the old lion to rush himself for an alliance instead of sending an envoy.” Jason Mallister, who had remained silent so far, added. “It would make him look weak. I wonder what had spooked the Lion Lord so much? Regardless, I’m more worried about the Ironborn. Has there been any news from the Greyjoy boy?”

 

Edmure shook his head. The silence from the Iron Islands was worrisome, with no news coming from the North either. Riverrun only had ravens to Winterfell and White Harbor, and neither reported anything strange. Still, with Harrenhal lightly defended, relatively speaking, this would be their chance to retake it and secure the gateway to the east. 

 

“Utherydes.” His steward, sitting on a nearby desk sorting parchments and raven scrolls dropped by Maester Vyman, looked at him questioningly. “Write orders for Helman Tallhart to join Roose Bolton and besiege Harrenhal. The same orders for the Leech Lord, but they are not to storm the castle until we receive Robb’s orders. I don’t know what my nephew has planned, but he must be told of Tywin’s movements. Where was he seen last?”

 

“The maester received a raven just now.” Utherydes handed him a scroll with a direwolf’s seal, and Edmure broke the wax to read its contents, a smile blooming on his face.

 

“What is it, Edmure?”

 

“Robb has taken Ashemark.” The Heir of Riverrun told Karyl, and the rest of the room rejoiced at the news. “He also commands me to hold Riverrun, though I’m unsure what he means.”

 

“It doesn’t matter, I suggest writing a letter to His Grace posthaste.” 

 

“Indeed, do as Lord Blackwood suggests, Utherydes.”

 

“Yes, my lord.” The steward quickly scribbled the orders, showing them to Edmure to review, then left to have the maester send them.

 

“Martyn, you still have men shadowing Tywin’s army, right?”

 

“Aye, they should be sending a report from Acorn Hall soon.”

 

“Good. We shall wait for their report, but how about you get a night of rest? I believe we are missing the key mystery that would explain Tywin Lannister’s sudden change in plans. A trip to the inns should answer that.” Edmure grinned as he looked forward to a night or two of wenching for a change, and Martyn Rivers looked interested as well as honored to be offered such. Not many lords would deign to befriend bastards, but Edmure firmly believed in honoring those who showed merit.

 

“And naturally, I shall join you, good Ser.” Marq, his closest friend, dragged Karyl along, but the now-married lord did not look as enthused.

 

“I shall see to the training of the levies.” Tytos Blackwood sighed in disappointment, and Edmure felt a tinge of regret about it, but he really was seeking information and not just wenching. Not many people realize the amount of tongues that flapped in inns and taverns, and he might travel a bit further than usual to get the juiciest gossip from the Crownlands. Mayhaps the Inn of the Kneeling Man? With Tywin retreating south, Jonos bloodying the Mummers, and the Northmen controlling the Crossroads, more traders would sail up the Trident to the various towns along the rivers. Merchants always had tales to tell, and he had learned of a few brave merchants from the Vale who would be sailing in to rake a profit from his wartorn lands. 

 

On his way to the stables, he nodded to Cleos Frey and the Lannister escort sent by the Imp discussing something in a corner. Their offer of a hostage exchange would be worthless once they liberated Harrenhal, but there was no need to let them know of the happenings of the realm. Edmure saw Lord Blackwood and his retinue departing for the war camp, where the levies recruited from all over the Riverlands were being trained. The workshops and smithies were working tirelessly to make weapons and arms for them; spears and war picks would be the best weapons for levies, along with crossbows.

 

“Ready to ride, men?” Edmure turned to his band of friends and about a dozen guards he picked along the way. The road along the Red Fork was safe, but he didn’t plan to take it anyway. He used a river port near his castle frequently; it shouldn’t take more than half a day to take a barge to the Inn.

 

“Aye!” Came the enthusiastic replies, and they rode out under the open portcullis and down the drawbridge, the guards on the walls too lazy with the past few moons of peace to notice their liege lord leaving the castle. 

 

***

 

A day later,

Inn of the Kneeling Man

 

“Billy, bring us more ale. We have reason to celebrate!” Marq shouted over the clamor of the taproom. The inn was not as crowded as the last time he’d been here, but it would be expected considering the war. The Innkeep shouted something back with a nod, but they saw him preparing mugs on a tray.

 

“I think we’ve had enough drinks, we should make our way back to Riverrun.” Edmure had fun over the past day but could not afford to stay away from his castle for too long with a war raging in the realm. A raven from Robb ought to have arrived as well.

 

“Just give it another hour or two, milord. We have a trader coming from Wickenden with a batch of beeswax, and he should be here soon.” One of the drinking buddies he found, a merchant named Otho from the Saltpans, implored. “I hear he managed to secure passage through Maidenpool, and his brother was here last sennight saying the man had a friend in King’s Landing during the riots and might have managed to return home. Imagine the tales he could share with us!”

 

Edmure was already ecstatic over his niece’s escape from the city, even though there were too many conflicting stories on how she did it. From Renly Baratheon returning from death to fulfill a promise he gave to Catelyn to save her daughter, to fantastical tales of Sansa being a witch and controlling the rivers. Still, he did not need much convincing, especially when Karyl, the more prudent of his friends, remained seated as he talked merrily with Martyn. The rest of his guards were sitting around them at several tables, with no crest to denote their loyalty, but listening to the locals for anything he would miss.

 

“Alright then, bring some of those fried fish sticks with your ale.” The Heir to Riverrun called to the innkeeper, who was already on his way with their tray, only to double back to grab the small foods.

 

It was another hour when a new arrival entered the inn, and Otho quickly stood up and waved. “Uthor! Over here. I got you some drink and food.”

 

Uthor, a man of middling height and age who could be accused of being too fond of his food, made his way towards their table. Karyl made space for the wax trader to grab a chair and join them, and Edmure noticed the quality of his attire that subtly hinted at his hidden wealth.

 

“‘Lo there. Otho you old dog, you’re still alive?”

 

“Aye, I won’t kick it until I see the damn Mountain ripped to shreds for killing my son.” Their drinking buddy’s jovial face twisted into an ugly scowl as he took a deep swig from his mug; it was why he liked them as they were fighting the good fight against Tywin Lannister’s mad dog. “Now, tell us, what news do you bring from the east? These fine gents are paying for your food and drink and are very curious about the happenings of the Crownlands.”

 

“Oh? And who might my patrons be?” The merchant nodded his thanks as he started eating while eying their attire. Edmure had chosen to dress as a well-off free-rider employed under the Brackens as not many merchants were willing to speak to nobles; at least, the last time he tried to, they groveled and cried for the Crone so much it just made him sad.

 

“‘Lo there. Name’s Elmo, and eat first, my good man. More ale, Billy!”

 

Once they buttered up the merchant with enough food and ale to get his tongue loose, the man eagerly told them all the latest rumors and even decrees coming from the Red Keep. And what rumors they were! The Iron Throne placing an insanely high bounty on Sansa for being a witch? A mysterious savior who destroyed half the city and its walls with demonic powers?

 

“You’re jesting?!” Marq’s eyes were wide with shock, and he wasn’t the only one. Edmure noticed the entire inn had gone silent as they listened to the man’s shocking tale.

 

“I do not! They had heralds and town criers at every port, town, and city proclaiming as such. There is even a rumor the royals will employ some of that fancy new creation from Braavos that creates copies of the same paper.”

 

“I assure you, lads, of Uthor’s integrity. I’ve known him for decades, and he is not one to blow hot air. The only reason such news hasn’t arrived here would be the war.”

 

There were many uneasy mutters and prayers to the Seven, as the smallfolk seemed wary of witchcraft at every corner. Some were claiming they had seen short figures running around the woods lately, while another swore he had seen a massive wolf leading a pack of smaller wolves prowling the lands. Edmure was glad he did not announce himself as the lord of the lands as he heard some of the ignorant masses unknowingly insult his niece, but it would be foolish to feel offense. They did not know any better.

 

“Still, such a massive bounty is unheard of, there has to be something else that happened.” Karyl soberly asked, his winestain birthmark darkening with his flush from the drinks he consumed.

 

“Aye, you have it right. This is not confirmed as it happened too soon after the act, but did you all know the Hand had sent the princess to Dorne for an alliance?”

 

The smallfolk didn’t truly care or seem to understand the importance of such an announcement. Many of them had never left the vicinity of their villages and did not even know where Dorne was. 

 

Edmure, however, paled significantly. “Do tell.”

 

“See, I travel overland to the city and deliver Beeswax to the Red Keep, and I speak a lot with many of the servants there. Rumor has it, Myrcella Baratheon was to wed one of the Dornish princes in return for an alliance.” Edmure clenched his teeth, this was not good at all. They were already heavily outnumbered as it was. “The queen and the hand prepared a mighty escort for the princess, at least a dozen ships, to take her somewhere. It was supposed to be completely secret, and no one knew where, but that didn’t matter.”

 

Uthor took a break as he drank deeply from his mug, and Marq scowled as the merchant kept them in suspense. “Well, go on, man. Why did it not matter?”

 

“Oh, alright.” The merchant grinned, showing a golden tooth. “That same escort? It returned two days later, battered, beaten, and missing a few of its ships. On that same day, the criers were calling for all to hear about the bounty on the Stark girl’s head and her sorcerer.”

 

Edmure chuckled before releasing a full belly laugh as he finally understood what happened. The Lannisters lost their bastard princess, and his niece had saved their arses from a disaster they didn’t even know was coming to them.

.

.

.

“Black smoke from the Narrow Sea?” Edmure idly waved at a passing river barge going the opposite way, some bloke in red saluting back. They ended up staying the night in the inn and had just left once dawn broke out. 

 

“Aye, some merchants from Claw Isle claim the Dragonmont erupted, and the eastern winds blew the smoke all across the Bay of Crabs.” Tom, one of his trusted guards with keen hearing and an iron liver, told him of news he had missed.

 

“Strange things have been happening lately, but the Dragonmont spewing smoke isn’t the queerest thing I’ve heard. I doubt it truly erupted, or else the ashes would have made it here, along with many refugees, war be damned. Nevertheless, good job, Tom.”

 

The guard nodded, and Edmure stretched as they approached the riverport near his castle. His friends joined him, rubbing their heads from the two nights of drinking and wenching, yet they were eager to disembark. Once ashore, they quickly mounted their horses and hurried to Riverrun.

 

The morning sun shined brightly overhead as they trotted down the road, and Edmure couldn’t help but smile at the good tidings to their cause. As they approached the mighty castle of his ancestors, his smile turned to a frown as he noticed a lot of activity on the walls and even across the river at the war camp. They stopped by the closed gates and recognized one of the guards on the walls looking inwardly , which was always a bad sign. 

 

“Lew! Open the damn gates.” 

 

Long Lew took one look at him and quickly recognized him. The Heir to Riverrun had switched back to his lordly attire, and the guard scrambled quickly, though Edmure could see that the man was distressed. Once the gate was open, Edmure and his band entered the castle to find himself staring at a strange sight. A dozen Lannister men were dead, while many more were disarmed and in chains. Tytos Blackwood’s face was blank while Robin Ryger, his captain of the guards, held a bloody rag to his head.

 

“Lord Blackwood. What has happened here?”

 

The Lord of Raventree Hall’s face quickly twisted into a scowl as he glared at Ryger, who couldn’t meet his eyes from shame. “The Kingslayer escaped.”

 

Edmure knew he shouldn’t have counted his blessings.

 

A*H*M

 

18th Day of the Seventh Moon

Winterfell.

Luwin

 

“How is he, Maester?” 

 

“He’s getting better by the day. His fever broke, and his breathing is easier. All he needs now is rest.” He assured the young lass from the Neck as he finished inspecting her brother’s sleeping form. 

 

“Thank the Old Gods! I don't know what I would have told our parents if something happened to Jojen. The way he collapsed so suddenly…” The young daughter of Lord Reed grabbed a bucket and wet towel as she prepared to wash her brother. 

 

“I suggest you stay with the young lord until he awakens. It should be a few more hours.” Meera Reed nodded enthusiastically as she wiped the sweat from her brother’s brow. It gladdened Luwin’s old heart to see the youth so bright and happy, especially in these dark times. He excused himself from their room as he made his way to the Great Hall to join the young prince for breakfast.

 

Life in Winterfell has continued as normal as it could possibly go with its lord, now king, fighting a war in the south. The Northmen celebrated their independence from the Iron Throne and the machinations of the South, yet not all was well. The newly established kingdom of the North was not in dire straits, yet none could deny that recent events had caused a heavy mood to fall over the residents of the mighty fortress of Winterfell. 

 

Many had come to voice their grievances to their lord about bandits to the east or the reaving Ironborn in the west, yet most left disappointed at the lack of action. It did not help that Prince Brandon had not inspired confidence in his subjects with his demeanor. His injury, while tragic, could have been compensated with good leadership, yet perhaps it was too much to ask from a child who had barely seen his tenth nameday. 

 

The young prince’s long sojourns in the Godswood with the Reed children did not halt, even after the long sickness of young Jojen, and only his younger brother could force Prince Bran to act as the Stark of Winterfell. It was times like these when Winterfell needed a strong and capable Stark to hold the North, yet there were none. Mayhaps Jon could have taken the reins, for even as a bastard, the records showed the Starks would give plenty of temporary power to their Snows, and if they proved worthy, could be greatly rewarded. Yet, he was a brother of the Night’s Watch now, and they will need to make do with Bran and Rickon.

 

Speaking of young Rickon, Luwin had at first been skeptical of the unruly boy’s recent dreams. Yet, the Stark children’s close connection with their wolves was undeniable, and after confirming with the wildling women that there was no doubt they were wargs, he had to reevaluate his view. Naturally, Luwin had been ecstatic to hear this, as he did not share the Northman’s fear of skinchangers and wargs. To a Riverlander like him, those tales were fantastical and far away, yet his childhood dreams of practicing magic never left his mind. Magic was making a resurgence, but they still needed to ascertain the accuracy of the young prince’s visions. Regardless, Luwin was sworn to serve the Lord of Winterfell, and he had practically raised the sons and daughters of Eddard Stark. Even if Prince Bran were not interested in ruling, he would do his best to support him in any way possible.

 

As Luwin walked down the steps of the Great Keep to the entrance hall, a voice called out to him. “Maester!”

 

He turned to find one of his acolytes, Donnis, swiftly approaching with his hands in his sleeves. Normally, the Citadel would send acolytes with a Maester to support him if the castle was too large to administer on his lonesome, yet Eddard Stark had insisted Luwin would recruit locally instead. The late lord Stark was known to be quite frugal and was not willing to pay the equivalent of hiring another maester for three acolytes that could not be trusted.

 

“What is it, Donnis?” The lad was a nephew of the lamented Vayon Poole; the steward had been a friend of Luwin as they both interacted a lot due to the nature of their work. 

 

“Ravens, maester. Several of them, but two in particular, should be of interest.” The young man handed him the bundle of sealed letters from his sleeves before nodding and returning to his duties. Luwin smiled at the diligent attitude he instilled in his disciple from a young age, before frowning at the crests on the letters. It appears he will need to interrupt the young prince’s breakfast.

 

***

Rickon

 

“Prince Brandon, a raven has arrived from Torrhen’s Square.”

 

Rickon looked up from his plate of sausages at Maester Luwin’s whisper to his brother, but Shaggydog used that moment of distraction to steal the whole plate. The youngest son of Eddard Stark did not care as he looked expectantly at his brother, only to frown at Bran’s dazed look, probably lost in thoughts over the silence , as he called it. Elbowing his sides, the Stark of Winterfell jerked and nodded to Luwin.

 

“What does it say, Maester?” Bran’s voice was low, but the Great Hall listened silently as Luwin approached.

 

The old maester glanced at him strangely, and Rickon glared back defiantly, causing Luwin to smile in resignation. “They thank you for the prompt warning about the Ironborn, for they had managed to strike at them near the lakes. They were forced to retreat due to their large numbers. However, Benfred Tallhart did confirm that Theon Greyjoy was leading the Ironmen.”

 

“See? I told you it wasn’t just a dream.” Rickon nearly bounced on his seat as he grinned smugly at his brother, ignoring the curses thrown at Theon's betrayal from the listeners. He hardly knew the man, and what little he remembered of him showed a mean smirk and a cocky attitude. “What about the other house? The one with horses, uh… Lyswill?”

 

“Ryswell, and yes, they have also sent a raven confirming a skirmish with the Ironborn. Reports from their vassals and neighbors tell tales of longboats sighted all along the western coast, with even a couple of ships beaten off Bear Island.”

 

Whispers and murmurs sounded out in the Great Hall as Rickon had not bothered to keep his voice low. Some declared the Starks were blessed by the gods, others stared at him strangely, but a few whispered mean words towards his brother, thinking they were unheard. Rickon did not like how Bran was so mopey, but he hated when others doubted his brother. He glared at those who dared question their prince, Shaggydog’s growl helping to silence the hall. He knew it had more to do with Bran not being able to walk again than anything else. 

 

Rickon had warned Bran about his dream of squid people attacking where the sun sets, but his brother ignored him in favor of staying in the Godswood to learn how to fly. It was silly because wolves didn't fly, and Bran became even more mopey when his new friend Jojo got sick and his sister, Meera, stayed with him. Rickon liked Meera, she was fun. Almost as fun as Arya. 

 

Seeing that no one believed him, Rickon made a huge tantrum until he got his way. He had to thank Palla for releasing all the hounds into the castle to get the attention he wanted. Thankfully, Bran listened to him and sent those warnings, and now, Rickon could not hide his smug grin as he looked at his brother’s tired face.

 

“No word came from Flint’s Finger, however, except the unusual fog they reported a sennight ago persists in Blazewater Bay.” The words made the hall turn somber from their previous festive mood.

 

“Perhaps we should continue this in the solar, Prince Bran?” Ser Rodrik glanced at their southern guests, who sat with them on the high table and then at the crowded Great Hall, where many of the castle’s residents were having dinner.

 

Bran nodded before looking over his shoulder, “Hod– Walder.” His brother corrected himself at the last moment as the gentle giant approached and carried Bran easily.

 

“To the solar, young prince?” The massive man rumbled. 

 

“Yes, Walder.” 

 

Finding the giant stable boy acting so… normal still shocked him. Gone was Hodor, and Walder suddenly woke up the same day Rickon’s dreams got so vivid, as if he had always been normal but just didn’t know how to speak. Some claimed it was a gift from the Old Gods, and Ser Rodrik was very enthused when Walder asked if it was too late for him to train as a guard, and he had the gentle giant armed with a massive hammer. Now, the former stableboy was Bran’s personal guard as well as his steed, which made Rickon jealous as he scrambled to join them as they left the hall, glaring at the two other Walders that his mother sent here when they tried to follow. A growl from Shaggydog had them remember their place. 

 

Summer and Osha joined them as they followed Bran’s group through the covered walkway. Rickon's short legs had him lagging until Osha picked him up and carried him on her shoulders, much to his joy. He liked Osha, she was reliable, almost as reliable as Palla. As they entered the Great Keep, Rickon looked outside the windows to find many people going about their day in the castle. Guards were training, smiths were banging on their anvils with black smoke pouring out of the chimneys, farmers, and shepherds came and went with their produce and animals. He never realized there were so many people living in his home. 

 

Soon, they were outside the Lord's Solar, and Ser Rodrik looked hesitant to have him join them. Rickon would have snarled if not for Bran waving him in, causing him to grin. Once they were settled in their seats, the old knight spoke again. 

 

“We need to know if these are just raids or a prelude to an invasion.” Ser Rodrik twirled his whiskers. “If the Ironborn are raiding the Stony Shore, then where is the Iron Fleet?”

 

“What do you think, Maester?” 

 

Rickon scowled as his brother turned to Luwin instead of knowing the answer. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt Bran shouldn’t ask the maester about these things. Even the old man looked a little lost, as though he didn’t know what to say, while the old knight’s eyebrows twitched.

 

“I believe Ser Rodrik would be more knowledgeable in matters of war, Prince Bran.” Luwin glanced at the master-at-arms, who looked ready to answer the question once Bran turned to him.

 

“Oh.” Only Bran just stared ahead blankly for a few heartbeats before getting distracted by a bird on the open window. His brother had perked up when he saw it was a raven, only for his face to fall for some reason.

 

“Bran!” Rickon yelled in annoyance as Bran’s silence stretched to minutes. 

 

The older boy frowned at him until his eyes settled on the impatient knight. “What do you think, Ser Rodrik?”

 

“It is uncommon for Blazewater Bay to fog over at this time of year, but not unheard of. For it to remain foggy for so long, however, is a cause for concern. Perhaps we should send word to Barrowton to have their men survey the coast from their end?”

 

Rickon did not truly understand the terms and places they were discussing, but he could tell that the grumpy knight was waiting for Bran to decide.

 

“See that it is done.” Bran nodded to Luwin after a moment before glancing at him. “Have you… seen anything else lately, Rickon?”

 

“No, just running around the castle. Summer loves to play with Shaggy at night and misses his brothers and sisters.” Rickon shrugged from where he sat next to his brother on the long trestle table and perked up when Osha placed a plate of cake in front of him. He bit into the sweet with a smile before noticing the others staring at him silently. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” Ser Rodrik glanced uncomfortably at him and then Bran before looking at Osha, who was the first to declare they were wargs, whatever that meant. The maester, whom Rickon knew was very interested in his dreams and always asked to share them, had explained what it meant, but Rickon didn’t know why they would be scared of him running with Shaggy at night. 

 

“Prince Bran, we still need to capture those fiends that attacked the Hornwoods. Roose’s bastard cannot be allowed to run amok in the lands of your brother's vassals.” The knight’s brows were furrowed as his veins bulged at the mention of that bastard. From what Rickon heard, he was a bad bastard, not like Jon, who was a nice bastard.

 

“Didn't you go to beat them, Ser Rodrik?” Bran asked distractedly as he tapped the table. 

 

“I was going to, but the young prince had warned us of the Ironborn, and you commanded me to stay, if you recall, my prince.”

 

Bran’s eyes glazed over, as he always did whenever he was lost in thought, and Rickon growled. His brother had been acting very queer lately, first claiming that some crow with three eyes was going to teach him before abruptly changing his mind and that he will teach himself. Or when he insisted he needed to travel beyond the wall but then changed his mind. Rickon missed Jon, but even he knew they couldn't just go there. Osha said it was a bad place, and she was a smart woman. 

 

It was all very confusing, and while Rickon loved it when he and his brother found out they could slip into the skin of their wolves, Bran still had to work as Lord, like Father.

 

But Father was never coming back, and Mother was gone and didn't want to return, preferring to stay with Robb. Rickon could hardly remember his face or that of his sisters, but he missed them a lot. Arya, who would play with him, and Sansa, who would sing him to sleep with mother. Jon, who looked and acted so much like Father… 

 

Shaking his head, he nudged his brother again when he took too long to reply.

 

“Did Lord Manderly complain again?” 

 

“Aye, he warns that if the Bolton Bastard is not brought to heel, he would take matters into his own hands as Warden of the White Knife and call the banners. He is still rightfully incensed over the murder of his cousin Donella–”

 

Rickon tuned out the rest of the boring chatter as he yawned. It was nearly noon, and he suddenly felt sleepy, and his eyes grew heavy. Before he knew it, someone held him as he lay sideways and fell into the sweet embrace of sleep. 

.

.

.

Rickon woke up with a start, finding himself in a strange wooden house surrounded by the largest lake he had ever seen. Turning around, he froze, and his lips grew wide at the sight of a woman who could only be his mother… until she turned to speak to a tall man with dark hair and green eyes. Rickon then knew this wasn't his mother but his sister Sansa, and his smile got even wider as he listened to them talk.

 

“… Don't expect those girls to adapt overnight. I'm a demigod, not a miracle worker.” The man shook his head as Sansa giggled, and Rickon wanted to call out to her, to hug her and have her tussle his hair like she used to, but like his last dream, he could only watch. 

 

“I don't know, Percy, raising the sea and controlling ships with your mind as you slip around Stannis’ fleet sounds very miraculous to me.” Sansa glanced around her, and Rickon noticed two more houses - no, ships , following along. 

 

“You would be surprised by what people like me could do, especially if they were gods.” The man, Percy, shrugged as they walked around the ship, though Rickon noticed he had Sansa's arm looped around his own. 

 

“Like causing the Dragonmont to go up in fire and smoke?” His sister asked in that same innocent tone she taught him when he wanted an extra lemon cake. 

 

“Hey, I had nothing to do with that, okay? That island literally decided to go bonkers the moment we sailed past it.”

 

“Oh, my. So your mere presence caused Dragonstone to have its worst eruption in centuries?”

 

“… You call that eruption? Tut-tut, oh my sweet summer child, you have never seen a volcano unleashing its rage before, have you?”

 

“Hey, don't use the words I taught you against me.” Sansa slapped the man's shoulders, but Rickon could see her smiling. “No matter. How are our dear guests handling their new positions?”

 

“The Princess screamed her head off when the dough she was kneading got into her hair, while her friend puked when she gutted her first fish, and the blood splashed in her face. Or was it the opposite? I still mistake them for each other.” Percy sighed in resignation, “I never thought you noble types would be so…”

 

“Useless?”

 

“I was going to say inexperienced in life, but since you're offering.” Sansa and her new friend chuckled again as they stopped in front of a stall, where a massive black horse snorted a greeting at them as it munched on a carrot. Percy patted the horse and refilled his water, causing Rickon's eyes to widen as the water flowed by itself into the trough. “I'm glad you are treating the girls well, Sansa.”

 

“Better than they deserve. I have every right to take my pound of flesh from Cersei's daughter.” Rickon shivered when he heard the frost in her words; he had never heard her like that before. “Yet, you were right. A child is innocent of their parent's sins.”

 

“And you have proven to be the better person; otherwise, you would have been no different from that Cersei woman.” 

 

“Still, it doesn't mean I will treat them like nobles. As my new handmaidens, they better get used to serving me because that will be their future for a long time if I have anything to say about it.” Sansa folded her arms as she raised her voice towards an open door, and Rickon thought he heard hurried footsteps rushing away. 

 

“I suppose having the spoiled girls do some hard labor would be good for them. Build character and all that.” Percy ran his fingers through his hair as he frowned and glanced around him, only to stare at a spot above Rickon, causing the boy to freeze. They looked at each other for a moment before Percy shrugged. “Gonna have them join you in your home then? Winterfell, I think you called it.”

 

“Yes, but we must stop by White Harbor first. How long until we get there again?” They continued to walk around the ship as they slowly approached where he was standing, unable to move with them.

 

“Longer than I anticipated. The sea is foreign, and I have yet to adjust to the wind and the currents. I can sense some things in the depths that I would rather not tangle with when I would need to protect you at the same time.” Sansa grimaced. “Not to mention the two ships you're having me drag along, it's not easy focusing on so many things, you know. Do you really need those ships?”

 

“Of course I do. They are our spoils, and we can make do with that extra ship somehow.” Sansa stood there defiantly until Percy shrugged lazily. “Now, how long do you reckon until we arrive?”

 

“I’d say… ten days or so, if we meet no trouble and the maps were accurate enough.”

 

Suddenly, the man’s hand sprung over his head, barely missing him by inches. Rickon could not breathe and watched in terror as the man flexed his fist in the empty air. Percy frowned, and Sansa stared at him in confusion.

 

“Percy?”

 

“I thought someone was listening in on us, but I might have been mistaken. It didn’t feel malicious–.”

 

Before Rickon could think of anything, he started feeling drowsy, and the world turned to mist as he woke up in the solar with everyone looking at him strangely. 

 

“Rickon! You made us worry when you collapsed like that.” Bran was more awake than any time Rickon had seen him, and then he noticed the rest of the room's occupants. Meera and her brother had joined them at some point, Jojo looking much better than earlier. “Was it… a vision? ”

 

His brother's question made Rickon perk up. Truth be told, Rickon barely understood half of what his sister and this Percy man were speaking, but he knew one thing for sure. 

 

“Yes, Sansa is coming back!”

 

***

Luwin

 

“My prince, I must advise against this. Sending a hundred men-at-arms to White Harbor to greet your sister is too much. We don’t even know whether she will truly be there or not.” 

 

“I have made my decision, Ser Rodrik. Whether my sister arrives or not, this would be a good chance to show Lord Manderly that we care about his grievances. Those bandits under the Bolton Bastard need to be dealt with.”

 

“But who would lead the troops? They are far too green to lead themselves, and I can’t leave my duties to hunt for that bastard when the Ironborn could start reaving too close that we would need to sally out to dispatch them.”

 

Luwin stood aside as he watched patiently as the rejuvenated Lord Brandon finally decided on a course of action. Ser Rodrik’s concerns were valid, for Winterfell could not afford to lose so many troops when many of the veterans of the castle perished with Lord Eddard in the south. Then, King Robb took the elite of the Stark horsemen and guards, leaving the greenest of men-at-arms. There was never a shortage of men who would be honored to join the Stark guard, and Robb had ordered the coffers opened to recruit as many as possible. 

 

The castellan had been busy over the past moons training the recruits, yet Winterfell had a severe shortage of captains and men of leadership. It’s easy to find someone willing to swing a blade or loose an arrow in the name of Stark, but to find men with the disposition to lead the troops into battle was far more difficult. Those positions were usually reserved for noble sons or petty houses with a history of command, like the Cassels. It was unfortunate that the North was cursed to have a lack of such men as many had died in recent times; Rodrik’s heir, Jory, was the perfect example, for he would have been the best option for such an undertaking.

 

He glanced at the awakened young Rickon, and his thoughts drifted to the wild tales he had mentioned. Lady Sansa somehow escaping the clutches of the Lannisters? Sailing north with three ships and with prisoners? Cersei’s daughter could only be Princess Myrcella, and having her as a hostage would be a great boon for their cause. Still, who was that man with Sansa, and how could he detect Rickon in a dream? Was he also a sorcerer?

 

“… Still need someone to lead them, Prince Bran. How will they even make it to White Harbor in ten days with the roads unsafe?” Luwin was brought out of his thoughts to find Rodrik had seemingly resigned himself to the young lord’s stubbornness.

 

“If I may, I have a proposal that should satisfy everyone.” The whole room turned to Jojen Reed. The heir to the Neck had woken up earlier and came here like a man on a mission. He looked far healthier than before, yet his green eyes still retained the signs of exhaustion that usually haunted them.

 

“What is it, Jojen?” 

 

“I have also received a vision.” The declaration wasn’t shocking, for the young Reed had shown from the day he arrived that he was different. “Not like Rickon’s, but more of a message for me to return to the Neck.”

 

“B-But what about what we discussed?” Bran looked distraught, and Luwin frowned. “The training and the journey to the three–”

 

“Those would have to be postponed, Bran. Something had changed. The world has changed. I cannot see my death anymore. Magic has returned, and we are not the only ones capable of using it.” The young man’s ominous warning echoed like a bell in the room. “I might be short of stature, but my father still taught me how to rule and lead troops, even if I was ill for most of it. Meera and I could lead your troops down a barge on the White Knife to White Harbor. There won’t be a need for horses once we get there, for I'm sure Lord Manderly would greatly appreciate the reinforcements and provide his own as needed, but we must not have this discussion leave this room.” 

 

“Indeed, we shouldn't even send Lord Manderly a raven about this,” Luwin added as his thoughts drifted towards a certain Lannister Maester assigned to White Harbor. While maesters were supposed to be sworn to their keeps, old loyalties oft ran too strong.

 

They all quickly agreed to keep Rickon’s vision a secret. If it were true, it could change… everything .

 

“From the White City, Meera shall stay in the city to await Princess Sansa while I continue to the Neck,” Jojen finished with a yawn.

It was a sound proposal, and after a bit of deliberation and a confident grin from Lady Meera, everyone was in agreement. Except, something was bothering Luwin. “Why do you need to return to your father so suddenly, Lord Jojen?”

 

The young man smiled sadly, “I fear that ill news will arrive soon, and my father needs to be warned about matters of the realm. Ravens are incapable of reaching Greywater Watch, so only a Crannogman could make the journey.”

 

A few days later, after the Reed siblings had departed, dire news did indeed arrive as the young Crannogman foretold - Moat Cailin had fallen to Victarion Greyjoy and the Iron Fleet.

Notes:

We get fresh POVs for a change, and the first ripple of fate has happened. Edmure stays one extra day as he gathers information instead of actually just larping around, and Jaime’s escape is much more successful.

Jojen is not plagued by the visions that Bloodraven has been sending him, so he quickly recovers but gets another vision from someone in the Neck. Magic has returned, so naturally, all sorts of people will awaken new powers.

Thanks to Rickon, we learn how the Northmen were forewarned about the Ironborn attacks on the Stony Shore, but how the Iron Fleet managed to slip through Blazewater Bay and up the Fevre River Undetected by anyone is completely farcical. The same thing could be said about Asha’s attack on Deepwood Motte. This was my answer to Victarion’s success - he hid in the fog.

Looks like Sansa will get a welcoming committee when she arrives in White Harbor, but was weakening the already small garrison of Winterfell such a wise decision? We shall see, but that’s the problem with giving a ten-year-old cripple absolute power, for even if he has good intentions, he still needs to listen to his advisors.

Chapter 7: The Storm

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

---

25th day of the 7th Moon.

Somewhere off the coast of Vale.

Onboard the Silver Lady,

Sansa

 

“You missed a spot.”

 

Myrcella, who in another life might have been a close friend and goodsister to her, sighed as she redid her stitching on the banner they were making. Rosamund, the handmaid, worked silently yet kept throwing glances at the two of them.

 

Both girls were decent with a needle but not half as good as Sansa was, of course. Even now, they looked like a pair of golden-haired kittens instead of fierce lions. They lacked servants, and the two girls chaffed under the menial tasks they had never had to do before. Yet, despite the complaints, tears, and whinging, the two of them did it all. 

 

Myrcella Baratheon was everything a nobleman would want in a daughter - diligent, kind, beautiful. Courteous and proud, any maiden would love to be a companion with such a girl. Yet none of that mattered much to Sansa, for she was Cersei’s daughter.

 

“Quite the slave driver, aren’t you?” Her savior was looking at them with amusement, his books and rolls of parchment forgotten. Half a moon ago, she would have been gravely insulted by such a vile insinuation. Yet, now she knew it was just some of his odd speech again and merely raised her nose. 

 

“There is a difference between slaves and hostages,” Sansa sniffed imperiously. “And they are of better use aiding us, especially since we lack servants. Furthermore, Percy…. Were you not supposed to be doing something yourself?”

 

“Ugh, yes, mom, ” Percy returned to his quill and parchment with an expression that reminded her of Arya when Septa Mordane forced her to work. Alas, the Septa was no more; the savage brutes calling themselves pious knights had chopped her head off, and her sister was gone, lost only the gods know where. 

 

The sound of giggling came from where the girls were busy stitching the Stark banner, and Sansa decided to let them enjoy their laughs. Her new handmaidens had proven themselves useful and loyal… and Sansa had gotten tired of being angry. Fury still boiled within her veins, but it was reduced to a simmer now. 

 

The first few days of their journey were a test of her temperament as she treated Myrcella and Rosamund as servants, having them learn how to cook, gut and clean fish, scrub the deck, clean Blackjack’s stall, attend her during bath time… Sansa wanted to humble them, or so she convinced herself. 

 

She was venting her rage on two girls who had done no wrong, she realized to her dread. The daughter of Eddard Stark dearly wanted them to rebel, to lash out, and give her a reason to make their life truly miserable.

 

Yet, they did not. They did all she demanded without questions, if with some whinging and wincing, no matter how ridiculous her commands had become. At first, Sansa thought they were meek and craven, but Rosamund was quick with a giggle and had a witty humor to her. 

 

Myrcella had steel in her spine as she always looked her in the eye whenever she talked to her. There was something else in her gaze that Sansa had always noticed, not pity but sympathy and regret. The princess had been there when Joffrey had ordered the white cloaks to beat Sansa, but it didn’t matter.

 

Arya, Father, Vayon, Jory, Septa Mordane, Porther, Heward, Desmond, Cayn, Wyl, Wayn, Varly, and all the other guardsmen… all slain. And for what? Even Jeyne Poole had been taken from her, and she shuddered to think what had happened to her friend.

 

“Are you alright, Sansa?”

 

“I’m fine, just a bit sleepy,” she deflected, looking at the sun crawling down the western horizon.

 

Her gaze turned to the man she had been courting over the past few weeks. It was strange for a maiden to do the courting instead of the other way around, but her hand had been forced when she realized Percy had no idea about the proper customs or how to approach her. There was desire in his eyes, even though it had been held under a tight leash. He had been receptive to her approach, if somewhat hesitant and awkward. Sansa reminded herself to be patient, for whoever had taught Percy had clearly put all the effort into swordwork instead of proper customs. At least he never rebuffed her attempts at closeness, from chatting and spending time together to escorting her around the ship or the odd island they stopped in to exercise Blackjack. 

 

Yet even Sansa’s daring had a limit; courting was something she had never done before, and she felt as if she was wandering in the dark. Yet needs must; her family had been brought low by her own actions, and now they had too many and too strong foes. Sansa needed Percy on the side of House Stark, and the only way to make a proper alliance was through marriage. It did help that her savior was genuinely dashing, brave, gentle, and strong. 

 

“Well, I say we should call it a night,” Percy’s voice broke her from her musings. He gave her a sly grin as he fled the reading lesson, making Sansa groan. At the door of the cabin, he halted, turned around, and bowed theatrically to the two hostages. “Sleep tight, ladies.”

 

“Good night, Ser.”

 

As always, the blondes were wary in their words, but Percy didn’t seem to be bothered as he left the captain’s quarters to sleep outside. He always claimed to enjoy sleeping outdoors and surrounded by the sea, yet Sansa knew his presence terrified the girls, causing her to sigh. Perseus Jackson was far too gentle of a man, yet she could not imagine a better person to wield such terrible powers. Turning to the two girls who looked like they were having a silent conversation, Sansa coughed loudly, and they scrambled back to return to the embroidery. Was this how Septa Mordane and Mother had felt when they tried to wrangle Arya to do her stitches?

 

With a sigh, Sansa grabbed her own needle and a ball of gray thread and joined them.

 

“We must finish the banner before we reach the Bite, lest we risk Lord Manderly taking us for pirates.”

.

.

.

Sansa woke up with a start, feeling the warm breeze on her cheek as the air rang with the cheery song of chirping birds. It was not a bird she had heard before. A glance at her surroundings had her awake and alert. She was on a beach, the sand as soft as silk and glittering like gold under the sun, lush palm trees behind her, with a myriad of exotic birds with bright and colorful plumage. 

 

Even the sea was as calm as a pool of water, the waters as clear as a crystal. She could see the fish, sand, rocks, and reefs with ease. 

 

To her chagrin, someone had changed her clothing; for Sansa was now garbed in a strange gray dress. It was so scandalously scant and tight that it would make even whores blush. Gods, the last thing she remembered was finishing the banner with the girls and going to sleep. Was this a–

 

“You have awakened. Good.”

 

Turning abruptly at the melodic voice behind her, Sansa's eyes widened, and her jaw dropped at the sheer vision of beauty that met her. It was a young maiden, barely a year older than her, with silky, sun-kissed hair that flowed down to her waist like a waterfall. She had a crown of lilies on her head, with large round honey-colored eyes on her beautiful face. Sansa couldn’t decide if she was six and ten or five and twenty. Her full lips were upturned into a gentle smile, and Sansa finally managed to drag her eyes downwards to inspect the rest of the maiden’s body.

 

Her skin was a healthy tan that reminded her of Percy’s skin tone; her lithe body was dressed in a white dress that made the red-haired maiden flush. Even her smooth bare feet seemed to glide over the golden sand below as the woman came to face her.  

 

“You have been staring at me for a while. Am I to your liking?”

 

The question caused the red-haired girl to flinch and shake her head. She had no idea who this beautiful maiden was, but she would not accept cheek from anyone, especially not someone her age. Sansa crossed her arms under her chest, subtly pushing up her pride and joy while fully utilizing her new dress, and raised her nose in the air as she looked down at the shorter girl.

 

“You are acceptable, I suppose. I have seen much better every day, however, when I look in the mirror.”

 

The beautiful maiden's eyes widened at her audacity. In hindsight, Sansa wondered if it was smart to antagonize a potentially dangerous being who had somehow abducted her from her ship and companions. Her worry was unfounded, however, when the girl snorted as she burst out in boisterous laughter. It was certainly not a sound a noble maiden was supposed to make, but Sansa found herself smiling along before giggling at the silliness of the situation.

 

“Ah, you would have made for a fine court fool, if you were born a boy!” The maiden finally calmed down as she looked up at her. “Vanity and pride can be your undoing, Sansa Stark.”

 

“You know who I am, yet I do not know you.” Sansa schooled her face into a mask. “It is very rude to kidnap someone and not even introduce yourself.”

 

“I am certain you know very well about the courtesies of kidnapping maidens.” The sharp words made her take a step back with a grimace. “Regardless, it would not do for me to not fulfill the courtesies that millions espouse in my honor. I am known by many names; some call me the lady of the waves, and others confuse me for a mortal fox woman in the past who birthed many great men. It has been too long since I gained a conscience and freed myself from the weirwoods.” Sansa’s blood ran cold in a way that even Joffrey failed to incite with his cruelty as the maiden approached her and, despite her shorter stature, seemed to stare down at her. “Now, however? I am simply the Maiden. ”

.

.

.

“How do you like your tea?”

 

“It's wonderful. The finest beverage I've ever tried.” Sansa sipped again from the porcelain teacup, enjoying the soothing taste of the hot drink. It had nothing in common with moon tea or what the cooks and maesters would make with herbs as cure for the chill. “I suppose it would be simple for a goddess to create food and drink.”

 

“Only because this is your mind, my dear.” 

 

The Maiden giggled, and Sansa smiled sheepishly. After she had gotten over the shock of being in the presence of The Maiden, the goddess summoned a table and chairs with a teapot. The red-haired princess did not know how to feel about this situation. She had lost count of the amount of prayers she gave to the Seven, yet none of them were ever answered. Only when she was safe and in the company of a demigod did one of them deign to appear in her dreams.

 

“You have something on your mind.” 

 

It was a statement said with iron surety. Sansa emptied her cup in a single swig and gathered herself. So many questions swirled in her mind, but one in particular bothered her the most. 

 

“You mentioned being freed from the weirwoods…”

 

“It is a complicated matter that I am afraid would take far too long to explain and you might simply not fathom the intricacies of it.” The Maiden shook her head, and even this action was done with seamless, impossible grace. “I am certain you are interested in something far more personal.”

 

“True. I have prayed so much to the Seven yet never did I receive even a sign, let alone an answer.” Sansa tried to keep her voice neutral but clearly failed, judging by the other woman's look of sympathy. 

 

“Oh, but I did hear it, my dear Sansa. I do not know about the others, for we are far more separate and different than you could imagine, but I did hear your prayers and even answered them to the best of my abilities.” Sansa wanted to retort, yet she paused in thought, allowing the maiden to continue. “The world was a stifling place. My words could not be easily heard, and those who were worthy tend to be struck by misfortune.”

 

“So, what changed?”

 

“Your hero's arrival, of course. With his powerful divine soul, he somehow shattered the thickening veil separating mortal from the divine like a hammer through glass. For better and for worse, all of us can now reach into the world once more, and some who were asleep have awakened.” 

 

The words made Sansa’s spine crawl. “Why this island? Why me?” 

 

“This island… I took a glimpse of Perseus’ soul. Once, he had a maiden, and she lived on an island just like this.” The Maiden’s soft gaze was so piercing that it made Sansa feel naked. “As for why, you are worthy, but you certainly are not the most worthy.” The words stabbed into her heart for some reason. “There are far more worthy and pious maidens who pray religiously and live diligently. Mayhaps I could visit the more powerful of them in their dreams as well, but the few I have done so had sadly become affected, and their blessings were seen as curses by those around them.”

 

“That still does not answer why.”

 

The goddess brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Indeed. Unlike the rest of them you have the power and potential to make the biggest difference and to accept my presence without losing your sanity. Your spark has continuously grown, and you are close to the man who has caused chaos among the divine.”

 

“So because I could talk to you, I am worthy?” It stung her pride that it was only due to her lineage and fortune in meeting Percy that… she pushed the melancholy down. Now was not the time. “Why now? I've been with Percy for nearly a moon now.”

 

“You treated your captives well tonight.” The Maiden smiled, but it was a cold thing. Yet all the shame Sansa harbored of her own pettiness struck her like a tidal wave. 

 

“They were innocent from the sins of their family.” Even her own words sounded like a weak excuse in her ears. 

 

“True,” the Maiden nodded, face still cold, “and now that you acknowledged that and controlled your rage, I have deemed you worthy.”

 

“Worthy of what?”

 

“That remains to be seen. For now, would you acquiesce if we meet again in similar circumstances? I confess that I have not spoken to anyone so freely in so long .”

 

It was so… surprisingly mundane, so human. Could even gods want for companionship? The gods were dangerous, and Sansa had learned things were not as they seemed the hard way. “Only this?” 

 

“For now.”

 

“I am amenable to meeting with you again,” Sansa decided, pushing down her hesitation. Spurning a king could be deadly, and she didn’t even want to imagine how a deity would react to being scorned. “You have yet to tell me your name. Or should I keep calling you The Maiden ?” 

 

The Maiden’s warm hand clasped Sansa’s own, but an amused smirk spread across her soft lips. “Audacious. It seems like your man has helped you find your courage. You have a lot to learn… but for now, you can call me Calypso.”

 

“Calypso,” Sansa rolled the name on her tongue. “It sounds… foreign.”

 

“It is not my name, but I find it fitting,” Calypso laughed, confusing the red-haired girl. Or was it not-Calypso? “Now, I believe it is time for you to awaken. Should you survive your ordeal, you ought to find a welcoming gift.” 

 

“Wait-” before Sansa could ask anything else, the world began to fade, and not-Calypso was gone like a mirage in the wind.

 

The island shook, and then Sansa opened her eyes, only to realize she was staring at the cabin’s ceiling, Myrcella and Rosamund clutching her tightly on each side. The nights had only grown colder as they sailed north, and her hostages had turned into her bedmaids. A small sign of trust the girls recognized, and it helped ward off the chill of night.

 

The ship shook again, but it was far more abrupt than the swaying of the waves, waking Sansa fully as she felt all her hackles rise and every one of her senses screamed danger . 

 

A*H*M

 

Same day.

Outside Storm’s End,

Davos 

 

Black Betha had sailed through the stormy sea, filled with trepidation, only for Davos to land at Storm’s End and find Stannis’ host swelled with Reachmen. A freak storm had crossed from the Narrow Sea overland and into Blackwater Bay, yet it had not delayed him by much, though he did appear to have missed some excitement. 

 

The moment he had stepped on land, the former smuggler had requested an audience with Stannis, but he had been told the king was occupied. It seemed the king was often occupied, for there was no time to meet a former smuggler.

 

With Renly dead, many of the Storm and Reach lords had sworn fealty to the older brother, making the army camp a riot of colors. The mercurial weather had taken a turn for the worse, and the king had decided to send most of the fleet away to dock at Haystack Hall and other smaller, well-protected ports to the north. Only a handful of galleys had remained here, just enough to keep any boat from sailing into Storm’s End.

 

The ancient yet mighty keep stood firm, mighty walls looming above, unbothered by the army gathered on its outskirts. Before Davos had arrived, the king had parlayed with Cortnay Penrose, Devan, his son and one of the king’s squires, had told him. 

 

Stannis had demanded a complete surrender and offered mercy. However, the castellan did not budge and challenged the king to single combat.

 

Penrose’s tongue had been barbed, for all the shiny and mighty lords seemed to loathe him. Insults, jeers, mockery - one of the younger red apple knights had fainted from fury at the abuse. If there had been no maester in the camp, the foolish man would have been the first knight to die to a taunt.

 

And so, days had passed since Davos had come, and nothing had changed. A few younger lords were rearing to storm the fortress, but it seemed the king had decided upon a siege.

 

“Since Renly died, he has been troubled by terrible nightmares,” Devan confided to him. “The maester’s potions do nothing… even Lady Melisandre fails to soothe him to sleep.”

 

She had shared his pavilion at night, but no longer. It seemed even her prayers and fires had not proven enough. Or even… other ways of soothing Stannis to sleep. Regardless, Melisandre of Asshai remained in the camp, staring at the fires as if dazed. The air of mystique and allure clung to her like her red gown, but she seemed to pay the world around her no heed.

 

Yet, Stannis had found another way to lull himself, it seemed, something… uncharacteristic. It was the first time Davos had seen his liege spar openly. Many a knight from the Reach and the Stormlands had even decided to test their mettle against him. Very few won, and very rarely - most when the king was exhausted.

 

With all that fighting seemed to come a hearty appetite, for Stannis feasted as if every meal would be his last. Fish, steak, poultry - he devoured all with relish. Seven days prior, he looked like he had aged ten years, but now, there was a newfound liveliness to him. 

 

Yet today, the drudgery of the siege had finally been broken. Stannis had called for a war council in the command tent, demanding the presence of even his lowly Onion Knight. Davos felt out of place amidst the sea of plumes, colorful cloaks, and surcoats of silk and velvet and silvery and gold-inlaid armor polished so well it could serve as a mirror. Now, they were gathered around a large oaken table, covered with a sprawling map of the Seven Kingdoms. 

 

After they began, Lord Donnel Swann was the first to speak, “Your Grace, my brother has managed to escape the lion’s clutches from the capital, arriving in our camp just this dawn.” 

 

The words were met with a weak cheer and a sea of murmurs - quite a few had kin or kith held hostage in King’s Landing by the lion queen. 

 

“He must have a valuable word of the happenings in the city,” Lord Monterys Velaryon said thoughtfully. “Far better than hearsay from those simple-minded beggars.” All sorts of odd hearsay had swarmed as of late, and none believed any of it, for each rumor was more fantastical than the last. 

 

“Indeed. Summon him here,” the king’s voice was flat. The Swann Lord scrambled over to call a servant to fetch for his knightly brother. “Any word from Ser Erren Florent and Ser Parmen Crane?”

 

“None, Your Grace,” Lord Bryce Fossoway replied, a man clad in his velvet surcoat proudly displaying a green apple. “The rest of the Reachmen have yet to send ravens or come here to pay homage.”

 

“So the Seven be-damned roses have chosen treason again.” There was no surprise in Stannis, but for the first time, Davos saw a hint of anger, of fury in him, the stoic facade of iron broken. His liege’s eyes seemed as bright blue as the summer sky above. And… it had been the first time in moons since Stannis had mentioned the Seven, let alone… cursed so openly. Judging by the surprised looks of the other lords, they had noticed, too. Melisandre’s gaze held a hint of displeasure, but she remained silent, watching. “Lord Florent, I pray for the safety of your son.”

 

“Thank you, Your Grace.” The Lord of Brightwater Keep was an aging man, and Davos could see the red-gold snout of the fox peek through a wreath of blue flowers on his polished breastplate. “Erren knew his duty, and the Lord of Light shall watch over him.”

 

“The Lord of Light…” Stannis shook his head, not finishing his thought. The former smuggler noticed the stag pin on his chest was no longer aflame. “It appears your wisdom in sending those ravens to your contacts after Loras Tyrell and Randall Tarly left bore fruit.”

 

“Indeed, Your Grace. Regretfully, my son Alekyne could only convince the Stormlands army to march for their rightful king. The rest of the Reachmen were content to fiddle their thumbs at Bitterbridge.” Alester Florent scowled before nodding to the Red Witch gratefully. “It was as Lady Melisandre had foreseen; my treacherous good son abandoned our bonds of kin in favor of the upstart stewards. Thanks to your warning, my lady, we managed to rally all those loyal to the king, and form lines before Tarly could take them by surprise. Mace Tyrell would not be foolish enough to force a battle that could prove disastrous when they lacked cavalry or knights, even if they had the numbers. Without a claimant like Renly, he had no right to command another kingdom’s lords, and a temporary truce was reached. The Stormlands army, along with my forces, were allowed to leave.”

 

The Red Witch tilted her head in silent acknowledgment and returned her gaze to the flickering brazier. So far, among the Reachmen, only Lord Florent appeared to truly believe in the foreign faith, yet the rest of the lords were skeptical at best and hostile at worst. Even the Queen’s Men had seemed less enthusiastic about the Red God, especially now that the king had expressed some hesitation. Ser Richard Horpe and Ser Godry Farring had always made their voices heard, yet Davos had not seen them goad any of the pious Reachmen since his arrival.

 

“When should we expect the rest of the army to arrive?” 

 

“After treating with the Fat Flower ,” the Reachlord’s words thickened with contempt, “the Stormlords, commanded by your cousin Aemon Estermont, had taken the Roseroad to the Kingswood before diverting to one of the lesser roads for Felwood. They have the bulk of the supplies Renly had gathered. Even after force marching in case the Tyrells renege on the truce and attack their rear, I expect they will arrive there in a fortnight, but the weather does not make me hopeful. So much rain in the middle of summer is unnatural, and the rivers might soon flood.”

 

More mutterings around the tent about troop counts, supplies, and other important matters. Even after being knighted for fifteen years, Davos still felt like an old, foolish smuggler with such talk. Put him on a boat and ask him to chart a course around the Stepstones, and he would be your man. Or sail a ship anywhere in the known world. 

 

Yet from what the smuggler understood, the king’s army had swelled greatly; fifteen thousand Reachmen joined their five thousand from the Narrow Sea, bringing it up to twenty thousand. The issue was that the Reachmen were all cavalry, proud knights and their squires, yet they lacked supplies and their foot. For whatever reason, Renly Baratheon had not taken any Stormlander with him aside from his direct vassals and their retinues. Many of these lords, like the elderly Eldon Estermont, left their heirs with the bulk of the Stormlands army near Bitterbridge. Then, there were the Florent men, but those he learned were not many. The bulk of their forces were in Brightwater Keep, deterring any Tyrell retaliation.

 

This was why Stannis was in no real rush to take Storm's End, for they needed to wait for the rest of their army to reform. There were also envoys sent to the Stormlander houses that had not mustered for Renly, calling on them to join their one true king with what troops or supplies they could spare. From what he gleaned, Davos understood that supplies were of paramount importance, for the Royal Fleet could not supply them efficiently with only Haystack Hall and Tarth as the closest ports. 

 

Then, there were also the Marcher houses that could not afford to muster too many troops or risk Dornish incursions. Doran Martell had called his banners, and he heard tell they were mustering along the Boneway and the Prince’s Pass.

 

“Your Grace, we need to plan for what to do after we take Storm's End.” Lord Bryce Caron's declaration brought the chatter to a silence. “With the Tyrells recalcitrant and unmoving, I say we bring the fight to them. You are the only righteous claimant, and if we leave them to their devices, we risk them allying with one of the other usurpers! The tyranny of the Roses as they deny the Reachmen from joining their rightful king must be answered!”

 

The command tent was filled with clamor as every lord in attendance wanted their voice to be heard. The Reachmen were understandably wary of bringing the war to their lands, yet many of them were indignant at the Tyrell’s pressing their levies into their services, and not allowing the foot to join them. Davos knew that Stannis planned to take King’s Landing after Storm's End, and the King was not one to change his mind. 

 

Surprisingly, however, Stannis paused, as if he truly considered changing his course. “What is the word from the Riverlands?”

 

“The last we heard was Robb Stark plundering the Westerlands and Tywin Lannister marching for Riverrun. This was moons ago, however.” The Hand of the King coughed as he rubbed his brow. “We have little to no contacts in the Riverlands, and all our knowledge came from the Tyrells. My son noted that since Renly's death, Mace Tyrell had been sending and receiving many ravens from the north.”

 

“So he is either courting Stark or Lannister–”

 

Before more could be said, a guard entered the pavilion. “Your Grace, Ser Balon Swann requesting entrance.”

 

“Let him through.”

 

The Swann knight entered the tent wearing a brown, tattered cloak over a suit of battered armor, all drenched by the pittering rain outside. The Stormlander seemed to have had his fair share of fighting, for there was steel in his gaze. Even looking like a haggard hedge knight with his unkempt beard compared to the shiny lords, his blue eyes seemed to be full of steel despite the heavy bags under them. 

 

“I serve at your pleasure, Your Grace,” the knight kneeled, head bowed down.

 

A rare small smile crept on the king’s face. “Rise, Ser Balon. What can you tell us of the happenstance in King’s Landing?”

 

“Madness and sorcery,” Balon Swann’s eyes turned distant. “I would have scarcely believed half of it if I didn’t see it with my own two eyes. I swear on my honor, I swear it by the Mother-”

 

“Nobody questions your honor here, Ser,” Stannis raised his hand and waved over a page with a wine flask for the knight. “Drink. Soothe your parched throat and tell your tale.”

 

The knight bowed deeper still, grabbed the flask, and took a generous swallow of wine. “It all began when the princess Myrcella-”

 

“The girl is no princess, but a bastard born of incest,” Stannis interrupted, and the former smuggler could hear the grinding of his teeth. “Continue.”

 

“As… Cersei’s daughter was sent off-”

.

.

.

Madness and sorcery indeed, many of the lords looked skeptical at the Swann knight and his tale. Buckler, Morrigen, Selmy, Caron, Horpe, and a handful of others seemed to trust the man. Davos himself did not know what to think; the king’s face was unreadable, and Melisandre was hovering at the edges of the dark tent as usual, silent. 

 

“So, the Lannisters lost their princess,” Stannis Baratheon’s fingers drummed on the table, awakening many from their stupor. 

 

“I had already left the city at the time, but I did witness their fleet returning from across the bay. Yet at every inn and village, the local bailiffs were shouting about a bounty on the heads of Sansa Stark and her pet sorcerer. There was a reward for the safe return of Myrcella…” Balon Swann tiredly rubbed his head, “Waters. A lordship and a hundred thousand golden dragons, they said.” 

 

Mutterings filled out the tent, but Stannis’ amused snort cut through it like a knife through butter. 

 

“Promising castles and lands they do not own, and coin they do not have. A hefty reward for a crown knee-deep in debt and an empty treasury. Unless the old lion can shit gold or fly it all by raven.”

 

Laughter and jeers erupted in the tent; it seemed none here thought much of the old Lion of Lannister. Davos had heard the whispers - Tywin Lannister was an inept fool who couldn’t even beat a young boy, only good for sacking defenseless cities.

 

Stannis raised his hand, and the laughter quickly died out. “Regardless, I have made my decision. Lord Hand,” Alester Florent straightened his back in attention, quill and parchment ready to write down the king’s orders. “Send word to Felwood. Ser Aemon is to secure the Wendwater Bridge and accept the Wendwaters’ fealty. They may be part of the Crownlands, yet they were historically Stormlanders. If they refuse, he has leave to take their castle and lands. Once that is done, I want him to keep outriders in the Kingswood and near the capital. We must secure a route to King's Landing, and I do not want a single rat entering my woods without my knowledge.”

 

“It shall be done, Your Grace. Is there… anything else?” The graying Lord Florent stood there hesitantly, like an errant child before his father, and Davos had to suppress a snort. 

 

“That will be all. You have done well, Ser Balon. Go now, get some rest, for you look in dire need of it. Meeting adjourned. Ser Davos, stay.” The lords quickly made themselves scarce, and the tent was empty… aside from Melisandre, who still lingered by the shadows near the brazier. “My lady, I wish to speak with my Onion Knight in private.”

 

Face unreadable, the red woman bowed stiffly and left, her crimson cloak billowing behind her. 

 

“Your Grace,” Davos bowed and joined Stannis by the brazier vacated by the priestess. Even the servants were dismissed, and the guardsmen were ordered not to let anyone near the tent. This had been the first time the Onion Knight had seen his liege so secretive.

 

“Melisandre had been irritable as of late.” The words were said without a hint of feeling. Even now, Davos couldn’t make what Stannis truly thought about the red priestess.

 

“Has she? Did her Lord of Light not reply to her prayers?”

 

“Possibly, for she claimed Storm’s End’s protections had gotten far more powerful over the past few weeks, and her visions had blurred.” Stannis opened an ice chest and gave him a goblet of chilled water before serving himself. “Now, I have Ser Balon Swann say the same day it happened, Stark’s daughter had escaped Cersei’s grasp.”

 

“Surely… it’s a coincidence?” Davos grimaced and took a gulp of water to wet his lips. He was not a very pious man, but he held to the Seven as well as any other… and all this talk of magic and sorcery made him uncomfortable. 

 

“I have been having dreams, Davos.”

 

The change of topic caught the former smuggler flat-footed. “Dreams, Your Grace? I do not understand.” 

 

“An odd thing, for I struggle to make any sense of it either,” Stannis admitted quietly. “Yet it was not a normal dream. It was so vivid, I can still see it when I close my eyes. I stood atop Storm’s End, and a titanic warrior clad in clouds and wind, wielding a blade of lightning, stared down at me.”

 

“That’s… quite a specific dream, Your Grace,” the old knight’s throat went dry.

 

“Indeed. His voice was like a rumble of thunder, and his eyes - a raging sea storm. Yet every time I close my eyes, I dream of him. And every time he speaks to me; A jumbled, rustic speech, but he spoke of legacy, of wrath, of grief .” 

 

Davos rubbed his balding head, feeling more confused than ever. “A sign from the gods?” 

 

“You could call it such.” The king’s voice grew hoarse. “I knew him, Davos. I had never seen such a being before, yet somehow… I just knew who he was. Elenei’s sire himself. Yet his face looked just like the statue of the Warrior in the Sept of Baelor.”

 

Was it the sign from the Seven themselves, Davos wondered. Yet he dared not speak it out loud. Elenei? The old smuggler knew of no Eleneis but a washerwoman near Duskendale. Yet her father had been just an old crofter, not worth a mention by a king. Then… the Onion Knight’s eyes widened as realization sunk in. He picked up his cup and poured all of the water into his now-dry throat, yet it barely soothed him. Gods… even a man from Flea Bottom like him knew the story of the sea god and his daughter Elenei, who wedded the Godsgrief. 

 

But it had been nothing more than an old wives’ tale, and Davos was confused. “What would… a god want from mortals such as us?”

 

“Many things, it seems,” the king’s face turned stormy. “It seems like all the gods are demanding, wanting more and more. It was like speaking with my elder brother, you know? Arrogant and disdainful, and nothing truly pleased him. Disgruntled, but not unhappy with Renly’s demise…”

 

“How did Renly die, Your Grace?” Davos dreaded the answer but asked anyway.

 

“His ambition killed him.” Seven above, what had his liege gotten into? “I miss him, you know? The boy he was, not the man he became. Yet… even this god was hard to please. They all want more and more.”

 

Father, give me strength, Davos prayed silently. He was just… an old smuggler from Fleabottom. But he had given his word. His word to be always honest and leal to Stannis. “And… what did this one demand?”

 

“Belief,” Stannis exhaled slowly. “I am to forsake the Lord of Light and pay homage to him and his name instead.”

 

The Onion Knight wiped the beads of sweat from his face, this talk had been harder than rowing a small boat for hours at sea at night. “Him… the Warrior or the Seven?”

 

“I ask much the same,” the king’s voice thickened with amusement. “Why would I forsake something I did not believe in anyway? He raged and thundered and even more so when I asked for a sign. The gods are greedy, cruel beings, and always take more than you offer and give little in return.”

 

“Even R’hllor?”

 

“Especially R’hllor,” Stannis’s face darkened. Davos dared not ask what the price had been. “There is power there, indeed. Yet even Melisandre dared not claim my daughter could be cured of her affliction.”

 

The little princess… his liege had called sorcerers, healers, hedge wizards, maesters, and even warlocks from the four corners of the world, just to save his only daughter. In the end, they had succeeded, if barely. Shireen was still scarred by the greyscale, but alive and sane, unlike all the stone men exiled to the Sorrows.

 

“And… does this god promise to heal Lady Shireen?”

 

The king stared at the dying brazier, face taut. “Nay. He promised me a sign. Soon he said, he would grant me a boon, should I prove myself.”

 

“Prove yourself?” Davos echoed, confused. How could one truly prove himself before the gods? The Septons claimed you ought to be pious and pray before the stone statues; Melisandre had her fires and burning…

 

“With sword in hand, of course,” Stannis scoffed. Was that why he had been training? “By winning the challenge I scorned before. My grandfather, Lord Estermont, would advise me to siege my own castle. The other, older lords have much of the same opinions - spend a year or two here and starve the defenders out. The younger ones are more impatient and are rearing to storm the gates or even champion me in a trial by combat. Melisandre promises a way for Penrose to fall without battle, too. I have heard all of their opinions… loudly and many a time, since they insist on braying and braying loudly, and now, I shall hear yours.”

 

Was that how Renly had fallen? Struck down by R’hllor and his dark magicks? Yet the smuggler had promised to be truthful.

 

“A duel is a dangerous, risky thing.” And better than the red priestess and her dark sorcery. Davos wiped the beads of sweat from his brow. “But… a lengthy siege will give your foes time to rest and regroup. I think you should fight, Your Grace.”

 

“And why is that, Ser?”

 

The onion knight would not lie, not to Stannis, not now, not ever. “Because… it will show your men you are willing to fight and die for your own cause.”

 

“The lords have already bent the knee and owe me obedience.” Stannis ground his teeth. “They all turn their cloaks when it suits them; why would I fight for them?”

 

“Nay, not the lords, Your Grace. For the knights, the men-at-arms, pikemen, bowmen, the small, common men who would be doing the fighting and dying in your name. All of them would fight a little harder, knowing Your Grace would be willing to put his life on the line.”

 

Before Davos could say further, an urgent knocking on the pavilion’s pole caught their attention. The king’s blue eyes hardened like two chips of sapphire as he looked at the entrance, where a guard’s head was poking through. “What is it?” 

 

“A parley flag was seen on the castle’s gatehouse.”

 

“Have my steed prepared.”

.

.

.

It was noon, and Davos sat atop his horse with the rest of the lords behind their king below the walls, a seven-colored parley flag fluttered above them, ten feet out of arrow range from the looming walls of Storm’s End. The smuggler looked out of place here, garbed in wool, boiled leather, and a heavy chainmail. Everyone else was clad in silk and gilded steel. 

 

Everyone but Stannis, whose armor was plain, lacking in any ornaments, aside from the circlet of red gold atop his head. Melisandre was not far, mounted atop her mare, clad in red velvet and watching.

 

The wind and rain had finally abated, but storm clouds still hung above them, as if waiting for something. 

 

Many had clamored to champion the duel for the king, but Stannis had been adamant to be the one to do it. Yet… it only earned the respect of the lords. Davos was reminded that despite their pomp, being a lord was a martial thing first and foremost. 

 

The heavy gates groaned open, and Ser Cortnay Penrose marched out atop his sorrel stallion, this time clad in a plain suit of heavy armor, a young squire trailing beside him, carrying his personal banner.

 

The bald knight inspected the gathering of lords, his gaze briefly halting on his elderly father before moving on. 

 

Twenty feet from Stannis, he finally halted, head raised high. “Finally found your backbone, your grace ?”

 

Several lords bristled, only for Stannis to raise his hand, silencing the clearing. “I merely hoped you would see sense, yet you persist in your folly. Terms?” 

 

“Should you prove victorious, the garrison shall surrender,” Cortnay’s voice turned heavy. “Should I win… well, your cause ends with you, does it not?”

 

“Insolent, but not untrue. Your terms are accepted.” The king dismounted, and one of his squires led the horse away. “Let us duel, then.”

 

Penrose also dismounted, forgoing a helmet, and the other knights and Penrose’s standard-bearer moved back, giving them more space. Stannis, too, forwent a helmet, but when he drew his blade, Davos couldn’t help but notice - it didn’t glow. It wasn’t Lightbringer that the king wielded, but a plain longsword of castle-forged steel, looking no different than the one used during his spars.

 

Both warriors gripped their longswords with both hands as they circled each other, taking a measure of each other and looking for weakness. 

 

A minute passed, and tension only mounted as the blades had yet to clash. Penrose was the first to move, throwing a savage overhead strike that Stannis parried downwards with little effort. Penrose did not falter as he retracted his sword before he overextended and stabbed at the king, who once more parried the blade sideways and retaliated with a cut to the shoulder. The regular steel did naught but dent the castellan’s heavy plate, and judging by Penrose’s grimace, it most likely left a bruise. Ser Cortnay retaliated with a backhanded slice, aiming to cut at the king’s side, yet Stannis backstepped and allowed the sword to pass within inches of his armor before he lunged with a stab at Penrose’s open torso.

 

The stab did not pierce the chest piece, but so strong was Stannis’ strike that he sent the other knight tumbling back a few feet. The king did not allow him to recover as he took to the counterattack with fast and powerful blows that Penrose could only desperately block as he held his sword like a quarterstaff. Stannis continued to push the castellan, forcing him into the back foot. The king’s face was a taut mask of determination while Ser Cortnay continued to lose ground, allowing Stannis to strike his sword in the same spot several times until, with a final savage strike, the king broke the castellan’s sword in half, ripping it off his hand from the power of the blow. Davos stared in wonder as Stannis kicked the castellan in the chest, bringing him to the ground and holding his sword over his neck.

 

“Yield.”

 

Everyone held their breath as the fallen knight stared at the sword at his throat, then the king. “I yield.”

 

The gates opened with a groan again as the garrison came out to surrender. A vicious gust of wind deafened the cheers and hollers of the lords, and all the riot of silk and velvet cloaks whipped in the squall like banners.

 

Yet Davos only had eyes for the sky above. The clouds were black and churning with power, flickering with light as if lightning was about to strike. The hairs upon his neck and arms all rose as something rumbled from above.

 

A flash of light blinded the onion knight as the world turned deaf.

 

Davos couldn’t hear a thing but the ringing in his ears. The horse beneath his hips grew uneasy, and the knight of onions had to use all of his strength to rein the beast blindly and struggle not to fall off the saddle.

 

Seven above, had lightning struck them?!

 

Suddenly, he could hear neighing in the distance. No, not in the distance; Davos realized his hearing was finally returning. By the time his gelding had calmed down, he could see blotched spots, which slowly turned into a mottled picture of colors. It took him some time to make out the surroundings. Many of the lords were gone as their steeds fled. Some had fallen or dismounted their horses, rolling on the ground and clutching their ears in pain.

 

And Stannis… the king, stood there like a statue, sword raised to the sky… it glowed with a power that made Davos’ skin crawl in a way that Lightbringer didn’t as arcs of lightning crackled along its length. Many stared with awe and confusion; others, including Davos, were rubbing their eyes. More importantly, Penrose had gotten up from the ground, his eyes wide in awe as he knelt, and laid his broken blade at His Grace’s feet. 

Notes:

Sansa is not a cruel and sadistic girl. She is angry and vengeful, but it’s easy to call for the death or harm of innocents from afar. Once she has Myrcella and Rosamund in front of her, however, she can’t bear to abuse them for long. It helps that the girls are utter cupcakes.

Trying to make sense of how GRRM split Renly's forces was a nightmare and a half. He never mentioned what happened to the army of the Stormlands, but he does say that Tarly massacred the Florent forces. We never see the Stormlander army ever again in the books, so I can only assume he somehow massacred them all when they were under guest rights. Yet another way the antagonists get plot armor to do the most ridiculous things yet the protagonists get shit on for the slightest mistakes.

Ripples of change are affecting all sorts of people. Stannis was convinced of the Lord of Light because he was the only one who showed him signs and proof. Now, with magic in Westeros on the rise and the gods becoming more active, one of them approaches the descendant of The Godsgrief.

Stannis embraces his inner Mannis.

Melisandre mentions that Storm’s End has magical protections that would stop her from birthing her abomination unless she was inside the castle. This loophole was snuffed out by magic’s awakening, and Storm’s End’s influence now spreads far wider than just its walls.

As for the gods… they’re a mess.

Chapter 8: Treasure hunt

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

---

26th day of the 7th Moon.

Onboard the Silver Lady.

 

“How are you holding up, son?”

 

“Well enough.” 

 

Percy hummed as he lay on a hammock and gazed at the stars. He was never one for astronomy, but he could still instinctively recognize the constellations whenever he was out at sea. 

 

That was back on Earth, for here, he could not recognize any of the foreign celestial bodies in the skies. They did not have Aquila or Centaurus or the more recent Zoë the Huntress. From what he remembered from Sansa’s study sessions and the navigation maps he went over, that cluster of stars was known as the Galley. It looked nothing like a boat and more of Dorito if you asked him, but it was an important navigation mark for those sailing the Narrow Sea. 

 

Percy couldn’t imagine how difficult it was for regular mortals to navigate by the stars, for even with his reduced navigation powers, he could easily tell the cardinal directions and sense the sea for miles away.

 

“I know something is bothering you, Percy. You can talk to me about it.”

 

A sigh rolled off his tongue as he closed his eyes and found himself on the rocky island in his mind. The sea was still rough, and the sky overcast, but it was no longer stormy, and he could not sense the eldritch beings that his father warned. Poseidon smiled from his seat on the edge of the cliff, looking healthier and five years younger than before as he held his fishing rod. Percy plopped down next to him with a groan.

 

“So, having girl problems?”

 

“Huh?”

 

The demigod looked in confusion as his father burst out laughing. “It’s been three weeks since the girl began her clumsy attempt at courting. She wants you, my boy. You know that, right?”

 

“Naturally, but I don't think it would work out.”

 

“How come? She's your age, beautiful, and intelligent. While she has a mean streak, the princess has shown she is capable of kindness and compassion. Any man would be ecstatic to have such a woman by his side.”

 

“Yeah, but…”

 

Poseidon placed his fishing rod on the ground and turned to him fully. “What is it, Percy? What burdens your mind, my son?”

 

“…You never mentioned how I could return.”

 

His father's face fell, and he looked like a tired old man with sad eyes again. “You already know why, Percy.”

 

“We can't go back, huh?” The words were like poison upon his tongue. He had suspected it would be the case for some time but didn’t dare voice it out, for it would make it real.

 

And judging by his father’s sad face, it was real. Percy was not going home.

 

“Indeed, we cannot. Believe me, my son, I've spent the past few weeks searching for a way back to no avail.” The demigod just hid his face in his hands, trying to disappear.

 

“Are you sure?” Percy croaked out. “Nothing at all?”

 

“Sadly, yes. I want to return myself. The things I’ve learned here could greatly help my main self… but alas,” Poseidon’s words broke his heart. He would never get to see his mother, Grover, Chiron, Rachel, Annabeth, Nico, or even the Stoll twins. Percy expected this, yet the blow was still hard, and tears began pooling in his eyes as his father’s hand patted his shoulder. “Was that holding you back from reciprocating the girl's advances?”

 

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse as he wiped away tears. All the crying in the world wouldn’t help him, “It would be a shitty move to give her hope, then abandon her when the chance to go home appeared.” 

 

“So, is there anything stopping you now?” Poseidon prodded again.

 

“Dunno?” Percy picked up a flat pebble and hurled it into the sea. To his chagrin, it skipped only thrice.

 

His father chuckled. “Are you asking me, or are you telling me?”

 

“I have no idea what to do with a girl, alright?”

 

“Not knowing has never stopped you from learning before,” Poseidon clicked his tongue. “Especially when you wanted it. Do you like the girl or not?”

 

“Well, yeah,” Percy shrugged. “She’s pretty hot, and smart. I like the fire in her. But I don’t think a princess is exactly looking for a boyfriend.”

 

The demigod stood and stretched, feeling a weight removed from his shoulders. Saying the words was liberating in an odd way. He liked Sansa Stark, and the words sounded right in his mind. Percy was never one for lying to himself.

 

Poseidon tugged on his line, pulling out a pale crab. With a frown, he tossed it back into the sea before casting his line again. “You can always bed her and leave. I did it plenty of times, and it worked quite well!”

 

“What? No!”

 

“You can leave without bedding her, then,” his father chortled.

 

“I promised to get her home,” Percy protested. “Maybe I’ll leave afterward.”

 

“And do what?” The demigod had no reply. “Perhaps you’d want to leave and not to watch her get married, I suppose. Seeing a woman you like in the arms of another man–”

 

“Just stop, Dad,” Percy groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I know what you’re doing.” 

 

“Just telling you the truth, son,” Poseidon hummed. “I am not the best parent, but I can give you some advice on this. You have three options. Leave, fuck her and leave, or wed her and stay. Everything else will be lying to yourself.”

 

The demigod frowned, “That’s… drastic.”

 

“Well, I could lie to you and say some bullshit about eternal friendship and the like, but why would I?”

 

“I don’t like either option,” Percy confessed. “I don’t want to leave Sansa, but I’m not exactly ready for marriage either!”

 

“Nobody is ever ready for marriage, but if the girl doesn’t wed you, she’ll be married to someone else.” The god’s stormy words made his insides twist into a knot. “It’s the fate of mortal princesses.”

 

What would his mom say? For once, he wasn’t sure. Percy couldn’t ask her either because she was in another freaking world!

 

“I don’t like this,” he muttered again.

 

“Fate is rarely kind enough to give us options we like.” His father shook his head. “My advice would be to make the choice that would leave you the least regrets. Believe me, I know plenty about regrets.”

 

“I am not ready to be a husband or a father yet.”

 

Poseidon laughed, “That is not something you can ever prepare or learn for. Being one… it’s a learning experience. Besides, first shall be a betrothal - you’ve neither bedded the lass nor agreed to wed her.”

 

“I want her,” Percy admitted.

 

“Badly enough to never see her in the arms of another man?” His father asked knowingly. 

 

“… Yes. I want her to be mine and mine alone.”

 

“The sea is jealous and cannot be restrained. Besides, marrying a Princess is not without benefits. If half the things your girl said were true, House Stark is older than us gods. Unbroken martial lineage for eight thousand years! This is the highest prestige the mortal world could offer, and I have no doubt there would be other profound benefits by marrying into that house. As for power, you do not need others to give you any when you can grasp it all with your own two hands!”

 

Percy groaned, “I never thought about that stuff.”

 

“When you marry, you must think of all the benefits, my son,” Poseidon chuckled. “The parents are traditionally the ones who do that, so it is for me to advise you! Then there is this pesky mortal war, of course. I doubt you will have much woe with it!”

 

“I don’t like killing.”

 

“And that’s what makes you a good man, Percy. Yet the world is cruel, and sometimes peace can only be achieved at the tip of the trident… or sword, in your case. Some battles must be fought, and some men must be killed, or it will be your people who die instead.” 

 

“I am not one to shy away from a fight,” Percy shrugged, tiredly running a hand through his messy hair. “But I won’t go around flooding cities or collapsing mountains.”

 

“Like you accidentally did with that volcanic island?”

 

“Hey, you're the one who told me to see if my earthquake powers awakened.”

 

“I didn't tell you to try it in your sleep, though.”

 

“Yeah, well, they didn't awaken. It was the same as in Saint Helens, and… nobody got hurt this time?” Even Percy felt awkward at his father's disappointed gaze.

 

“Ah, whatever,” Poseidon waved his hand as if shooing away some fly. “Let me tell you some words of wisdom. War… the more it drags on, the more men die. The quicker you end it, the lesser the cost.”

 

“Yeah, whatever,” he groaned, tired of the topic. “Any news from the divine side of things?”

 

His father continued to gaze at him until Percy looked down in embarrassment. “Surprisingly little. I could feel a few gazes on you, but nothing hostile. More curious than anything. You should still be wary of that Storm God. I have no doubt that was the one we saw on that first day.”

 

“Yeah, there are too many conflicting tales about him. Sea God, Drowned God, Storm God, or whatnot.”

 

“Mortals tend to confuse the divine and lump them together,” Poseidon clicked his tongue, “Who knows? Perhaps the Storm God of the Ironborn is actually the Sea God of the Stormlands. There could even be more. Gods have many domains, after all.”

 

“True. Any idea why they aren't watching us anymore?”

 

“Most likely, we are out of range of the lands where they settled. Even the monstrosity lurking deep under the waves seemed to change to something far more quiet. Or perhaps there simply isn't a sea deity in this sea. The further we travel North, the more… chill the divine side of things seems to be.”

 

“Huh, so Sansa’s gods are the cool kind?”

 

His father did not seem amused by his joke. In fact, Poseidon’s face turned stern. “Absolutely not. I can sense misery, death, and an extreme amount of bloodlust from them.” Percy gulped in worry. “Yet they are also far more neutral than any deity I've met. Almost as if they care not one whit what would happen to their followers or lands.”

 

Before he could reply, something tugged on his senses in the real world, and his father also stood up straight.

 

“You should wake up and investigate.”

 

Nodding seriously, Percy focused and woke up in his hammock, finding the rising sun peeking from the clouds behind him. 

 

They had entered the Bite last night, and the shores of the Vale could barely be seen on their south. If the maps were right, he estimated they were three days away from White Harbor. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss, the Seaswift and the Crimson Gale lazily following the Silver Lady’s wake, but he knew better. Blackjack looked at him curiously when he jumped out of the top of the mast, Ice in hand, and descended the ropes and the rigging to the deck.

 

“What’s wrong, Boss? Not like you to wake up so early.”

 

“Something doesn’t feel right, Jack.” Percy frowned as he continued looking around the ship, running from one end to the other, trying to find what was tickling his senses. “Stay in your stall and lay down on the straw in case of a fight.”

 

“Come on, Boss. I haven’t had a decent scuffle since you stole me from the stinking city.” The stallion snorted and shook his head, “I can take on a cunt or three eas–”

 

The ship shook all of a sudden, and Percy turned to the port side swiftly. His eyes widened as he found a massive dark shape swimming under the ship and surfacing a few hundred feet away with a large splash that caused waves to rattle the ship. 

 

It was a sea monster, a massive serpent easily over a hundred feet long with dull green scales and spikes on its back. Its head had two beady red eyes and a mouth full of sword-sized fangs. The monster roared when its eyes settled on him, the maw large enough to swallow a horse, and its roar echoed along the sea for miles as it glared at him challengingly.

 

“… On second thought, you can take this particular cunt, Boss. I’ll take a nap.”

 

The door to the galley slammed open, and Sansa hurried onto the deck, still in her sleepwear. “What happened?”

 

He didn't have to answer as the red-haired princess gawked at the monster in the distance. She stepped back and bumped into the blonde twins - because no matter how much they denied it, Percy would insist they were twins. 

 

“Stay inside and hold on to something. Don’t come out until I tell you to.”

 

Whatever Sansa was about to say was lost as the monster roared once more and dove into the water. Percy could not allow it to capsize their ships and unsheathed Ice, dropping its sheath on the deck and leaping into the waves.

 

The sea serpent froze for a heartbeat as Percy appeared in front of it. Focusing, he glared at it with as much authority as he could muster. “Halt! I know you can understand me, serpent. Stop this now, and no one will get hurt.”

 

Looking closer at the monster, its green scale was a result of many, many corals, algae, seaweed, and barnacles forming over its original skin. The creature must have been sleeping for a long time, and he wagered his presence awakened it.

 

“Usurper! Invader! Food!”

 

The son of Poseidon sighed as the monster was far too gone in its madness… or maybe it was just dumb and hungry. 

 

He dodged out of the snake's lunging maws and swam away from the ships. The angry beast chased after him relentlessly. 

 

Percy had no idea if it had any friends, but just in case, he would fight it away from his own. Gauging the capabilities of monsters here was also important. 

 

By Hades, the beast was slow . He had to slow down, or the beast would give up on the chase. 

 

They must have swum for an hour before Percy turned around and dodged another lunge, barreling beneath its belly. Testily, the demigod slashed at the serpent as it passed him. He gritted his teeth when Ice’s incredibly sharp edge cut a large swath of the monster's scale… only it was all reef, and it felt like Percy was giving the beast a shave. 

 

“Alright danger noodle. If I'm gonna be your barber for the day, you better behave and let me give you a proper buzzcut!”

 

The sea serpent roared, the sound echoing loud and clear in the water. It tried to bite him again, but Percy easily dodged sideways and gave it a come-hither motion. The monster narrowed its baleful red eyes and lunged at him again, with Percy dodging with ease. This continued for several moments, and the demigod of the sea noticed a few interesting things.

 

The monster was completely mundane. It had no magical abilities and relied utterly on its muscles and tail to navigate the sea. He wagered that a few fins could have helped it maneuver better, but if it had any, they were buried under the mounds of reef and coral that gave it a mighty defense and made it appear larger than it actually was. 

 

Noticing that they were near the bottom of the sea and entering a valley of sorts, Percy decided he had had enough of playing with his food. He dodged one last feral bite before stabbing the serpent on its side.

 

Ice dug deeply into the coral armor, and Percy pushed with all his might as he held on for dear life as the monster screamed and thrashed in pain. Halfway through, the blade inexplicably stopped, as if hitting something unbreakable. The son of Poseidon’s eyes widened, and before he could do anything, the serpent twisted straight into an underwater cliff and crashed.

 

The feeling of sharp rocks grinding over his back had Perseus roaring in agony and fury. This fucking eel dared! His eyes glowed with power as his divine power exploded and commanded the sea to obey him. The Bite was easier to control than the Narrow Sea, and within a few heartbeats, the serpent ceased thrashing as the very sea held it in place. 

 

As the serpent sank to the bottom of the valley like an anchor, Perseus withdrew Ice and swam to its head. He slashed away the reefs and coral encrusting its skull until he reached the skin, stabbed the Valyrian Steel blade to the hilt, and punctured its brain.

 

The monster immediately went slack and collapsed, raising a cloud of murky sand from the bottom of the sea. Percy heaved heavily, gulping in more and more seawater.

 

The sea was already healing his back, and he ripped his ruined shirt from his body and hurried to pull out the rocks still stuck. The son of Poseidon stared down at his defeated foe and withdrew Ice, allowing red blood to flow out. Glancing around him, he noticed many schools of fish and a few sharks and whales staring at him with subdued hostility. 

 

Percy glared at them, and they quickly swam away in fear, causing him to scoff.

 

He dropped from the corpse to the seafloor, feeling something crack underneath. Looking down, he found it was a piece of pottery. Inspecting his surroundings, Percy's eyes widened in shock as he realized that what he thought was a simple valley was an underwater city! 

 

He could see, thanks to the glow of algae and his heritage, even in the darkness of the depths. There were the remains of houses and other buildings, but his eyes settled on a large palace built on a hill in the center of the city. 

 

‘Percy. There is something in there. Something… familiar .’

 

Despite his burning curiosity, Percy was loath to stay away from the ships for so long.

 

‘Don’t worry, my son. I have made sure all three ships continued on their course.’

 

Surprised, he quickly focused on the ships, finding them nearly a hundred miles away and steadily sailing toward him. Percy must not have realized how far he had swum, for he was already halfway to their destination.

 

“Thanks, Dad.” Throwing one last glance at the dead serpent, Percy swam deeper into the city. He found many interesting things, such as bronze tools and weapons, intricate frescoes of mermen that still looked beautiful after carefully wiping the grime away, and many more. By far, however, what grabbed his attention the most were the skeletons. Whoever the inhabitants of this city, no, kingdom , were not human. They looked almost like–

 

‘Mermen.’

 

He nodded in agreement. There were two clearly distinctive species that he found skeletons of. 

 

Mermen, with their human upper body and fishtail, and some other strange being that had ten flexible limbs stretching from a torso but no lower body. Percy shuddered as he tried to imagine what manner of creature would look like that.

 

There must have been a massive battle here, for the signs of damage were evident, yet he did not feel any magic from the city. Except in what he assumed was the royal palace, where he had just entered through a massive entrance that did not have a door. Walking through a hallway, he found many rooms blocked with debris or led to other rooms that he had no desire to explore. The magic signal called to him from further in.

 

Percy inspected the skeletons and found more of the same; bronze arms and armor, mermen protecting their home against the tentacled invader, until he swam under an archway and arrived at a throne room.

 

More signs of fighting, but his eyes were on the large figure sitting on a throne of black marble. As if in a trance, Percy swam closer to it and found it was a large merman who still retained parts of his skin, but it was undoubtedly dead. It had several spears and tridents stabbed in its torso, pinning it to its throne, but Percy had eyes only on what it held in its hands. It was a brilliant lance, nearly twenty feet long that even now emitted a soft magical hum that the grime and algae couldn't hide.

 

‘Take it, Percy. There's a spark of divinity in that spear that must have belonged to this dead god.’

 

“Dead god?!” Percy couldn't hide his shock even if he wanted to. “Gods can die? I thought they would reform or fade instead!”

 

‘I am as lost as you are, my dear boy, yet my senses do not lie. This merman had divinity in him at one point, perhaps a demigod that ascended, but it's now gone. Devoured, I would assume.’

 

“Devoured? Could it be by that same thing you sensed when we first awakened?”

 

‘I do not know. The Trident definitely has a spark of divinity from that god in it. Take it, and perhaps we shall learn more later on.’

 

Trident? It was clearly a spear, or a lance, but Percy shrugged as he grabbed it and ripped it out of the dead god’s surprisingly firm grip. 

 

Even dead, it would not easily relinquish its symbol of power, and the moment it left its grasp, the merman turned to ash that floated away in the water. 

 

Percy wiped away the algae and grime to inspect the divine weapon. He stared in awe as the moment he wiped enough of the algae for his skin to touch the weapon, it vibrated and all the grime floated away, revealing a silver spear with a long blade made of a dark metal. It had two similar blades pointing downwards like the wings of a hawk as it dived after a rabbit.

 

Absentmindedly, his powers sank into the dark metal, and the blades sprang up to form a cross spear. With another thought, the two blades bent in the middle and pointed upwards, turning the spear into a trident. The weapon was taller than he could comfortably use, and before he could even finish his thoughts, it shrank from twenty feet to a more usable eight feet for the shaft and two feet for the blade.

 

Percy grinned as he willed the spear to stretch as far as it could go. He nearly dropped the heavy weapon as it sprang up into the vaulted ceiling, which was over thirty feet away. A feeling of lethargy hit him heavily, and Percy willed the spear back to its comfortable ten feet.

 

“This is so damn cool! Too bad I can't keep changing its size. It just tires me out so much.”

 

‘Don't forget you are also in the embrace of the sea. If it tires you here, I would not recommend playing around too much with it on the surface.’

 

Grimacing at the reminder, Percy grabbed some seaweed to strap Ice on his back. Then, he willed the spear to shrink even more and was delighted when it turned about a foot long, looking like a dagger rather than a spear. He would have tried to shrink it further, but his exhaustion quickly settled in, so he strapped it to his belt.

 

“Alright. I would love to explore this city more, but perhaps later when I don't have a couple of princesses to escort.” 

 

His father just hummed, seemingly distracted by something, and Percy shrugged. He swam out of the palace, ignoring the itch to search for treasure, but stopped once he was back at the serpent’s corpse. None of the marine life had dared to approach it for fear of provoking him, and Percy found himself facing a dilemma. What to do with what would surely be a treasure trove of parts and meat. He was unused to monsters not dissipating after death and sighed as he realized he would need to butcher it if he wanted a trophy. Not to mention, he had gotten tired of eating fish and salted meat for the past three weeks. 

 

Hades, the things Percy would do for a juicy burger… or a pizza.

 

Shaking his head, he grabbed the several-ton heavy beast by its tail and dragged it to the surface. His body was tired, but his powers aided him along. His muscles bulged as he swam to where the ships were sailing toward his position. He estimated the sunken city was about half a mile under the sea. The Bite was not particularly deep, but he still ended up swimming nearly forty miles for nearly an hour. A distance he could have swum in minutes if not for his heavy load. 

 

Something nudged his senses, and Percy frowned. A small boat, most likely a dinghy or a fishing boat, approached the Silver Lady . The boat stopped next to his ship, even as they continued to move, and he scowled as he realized the row boat’s occupants must have grappled with his ship. His gut twisted with worry for Sansa and the rest. 

 

Percy dropped the serpent, willing the sea to keep it buoyant and float it the rest of the way while he barreled to the surface. 

 

Finally, he neared the ships but decided against making an entrance. There was a risk of whoever was on board taking the girls hostage, and Percy would need the element of surprise then. Surfacing at the bow of the Silver Lady, he peeked around the wooden hull to find the skiff empty. It had a single triangle sail and room for a few oars but by no means a ship with barely room for a dozen occupants.

 

“Stop resisting, you Northern cunt! We only need your head to get the bounty, but we might use you for–” 

 

Too many things happened at once. A shout of pain took the breath off Sansa's assailant, a horse’s angry neigh, a fleshy smack, and then another one, followed by a feminine yelp that was cut off by a hawk screeching and a man screaming in pain. Percy was confused as he quickly climbed the ship and jumped on deck to find a strange scene.

 

A man was moaning in pain as he bled out on the ground courtesy of a knife in his belly. Sansa stood over him, her hands bloody, as she repeatedly kicked him in the groin, her face twisted into a furious scowl as she tried to adjust her ruined dress. 

 

Another man was crying in a fetal position as he tried to cover his head with his webbed hands. Myrcella and Rosamund, each holding a pan and a rolling pin, respectively, blindly wailed on his pitiful form with vicious strikes. Blackjack stood nearby, his hoof raised as if poised to strike the man if he tried to resist the girls’ punishment. Lastly, a final man was fighting off a large bird as it tried to peck his eyes out; his face was already a bloody mess, and the screaming was coming from him. 

 

“Get it off me! Please, have mercy. I'm just a fisherman. Get it off me!!”

 

“That's enough, all of you!”

 

Everyone froze. The blonde twins opened their eyes as they stared at him warily, their weapons still raised. The large bird, easily the size of a condor from home but with the regal features of a hawk, glanced at him before flying off to land on Sansa's shoulders. The girl didn't seem to care as the massive, razor-sharp talons sank into her flesh but did not draw blood, preferring to kick her assailant one last vicious time in the groin, which had Percy wince.

 

Sansa Stark turned to him, her furious grimace melting into a beautiful smile that would have made anyone believe she could never brutally beat a man to death.

 

“Percy, you're back!”

.

.

.

“So, you had a dream from a divine that warned you of this attack; a divine who somehow knows the name of a woman I knew. You hurried to warn me, but too late, as the monster was already here. While I was fighting said monster, you obediently stayed inside the ship, making breakfast with the girls, and got blindsided by those suckers. Did I miss anything?”

 

The three girls, plus horse and hawk, shook their heads in unison. 

 

He had tossed the dead pirate overboard, tied up the other two to the mast, and spoke with girls near the stern-castle. Percy was surprised by how utterly calm Sansa was despite having her first kill, but he shrugged it off. People in the Middle Ages were clearly all crazy, and who was he to judge?

 

“Alright, then, what happened? Where did the bird come from?” 

 

“It’s the gift, of course,” Sansa smiled with a shrug. “I survived the ordeal and received the boon I was promised from the goddess, Calypso. And this is no mere bird, but a Moon Hawk. ” The girl stroked the massive bird’s feathers lovingly, earning herself a happy chirp from the bloodied beak. 

 

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose, how the hell did some deity know about Calypso of all people? He ignored the pang in his heart as he thought about the beautiful maiden and focused inwardly on his father.

 

‘I did say some curious beings had their eyes on you. I can’t really block everything out there, and they seemed benign enough.’

 

“Excuse me, but what are you talking about?” Both of them turned to Myrcella, who shuffled her feet. “It almost sounds like you are communicating with the gods. That’s a beautiful bird.” The blonde girl added hastily when the proud hawk glared at her.

 

Percy looked at Sansa, who returned his gaze with a raised eyebrow. 

 

“Don’t look at me.” Her giggle did things to his stomach. “You’re the one who knows these things.”

 

“We’ll explain later,” Percy grunted, not feeling like having a theological talk now. Or, well, ever. Explaining stuff was not his forte! “For now, I am glad that you are all okay.” 

 

The blonde princess did not look satisfied, but a pointed look from Sansa had her shrink with a nod. Percy had also forgotten that she was a hostage.

 

“Come, Rosamund. I’m sure they will tell us in due time.” 

 

Percy gawked at the other blonde girl, only now realizing he was speaking to the wrong twin. Sansa’s groan told him she didn’t realize it either, while the blondes giggled at their mistake. Coughing to recover his dignity, he moved towards their captives and glared coldly at them. 

 

“Anyway, what do you want us to do with these two?”

 

The two bound pirates shivered. One of them was a massive black and blue bruise, while the other was still bleeding from sporting the latest in hawk handshake scars. It looked like someone had tried to make a lump of minced meat with a knife but failed. 

 

Scarface stuttered out first, “M-My lord, I-I swear to you, I’m just a humble fisherman from Old Castle! I had no clue at all what those two were planning.”

 

“You liar! He’s a smuggler milord, I swear it. He even deals with Essosi slavers.”

 

“Fuck you, Cayn! You damn Sistermen are the ones known for being smugglers and pirates. I should have never agreed to ferry you to that pile of rocks you call home.”

 

“Oh, fuck off, Shadd. You are the one who told us about the Stark girl’s location and the bounty.” The man with webbed hands turned to Percy, glancing at Sansa beside him warily. “The Lion Queen has a price on your head, milady. I swear, I didn’t know that Jorah would try to…I-I mean, yer obviously a pretty lass and–”

 

If glares could kill, then Sansa’s would have burned the Sisterman to ashes.

 

“What I am confused about is why you attacked the princess over here?” Percy pointed at Myrcella with his chin, the girl still holding onto a pan and glaring at her potential abductor. “Surely, that lion queen would have a reward for saving her daughter.”

 

“… Daughter?”

 

The man looked catatonic as his eyes widened, and gazed at the blonde princess standing next to her friend. The ‘fisherman’ chuckled uproariously before flinching when his wounds opened. Percy was far too tired to deal with this shit and turned to Sansa and whispered, “What should we do with them?”

 

“They are hiding something, but I have no idea how to make them sing.” Sansa’s frown made her face look even more beautiful, and Percy gulped as he noticed her gray dress had tears in it, showing ample amounts of pale, unblemished skin. After the talk with his father, he was all too aware that he wanted her, and it took him all of his willpower to tear his gaze away. “We shall take them to White Harbor and have Lord Manderly work on them instead.”

 

“Fine by me. Anyway, make sure they are tied up and don’t release them no matter what.” He raised his voice so everyone could hear him, “Even if they are thirsty or starving or need to take a shit, they shall remain here, tied to the mast. We’re only a day away from White Harbor. I’m sure they can survive.”

 

Percy waited until the girls nodded, and Blackjack snorted in agreement as he eyed the kidnappers with malice before stomping his hoof. Satisfied, he walked to the edge of the boat and raised his hands, bringing the corpse of the sea serpent to the surface.

 

“Oh my, I almost forgot.” Sansa quickly joined him; her hawk flew up to roost at the top of the mast. “Where did that leviathan go?” 

 

“It’s here,” Percy chuckled. “It was one oversized weakling, and I honestly expected more, you know? At least there’s a lot of meat in it, I suppose!”

 

The golden-haired girls looked queasy, but Sansa nodded warmly, looking at him like he had hung the stars in the sky.

 

Hades, he didn’t want to deal with that right now. He didn’t even know how! 

 

Shaking his head, Percy focused on positioning the Seaswift in a way that allowed him to drag the titanic carcass onboard the deck. 

 

Percy clicked his tongue as the hull was scratched from dragging the coral-encrusted serpent along it, and he wondered if he should have used the sea to raise it and drop it on the deck. Most likely a terrible idea, considering how tired he was and the risk of capsizing the ship. Thankfully, the monster weighed less than twenty tons, and the ship’s deck could comfortably hold ten times that amount.

 

“So, what do you think?” The boast left his mouth before he could stop it. “First time you’ve ever seen a real monster, huh?”

 

He had stopped the three ships close enough and the three girls were still stunned at the sight of the beast. The tied pirates, however, had gone deathly pale.

 

Sansa was the first to gather her bearing, “How did you kill that thing?”

 

“I am a professional monster hunter, and stabbing it with the pointy end usually works well.” The son of Poseidon grinned as he pulled out the dagger from his belt and inspected the blade. It was pitch black, with straight lines of gold, different from Valyrian Steel's smokey ripples, yet Percy could tell it was just as sharp, if not sharper, but not particularly light. He moved towards where he had stabbed the serpent the first time, his curiosity peaking on why he could not stab further than half of Ice’s length. Valyrian Steel could cut through regular steel and even stone.

 

Clearing away the corals and grime with the dagger, Percy was impressed with how sharp and solid the blade was. Even the silver grip was comfortable and stable, almost fusing with his hand and negating any problems with balance. Continuing his work, he could feel the rest of the girls watching him patiently, until his blade scraped against something metallic, and Percy froze. Clearing the crusts more carefully, he managed to yank away what had stopped Ice.

 

“This is…” Sansa’s voice was shocked as Percy showed her what he found. “I didn’t know they made them like that!”

 

“Well, I doubt you would be expected to know all about Valyrian Steel artifacts, Sansa.” Percy grinned as he held onto the large round shield made from smokey dark metal. “I do wonder who it belonged to?”

 

P*O*D

 

Dragonstone,

The Crown Princess of the Narrow Sea.

 

Shireen Baratheon stood in the Great Hall with her mother and the castle’s household as they listened to maester Pylos reading a raven about the capture of Storm’s End. She ignored the excited chatter as her thoughts drifted to Cressen.

 

The old maester’s absence was like an emptiness nothing could fill. Alas, Cressen was old and had claimed his time was short. Yet that fact did not quench her dislike for the red priestess. 

 

At least life on Dragonstone had become dull and peaceful ever since her kingly father departed for war and took with him the Red Woman. While fervor for R’hllor did not die, it had been toned down significantly in the castle or the surrounding villages, as most of the zealots were gone. Then, there was her mother. Selyse Baratheon was greatly obsessed with the foreign god and his fire and was wroth when Shireen had been caught praying to a small statue of the Maiden in her room. Shireen herself wasn’t particularly pious, not when her father and uncles all gave lip service to the Faith. 

 

Before the Red Witch burned the castle’s Sept, Septon Barre refused to allow her in the Sept in fear of her greyscale. Not that she ever truly tried to enter, for the Septon could scarcely bar the Lord’s daughter if she desired entry. 

 

Her father, Stannis Baratheon, was a hard and dutiful man, but few saw the warmth beneath the steel. While he couldn’t express it well, Shireen knew her father loved her in his own way. It took Shireen a couple of years to notice, but her father loved her greatly… even more so than her mother. Regardless, she would never be able to visit the Sept now, and there was no weirwood on Dragonstone. The small polished statue was a gift from the kindly Lord Guncer Sunglass - who remained in the dungeon with the septon and Lord Rambton’s sons.

 

“Is there anything else in the raven, maester?” Her great uncle Axel, the castle’s castellan, asked once the chatter died.

 

“His Grace is sending Melisandre back to Dragonstone.” Shireen’s face fell; she had hoped the woman would stay as far away from here as possible. Mayhaps her father had tired of her and sent her away.

 

Would all the zealots come back, too? 

 

“Has there been any news from the miners?” Selyse turned to Ser Clayton Blackberry, the knight of the Windwyrm Tower.

 

“Yes, Your Grace. They have finished excavating part of the new cave system formed in the Dragonmont.” 

 

Shireen shivered as she remembered that day. The terrible shaking, the stormy clouds, the crashing of the waves, and the smell of sulfur had become unbearable when the volcano spewed its wrath. Thankfully, no one was hurt in the castle, for Dragonstone was built to withstand such eruptions. Yet, the castle was filled with unease ever since. 

 

“Under the waves,” Patchface often sang about, singing while his motley face twisted as if in pain under his tin bucket for a helm. “The sky and sea fight and everything else burns !”

 

Her heart went out for the fool, for he cried in pain when he wasn’t singing. Something was wrong with him, and it had taken a lot for her to beg and plead to prevent her mother and Uncle Axel from burning him alive. 

 

Selyse had agreed but fed Shireen’s statue of the Maiden to the flames instead. 

 

“And? Have you discovered anything of note?”

 

The Blackberry knight nodded rapidly, his pointed beard nearly reaching his collarbone as he wiped the sweat on his pudgy face with a rag. “We discovered an iron ore vein and more obsidian in different colors. Yet, the heat was unbearable, and the fumes caused several men to be sick and were forced to retire back to the town. I had more men digging through one last cave before I hastened for the meeting.”

 

“Obsidian is worthless, but the iron could be valuable depending on–” 

 

Shireen ignored the chatter about establishing an iron mine and sighed despondently. She was well-read about her home, and this wasn’t the first vein to appear in the Dragonmont. Yet there was a reason Dragonstone remained a poor island with no prospects of wealth. Ser Blackberry's words were familiar, for no miner would survive in the mountain long enough to make any mining mission worth it's time.

 

Hurried footsteps came from the hallway, and a whispered conversation with the guards was heard through the open doors. A guard entered and whispered to Ser Clayton Blackberry, whose eyes widened as he nodded quickly and coughed for attention.

 

“Your Grace, my lords. I have important news from the Dragonmont.”

 

That silenced the chatter as the knight of The Windwyrm motioned for two miners in dirty and smudged clothes to enter through the hall's heavy red doors, holding a wooden chest. They shrank under Selyse’s scrutiny, but a hurried wave from Ser Blackberry had them hasten through the dragon's maw. 

 

They stopped in the middle of the hall.

 

The plain-looking chest was deposited before her mother and quickly latched open.

 

Shireen gulped as everyone else was staring at the contents.

 

“Are those…” Pylos’s soft voice had gone hoarse.

 

The knight was saying something, but Shireen’s whole attention was on the two large gem-like stones in the chest. Both looked identical, covered in shiny dark amethysts with streaks and swirls of black. 

 

Dragon Eggs!

 

 

Notes:

OC list so far, in case anyone loses track: Cayn “the sisterman”, Shadd “the shady”, and “Calypso” the Maiden.

As for Ser Clayton Blackberry, he is a semi-oc. We know two members of House Blackberry serve on Dragonstone, but they are not given first names.

Surprisingly, I do not think I was forced to use any OCs over the past few chapters, at least recurring ones. Only the captain of Myrcella’s ship, I reckon. Her guards are all named characters, btw. Kudos to GRRM for taking the time to name his side characters and make them feel alive. I respect that.

Percy finally acknowledges that there is no way home and decides to make the best of the situation. Goes on an undersea adventure and finds a cool gadget. I wonder, would the giant sea monster will taste like Eel or Snake? Ah yes, Valyrian Steel shield. It baffles me how no one had ever made one yet.

Our protagonist accidentally unearths two dragon eggs for the mortals to play with… how nice.

Chapter 9: The Young Wolf

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

---

Ashemark,

Robb Stark.

 

Robb stood by the window of the lord's solar, a rather opulent room with a dark oak bookshelf filled to the brim with leather-bound books and scrolls. 

 

The air was choked with the scent of parchment, wax, and a hint of roses and tulips carrying over from the gardens below. Behind him stood a large, heavy oak desk, its surface scattered with scrolls, quills, and pots of ink, along with a sheathed axe. A large, ornate fireplace occupied one wall, its mantle decorated with House Marbrand’s burning tree and their words Burning Bright.  

 

Above the fireplace hung a portrait of Lord Damon Marbrand, dressed in finery befitting his status, looking down upon the room with a gaze that spoke of power and intelligence. 

 

Robb scoffed, the elderly man looked nothing like the portrait in person. Lord Damon was too fond of his food, always looking red-faced and heaving for breath at the earliest exertions. The light dusting on the book covers showed that they were mostly for show, for their owner did not seem to be an avid reader.

 

The flooring was made from mahogany, colored a rich reddish-brown, and upon it were Myrish carpets thicker than the width of his palm. Robb had walked barefoot on it and could affirm it was the most comfortable thing he had ever stepped foot on.

 

Finally, there was a small square table made from varnished walnut with a pitcher of ale. Arbor Gold was offered, along with a vast diversity of drinks that Robb could not even pronounce, yet ale was what he preferred. 

 

The sheer opulence and wealth on display were a painful reminder of how those lands had gotten drunk on peace. The last time the Westerlands had seen any conflict was decades ago, aside from a handful of smaller rebellions.

 

As he gazed outside the windows, the King’s eyes roamed over the sprawling hills and lush fields. The lands of House Marbrand were not large, yet they occupied a fertile valley surrounded by hills and mountains. From what he learned, the dormant volcanoes surrounding the region were responsible for keeping the lands fertile and the hills rich in ore.

 

Just outside the castle, men were building another warehouse to store the massive amount of loot his army had obtained so far. Nearly ten thousand cattle heads were allowed to graze across the land, much to the dismay of Lord Damon Marbrand. Maege Mormont had suggested taking them back to the Riverlands, but it was unfeasible for them to herd so many bulls and cows through the narrow goat path that Grey Wind discovered. 

 

For now, they would wait here… along with all the other loot the men brought in daily. The Westerlands had never been so undefended, and Robb Stark had made it clear he planned to take everything of value from the Lannisters. Gold, silver, furniture, good steel, and more had steadily trickled in daily. 

 

The King of the North would normally be in the front, leading the men as they sacked castles and won glory. Yet, for the past moon, he had been having strange dreams that caused him to wake up sweating. That would not have stopped him from fighting, however, yet those three ravens that arrived one after the other a fortnight ago… 

 

Dark wings, Dark words, indeed. Yet, at least one of them brought a smile to everyone’s lips. 

 

His sweet sister Sansa had somehow managed to escape the lion’s jaws and was now sailing North. Only his youngest sister, Arya, was missing, but he refused to believe she was dead. Robb prayed for her safety and hoped she would reappear, as she was wont to do after a long day of playing around in the Crypts.

 

If only the two other letters brought similarly good news. It shamed Robb, but when he heard of the Kingslayer’s escape, followed by the Ironborn capturing Moat Cailin, he had fallen ill from rage. Theon's treachery, the stress of leading a war, and his uncle's incompetence had caused him to be bedridden for the better part of a fortnight.

 

That did not mean he had remained idle, for even abed, he could lead and direct a war. Robb’s dreams had intensified, however, as he wore Grey Wind’s skin several times during his hunts and explorations. It took him some time, but the eldest son of Eddard Stark had accepted that he was a Warg. 

 

His men had spoken of him in whispered words of fear and awe as they witnessed his uncanny ability to control his direwolf. 

 

Thankfully, he recovered thanks to the Maester and that vixen who cared for him. The men took their commands to raid and pillage gleefully, allowing him to rest and recuperate in Ashemark. The castle’s central location to the rest of the Westerlands was a boon, as Robb directed his men to raid in every direction from the castle. Every castle north and east of Casterly Rock was ripe for the taking.

 

Another raven had just arrived from the Crag this morning. The Greatjon had taken the castle but complained about the lack of loot; only the Westerling’s eldest daughter was worth the trouble. Robb wasn’t sure he even wanted to know what that meant.

 

“Your Grace.”

 

Robb broke from his musings and glanced at his granduncle. He turned to his squire, Olyvar Frey, who looked abashed at allowing the Blackfish in without notifying him. The king let it pass; despite being similar in age, Olyvar had a lot more to learn compared to himself.

 

“Granduncle,” Robb greeted, schooling his face. “Olyvar, bring a platter of food for Ser Brynden.”

 

His squire scrambled away to fulfill the order, making Brynden chuckle. 

 

“Just call me Uncle,” the Blackfish clicked his tongue. “Granduncle just reminds me of my age.”

 

“As you wish,” Robb smiled and poured a mug of ale for his uncle, motioning for him to join him by the dining table. The Blackfish took a heavy gulp before gazing at him.  

 

“Scouts report that the footmen are halfway to the Golden Tooth,” the old knight sighed. “Edmure leads them as you commanded, but he requests more men.” 

 

“Uncle Edmure can be assured that his troops are more than enough for what I have planned. And the men he leads?”

 

“Aye, five hundred each of Blackwood’s finest archers and Flint men from Cape Kraken, with the rest all Tully men as you asked. However…”

 

“What is it, Uncle? You can speak your mind with me.”

 

Brynden still looked reluctant but forged on, “Are you punishing my nephew for allowing the Kingslayer to escape?”

 

Robb’s smile melted as his face went still as ice, “You are not accusing me of sending my uncle to his death.” It was a statement said in such a cold voice that even Robb felt like it was someone else saying it. His face softened at his uncle’s wary gaze.

 

“I don’t know what to think, Your Grace,” the knight muttered, suddenly finding the Lyseni vase in the corner very interesting.

 

Robb took half a minute to formulate his response carefully. The Blackfish was a capable knight, and it would not do to lose his loyalty over some petty misunderstandings.

 

“I was not pleased with the Kingslayer’s escape,” Robb admitted. “Yet that is not the reason. Uncle Edmure had still managed to cull Tywin Lannister’s precious Red Cloaks - nearly three hundred of his finest men-at-arms, knights, and veteran captains. Their lives are ultimately worthless compared to the loss of my most important hostage, but their loss makes the Lion of Lannister weaker.”

 

Truth be told, Robb was enraged. His blood boiled and burned at the sheer incompetence of the men in Riverrun to allow such an escape! He could almost hear Grey Wind howling in his mind as he vowed to capture Jaime Lannister once more. 

 

Yet a week abed had given him plenty of time to clear his mind and consider the implications. 

 

“With Sansa’s escape, he would have been executed if Tywin Lannister had not agreed to our demands,” Robb continued. “Recognition of our kingdom and indemnity for the war.”

 

Yet the wariness on Brynden Tully’s face was not yet gone. 

 

“Then for what reason would you have Edmure lead them himself?”

 

“Do not underestimate your nephew, Ser Brynden.” Robb’s patience was running thin from the constant defiance, “As heir to Riverrun, Uncle Edmure is expected to lead and command troops into battle. His prior record may be cause for concern, but I have full confidence in what I have in mind for him.”

 

The Blackfish must have noticed his clipped tone, for he nodded in acceptance before his gaze fell on the desk, specifically the sheathed axe head. “What’s this?”

 

Robb removed the sheathe and gave it to his awed uncle to examine. 

 

“Valyrian Steel!”

 

“Aye. The axehead is large enough to be placed on a short handle and used one-handed or on a pole to act as a poleaxe.” The axe was a thing of beauty; it had one blade in the shape of a crescent moon with its ends curving into spikes. On its opposite end was a smaller spike, and yet another spike protruded between them to form a spear’s tip. The metal was dark with the familiar smokey ripples that seemed to drink in all the light.

 

It showed the Blackfish was a veteran because he quickly gathered himself and placed the axe down. 

 

“Where did you get it?”

 

“Damon Dustin won it from some Sarsfield knight,” Robb explained, his eyes still lingering on the rippled metal that reminded him of Ice. “The fool leading the garrison thought he could beat Dustin and his men on the field and sallied out. He was mistaken.”

 

The cousin of the Late Willam Dustin had joined his army after the Whispering Woods with five hundred Barrow Knights and their squires. Barbrey Dustin had only sent him greybeards and greenboys, not even worthy of being fodder, yet Damon Dustin had rallied many of the knights and rode south once word of his victory reached them. He had joined him in the campaign in the Westerlands and had proven leal and reliable.

 

“I never knew that the Sarsfields owned a Valyrian Steel weapon.” The Blackfish inspected the axe and gave it a few experimental swings. “I know Archmaester Thurgood’s Inventories claim two hundred and twenty-seven Valyrian Steel blades could be found in Westeros. I have read the book several times, yet I do not recall any mentions of axes.”

 

“I’ve read it once as well. I believe the archmaester only counted swords, which is why this axe missed his purview.”

 

“And Dustin just gifted it to you?”

 

“It’s a poisoned gift, for the man wishes my support to supplant Barbrey Dustin as Lord of Barrowton.” Robb carefully returned the axe to its sheathe, “My father assured the widow of the late Lord Willam Dustin that she could live in the castle, as per the Widow’s Law, and even act as regent. Yet Damon claims that the woman had used that generosity to usurp the castle and its town with help from her maiden house, the Ryswells. Even now, she dares to claim one of her brothers as her heir without a blood claim on the land.”

 

“I remember Willam, a fine rider and lancer. Wicked with an axe, too.” The Blackfish smiled lightly before shaking his head, “I confess not to be knowledgeable about Northern politics, but if you had accepted the axe, does that mean…?”

 

Robb shrugged noncommittally. 

 

“The man only asked that I hear his grievances, and I have done so. I did not promise him anything, but truthfully, through the simplest of inquiries, I could tell that Barbrey Dustin is disliked by her people and has not impressed me. What use do I have for greybeard levies and green stable boys? But such a thing can wait after the war is won.”

 

Brynden nodded just as the door opened to allow Olyvar in, followed by a beautiful maiden with burning orange hair and amethyst eyes. 

 

They held a tray in hand and set it on the table; lamb chops, beef steak, onion and mushroom stew, and other vegetables, along with a large loaf of bread, were on the first tray. The other tray held finger foods, fritters, cake, and other delectable treats. There was enough food for four men, yet Robb was already feeling hungry again. He had eaten earlier but ever since he had recovered, his appetite had grown tremendously. 

 

“I thought you would also like to eat, so I brought more food, Your Grace .” 

 

The maiden’s melodic voice had him gulp, even as his eyes met the young woman’s smoldering amethysts. Damn that vixen; he wished he could confine her in her room, but this was her castle, and her Lord Father had surrendered peacefully. 

 

To imprison his daughter just because she was being helpful would be shameful. The woman was two years his senior, and it was a surprise that she remained unwed at twenty. She wore a modest dress that utterly failed to hide her lithe form, pert behind, and ripe teats. 

 

Even if she was seducing him, Robb could not afford to appear like a green boy. Just the thought of his lords gossiping about how their King banished a beautiful maiden because he could not hold himself from her presence was mortifying. 

 

Robb held Elaena Marbrand’s gaze for a few heartbeats, during which he had to do his damnedest not to let his eyes stray to her bountiful bosom and instead focus on her lightly freckled face. 

 

“I apologize for the trouble, Lady Elaena, for I am sure you resent fulfilling a servant’s duties.” Robb turned to his squire, who wilted under his gaze, “Or a squire’s.”

 

“No trouble at all, Your Grace. I was in the kitchens when your squire requested help. It was my pleasure to be of assistance. Now, is there anything else I could be of assistance?” The young woman curtsied, her head lowered, but her eyes twinkled as she stole a gaze at him. 

 

“… You may leave.” The maiden bowed again and left the solar with an extra sway of her shapely hips. Robb’s eyes lingered, but not before flinching when he heard her giggle as she glanced at him over her shoulders. 

 

Her coy smile did things to him. 

 

The moment she left, Brynden snorted in amusement, “That is one hungry chit if I ever saw one.”

 

“Uncle!”

 

“Don’t you uncle me, Robb. You've been too worn out lately with the war taking its toll on you. Bed the maiden if you like.” The Blackfish tore a piece of bread and dipped it in the stew and hummed in appreciation as he chewed it. “Your squire won't tattle if you go after the girl, will you lad?”

 

“N-No, Ser,” Olyvar looked reluctant but meekly nodded his head at his uncle’s gaze. “Many a lord and a king had taken a paramour in war, but–”

 

“Indeed, your father took plenty, didn’t he? Without ever going to war - Old Walder’s appetites are legendary.” Olyvar bristled yet looked away at Brynden’s unimpressed gaze. “Your father had one as well, Robb. Otherwise, how would he have begotten your bastard brother?”

 

“That does not mean I would do the same. Has it occurred to you that perhaps the lady is scheming something malicious?” Robb grabbed a lamb chop and tore a piece off the bones. 

 

His uncle froze as he stared at him strangely before chortling. 

 

“You’ve heard too many queer tales from the mummers, nephew. A maiden must safeguard her maidenhead, not the other way around. I'm not telling you to marry the lass; just don't promise her anything and do what you will, as long as she is willing.” Robb nodded in understanding, but that still did not mean– “Although, it would certainly be in poor taste to bed the daughter of the lord who surrendered his keep to you. Then again, unwed at her age, something must be amiss with her.” 

 

“What do we know of her?”

 

“Elaena Marbrand is Lord Damon’s only daughter from his second marriage.” Olyvar supplied stiffly, “Her mother, Ellyn Plumm, died in childbirth. I saw Lady Elaena in a tourney in King's Landing two years ago, and she stuck close to her brother, Ser Addam Marbrand, and Ser Jaime Lannister. As for why she remains unwed… I could not say.”

 

Robb frowned inwardly as he could tell his squire had grown mutinous from the conversation. Even if the Blackfish did not see an issue, Robb was betrothed to Olyvar’s sister.

 

“… Enough of this discussion, you are dismissed, Olyvar.” His squire nodded and left the solar to wait with the guards in the hallway. “Let us eat.”

 

Brynden nodded, and they descended on their meal like ravished wolves. 

 

Some time later, their bellies were sated, and they were nursing a second mug of ale when Brynden hesitantly asked. “Is going after the Golden Tooth wise, Robb?”

 

“Wise?” Robb chuckled. “Most likely not. But with Tywin Lannister abandoning his march westward in favor of courting the Tyrells, I have no choice.” 

 

That particular alliance had killed another of his plans before it could even begin. He stood and moved to the large oak desk, removing the clatter and latching the axe to his belt. He then spread a map of the Westerlands. 

 

“For too long, the central territories of the Westerlands depended on the Golden Tooth to stop any attacks from the east,” Robb ran his finger over the hills surrounding the Lefford Seat. “They had grown lazy and lax and their castles had fallen into disrepair; why bother spending their gold on crenelations and moats when the Golden Tooth was impregnable? They had no fear from coastal raids, for the Ironborn never raided so deep, and any invaders from the south would have to pass through many strong castles such as Crakehall and Silverhill.” 

 

“And to the north are the Iron cliffs overlooking Ironman’s Bay,” Brynden nodded. “Hundreds of feet high cliffs combined with the bay’s turbulent waters assure protection from the Ironborn.”

 

“Exactly. The lords from the Pendric Hills to the Western Hills need only provide the levies, men-at-arms, and knights as taxes to their liege and have them fight abroad during war, for they had never needed to fear retaliation. With their duties paid, they would not bother spending a Stag more on fortifications, for not even Tywin Lannister can command his vassals to open their coffers to fortify their castles.”

 

“It explains how we managed to take so many of the castles so easily,” The Blackfish’s words were laced with disdain. “Even with the lack of numbers, any of the castles should have been capable of delaying us by a bit, if not hold out against all odds. All the castles were fully stocked with supplies and foodstuffs from the long summer.”

 

“I shall not complain, for all the castles were rich with loot.” Robb shook his head as he glanced at the opulent solar they were in; the sheer extravagance that these Southron nobles surrounded themselves with astounded his Northern sensibilities. “The Lords had so much gold they simply spent it on frivolities and other luxuries instead of improving their household guard or investing in their lands. With Tywin Lannister calling their troops for the war and Stafford Lannister emptying the castles from their garrison, the Westerlands were virtually undefended. The only force remaining in the kingdom are the survivors of Oxcross, and they are camped outside Lannisport, too far to be a threat to anyone.” 

 

Robb grinned as he recalled how he took Ashemark; the moment Damon Marbrand saw his army approaching, the Lord surrendered without a fight.

 

“Tywin Lannister would not have wanted his vassals to improve their castles regardless. Do recall how he came to power,” Brynden added as he grabbed a finger food, some fritter too heavy for Robb's taste. “Not to mention the taxes on machicolations and the moats. Who knows what else Tywin had placed during his tenure as Hand is still in effect. I am not certain about the North, for your kingdom has always enjoyed a certain degree of autonomy, but in the South, the lords need permission from their liege to repair their keeps… it’s easier for them to build luxurious manors than fortify their keeps.”

 

“Which brings us to the only true fortress in this part of the Westerlands.” Robb moved his finger towards the Golden Tooth. “The castle is small, with only a single strong keep, and three towers, yet it commands the hill overlooking the road to the Riverlands. The road is close enough that any archers on the wall can pepper whoever would use it. Uncle, what are the scout’s reports on the castle’s defenders?”

 

“Not many, hardly three hundred men and a hundred more crossbows.” The Blackfish scratched his scraggly beard, “With its lord away in war with most of the men, only his heir and only daughter, Alysanne Lefford, remains in the castle. However, Ser Forley Prester was seen on the walls. That knight is stout and stubborn.”

 

“It makes no difference,” Robb tilted his head. “We shall need to take that castle to return to the Riverlands.” 

 

“I do not understand how you plan to take the Golden Tooth with just three thousand infantry, Robb. You have not even recalled the cavalry from their raiding. With only a thousand horsemen here, it's unfeasible to crack the tooth with only four thousand men!”

 

“Just as unfeasible as it was to capture the Kingslayer or bypass the Golden Tooth?” The king shot back before taking a calming breath, “I understand your concern, Uncle, and I assure you I have a plan. I need to verify a few things before I am confident in disclosing it, but we cannot afford to allow such an opportunity to pass us.” 

 

“What opportunity?” Brynden still looked confused, “Why do you desire that castle so much? I understand its strategic position, but–”

 

“Lord Leo Lefford was also slain a few weeks ago by Martyn Rivers when the fool chased after his outriders only to be ambushed. I personally gave the order to shadow Tywin’s army as they left the Riverlands, but I needed that man dead.” Robb explained coldly, his eyes glinting as his admittedly insane plan was coming to fruition. He had to remember his father’s teachings to learn the lay of the land for both sides of the battle - one with swords and the other with quills.

 

If only Ned Stark taught him for a couple of more years…

 

“That leaves Alysanne Lefford as Lady of the castle and all of its–” Suddenly, Brynden’s eyes widened, and his eyebrows rose to his hairline before bursting out in laughter. “Oh, you sneaky wolf. Whoever said you Starks did not have any cunning was blind as a bat.”

 

“What do you mean, Uncle? A wolf is always known for his cunning.” Robb grinned as his great uncle continued to laugh himself hoarse.

 

“Do you think Edmure would agree? He had remained unwed for so long, and he’s nearly thirty.” 

 

“He will not have a choice, for his King commands it.” Robb replied stiffly, causing Brynden to look at him seriously. “We need that flank secured, both legally and through conquest for years to come.”

 

“Very well,” His great uncle scratched at his chainmail, and Robb realized the man must be urging for a bath. “Who would stay in Ashemark to command the men and coordinate the raiding parties?”

 

“Lord Rickard Karstark shall do so. I have already sent a rider for him to return and gave him his orders. I have Damon Dustin nearby as well and can swiftly reinforce Lord Karstark, but I am confident that they shall be able to maintain the campaign.”

 

“Good, when do we march out?”

 

“In three days, Uncle Edmure should have the siege engines with him, so I shall give him a head start.”

 

Brynden Tully nodded resolutely, “Understood, Your Grace. What are my orders?”

 

“I shall have you lead the outriders to keep an eye on Daven Lannister’s army at Lannisport. I have no doubt that they shall stir once word of the siege reaches them. Hopefully, we could goad him into attacking Lord Karstark; I heard he had vowed never to shave until he killed Lord Rickard for killing his father.” 

 

“The young man is more likely to get lice if he isn’t careful,” Brynden shook his head before frowning. “Wasn’t his mother a Lefford?”

 

Robb arched his brow before checking an open book on the desk and nodding. “Indeed, the only sister to the late Leo Lefford. He has two sisters but they are of no consequence. Still, this might complicate matters… unless he is removed from the matter entirely.”

 

“My word, Robb. You seem to be gaining a talent for playing the game,” Robb grimaced as his great uncle’s tone was not flattering. “You remind me so much of my brother.”

 

“Not so much a talent than a necessity,” the King rubbed his brow as he decided to take the comparison to Hoster Tully as a compliment. “Disregarding all that intrigue and politicking, we need that pass in our hands to return to the Riverlands safely and with all our loot.”

 

“True. Well, Your Grace, if that would be all? I stink quite a bit from riding, if you wouldn’t mind?”

 

“You are dismissed, Ser Brynden.” Robb shook his head in amusement as his granduncle saluted and left the solar. He scribbled the order for his men to prepare to march and followed the Blackfish, handing the orders to his squire to spread the word.

 

Once Olyvar disappeared down the hallway, Robb turned the other way, shadowed by his four guards. While he was hesitant to create a Northern kingsguard because it was a Southron knightly order, a king still needed protection.

 

Robb’s footsteps echoed on the wooden flooring as he made his way down the steps and to the castle’s garden. The keep was small, yet it was beautiful in a way that a fort should have no right to. Instead of alcoves, large glass windows lined the hallways every ten or so feet allowing the sun’s rays to shine through… while also providing a large target for any intruder. The walls were adorned with portraits and tapestries of former lords and ladies of the castle. 

 

Before long, Robb found himself deep in the castle’s godswood.

 

“Wait for me outside.”

 

The guards nodded and stood guard around the small walled grove while Robb continued until he found the heart tree of the castle. It was a sad sight, for he had learned the meaning of the Marbrand sigil; the burning tree symbolized the House forswearing their heathen ways when they adopted the Faith of the Seven and the burning of their castle’s ancient Weirwood. Surprisingly, the stump remained, and Robb sat on the slightly blackened yet impossibly wide stump. How large had the heart tree been before?

 

The King of the North had taken every chance he got to rest in the Godswood, especially after his dreams had begun. It usually helped in bonding with Grey Wind as well, and even as he thought about it, Robb closed his eyes and found himself welcoming blissful slumber.

.

.

.

He sat patiently as he watched the stone pile - castle his human had taught him. The direwolf blended with the gray cliff, and none of the humans on the walls could hope to see him. His eyes, however, focused on the hills over the castle. They were steep, even for his surefooted paws, let alone for the two legged humans. Grey Wind had watched over the castle for the past few weeks, his human joining him occasionally as they searched for a weak point in the castle.

 

Suddenly, movement on the far side of the hill caught his attention, and Grey Wind rolled out his tongue in excitement. It was her! The direwolf loped down the cliff and away from the castle as he followed the she-wolf that had visited him several times in the past week. 

 

She glanced at him lazily before heading deeper into the hills and the mountains. His human was grumbling in his mind, but Grey Wind was bored after days of doing nothing but watching a boring castle. His human tried to steer him away, but Grey Wind was stubborn, and finally, his human let him have his fun.

 

As Grey Wind followed the she-wolf through a meandering path up and down the mountain, he suddenly found himself on a ledge overlooking the castle. He was high up, and he could feel his human’s excitement for something. Grey Wind, however, had eyes only for the she-wolf as she wiggled her tail at him, and he could feel his blood boil. Within a few heartbeats, he was pouncing on the bitch who nibbled at him playfully, and then–

.

.

.

Robb woke up with a start, feeling heat rushing through his body and to his groin. He groaned loudly as he felt light-headed, yet his member was rock-hard under his breeches. The young man’s blood sang as the echoes of the direwolf mating with the she-wolf resonated in his mind, and Robb clawed out of his clothes to allow himself more air to breathe. 

 

Fuck, he should not have done that…warging was already a dangerous thing to do, but he wagered warging into his bondmate when he was in mating sounded foolish in hindsight. Yet how in the seven hells would he have known about it anyway?

 

Robb tiredly stood up, hoping to quickly retire to his room, before the sound of a twig snapping had him whirling with a snarl… only to find the shocked face of Elaena Marbrand holding a basket of flowers.

 

“Y-Your Grace! I didn’t realize you were here. I’ve been here so long, how could I not notice–” Her gaze fell to his groin, and her eyes widened, and she licked her lips. “Mayhaps I have stumbled at the wrong time?”

 

The King was breathing heavily; his tunic lay abandoned on the ground, showing a muscled physique, while his breeches were half off. The Marbrand Maiden placed her basket on the ground as she approached him, her hand unbuttoning her dress, “Would you like to–”

 

All thoughts and reason seemed to flee Robb’s mind as he grabbed the maiden’s supple body and sealed her lips with his own. 

 

Elaena quickly reciprocated, and within moments, he had her on the weirwood stump, her dress ripped, his hands on her teats, and his cock shoved deeply inside her. The last thing Robb remembered before he entered a frenzy was the girl’s wicked grin, her laughing amethyst eyes, and the sweet nothings she whispered in his ear as they rutted with abandon. He finished inside her again and again, his seed mixing with her blood as it dripped into the stump below. Soon, the chit’s devilish smile melted as tired moans of ecstasy slipped from her red lips as her eyes were rolled.

 

He did not know how long he took the girl, but it did not matter. She was his now, and his blood sang for this…even as he seeded her again, the moon shining brilliantly above them. Embracing her tightly, Robb continued to sate his lust inside the nubile form of Elaena Marbrand, the exhausted girl weakly kissing him with passion.

 

A*H*M

 

27th Day of the 7th Moon.

The Bite,

Myrcella Baratheon.

 

Life on the Silver Lady had been eventful over the past few weeks. 

 

As she had feared, Sansa Stark was not the most merciful when they met. Cella and Rosa had to learn the hard way how to do chores befitting servants. For good or bad, Myrcella could now knead the dough into a shape that sort of resembled bread. 

 

And while she would never admit it out loud, it was… fun.

 

“Cella, the cake is burning!”

 

Roused from her thoughts by Rosa’s cry, Myrcella grimaced as she quickly removed the thin pastry from the pan, only to flinch as it burned her fingers. Still, she managed to drop it on a side plate and scrubbed away the burned parts with a fork.

 

“Thanks for the save, Rosa.”

 

Rosamund nodded as she busily whisked away at the eggs in the bowl before pouring them into a pan of melted butter. 

 

It was interesting to learn all the ways one could cook eggs and how to use a stove. Perseus, or Percy as he insisted on being called, took his time to teach them how to cook, especially that thin, fluffy bread he called pancakes. Those were yummy, particularly when doused in honey. Speaking of, she added another mixture to the pan and stood next to Rosa, who was making what Percy called Ohmlet. 

 

She was sure it was pronounced that way.

 

Myrcella frowned as she realized she had been speaking in that foreigner’s strange language, even in her mind. It certainly had a catchy rhythm. Thinking about Percy had her wondering about what happened yesterday.

 

Sansa waking up suddenly scared them, yet they had yet to see that monster in the waves… For once, Myrcella was grateful for Percy’s presence, else that sea serpent would have eaten them whole, probably with the ship! 

 

Her thoughts went back to her dreams. They were always the same - waking up as a golden cat, playing around with a nice old man who just gave the best scratches and kept feeding her fish. Seven above, Myrcella didn’t even like fish… 

 

A silly smile appeared on her face before she remembered the stove in front of her. Flipping the pancakes, she couldn’t help but recall a voice in her head when the ships suddenly started moving again. Cella had been afraid.

 

It took her a while to pinpoint where the fear stemmed from and why it did not go away. She was afraid of going North, never seeing her family again, and feared losing Rosa… but most of all, she was afraid of being alone.

 

When those pirates snuck onboard, that kindly voice in her head warned her, and Myrcella was glad that Sansa took her seriously. Grabbing whatever weapons they had, Cella still blushed at how foolish she had been to take this very pan to defend herself instead of a knife, as Sansa did. At least it was better than Rosa’s rolling pin. Regardless, fighting off those pirates was both satisfying and terrifying.

 

“Are you done, Cella? Let’s take the food to the deck.”

 

Rosa’s nudge on her side had her empty the last of the pancakes, and they took the plates to the deck, where Sansa and Percy had a table set. The morning sun was hidden behind a cloud.

 

“There you are. I’m starving.”

 

Myrcella had barely placed down the plate of pancakes before Percy poured honey on it and ravenously devoured them, his face twisted in pleasure as he moaned in delight. She might not have gotten used to the demigod, but the fact he appreciated her cooking made her feel very proud of herself… even if she thought he was going overboard with those obscene sounds.

 

“Knock it off, Percy. You’re making the food taste weird.”

 

Sansa had a plate of ohmylet, or whatever Percy called it, on the table as she gestured for her and Rosa to sit. 

 

“You girls just don’t understand the awesomeness of pancakes. If I had some blueberries, I could have made you blue pancakes! Now, if only there were maple syrup as well…not sure if it exists here.”

 

They stared strangely at Percy as he gobbled up the rest of the meal, before he stared at the two men tied at the mast, who looked on hungrily. “Easy there, boys, we are a few hours away from the city. I’m sure they will have a nice warm cell and a Happy Meal for you.”

 

Happy meal? It sounded good, but it was said with a lilt of amusement.

 

Cella was unsure what he meant but focused on her food. She also had pancakes and added a generous amount of honey, causing Percy to nod in approval. “So, what did you mean by syrup?”

 

“Oh, there’s this tree back home that grows in cold places. Its sap can be collected and turned into syrup through some process I haven’t a clue about. Either way,” he raised his voice when she was about to interrupt on how he wouldn’t know. “It is sweet, sticky and just goes so well with pancakes.”

 

Cella glanced at Sansa and Rosa, finding the former smiling fondly at the powerful warrior while the latter enjoyed her egg dish. 

 

Yet the Stark maiden had paused.

 

“Percy, I think I know what you are talking about. Maple trees, right?”

 

Percy’s green eyes seemed to glow as he beamed, “You have them here?”

 

“They are common in the North, and the honey made from it is more accessible than bee’s honey due to the cold.”

 

“Sweet! Once we get to that city, I’ll get a batch and maybe see if I can cook some donuts.”

 

“What’s a donut?” Rosa whispered beside her, but Myrcella could only shrug helplessly as she stared at Sansa gazing at the man. How she looked at Percy reminded Cella of how her mother looked at Uncle Jaime. 

 

She sighed sadly, to think Sansa would only see Percy as a brother after all he had done for her.

 

Suddenly, Sansa stood from her seat, her smiling face turning serious, causing everyone to follow suit. “ Beauty sees ships coming. Manderly ships.”

 

They followed Sansa’s gaze as she stared at the distant cliffs. They had sailed past Old Castle last night and had encountered many merchant vessels going in and out of White Harbor, yet Sansa had them avoid contact with any of them. Myrcella agreed; many of them were Essosi, and she would rather not deal with the foreigners.

 

Now, however, they could see three ships sailing towards them from the direction of the city, with Sansa’s Moon Hawk flying overhead. White Harbor was still about twenty miles into that strait, so it was no surprise that a Manderly patrol would approach them. Sansa had the direwolf banner fluttering proudly on the mast above. 

 

Yet, it doubtlessly attracted a lot of attention.

 

No ships ever flew the Stark banners now because House Stark had no fleet for many centuries. Funnily enough, that meant that Sansa was the first Stark to command her fleet, albeit small. 

 

The hawk screeched once before looping around and softly landing on Sansa’s shoulder. 

 

The bird was incredibly pretty. Moon Hawks were extremely difficult to catch, for they nested in the highest peaks of the Mountains of the Moon. It is said the Arryn falcon was inspired by them. Even those who were caught could not be tamed for some reason. Myrcella had only seen the stuffed body of one of them, which paled in comparison to the noble bird before her. To think Sansa received it as a gift from the Maiden herself! 

 

Myrcella would not deny being jealous, yet that kind voice in her head encouraged her to be patient.

 

Once the three ships approached them enough to hear, a bell clanged several times.

 

Alas, nobody on the ship was versed in naval matters.

 

Percy, who was the one who should know stuff like this, looked rather confused,  “Are they trying to signal us?”

 

“Maybe,” Sansa squinted. “Stop the ship, Percy. These are my brother’s bannermen. I have no fear from them.”

 

Percy did as told, and all three ships stopped, their sails furling and tying themselves. It always amazed Myrcella to see the demigod’s work; she still could not wrap it around her head that Perseus was a literal son of a god. It would be far harder to conceive such a notion if he had not shown he could do the impossible again and again.

 

Even after having more than a sennight to get used to the notion, Myrcella’s mind was boggled. Yes, everyone believed in the gods, but they were something distant, far away. Not… going around and siring monsters like Percy!

 

Still, Sansa had ingrained the importance of keeping that a secret. Neither her nor Rosa were allowed to even hint at Percy’s parentage to anyone. Myrcella had no reason to disobey that particular order; people would think her mad anyway. Better for them to assume Percy was some sorcerer from a far away land.

 

Soon, the leading ship approached them, and they could see a long line of marines holding axes and short swords, some even holding bows. They were led by a hard-faced man in chainmail with the Manderly sigil on his surcoat.

 

“Who dares fly the Stark banner?” The man’s booming voice echoed through the gulf; definitely a soldier used to making his voice heard.

 

Sansa walked to the rails, her back straight and her face like ice. “It is I, Sansa of House Stark. I recognize you, Ser Medrick Manderly, from when my father, Eddard Stark, visited White Harbor years ago.”

 

For a moment, Myrcella worried that the man did not recognize Sansa as he scrutinized her. Then, the knight’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened as he finally found his voice. “Princess Sansa. You are alive!”

 

“Indeed I am, good Ser, and I bring more with me than just myself.” Sansa glanced at her, and Myrcella was reminded that despite all they had been through, they were still hostages. “Nevertheless, I request you lead us back to the city. I am sure Lord Wyman would be glad to meet with me.”

 

“Forsooth, Princess. Men, make way for the Princess’ ships!” It spoke of how much presence Sansa commanded that the knight did not even question how three ships could sail with no sailors onboard. 

 

Still, Myrcella wasn't concerned with that. She looked forward to finally returning to solid ground.

 

“What in the Seven Hells is that?!”

 

The sudden exclamation came from the sailors as the ship carrying the monster’s corpse passed them by. Percy grinned as he stood beside Sansa, “That could be dinner or maybe breakfast. It depends on how fast you get us to the city.”

 

 

Notes:

OC list increases in size: Elaena Marbrand, Damon Dustin, and Medrick Manderly.

Magic awakening affects people in all sorts of different ways…like Robb accidentally warging into Grey Wind when he was mating with his girlfriend…and that feedback causes Robb to go full sex mode on a very suspicious woman.

Anyone guesses to Robb’s plan in taking the Golden Tooth? I left enough hints, I think.

Damon Dustin is the son of Willam Dustin’s uncle, who “was good with an axe” according to the wiki. I have no idea how Barbrey Dustin was allowed to rule a castle that was not hers when she provided no heirs for her husband. The Widow’s laws only allow the widows to reside in the castle and get a stipend from the lord; nothing about them ruling.

Finally, the crew arrives in White Harbor.

Chapter 10: Epiphanies

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

---

The Gulf leading to White Harbor.

Percy

 

After meeting with the Manderly ships, Percy led their small fleet up the narrow gulf to where he could see the distant city of White Harbor. The White Gulf was aptly named; it was surrounded by white cliffs and white sand beaches. 

 

Even the waves were white! 

 

The Merman Knight who joined them on the ship explained that while the Bite didn't freeze in winter, the snow would make everything look white regardless. The water also had a higher-than-normal salt content, which helped keep it flowing in winter.

 

Medrick Manderly was a decent sort, but Percy could tell he did not trust him. He didn't mind; he was an outsider and a sorcerer , and making a name for himself would be enough to gain their trust. 

 

Besides, it's pretty damn cool how they wore mermen on their sigil, though he thought they needed more blue in their outfits. Green was alright, but it wasn’t half as cool as blue.

 

The merman and his trident in the banner were familiar, however.

 

Their escort was joined by more ships as they sailed closer to the city, and all of them were instructed to keep their distance. Sansa did not want many people to know of his powers, and had requested the Manderly knight have some of his most trusted men stationed on the Seaswift and the Crimson Gale.  

 

Naturally, they were utterly freaked out when the ships didn't have any sailors and even more so when Percy had them moving with a wave of his hands. He didn't need the hand wave, but let it not be said he did not enjoy a prank… or a jest, as the Westerosi called it.

 

Surprisingly, the Northmen didn't gawk too much over the sea monster; they were a pragmatic lot that easily believed and adapted to what was in front of them. They continued with no qualms after sending a fast ship ahead to notify the city lord.

 

Now, they were approaching the so-called White Harbor, and Percy whistled at the sight from the porthole.

 

“Impressed?”

 

He turned to Sansa as she sent Myrcella away, the girl bowing before grabbing her Not-twin as they left the quarters for the deck. They were in the Captain’s quarters, and the blonde girl was helping Sansa braid her luscious red locks into a long French braid, though they called it the Northmarch braid here. 

 

The redheaded princess approached him by the window, and Percy inspected her dress appreciatively. She had been busy sewing it herself over the past few weeks; it was a modest yet classy gray with blue motifs of wolves, trouts, and a single large bird of prey over her breast that she added at the last minute.

 

Beauty was out flying somewhere, and Percy thought it was wicked how Sansa’s eyes randomly glowed and she could tell what the hawk was seeing.

 

“It’s definitely cleaner and smells nicer than King’s Landing.” Percy shrugged as he whistled at a colony of seals on an islet. The water doggies barked and clapped happily as he waved at them. “It’s quite smaller, though.”

 

“While it is considered the smallest of the five major cities of Westeros, it's still the largest city in the North with a population of at least fifty thousand. That’s only in summer, for in winter, that number more than doubles.”

 

“Sure, sure. That's very impressive.” Percy had no wish to insult the lovely girl. No need to tell her that the city, while about the same size as Manhattan, still had fewer people than his city block. 

 

Sansa glanced his way as if she could tell he was patronizing her.

 

Percy coughed and changed the topic, “What should we expect from that merman lord? Do you trust him?”

 

She blinked and stared at the city as they waited for the harbor to flag them for docking. There were some delays as they waited for the lord to arrive, and so they opted to wait in their quarters.

 

“He is loyal.”

 

“I'm sure he is, but would he listen to you? No offense, but to him, you're just a little girl who is way over her head. I’m sure he could be loyal yet keep you protected in some nice room while he does his own thing.”

 

Sansa shook her head as a cold glint formed in her eyes. “I shall not be treated as a child. As a Lady of House Stark, I am owed certain liberties, and as Princess of the North, that comes with authority. Considering my home lacks a solid regent with my brother Robb fighting in the South, I am confident I'll be able to sway Lord Manderly to my side.”

 

“What about your other brothers?”

 

“Bran is crippled, and Rickon is too young to lead.” The red-haired girl smiled sadly, “I love them both to death, but the North needs someone capable of making decisions at the helm.”

 

“Even if it's a girl?”

 

“My mother always said a woman can rule as well as any man. Besides, it won't matter if I have you by my side.”

 

Sansa’s gaze refused to meet his eyes as she stubbornly looked at the approaching docks, though a flush crept up her pale neck. 

 

Percy’s mouth went dry as his brain untangled her last word.

 

“…Is that a proposal?”

 

“Yes….” it was barely a whisper. So quiet that even Percy’s sharp senses almost lost it in the sea breeze.

 

“Sure,” the words left his mouth before his thoughts caught up. His ears reddened when he realized what he had just agreed to. Yet… yet, he would.

 

Sansa, however, whipped her head and looked at him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.

 

“Wait! Are you… jesting?”

 

“What?” Percy raised his hands. “No. I… kinda thought about it before.” 

 

His father’s laughter echoed in his mind, full of pride…and amusement.

 

“About marriage?” She raised her eyebrow.

 

He bobbed his head.

 

“Yeah. Uhh… if it’s you, I don’t mind,” he finished lamely. Way to go, Percy; you achieved the lamest wedding agreement ever. 

 

Sansa lunged at him, and he was suddenly very well aware of the two generous globes pressing to his chest as two dainty hands grabbed his face and a pair of red lips sealed his mouth.

 

Percy was pretty sure he saw fireworks behind his eyes as thunder rumbled in the distance. His mind turned blank, but his hands were already embracing Sansa’s willowy figure, as his mouth was trying to plunder hers for everything it was worth.

 

This was his first real kiss… aside from that chaste one with Rachel that felt like a million years ago.

 

It was sweet, too sweet, and he couldn’t nearly get enough of it. 

 

‘Control your powers, son,’ his father whispered, and he became all the more aware of that tangible pull behind his navel as the blue sky was being choked with clouds. 

 

Reluctantly, Percy pried his limbs off Sansa as they both gasped for breath, though his exhaustion stemmed from his attempt to thwart the budding storm he had just created. 

 

“Sweet Maiden.” Her words were breathless and her face was as red as a tomato. But her eyes now looked at him with desire and… lust. “I wanted to do that for too long.”

“Me too,” he admitted with a silly smile. Though, a fire now burned inside him, making its way down to his loins. Percy had to physically suppress his desire to tear off Sansa’s dress and bend her over here and now for all to see. 

 

“So… marriage,” Sansa muttered shyly after she took a breather. “You would wed me?”

 

“Yes,” Percy admitted. His shoulders felt lighter as if a burden he never knew was there disappeared. Yet… a new one, a different weight, settled upon him.

 

‘It’s the weight of responsibility, my son,’ his father supplied. ‘The weight of your words and promises. Breaking it hurts.’ 

 

Percy grimaced. His father definitely knew about breaking vows of all sorts, including his wedding ones.

 

Sansa’s face also twisted into a grimace.

 

“What of your kin? Your mother, your cousins, your friends back home? I do not think I can follow you there.”

 

“I can’t go back,” he muttered weakly. “I suppose I’m staying with you if you’d have me.”

 

‘You can always bed her a few times and go exploring the world!’ His father’s enthusiastic proposal was also ignored. His mother had taught him better than that.

 

“That’s so sad,” Sansa quickly hugged him. “In that case, let's talk details.”

 

“Uh… the ceremony?” Percy scratched his nose dumbly.

 

“No, any ceremony will be handled by me,” Sansa’s predatory smile sent butterflies through his stomach. “Marital obligations, duties, titles, and how we must present this before others.”

 

Percy’s head began to hurt.

.

.

.

Half an hour later, his mind had turned to mush and not in a pleasant way. After a painfully long talk, Percy had agreed to technically fulfill the role of Sansa’s consort to leverage her royal position. Etiquette, obligations, duties, and a bunch of things he had already forgotten.

‘You chose to marry a princess, son,’ Poseidon chortled in his mind. ‘At least this lass seems to know what she’s doing, and she has ambition to spare. A good pick, as I said.’

 

“So the goal is to get to Winterfell,” Percy tiredly rubbed his face.  “And then, uh… take the reins of the North from your young brothers?”

 

“Indeed,” Sansa bobbed her head with a wide smile. Though, he did not mind how she clung to his arm or how her chest pressed to his side. “Bran… Bran is a sweet boy but too young and a cripple. Rickon is even younger and more unruly. What would they know of running a kingdom?”

 

Did he just agree to help his betrothed usurp her brothers?

 

‘No, Sansa is not trying to supplant her kingly brother. Only, she’s confident to consolidate the North with your backing - young children are easily led astray by advisors or deceived by foes.’

 

That lessened the uncomfortable tangle in his gut. 

 

“So, we’re now officially betrothed,” Percy coughed awkwardly. “Didn’t you say earlier that parents negotiate such stuff?”

 

‘I give you my blessing, Percy! I’m sure Sally would love Sansa if she could see her.’ Poseidon’s words were almost reassuring. But the nervousness returned like a wrecking ball; he was not ready to be a father or a husband. He was barely sixteen!

 

“Indeed, but I’ve decided to elope with this dashing hero who saved me,” Sansa smiled coyly. “And then bring him back home.” 

 

Percy ran a hand through his messy hair.

 

“What about the wedding, then?”

 

“In White Harbor. Lord Manderly won’t be able to stop us, I’d say.”

 

‘The fangs of her! Oh, my boy, the feisty ones are the best in bed-’

 

‘Enough, Dad!’ Percy had to fight the heat rising to his cheeks again. 

 

Well, the marriage was in the bag.

 

He didn’t mind spending the rest of his life with Sansa. She was hot, fun to be around, and with a heart of gold if sometimes ruthless. 

 

Now, he only had to fight her wars, or well, her elder brother’s wars. Percy had agreed to wed into House Stark, which meant their children would keep Sansa’s family name while he kept his. He wasn’t particularly fond of his Jackson surname, which stemmed from a grandfather he had never seen. 

 

Besides, he could still carry his mother’s family name and did not mind if his children followed in his footsteps. House Stark was the stuff of legends if even a quarter of what Sansa had told him was true.

 

‘It’s the blood that matters,’ his father had said.

 

It was an ambitious move, for usually only ruling ladies had consorts. Yet Sansa had no lands to her name, and neither did Percy. He wasn’t worried about wealth with his abilities, so they would never remain homeless. Once the war ended, he’d take her on the Silver Lady , and they would travel the world together before settling on some nice sunny island. 

 

Let her brother deal with all that nonsense that comes with ruling.

 

Yet it was now official. He had… given up on going home. A small part of him clung to hope, but if his powerful and wise divine father could not see a way back, how could silly Percy do it?

 

Perhaps everyone back home would be better off without him. Everyone did call him a troublemaker. At least there were no monsters here to be attracted to his scent like hellhounds to a piece of steak. Not having to be on guard constantly was a blessing and a relief he would never get tired of.

 

If only he could at least see his mother one last time… to tell her that he loved her and hear her telling him the same. His Dad might have joked about it, but Percy was certain that Sally Jackson would have loved Sansa, and he wished she could be there at the wedding.

 

In the end, his only regret was that he couldn’t say goodbye to his mother. Sally was the best mother, and she deserved to know that he was fine instead of worrying…

 

A small part of Percy’s mind that sounded suspiciously like Annabeth asked if he was thinking with his dick.

 

Percy wasn’t the smartest guy, but surely his father would have told him if that was the case, right? 

 

His gaze once again settled on Sansa. Her eyes were bright blue, her waist was lithe, her chest more than big, and her hips shapely in a way that made his mouth water. And she would be his very soon. Yeah… being married didn’t sound so bad, even with all the extra baggage. 

 

A knock on the door ruined the moment as the old Manderly knight announced himself. 

 

“Princess, My Lord.” Medrick nodded politely to him, and Percy felt strange to be addressed with such politeness; only horses and fish called him lord. “We are preparing to dock. Would you be joining us on the deck?”

 

“Brilliant,” Sansa let go of him as he grabbed Ice, strapped it on his back, and tied the shield to the sheath before allowing the girl to hook her arms with his. 

 

Myrcella and Rosamund joined them on the deck, although they attempted to hide behind Sansa. 

 

The red-haired maiden leaned on his shoulders and murmured, “Lord Manderly is on the docks. He's that very fat blonde man.”

 

“The one who looks like a meal away from a heart attack?” 

 

The lord in question looked winded as if he had sprinted all the way here. There were two young women with him, nearly a hundred armored soldiers led by another girl, and a sizeable crowd of townsfolk who looked on with interest.

 

“That's the one, but be nice!” Sansa nudged him as he grinned. “The Northmen mislike outsiders. If I am to introduce you as my betrothed, I will need you to make a strong first impression while keeping your powers as secret as possible.”

 

“A strong impression, you say?” Percy grinned as he willed their three ships towards the empty pier and inspected the docks. “I have just the thing in mind.”

 

A*H*M 

 

Earlier,

New Castle.

Wyman

 

“You are certain of this?”

 

“Without a doubt, my lord. My cousin was a sailor on the Boldwind and managed to escape the Imp’s mad scheme for the defense of King's Landing.”

 

Wyman Manderly stroked his beard as he processed what the merchant’s son had told him. 

 

Mathos Redstone of Gulltown had been a reliable source of information since Wyman saved him from a misunderstanding with the port authorities some twenty-five years ago. Since then, the merchant's family and his associates have fed him important information consistently in return for trading rights and other perks.

 

Especially during wartime, knowledge of the realm was worth gold. 

 

The newly independent Kingdom of the North and the Trident had lost many trade routes with the now hostile kingdoms. Yet that only served to make their existing connections stronger, and the Vale being the closest kingdom and also neutral made that even better. The late and lamented Lord Eddard Stark’s time in the kingdom had endeared many of the Vale lords to the Northmen.

 

Against all odds, White Harbor had gained a significant boost in trade and population; refugees and those seeking their fortune away from the other kingdoms found White Harbor to be a haven.

 

Anders was the third son of Mathos and the captain of his own ship, and this was his second voyage to White Harbor before continuing North to Karhold then east to Bravos and all the way to Ibb. He carried shipments of beeswax and honey from the south of Vale, precious stones and blocks of marble from northern Vale… as well as news from the south. 

 

The Redstones had lofty positions in the Gulltown merchant's guild, yet they were not nobles but hailing from a natural lineage of House Shett. 

 

Nevertheless, the guilds had their own methods of communication and resources to rival nobles. Their extensive use of carrier pigeons allowed Mathos to send word of the happenings in the south to his son, who was in Coldwater at the time.

 

Naturally, Wyman wanted a piece of that delicious pie. Using the debt owed, he had Mathos’ daughter marry his captain of the guards, Rodwell Long, and also played mediator for White Harbor’s merchant's guild to form connections with the Vale merchants. 

 

Rodwell’s hesitance to marry a lowly merchant’s daughter melted when the buxom lass gifted him three strong boys and two comely girls. 

 

The generous dowry also helped.

 

So far, this arrangement had been a massive boon to him, yet this particular bit of information, while interesting, was not valuable enough for Wyman to reward him. 

 

Tales and Ravens had been sent to the North with the bounty on Sansa Stark’s head; he suspected the Imp’s hand in the insidious plot, for he had heard plenty of terrible rumors about him. 

 

Setting the Northmen against the Starks with an insanely high reward on their princess’ head, like she was some common brigand - the tales of sorcery might cause fear in the South, but the North were Stark Men first and foremost.

 

Yet that was not his only concern. Wyman had received ravens from the Lannisters with promises to release his heir, Wylis, in return for their loyalty. It burned him to be forced to choose between his son and his liege, yet the choice was simple. 

 

Wylis himself would sooner fall on his sword rather than dishonor their house with treachery.

 

Anders merely confirmed what he already knew and provided further details he had missed, such as the confirmation of the sorcerer in Sansa Stark’s employ, his features and powers, and their destination.

 

Here, White Harbor.

 

Wyman was naturally ecstatic for the safety of the Princess, yet the lass was expected to arrive in at least ten more days. 

 

The northern winds of the small summer allowed swift progress for any ship sailing south, yet the opposite was true for those sailing north. Nevertheless, he awaited Sansa’s arrival and looked forward to meeting the sorcerer Perseus and judging his character.

 

For now, he needed to finish with the lad quickly so he could greet his unannounced yet not unwelcome visitor.

 

“What else have you found out?”

 

The young captain looked hesitant before pulling out a scroll from his pocket. 

 

“My father was not sure if you would find this interesting, but you did ask for anything that might be connected to the North.”

 

It was a raven’s scroll and had a short message on it.

 

To the Sweetest Sister. Wolfhunt before Bite. Secure her in DF. Snow will cover.

 

His blood grew cold as he read the brief message. The words made little sense without understanding the codes but it was not the words that worried him - it's the handwriting. 

 

Wyman Manderly had always read and written his correspondence and kept all raven scrolls for safekeeping. Many lords preferred to have their maesters and scribes write and receive their messages, yet he found that foolish.

 

Especially since his own Maester Theomore was born Theomore Lannister of Lannisport. Maesters were supposed to serve the seat they were sworn to, but Wyman knew blood ran thicker than words. Yet it was better to keep the devil you knew close. He was aware of Theomore and continued feeding him information he would think vital, but were merely smoke.

 

Something told him that he should recognize that thin handwriting, but he couldn't recall for the life of him.

 

“How did you come upon this scroll?”

 

“A few weeks ago, a merchant associate came upon a sickly raven on his way back from the Riverlands.” Anders rubbed his chin as he read a note, presumably from his father. “The raven was one of those larger northern breeds, and the man swore he saw a group of Northmen patrolling nearby. He was on his ship, you see, and they couldn't do anything when they saw him sailing past.”

 

“And what sigil did they wear?”

 

“He claimed they wore no sigil, but they looked, begging your pardon for what I will say milord, but they looked like savages. According to him, milord.”

 

Wyman stifled a smirk as the young captain shifted uneasily. “No harm done, my good man. Now, where did he find the scroll again?”

 

“Near Darry. The Northmen were besieging it at the time, though we don’t know of the outcome. He believes the raven must have gotten lost in that ash cloud from Dragonstone.”

 

Darry was under Lannister control, but the Northern army was close. Wyman was unaware they were ordered to take the castle; the last bit of information he received was Tywin Lannister marching south, Edmure Tully marching west and Roose supposedly sieging Harrenhal. Perhaps, different orders were given? 

 

For a moment, Wyman worried that Tywin Lannister might have agents in the North, but that was ludicrous. Besides, the handwriting differed from what he knew of the Old Lion’s and his brother's as he kept their correspondence safe in his solar.

 

Northmen who looked like savages… that wasn't much of a clue for the Southrons saw everyone above the Neck as barbarians. Nevertheless, it was enough to suspect foul play from a Northern lord, and Wyman’s bias screamed it was the Leech Lord.

 

Considering his woes with the Bolton Bastard, the Lord of New Castle worried that there was a conspiracy afoot. He shook his head inwardly; there was caution, and then there was paranoia. Ramsay Snow would get his due for what he did to his dear cousin Donella, but Wyman would not go chasing after red herrings.

 

He stared at the scroll in his meaty hand and stroked his beard again. The handwriting was definitely familiar, and he decided to compare it with other scrolls later. 

 

Recalling the man’s words, It was possible that whoever sent the raven would realize that it was intercepted and would send another message. The main issue, however, was they had no idea where the message was going if he could perhaps find a way to decipher the code. 

 

“Who else knows of this?”

 

“The merchant, my father who purchased it from him, and anyone else he told.”

 

The Lord of White Harbor calmly pocketed the scroll and decided he would need to think on the matter later.

 

“You have done well bringing this to me. We will discuss more later, but for now, you can use my warehouse for your shipment, and to load your supply of seasoned timber.” He handed the lad an already prepared document. “Give this to my cousin, Marlon. He will know what to do.”

 

Anders nodded gratefully and was led outside the side chamber by a guard. Wyman turned to another door where Rodwell Long, his captain of the guards, waited.

 

“My Lord, the court is waiting.”

 

“Let us go then, Ser.”

 

Rodwell opened the door for him, and they found themselves in the Merman’s Court. The hall was full of his people, and his granddaughters had just led his guest to the hall's center. 

 

Wyman walked purposely to his cushioned throne but did not sit. He smiled at his guest with open arms.

 

“Lord Jojen Reed, I am honored. It is a pleasure to meet you again so soon.”

 

“The pleasure and honor is mine, my lord. White Harbor is as beautiful as my father told me.”

 

Young Jojen looked far healthier since Wyman last saw him at the harvest feast. He stood straight and confidently. His green eyes were bright, and he had a serene smile. The skin on his face lacked the sickly pallor that plagued him. 

 

Wyman frowned inwardly, for he was told Jojen had arrived with his sister and more men. Yet here he stood, the heir of Greywater Watch, completely alone. 

 

“And I shall always welcome a son of Howland Reed in my halls. Wylla.”

 

His granddaughter understood and quickly grabbed a tray of bread and salt from a table and offered it to the young man. Jojen smiled gratefully as he tore a piece of bread in half and sprinkled salt on it before eating it. 

 

“Guest right is invoked.” Wyman’s smile widened as he descended the steps to stand before the young Crannogman. “Now, tell me, are you here as heir to Greywater Watch? Or a representative of Winterfell? Does it have to do with the considerable retinue you have brought?”

 

“I come by the order of the Stark of Winterfell.” Jojen’s serene smile did not waver as his voice echoed in the hall, “Our newly independent kingdom is under threat from within and without. Already, the Ironborn have taken Moat Cailin and are reaving their way to Barrowton.”

 

The mention of the reavers filled his hall with worried clamor. The Squids had taken them unawares with the treachery of Theon Greyjoy, yet none truly feared an attack from them. White Harbor was situated on the eastern shore of the White Knife, while the western shore was hilly and heavily fortified by many of his vassals’ castles. 

 

“The reavers can be thrown back to the sea in time.” Jojen continued, “Barrowton is strong and can beat back an army of pirates away from their ships.”

 

Not entirely true, for Wyman doubted the Lady of Barrowhall would have the grit to withstand a siege. Not to mention the town’s wooden walls and even the castle was made from wood. The last time he was there a few years ago, it did not look well-maintained.

 

“That is all well and good, but what about the problems within?” The young Reed was leading to it, so a little nudge would help now that he lit a fire in the crowd’s belly.

 

“Ramsay Snow had wreaked enough havoc in our lands. Lord Brandon had hoped Lord Bolton would reign in his wayward bastard’s mischief, yet to no avail. He sends a hundred of his finest men to help in subduing the bandits. Justice for the Hornwoods shall be meted, and King Robb's peace shall be restored.”

 

The proclamation was met with a cheer, but Wyman remained reserved. A hundred men were not much when he could call upon ten times that number within two days and march on to weed out the bastard from whatever hole he hid in. 

 

Yet, the fact that they were Stark men sent by the Stark of Winterfell changed the game.

 

Instead of this being a brigand problem, as Roose Bolton had insisted in their correspondence, the Starks were now involved. If used right, Wyman could march on the Dreadfort if need be, and the North would fully support him.

 

“And who shall lead the fight against the Bolton Bastard?”

 

He glanced at his granddaughter, Wylla, as the crowd calmed at her question. Who indeed? To command men from Winterfell was impossible unless it was a Stark or a noble highly trusted by them. Even the infantry in the Riverlands were not commanded by Bolton but rather stationed in Riverrun after Edmure Tully emptied his garrison to head West.

 

Rodrik Cassel would be the obvious choice as the castellan of Winterfell, yet he was conspicuously absent.

 

“I was only commanded to lead the men here, then I shall continue to the Neck. I am needed by my father’s side, but fret not,” The Reed heir hurried as knights and nobles began muttering over who would have the honor of commanding the host. “I have prayed to the gods, and they have answered. I believe a Stark shall arrive to take command.”

 

Wyman blinked. The hall was as quiet as a lichyard as his granddaughters and courtiers looked at the lad like he lost his wits. 

 

Suddenly, the metal clinking of hurried armored boots echoed from the open double doors.

 

A guard captain dashed into the hall, nearly out of breath. He recognized the lad as Rodwell's eldest, a normally level-headed lad if a bit slow on the uptake.

 

“Matrid! What is it, boy?”

 

The lad straightened at his father's bark, “Ships sighted flying the Direwolf banner. Ser Medrick sends word, my lord. Sansa Stark has returned.”

 

Wyman did not remember much of what happened later except for Jojen Reed looking particularly smug. He also did not remember ever running so fast in his life… at least for the short distance to get on the closest wheelhouse with his granddaughters. 

 

Even sending a rider to the harbor to delay the docking as long as possible so he could muster a proper welcome did not feel enough. By the time they arrived at the dock, Wyman wanted to curse the young Reed lad. The Stark men were all lined up like an honor guard, with Meera Reed commanding them. 

 

That answered the question of why she was not with her brother.

 

The empty pier had space for two ships to dock, one on each side, where a large crane took the space in the middle to unload any large cargo. A peculiarly large bird was roosted on top of the crane and Wyman thought it stared signalled him from the crowd and set its predatory gaze on him. He shook his head, and his eyes settled on the moored ships; A carrack and a galley were docking simultaneously, and Wyman stared at the Silver Lady where the Princess gazed dispassionately at the crowd as she held the arm of a dark-haired man.

 

Once the ship was approached, ropes were thrown to the dockhands, and both were secured. There was a gasp from further back in the crowd, but Wyman did not turn in favor of approaching Sansa Stark as she was helped down the gangway with whom he assumed was Perseus.

 

By the gods, old and new! He had not seen the lass in years, and she had grown to be the spitting image of her mother, if taller and more beautiful. 

 

More movement from the deck had him find his cousin, Medrick, gently leading two identical blonde girls, and Wyman’s eyes widened. This had to be Myrcella Baratheon and her handmaiden. 

 

Sansa stopped before Wyman, her arm conspicuously still holding the sorcerer's arm. Wyman’s brows nearly flew to his hairline when he recognized Ice’s hilt under a shield on the young man's back. He had a suspicion of the meaning of such a gesture.

 

“Princess Sansa, White Harbor is yours.”

 

The red-haired young woman did not say anything as her gaze roamed over the crowd, her eyes falling on the contingent of Winterfell men. 

 

They instantly slapped their right fists to their armored chest.

 

“We are yours to command, Princess Sansa!”

 

Apart from a blink so quick he could have imagined it, Sansa Stark showed no shock or surprise and nodded imperiously.

 

“Thank you, Lord Manderly.” Her face softened to a beautiful smile that moved even his old heart. “May I introduce my betrothed, Perseus Jackson.”

 

Wyman couldn’t help but inspect the young man more closely, ignoring the murmurs threatening to drown the docks. 

 

Lord-too-fat-to-ride-a-horse, many called him. Wyman knew and took it with a smile, pretending it was not an insult. It was regretfully true, and he leveraged that reputation to make others underestimate him even further. Yet Wyman had fought in many tourneys in his youth, then three wars, and he knew the make of warriors.

 

And Perseus Jackson reminded him of the likes of Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy. The way the young man carried himself screamed confidence, yet his eyes were darting around, looking for any danger. Even now, Wyman couldn’t see any openings in his stance, as if Perseus was expecting to fight at a moment’s notice.

 

Yet Perseus had an easy grin of the sort that would either put you at ease or provoke you into a fight. 

 

“Perseus, you say?” Wyman coughed. “Would you happen to be the acclaimed sorcerer?”

 

“I suppose what I do can be counted as sorcery.” The young man shrugged before walking towards the Seaswift - he had a peculiar dialect that Wyman could not determine where it was from. “Where I'm from, it is common courtesy for a guest to bring gifts to his host. Let it not be said that Percy Jackson was not raised well by his mother.”

 

Suddenly, the dark-haired warrior jumped onboard the galley, and Wyman gawked; it was no short distance, nearly a dozen feet from the pier to the railing. Yet, the feat was done with laughable ease.

 

Grunting could be heard, and something large scraping on wood. 

 

Worried murmurs and gasps sounded behind him from the crowd as a massive dark shape was thrown from the ship and landed in a heap on the dock. Perseus jumped after it before withdrawing a strange-looking dagger. It suddenly stretched, and within a few heartbeats, what Wyman now recognized as a massive sea monster was displayed for all to see while Perseus stood over its head with a wicked trident.

 

“I found this beauty in the waters just outside White Harbor. Who knows how many ships it would have sunk if I had not brought it down?” Perseus’ grin widened even further, “I heard you were a connoisseur of delicacies from the deep. I gift this treat to you and the city of White Harbor.”

Notes:

It’s official! They’re getting married!!

Starring: Sansa “the usurper?” Stark, Percy “am I thinking with my dick?” Jackson, Wyman “the man” Manderly, and Jojen “the troll” Reed.

Everyone knows Wyman is savvy as fuck, but people seem to think that means he’s some sort of merchant prince. That’s not how it works. This is my interpretation of how he makes connections with merchants.

Who knew a healthy Jojen could be such a troll?

Chapter 11: Princess Schemes

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

---

28th day of the 7th Moon.

New Castle.

Sansa

 

Sansa sipped her tea as she gazed out of the balcony. Unlike King’s Landing, White Harbor was smaller but far cleaner and more orderly with its wide, straight cobbled streets and whitewashed walls and houses. Even the harbors could be seen from the balcony, huddled just beneath the curtain walls, churning with activity as ships came and departed. Men and women looked small and insignificant in the distance, like ants, yet they were an important aspect of the city, and her father once said a million ants could bring down a mammoth. Sansa had never seen a mammoth, yet her uncle Benjen claims they are thrice as large as the largest horse!

 

Into the White Gulf, many galleys and trade cogs waited for permission and their turn to moor at the many docks. 

 

To the west, the White Knife slithered lazily into the sea, the mouth of the river over half a league wide across, far more imposing than the Blackwater Rush, if somewhat slower. There were even more harbors on the eastern, and more shallow, shore, with barges, drydocks, and shipyards sequestered in hidden inlets. 

 

The Manderly Keep, New Castle, was both a pragmatic yet comfortable castle, supposed to be designed in a similar way Dunstonbury had been before the Mermen lords fled the Reach. Its chambers and hallways were large and airy, with an open-air terrace that doubled as ramparts and a balcony. It was far smaller than Winterfell, even smaller than the Red Keep, yet Sansa could not deny it was one of the more beautiful castles she had stayed in.

 

Sansa had visited the city before but didn’t remember much of the visit other than she was very impressed and somewhat afraid of the unusually large crowds. Or, well, unusually large crowds for a naive child who had yet to see the world. Now, though, she was still impressed with the city even after seeing and experiencing more.

  

It felt like forever since Sansa was last here, but in truth, only a meager five, nearly six years had passed. They had visited with her father to pay respects to an old relative of the Starks who was on his deathbed. Artos the Implacable had served as Castellan of Winterfell to his death in the Nine Penny King Wars, yet his twin sons Brandon and Benjen survived him. 

 

Brandon settled in Barrowton, marrying a Dustin lady and taking her name - Sansa was unsure if they had any children, nor was she sure if he was even alive. Her father never mentioned him, so perhaps he passed away in one of the many wars that the Starks found themselves in the past decades.

 

His brother Benjen Stark, however, settled in White Harbor and married a Locke woman who died in childbirth, giving him his only son, Edwyle, who in turn was lost at sea. The kind old man she met a few years ago reminded her of her own Uncle Benjen - but he did not survive their visit.

 

Sansa still remembered the funeral in the Sept of Snow, where he wished to be buried. She had yet to visit the Sept since her arrival, despite staying in the castle for two days now, but perhaps she could pay her respects and light a candle to the Stranger. She noticed Beauty flying high above her, and Sansa smiled wistfully - another candle to the Maiden would also be prudent. 

 

It saddened her that so few of her kin remained alive, and there were no male members of her house to give her away during the marriage ceremony. It might even raise some doubts about the legality of her marriage down the line. Hopefully, Lord Manderly, his vassals, and Meera Reed would be enough witnesses to squash any doubts about the legitimacy and her willingness. It was a bold step, one that made her feel uneasy. Technically, her hand in marriage should have been given away by Robb as head of the family, but Sansa was eloping. 

 

She was eloping because of selfishness. Sansa liked Perseus, he made her heart flutter and butterflies loop into her belly, and most importantly, he made her feel safe. It wasn’t some childish flight of fancy or a stupid obsession that she had with Joffrey’s gallant looks. No, after that cruel stay in King’s Landing, she could recognize the false smiles, the fake faces, and the ugliness hidden beneath the pretty faces, and would not fall for such things again.

 

There was always the chance that Robb would decide to wed her off for one alliance or another, promising her hand for swords here or there. Sansa was unwilling to let her destiny be dictated by others again, now that she had gotten a taste of freedom, a taste of power. Besides, what good would any number of swords be against Perseus?

 

There was no doubt in her mind that Sansa was right in her decision to elope so shamelessly. Yes, it was selfish, but not without cause. She lied to herself that it would suit House Stark more. But deep down, Sansa knew it was a lie because she simply wanted Perseus to never leave. She… loved him. It was that simple.

 

A sigh rolled off her lips and she turned her attention to the soothing cup of tea. 

 

“How do you like the blend, Princess?” Wynafryd’s voice almost made her jump. Sansa had nearly forgotten about her company.

 

Sansa smiled at Lord Manderly’s granddaughter, as they sat at the large round table with her other companions. “Acceptable. I am grateful you found a merchant with access to those leaves. I did not expect they could be found so quickly.”

 

“It was no trouble, Princess.” Wynafryd sipped from her own cup, face almost melting in pleasure. “I never thought such blends of tea could be made, and I feel foolish for never browsing the city’s market and procuring it earlier.” 

 

“Truly, it is,” Wylla added from next to her sister. “So simple, yet so delicious, especially with the pastries your betrothed introduced to the castle. While the muffins tasted splendid, they were a bit hard to swallow, the tea helps with that.” 

 

Myrcella had remained as her handmaiden, and Sansa allowed her to sit with her. Rosamund made her laugh, so Sansa also allowed her to join them, despite her lower birth. 

 

The golden-haired girls had managed to endear themselves to the ladies of the castle by showcasing the skills they learned from Percy in the kitchen. 

 

Sansa smirked inwardly as she watched one of the blonde Not-Twins, as Percy called them, preen at the praise; how the mighty have fallen. A princess of the realm, born and raised with a golden spoon, with all of her desires satisfied at a hand’s wave, feeling pleasure at serving others. 

 

Yet Sansa chided herself inwardly, there was no need to belittle the princess. It surprised her how Myrcella had insisted on helping in the kitchens, and at first, Sansa thought she wanted an excuse to stay away from her. Turns out, the girls truly did enjoy cooking.

 

Naturally, it would not have mattered, for Myrcella and Rosamund were her prisoners and Sansa had no plans to let them go. Besides being hostages against House Baratheon of King’s Landing and the Lannisters, they were her wards, and her responsibility to raise well and find them good husbands. It surprised her how easily she had come to care for the girls, but one thing was certain in her mind. Sansa could claim that she was not an ambitious, and greedy woman, but that would be a lie.

 

Yes, she craved friendship and companionship similar to what she had with poor Jeyne, but the supposed daughter of the late king was invaluable. Sansa wanted more power and more influence, Percy and Cersei had shown that if you had enough, you would be in control of your life, and she wanted that for herself. Greedy, and selfish, but Sansa would not forget House Stark in the process.  

 

“It reminds me of some of the herbs we grow in the Neck.” Meera Reed looked at the crushed leaves at the bottom of her empty cup with a frown. “Normally, they would need to be distilled and purified from any poisons and toxins, but some of them could be both soothing and tasty.”

 

Wynafryd leaned forward in interest, “Oh? I had heard plenty of things regarding the botany of the Neck. Flower arrangements and gardening are a hobby of mine, you see.”

 

“Truly? Mine too,” Myrcella piped up from across the heiress to White Harbor. “What sort of flowers would be common here?”

 

Sansa tuned out the rest of the chatter. She was glad the maidens were getting along nicely; there was some tension when Cersei’s daughter was introduced to the Merman’s Court, but Lord Manderly and his family were gracious and courteous. It helped that Sansa herself had proclaimed she and Rosa were her handmaidens.

 

She suspected it had to do with the heir of the city being captive to the Lannisters, yet Lord Manderly had yet to bring up such a topic. Myrcella would be an excellent bargaining chip to release the captive nobles of the North, yet Sansa was loath to even discuss that. She had just decided to raise Myrcella and had no wish to send her and Rosa back to Cersei. 

 

Speaking of the lesser lioness, she watched in amusement as Rosamund and Meera stared down the railing at the training yard below, talking and giggling in hushed tones. Percy was training their men diligently, having them go through significantly harder gauntlets and formation training. All the men were armed for battle, but Percy fought with his top naked, showing off his incredible physique. 

 

Sansa thought something was bothering her betrothed yet he claimed it was just the weather. Judging by how little he dressed, she was unconvinced but decided to give him his privacy but not before looking meaningfully at his half naked form. 

 

Percy claimed it was to train his dodging, but judging by that lopsided grin he threw at her every once in a while, her hero had other motives.

 

A flush was creeping up Rosa’s neck yet she still looked warily as Percy dueled five men at the same time, only to have them all on the ground within a few heartbeats. Meera, on the other hand, was wholly engrossed in the sparring below, yet that only amused Sansa. 

 

The daughter of Howland Reed had been her constant shadow since her arrival two days ago, along with a couple of her father’s men. Once they had some privacy, her brother, Jojen, introduced themselves and Meera had sworn fealty directly to her , which had greatly confused Sansa. Not to House Stark, not to Robb - Her.

 

Jojen had then left the city for Greywater Watch that same day, with a few of his father’s men who had come to escort him. She worried how he would find his way to his home with Moat Cailin under the Ironborn's control, but the young man simply smiled when questioned.

 

“None know the Neck better than the Crannogmen.”

 

Sansa found the Crannog woman to be both mysterious and intriguing. She was three years older than her at eight and ten, yet still unmarried. Her hair was glossy and voluminous, a light-brown shade with a hint of red, that the girl tied in a simple plait. Meera had gladly joined her in applying oils and herbal concoctions from the Neck to keep their hair silky and vibrant. Her eyes were bright, not dissimilar to Percy’s sea green, but reminded her of moss or the leaves of a tree. Her soft features complimented her kind nature as she spoke softly to Rosa, causing the younger girl’s wariness to melt as she stared at her man.

 

Yet, Sansa knew that underneath that softness hid a hardened woman who had grown in the treacherous lands of the Neck. Meera had trained with Percy last eve, and her demigod had declared her to be acceptable, which was quite the compliment coming from a man who could slay a sea monster.

 

“He is quite impressive, is he not?”

 

Both girls flinched as they turned to her, Meera coughing awkwardly. “Indeed. Disregarding his slaying of the sea monster, Perseus is also an excellent trainer and clearly a veteran of war.”

 

“He taught me how to cook.” Rosa shrugged as the rest of the girls looked in interest. “I will admit that he terrified me when we first met. I mean, disabling two warships and swimming so fast… I thought he was a merman!”

 

“Ah, yes. You have to tell us more about your betrothed, Princess.” Wylla clapped her hands, “The wedding is in a few days, yet we hardly know anything about him.”

 

The older sister, Wynafryd, was almost vibrating with excitement. “Is it true that he is a secret prince from a faraway land? Or that he is blessed by the gods with wonderful powers? There are so many rumors flying about him.”

 

“With his skills in cooking, he has to be the personal cook of a king!” Wylla interjected, “Those pancakes were exquisite, and the way he cooked those eggs… what were they called?”

 

“Omelets.” Rosamund supplied helpfully, but Sansa noticed Myrcella looking strangely at her not-twin as she mouthed the word.

 

“Yes, omelets and not to mention Sandwiches. ” Wylla looked as if she was sharing a secret, “Some scullery maids claim Perseus told them he learned how to make those from a witch he met on a beach!”

 

Sansa chuckled ruefully as the table descended into chatter. Of course, the two of them had been intentionally vague about Percy’s origins. Having a son of a god walk alongside mortals would be preposterous, powers or not. Let alone him coming from another world. It was a whole ball of trouble the two of them had agreed to not disclose to the public. And so, Perseus Jackson claimed that he was a son of the sea, hailing from far, far away, a place that could not be found on any maps. 

 

Vague, but mostly true.

 

There were many subtle inquiries about Percy’s origin, but nobody had been openly pushy about it. After all, her betrothed was not a man to be trifled with, and he had amusingly shown inhuman powers. The driftwood hero, some called him. Others had claimed he was a sorcerer prince from some lost city beyond the Saffron Straits and the Shadowlands. 

 

Of all the things that interested the ladies about Percy, his culinary skills were the most prominent topic. Her betrothed had confessed that he was not considered a decent cook by the standards of his home, and Lord Manderly and his head cook agreed yet that was not an issue. It was the recipes and ideas that he brought that were of far more interest.

 

As the chatter shifted to Percy’s good looks, Sansa smiled languidly as she inspected Lord Manderly’s granddaughters. Both of them were comely with a heart-shaped face and blue eyes, but that’s where the similarities ended. 

 

Wynafryd had her chestnut-brown hair in a simple braid that reached her elbows, while Wylla dyed it a garish green in a similar braid, though the girl let slip she planned to dye it blue - Sansa suspected Percy was the cause. Wynafryd was tall and willowy; a graceful beauty with a serene smile and intelligent eyes - as befitting of the heiress of a major city like White Harbor. Wylla was shorter, yet had much more pronounced curves, with an easy grin and a charismatic way of bringing people together. An enticing beauty, who could probably charm a septon if she wanted to.

 

Both were clearly interested in her betrothed, yet Sansa felt no worry. It was only natural for women to be attracted to Percy - power attracts, and it helped he was dashing and comely. Even Meera stared at him with a certain hunger, yet she kept a healthy distance from him. All of them understood that they may only watch, but not touch - for he was hers.

 

Eventually, Sansa was dragged into the conversation as she regaled the ladies of the daring rescue from King’s Landing and their adventures along the Narrow Sea. At some point, Beauty landed on the railing much to the girls’s shock, but Sansa easily assuaged their worried when she stroked her feathers.

 

“She’s beautiful, Princess!” Wylla moved her hands towards the moon hawk before looking at her hesitantly, “May I?”

 

“Certainly, but be gentle. Beauty is still a proud and fearsome bird of prey.”

 

The moon hawk looked at the Manderly maiden inquisitively but accepted the gentle hand that petted it. Soon the rest of the girls joined in, and Wynafryd even called for a maid to get pieces of meat for her.

 

They were interrupted by a cough from the doorway to find Lord Manderly smiling at them. “Princess, could I have a moment of your time?”

 

Sansa nodded and gracefully stood, “Certainly, My Lord. In your solar, perhaps?”

 

“That would be best, yes.”

 

She waved farewell to her new friends, who seemed more interested in pampering Beauty. Sansa signaled Meera to remain with the Not-Twins, and followed the corpulent lord with his guard captain keeping a respectable distance. “How do you fare, Princess?”

 

“I must say White Harbor is more magnificent than I remember,” Sansa smiled. “A beautiful city with a gracious host. Your granddaughters have been nothing but courteous and pleasant to speak to.” 

 

The old merman almost blushed from the praise, and Sansa allowed herself a small chuckle. It was true, after all. Why would she spare her more than deserved praise?

 

Like every other place in New Castle, the hallways had varnished walnut and oak planks on the floor and walls, warding away the chill of the granite and flagstones. Even now, Sansa saw faded banners, broken shields, and rusted swords from ancient victories hanging on the walls for display. There were even a few ship prows and figureheads hung high above like hunting trophies.

 

The Manderlys were a loyal, but very proud house.

 

“I am pleased to hear that,” Manderly let out a jovial chortle, merrily patting his sizeable gut. “If you have any requests or desires, please don’t hesitate to bring them directly to me.”

 

“Thank you, My Lord.”

 

They continued on in silence, and soon they were in the lord’s solar. The room was paneled with walls of dark wood, with intricate carvings of merman and mermaids. A few select tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of war and peace; one of them was more recent where a Manderly knight slammed his warhammer at a Rosby knight with the Targaryen banner in the background, most likely the battle of the Trident. Another one was of the port of White Harbor, with many ships and smiling merchants in the forefront. A nod to the city’s bustling trade.

 

“Please, have a seat, Princess.”

 

Wyman Manderly forwent the large oak desk with a particularly large and comfortable chair and instead led her to a small table near the window laden with a few parchment scrolls and a small beer keg. The lord waited patiently for her to sit on one of the comfortable chairs tapered with sea-green Lyseni velvet, before sitting on a much larger one opposite her. 

 

He poured himself a mug of White Harbor’s famous beer, the foamy drink making fuzzy sounds as it filled the mug.

 

“Would you like a drink, Princess?”

 

“Thank you, My Lord.” Lord Wyman poured her a mug and she took a sip, nodding appreciatively - it was a pleasant mix of sweet and sour that warmed her throat and settled in her belly. “Tell me, how are Percy’s orders coming?” 

 

“Oh, yes. Your spoils were more than enough to cover the costs of equipping your men with the finest arms and armor my city can provide. Soon, you will have a contingent of men better armed than the finest southern knights, all paid with Lannister gold! It will just take a bit of time to have it all ready.” Wyman chuckled heartily, his booming laugh reverberating in the room, and she joined along.

 

The dowry that Cersei Lannister prepared for her daughter was truly an extravagant one. There were surprisingly few coins, for she had learned the crown was heavily in debt, yet the ship was full to the brim with valuables; statues made from solid gold, bolts of the finest Myrish silk, bundles of Torrentine cotton, yards of Norvoshi wool, a gilded couch made from goldenheart wood, and many other precious materials. 

 

Not to mention the more martial gifts; There were arms and armor, and even a score of Myrish Crossbows, apparently from Joffrey’s own collection. Yet the most valuable item had to be the gilded suit of armor made by Tobho Mott that Sansa decided to have Percy wear, though it would need to be refitted for his frame.

 

All of that was hers now, and Sansa did not waste time in having anything gold or silver melted into coins through White Harbor’s mint and used the city’s extensive guilds and workshops to outfit her one hundred men-at-arms with the finest equipment; including warhorses. It would take over a dozen days for her order to be processed - possibly more depending on how fast the resources could be secured. It would have been way slower if Sansa had simply not thrown gold at the forging guild and told them she wanted the best they could do as soon as possible.

 

It was the perks of being a princess, and a wealthy one at that. The blacksmiths all scrambled, from the green boys to the greybeards, and the hammering on the Smith’s Square could be heard in the distance once you entered the city proper. The masters focused on forging suits of heavy plate, greaves, helmets, and gorges, with the finest steel the North had, while a small army of apprentices was churning out additional chainmail.

 

Meanwhile, Percy had taken it upon himself to train the men to his standards, for it would not do to invest in such expenses on men who were not worthy of it.

 

So far, he reported that they were not bad but that there was ample room for improvement, which coming from Percy was quite the compliment. Sansa would confess to knowing little about fighting and matters of warfare, yet she trusted in Percy and in Ser Rodrik Cassel; he was the one who handpicked and initially trained those men. Her father… only accepted the finest men of skill and character into the Winterfell household.

 

Meanwhile, Manderly was still sipping on his beer, looking like a proud, if overly plump, peacock for the capabilities of his city. 

 

“I am sure Percy will be very pleased with that,” Sansa replied, blinking innocently. It was a skill she had mastered in King’s Landing, looking meek, innocent, and subservient, to minimize the threat to her being after that misstep. “He was the one who won all those spoils, you know. Took them right from the Lannister fleet, and they could do nothing but cower in front of his might.”

 

The subtle threat was probably unnecessary, and Sansa watched Wyman’s face intently, but the elderly lord remained unfazed with his ever present jovial smile. She had wanted to get a measure of him, but he was hard to read. After a few days, Sansa was confident that the craven, foolish face that always smiled affably was just a disguise. All of her senses screamed that the Manderly Lord could play the game better than any Southron noble in King’s Landing. 

 

“Indeed, your betrothed is a remarkable man - I have seen and heard enough proof of his might. Claiming his hand in marriage was a very astute decision, Princess.” Wyman lifted his mug in respect before taking a sip, “The young man had even mentioned improving your ship, The Silver Lady , and requested a meeting with one of my shipbuilders. I promised to grant him use of one of the shipyards sequestered in one of the inlets of the White Knife for a moon.”

 

Her fingers tightened around the warm wooden handle of the mug.

 

“Did he offer you something in return? I would rather not make you think we are abusing your generosity, My Lord.”

 

“Nothing of the sort at all! I am loyal to the Starks and your cause, Princess. With your help, we shall rid the lands of brigands and pirates. It is the least I could do.”

 

Sansa gave her practiced, polite smile, yet she felt troubled on the inside. There was no doubt she would have taken the fight to the Ironborn and other foes of the North, but she was not aware of trouble with brigands and bandits. Still, Wyman Manderly had declared his intentions clearly; Loyal to the Starks, that was Robb, Bran, and then her.

 

Yet if she, or Percy, to be precise, assisted him with his brigand problem, Sansa would command his full loyalty, second only to the king.

 

“I am grateful, My Lord, but I must insist. Percy does not strike me as the type to accept free boons.”

 

“Indeed, Perseus told me as much. He promised to help better design our budding fleet. Your brother, King Robb, had ordered me to build a new fleet for him to better protect our Eastern shores. I have already built twenty warships and sent recruiters from Old Castle to Skagos for sailors and marines.”

 

“I confess to not being the most knowledgeable on maritime matters, but to build so many ships in less than six moons? Impressive.” Wyman preened at her light praise, causing her to smile inwardly. “How is the recruitment process?”

 

“Very well, princess. Ships arrive every week with sailors and marines. I had to expand a district in the city to house them all. Your betrothed promised to look into the designs and assured me he could improve them, though he was interested in meeting with the small branch of the Alchemist Guild we have here first before he committed to anything.”

 

Sansa almost choked on her gulp of beer. Why would Percy want to meet with the pyromancers? Yet the matter was shelved for later, she could always ask him. Now, there were far more important matters that required her attention. Manderly would not go to summon her in person for nothing. 

 

“Is there any other news from along the coast?”

 

“Ah, yes,” the fat lord nodded, looking rather troubled. “Word just came this morning. It seems you were not the first ones to come upon sea monster attacks. An Ibbenese whaler limped to port, reporting they lost a ship to a similarly sized beast like the one your betrothed slayed.”

 

“That’s…not good.” Sansa had thought there was only one of those beasts. But if there was a second, there could be a third, a fourth, and many more. “Where did they sight it?”

 

“Just south of Widow’s Watch. I was hoping Perseus could share his insights on how to deal with those menaces.” Manderly’s words almost made her leap with joy inwardly. They were not going behind her back to contact Percy directly. Asking for permission from her meant that they wanted to hold to the connection to House Stark first and foremost. And it did not diminish her presence or standing. 

 

“I will let him know,” Sansa promised. 

 

Yet even this would not be enough to trouble the Lord of White Harbor. At least not enough to summon a princess in person. No, there was another problem, larger. Even now, as Sansa sipped from her beer, she could see Wyman’s pale brow look heavy, as if he was troubled by something. Yet, he seemed too hesitant to speak up.

 

Eventually, Sansa lost her patience and prodded, “What troubles you, My Lord?”

 

“My gaoler, Garth, had succeeded in… convincing your prisoners to talk.”

 

“Oh? And do those lowlifes have anything of interest to confess?”

 

“Enough to both please and worry me, Princess.” The fat old lord grimaced. “First, I would like you to inspect this scroll.”

 

He gave her a small scroll, a raven scroll, and Sansa read through it quickly.

 

“Sweetest sister…I recall one of the prisoners was a Sisterman. Could he be from Sweet Sister?”

 

“Aye, I have reason to believe these orders came from the south, specifically from Roose Bolton. I compared the handwriting with another scroll of his, and they matched. What Garth discovered from the prisoners confirmed my fears.” Lord Manderly took a deep gulp of his beer, “I won’t bore you with the details, but apparently Roose Bolton had somehow learned of your escape North and had planned to kidnap you.”

 

Sansa ignored the sinking feeling in her gut and the anger threatening to erupt, and schooled herself. 

 

“Kidnap? Not rescue?”

 

“Indeed, the three who attacked you were but one of many scouts sent to sweep the Bite for your ship.” The more he spoke, the more worried Manderly seemed. Rivulets of sweat glistened down his face and dripped down his fur-lined collar. “They had a galley on standby they were supposed to report to once they discovered you. My men are now searching for it, it might be out at sea, but we know it operates out of Roose Bolton’s new port on the mouth of the Weeping Water. The leech lord had requested your late father for a charter to build that small town as a reward for his achievements during the rebellion.”

 

“I see, but I was certain those pirates worked for the Lannisters for they were far more interested in my head rather than kidnapping me.”

 

“Aye, they were supposed to scout for your ships before reporting to their masters to attack. Greed got the better of them, once word of the ludicrous bounty reached them.” Wyman shook his head in disbelief, “placing a bounty on a noble lady’s head like she’s some common brigand? And I thought the Lannisters could sink no lower.”

 

“Yet they must not have heard the rest of the news, for Myrcella had an even bigger bounty for her rescue,” Sansa coldly pointed out. “They were surprised to find her onboard.” 

 

“It’s what happens when you expect competence and integrity from lowly fishermen and pirates.” Lord Manderly clicked his tongue. “It’s a dangerous game the lords play, and it's easy for one to be arrogant and think they are infallible after they experience some success.”

 

“Perhaps we should issue bounties of our own, then. I doubt we could actually pay them, though.” Sansa chuckled sardonically, Wyman laughing along as he slapped his belly. “They must have at least known of Percy’s presence.”

 

“Apparently, they did, but none of them seemed concerned with it. You have to understand, Princess, even now, when I see his powers with my own two eyes, I find it difficult to believe I am not dreaming. Yes, sorcery has dwindled as of late, and few remember the glory of the Freehold, but what your betrothed can do could easily be a tale from the Age of Heroes.”

 

“Indeed,” Sansa agreed with a chuckle. “But what does that have to do with Roose Bolton? Accusing him of treason is a serious matter, My Lord.”

 

“It’s what they planned to do to you afterward. Their orders were to take you to the Dreadfort where Roose’s bastard son would care for you.” Wyman Manderly’s genial face was replaced with a savage, hateful snarl, and his skin turned purple from rage as he ground his teeth. “I have no doubt, that monster would have had you killed or worse; wedded to him in some asinine scheme to claim Winterfell.”

 

Sansa’s eyes widened, “What makes you certain that is their goal?”

 

“Have you learned what happened to the Hornwoods?” 

 

She shook her head, and the Lord of White Harbor proceeded to tell her of the terrible atrocities that had been committed by the bastard of the Dreadfort against her brother’s subjects. From the usurpation of the Hornwood to the forceful wedding of Donella Hornwood, Wyman’s cousin, to what he had discovered from his spies; the former Lady Hornwood had been brutally murdered by the insane bastard.

 

“And Bran did nothing? He could have sent Ser Rodrik with Winterfell’s garrison to rid that scum from the lands!”

 

“The young lord…has been distracted, I hear.” Wyman looked ill-at-ease with the topic, his words were laced with hesitation. “With the Ironborn reaving in the west, he claimed he needed Rodrik and the bulk of their troops in Winterfell to rout them in case they raid too deep.”

 

“Yet you could have taken Hornwood by yourself. You are a lord of considerable influence and power, not to mention the title of Warden of the White Knife offers you certain liberties to protect the realm. Any house along the White Knife would be honor-bound to muster their troops for you if you called, even if they are not your direct vassals.”

 

“That is true, I was ready to send my men, but the Ironborn snatching Moat Cailin took everyone by surprise.” If Lord Manderly was flattered by her previous comments, he did not show - his face was calm, yet she could see his subdued rage in his blue eyes. “Despite my dearest wish to have that bastard drawn and quartered, and send his head to his wretched father, I needed to look to my people first.”

 

“Speaking of, why have the bastard marry your cousin and then murder her?”

 

“I suspect he did so on his father’s orders. Why waste his hand in marriage to a widow of a single castle, when he could use you as a political tool for a claim on the entire North.”

 

The sheer… boldness of such schemes utterly dumbfounded her. “How did Bolton ever think he could get away with that?”

 

“It’s the perks of using bastards, I’m afraid.” Wyman drained the last of his beer. “A lord can reap all the benefits from the achievements of his bastard son, but could just as easily disavow him if he had committed a crime. Not all bastards are like your half-brother or even the late Hallis Hornwood’s own son; dutiful and honorable boys, I hear. Some of them would grasp above their stations, but it would ultimately be up to the lords how they raise their sons. In fact, Roose Bolton has not even officially acknowledged Ramsay as his bastard yet.”

 

Sansa tried to get a full picture of what was going on here. It didn’t help that everything Wyman said would naturally be biased, for even if he believed it all to be true, she would need to listen to the other side to give judgment.

 

“And, how could Ramsay Snow have taken the Hornwood lands without an army?”

 

“He was declared castellan of the Dreadfort, and that alone should be enough to call the old Leech out. Yet Bolton claims that his castellan is innocent and all our claims are frivolous. That what’s happening in the Hornwood is simply a bandit problem.”

 

“How do you know it was actually Ramsay Snow? Do you know what he looks like?”

 

“Yes, and worse; I know all about his proclivities, and I assure you it is not for a maiden’s ears.”

 

Wyman’s face was grim, yet Sansa was not phased. “I assure you I have heard and seen plenty of terrible things, My Lord. Indulge me, what do you know about Ramsay Snow and his proclivities ?”

 

And so Wyman did. The Lord of White Harbor must have dearly loved his cousin, for he had not spared an expense in learning all that could be learned about the Bolton bastard in the short amount of time since he appeared. It both impressed her to know of the connections and assets the Manderly lord had at his disposal and utterly disturbed her that such a monster was allowed to roam free under her father’s rule.

 

A kinslayer, a murderer, a torturer, a raper…was there any sin he did not commit?

 

Sansa wanted to sigh loudly and rub her brows, but it would not do to do so in front of Lord Manderly. It irked her that such atrocities were happening in her brother’s kingdom. It irritated her, even more, to be in the dark - so much had changed in the past few weeks she was at sea; she had been busy settling and preparing for the wedding the last few days. 

 

The thing that vexed her the most, however, was her brother’s apathy towards the whole matter. Even if he sent her those one hundred men, even if Bran was crippled and young; Sansa expected more, a lot more, from a Son of Winterfell.

 

“My Lord, I must apologize for being ignorant of the happenings of the North. The Ironborn, the Hornwoods and Boltons… Is there a wildling threat as well?” She involuntarily scoffed, causing Lord Manderly to chuckle. “I will ask that you tell me all you know about what has been happening in my brother’s kingdom. I need all the information I can get before I would commit to a decision, and make no mistake; House Stark shall stand by its oaths, protect its subjects, and punish those who break the king’s peace with extreme prejudice .”

Notes:

First of three chapters I plan for White Harbor. Reports, plans, and news of the North.

Don’t expect any uplifts here except for ones that Percy can realistically make. A ship nerd, with a ship god in his mind - that’s the extent of uplifting here.

Chapter 12: Whispers of Ice and Fire

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

---

White Harbor,

Alchemist guild.

 

“What do you think, Pops?”

 

“Hmm, it's close. Very close to the real thing, but far too unstable in its current form to be useful.”

 

Percy hummed as he ignored the odd whisper in his mind, focusing instead on his father's voice. He willed the green liquid to flow around his hand, smirking inwardly at the alchemists hiding behind a corner as he stood in the center of an empty chamber with a single window. He couldn't blame them; the Stark men he had handpicked excused themselves to the privy when he announced his decision to peruse the green stuff. Still, some punishment for abandoning their boss was in order.

 

Perhaps he should have them do a hundred extra push-ups later. Or maybe he should dress them in pink as they walk around town.

 

Having minions was so cool.

 

“In its current form, you say?” Percy rubbed his chin. “Does that mean there is a way to control it?”

 

“Yes, for even though it's fire, it's still a liquid. I may not be known for fire, but my forges were underwater, so I have some understanding of the aspect. Depending on how it’s made, you can use a drop of your blood as a medium for stability.”

 

“Huh, is that how you do magic?”

 

“I’m not proficient in witchcraft like Hera or Hecate, but when you have as much raw power as I or my brothers do, you discover that we can simply will something to happen and be done with it.”

 

“So, a drop of my blood, instill my will in it somehow, and it should be stable?”

 

“Should be. Also, Son, try not to speak out loud.”

 

Percy gulped, warily looking around. But no, the alchemists were all hiding out of fear of the wildfire, so nobody had heard or would claim him a loon. For good or for bad, his ADHD brain got distracted when speaking with his Dad, and sometimes, his mouth just moved with his thoughts anyway.

 

“Thanks, Dad. And this stuff is quite interesting,” Percy snapped his fingers, and the wildfire ignited over his hand. “Almost hot enough to rival Greek Fire.”

 

The whispers were getting distracting like they usually were, but Percy had learned to ignore them.

 

Focusing on the green flames on his hands, Percy could feel the heat of the substance, even through his heat-resistant skin. It was unpleasant but not yet painful, and Percy wanted to see its limitations. He had never been doused with Greek Fire before, thank the gods, but he did have chunks of lava thrown at him, so he thought it was a close comparison.

 

“Alright, this is enough.” It was spoken outloud this time. He took a deep breath, deeper than he should be capable of, and blew a gust of cold air into his hand, snuffing the flames and leaving his skin red and slightly blistered - pouring a flask of seawater he kept for such occasions, his skin knitted itself before his eyes. “You can come out now.”

 

A handful of alchemists entered the chamber where he tested the Wildfire, their hands fidgeting in worry and excitement. “My Lord, were you satisfied?”

 

“I believe so. How much more can you make of this?”

 

“Oh… That was the only batch we had in reserve, My Lord.” One of the alchemists, a gaunt older man known as Wisdom Artos, bowed his head in apology. “We could make more, but we are not like the pyromani–excuse me, the pyromancers in King’s Landing. We specialize in the traditional teachings of alchemy.”

 

“Uh, like what? Turning lead to gold and making elixirs of immortality?”

 

The alchemists gawked at him in shock, and Percy grimaced inwardly - hopefully, he didn’t just give them ideas. He blamed the annoying whispers for his lapse in judgement, and he could feel Poseidon shrugging helplessly in his mind.

 

“Their teachings are much more mundane, My Lord. Matters of engineering, carpentry, smithing, and such, but on the more delicate and precise side. They also dabble with potions and tinctures, but I would not trust them to heal me from a cold.” 

 

The voice came from another hallway, and Percy raised an eyebrow at his returning men, led by a young man wearing the common livery for a household guard of House Stark but with a small chain hanging from his collar; Donnis was an apprentice taught by the Maester of Winterfell, while the two other men were Kyle and Mark. All three of them were part of the contingent sent to serve Sansa. 

 

“Sup, Donnis. Took you a bit long in the loo, don’t you think? Constipation, perhaps? Did the muffins not sit well with your stomach?”

 

The maester apprentice grimaced and rubbed his head in embarrassment; the two other guardsmen looked just as uncomfortable. “My apologies, My Lord. Maester Luwin had told me horror stories of wildfire going out of control. Not to mention, the substance is not popular in the North owing to what it was used for twenty years ago.”

 

Percy’s smirk turned into a frown as he recalled Sansa’s history lessons. Her grandfather, Rickard Stark, was a victim of the Mad King’s justice and was burned with the substance.

 

“Understandable,” He turned back to the alchemists who had been giving Donnis the stink eye. “What sort of things should I expect from you? Lord Manderly recommended your services, and I find myself with a lot of gold to spend. But what achievements have you made? I gotta know the capabilities of who I’m hiring, after all.”

 

From there, the alchemists took him on a tour of their guild. Percy had to stifle a grin as the alchemists took every opportunity to disparage the maester’s order, hoping to get a reaction out of Donnis. He was briefed by the half-maester, as some men called him, on the rivalry between the two organizations, as well as what to expect from their guild; Their hierarchy, capabilities, talents, and so on. 

 

Surprisingly, Donnis had no qualms with the alchemists, returning their petty insults with jokes but not provoking them…for the most part. 

 

He was also fond of reiterating that he was not a maester - only an apprentice and had never been to the Citadel. Something about being celibate was not in his plans; Percy could definitely understand that as his mind wandered to Sansa’s beautiful face and alluring curves.

 

Regardless, it’s why Percy picked the dark-haired man with sharp brown eyes. In his early twenties, Donnis Poole was respectful and diligent, not to mention one of the few men who could read, write, and do all the stuff required from a scholar and administrator. With an open mind towards knowledge and an eye for detail, Donnis was useful in providing him information on matters he would be ignorant of.

 

It helped that he was no weakling who would need people to protect him. As a noble, even a petty one with no future prospects, he was trained at arms from a young age before finding his calling as a scholar. That meant he had to suffer with the rest of the men in training, for Percy would accept no weaklings among his ranks. 

 

Still, Percy was glad he found someone to dump any paperwork on.

 

As for his two other minions, Kyle was a decent rider and an excellent swordsman, yet it was his gregarious nature and eye for talent that had Percy drag him along for his jaunt to the city. Mark was a silent man, yet quite the marksman, pun unintended, and had the uncanny ability to blend in with any crowd as well as listen for any interesting topics. 

 

Even in this world, his aim was worse than terrible, so Percy had given out those twenty crossbows he found on the ship to the twenty best shots of their little army, Mark included. Myrish Crossbows, he thought they were called, massive things that needed a windlass to reload but could hold three bolts that could fire simultaneously or one at a time.

 

It had given Percy some ideas, and he ran them through with the shipmaster working on the Silver Lady - it remained to be seen what would come from it.

 

Back to the Alchemist Guild, Wisdom Artos led the procession and explained the history of their organization. They had existed since before White Harbor’s founding. When the Guild was still relevant, it rivaled the Citadel and served the Wolf’s Den before the Manderlys took over, but it had always been a small branch owing to the city’s small size. With the distance between the North and the South and the constant wars, it made sense for them to diverge from their southern counterparts in focus and studies.

 

They still claimed to have vast knowledge stored in reserve, but as Donnis said, their focus was mostly on the science of the world. Mechanics and physics, instead of magic and fire, though they assured him they still communicated with their southern counterparts and shared knowledge. 

 

A whisper, still making little sense, seemed to be proud for some reason.

 

The guild hall was dug into one of the cliffs outside the city in case of accidents, and as they walked through the hallways, Percy passed by several windows carved from the cliff. At its height, the guild had ten Wisdoms, dozens of apprentices, and many more acolytes. Now, they were a shadow of their former self, with only two Wisdoms, a handful of apprentices, and a dozen or so acolytes, surviving only by the grace of Lord Manderly and what service they could provide for him and the city.

 

They passed by many chambers, most abandoned or sealed off, but a few had interesting experiments going on. While the alchemists were few, they collaborated heavily with the rest of the city’s craftsmen and were hired for commissions and other contracts. All of them were residents of White Harbor and had family in the other guilds, so it was normal for them to be contracted by the other guilds of the city - especially as they rarely set things on fire…at least not without reason. 

 

Currently, Percy was inside a chamber with a strange device made from some sort of dark silver alloy being tended to by an apprentice. It almost looked like a low-caliber cannon with a cranking mechanism. “What’s this?”

 

“Ah, this is one of our newer inventions. Bennard here is a smith’s son and has been helping with its tests.” The apprentice bowed his head and moved aside for Wisdom Artos to rub a gentle hand over the device. “The Pyromancers of King’s Landing have always been obsessed with creating the substance, yet they never truly innovated a way to use it in practice. The closest they had come was during King Aegon IV’s reign with their wooden dragons.”

 

“With catastrophic consequences,” Donnis elaborated from behind him. “Burned down a quarter of the Kingswood and countless men.”

 

“Indeed, who knew using wood would be a terrible idea when dealing with fire.” Bennard tutted, “We have worked on this invention for the past few years for Lord Manderly’s defenses.”

 

“Yes, but what is it?”

 

“We call them Spitfires. As the name would suggest, we pour liquid fire in them, light a wick at the end of the barrel, turn the windlass, and it shall spit fire at its targets.”

 

“Impressive.” It reminded Percy of how the mortals of Byzantium attempted to imitate Greek Fire. “And it doesn’t melt from the heat?”

 

“Ah, we tried several metals and alloys that could withstand the heat and discovered that only the tip of the barrel needed to be made from a special alloy of steel and nickel, while iron or bronze could be used for the rest.” Bennard explained enthusiastically. “My father and brothers helped create that alloy, and we have decided to call it Stainless Steel.”

 

Percy raised an eyebrow as he recognized the term, but it looked nothing like all the kitchen utensils he had back home that claimed to be made from the stuff. He shrugged; he would never claim to be an expert in metallurgy, and his Dad remained silent.

 

“Have you tested it?”

 

“We have. We did not dare use the substance, of course, but there are weaker formulas that are more stable and less hazardous to the men operating the spitfires, though with less devastating results. I can give a demonstration if you would like?” Bennard, or Ben as Percy decided to call him, turned to Wisdom Artos, who in turn turned to Percy, who nodded.

 

Within a few minutes, they loaded the device on a cart and rolled it out to a rampart, placed it on a stone pedestal, and aimed at an empty clearing. Ben operated it on his lonesome, but he explained that having three people working it together would be far more efficient: one to secure the fuel sac made from pig bladder, one to turn the crank (or windlass), and one to make sure the wick was burning, and the aim was true.

 

“Ready?” Ben turned to them as he grabbed the handle and waited for their nod. “Ignite!”

 

The alchemist apprentice cranked the handle as fast as he could; the fuel in the sack of pig bladder was pressurized and compressed to the limit before Ben flicked a handle that released it through the barrel. The effect was instantaneous, as whatever volatile liquid they used burst into red-hot flames from the lit wick underneath the barrel and sprang across the yard at a couple of targets about a hundred feet away, setting everything along the way on fire.

 

It barely lasted a few seconds before the bladder was deflated and its payload delivered. Just before it was empty, Ben flicked another handle, cutting the burst off and preventing the flames from spreading around him.

 

“It’s not the safest weapon, but if the crew is well-trained, there shouldn’t be any cause for concern.” Ben stood up and detached the empty sack, causing some liquid to spill onto the ground, which he quickly threw some sand on. “As you can see, the operator needs to follow all the safety procedures, or else an accident could occur. It takes some time to refill the sack, but it’s possible to keep several of them on hand and quickly switch them for constant firing. Having several men working the spitfire would help in that process.”

 

Wisdom Artos looked pleased with his apprentice’s show, and Percy would admit he was also very impressed. A glance at Donnis and the rest of the men showed both trepidation and awe - it's only natural to be wary when dealing with fire.

 

Another whisper in his mind, this one full of glee at the sight of the fire, but Percy vehemently ignored it.

 

“And you plan to have those devices installed along the walls and fortifications of the city?”

 

“Indeed, My Lord. They would be very effective against ships and ladders or even charging groups of soldiers.”

 

As Percy watched the effects of the archaic flamethrower, he couldn’t help but grin as ideas ran in his mind. “What about installing them on wagons or ships?”

.

.

.

They returned to the city, and Percy took this chance to check on the orders for his men. It had only been four days since Manderly bought out the metal ores in the city on their behalf and sent his cogs to other ports to replenish the city’s stores. The smithing guilds would use all that to finish their orders, even though they were already busy forging arms and armor for the war effort. White Harbor’s armies were mustering, along with those of Old Castle and Widow’s Watch; their lords and ladies were already travelling as fast as they could for the wedding.

 

Gods, he’s starting to speak like them.

 

Riding on Blackjack through the streets, with his men on their warhorses, Percy could see signs of the preparations of the wedding feast Wyman Manderly ordered for the city. Buildings and stores were adorned with colorful banners, flags, and garlands, giving the white city a myriad of colors that gave it a festive feel. Men were busy sweeping the streets, and making sure they were presentable for the wedding procession. Women were carrying purchases for their houses, and children played with kites or watched jugglers and acrobats playing on one of the makeshift stages on the squares.

 

A grunt from behind him had Percy glance at his new companion holding on to his mule’s saddle like his life depended on it, “Alright there, Ben?”

 

“Y-Yes, My Lord. I’m just not used to riding…well, anything!”

 

“You’ll get used to it.” He was tempted to have his men call him Percy as the whole My Lord thing still felt strange to him, but both his father and Sansa shot him down - he needed to preserve that air of authority he already established or something. Truth be told, he had only listened with half an ear. “If it helps, the mule says to stop kicking him too much, or he will knock you off its back.”

 

“Y-Y-Yes, M-My Lord.”

 

Gone was the confident smith and alchemist from before, and in his place was a shy and reticent fellow. Percy offered the man a position in his retinue, with permission from the Wisdom and a hefty commission of course, and both the guild and Bennard agreed since his project with them was over. Still, he didn’t think the man would be such an introvert, as once they entered the city, he had clammed up like a turtle in a shell.

 

He’ll get over it. He and Donnis seem to have struck a quick enough friendship as their interests aligned.

 

Meanwhile, Percy tore a bite of the smoked meat in his hand and chewed in pleasure. The leviathan was a tasty treat, and he had the privilege of getting first dibs on it. The rest of the beast was still getting butchered; most of it will go towards the city's festival, yet the juiciest parts of the meat will go to the wedding feast itself. 

 

If what he heard was true, there were even more of them out there, and Percy planned to hunt them. Still, he could not be in two places at once, and his place should always be next to Sansa.

 

Thinking of the beautiful girl who was to be his wife made his insides twist with anxiety while butterflies were trying to fly around at the same time. 

 

Gods, he was not ready. What if things didn’t work out-

 

“Percy, stop that. I told you already, son. Being nervous is fine. Problems will inevitably appear sooner rather than later, and a good marriage is one where you deal with such woes as soon as possible. Besides, It’s not like you had trouble being a problem solver before.”

 

His father’s words once again brought him a measure of relief. The nervousness receded, if not completely, but his mind still drifted. He still could not believe he was getting married! 

 

Ah, yet another whisper at the back of his mind; this one almost seemed lustful.

 

Strangely, he very much looked forward to marrying Sansa, but it was part of his new responsibilities to help her brother’s subjects, so those sea monsters needed to be dealt with.

 

His monster-slaying instincts were also tingling. 

 

Thoughts and plans sped through his mind on the best way for regular mortals to slay such beasts. If only he could recreate cannons and gunpowder, yet while he knew the recipe for black powder thanks to his Dad, making cannons was far easier said than done. Instead, Percy focused on what was available, hence his visit to the Alchemist guild.

 

Harpoons could be useful, but he recalled the tough hide of that monster. He might need something with a bit more oomph in it to crack it open. Something to think on later, but for now, he had an appointment with the tailor for his wedding.

.

.

.

“Where to next, My Lord?”

 

It was a couple of hours later, and the late afternoon sun shyly peeked from behind the clouds. After having to endure many prods and nudges from a team of seamstresses and tailors over his choice of wedding clothes, Percy was finally free. His order would be ready tomorrow at noon, and he would have an extra day to get used to it before the wedding. He had already visited a silversmith for some accessories that his father insisted he wear during the wedding - it would not do to look like a bum and embarrass Sansa.

 

“You three shall stable my horse, then take our new companion to our training yard. Get him up to speed, and make sure he could swing a hammer at someone as well as he could swing it at the anvil.”

 

“B-But, My Lord! I’m not a fighter, and I thought you would need my expertise in other matters. Like designing a portable spitfire, or an extra large spitfire…oh, or maybe–”

 

“Stop whinging, you pansy Harborman.” Kyle slapped Ben on the shoulder from on top of his courser. “We’ll make a real man out of him, Lord Perseus.”

 

“Good, and don’t worry, Ben. You will get all the materials you need to make all sorts of contraptions that go boom. But first, you gotta prove to me that you can take care of yourself. We’re in the middle of a war, after all.”

 

Kyle laughed at the morose alchemist while Donnis gave him a consoling nod. 

 

Mark stared at him with his stoic face - Percy had yet to get the marksman to smile. “What about you, My Lord?”

 

“I got business in the Wolf’s Den. I’ll meet you by dinner time.”

 

His companions nodded and left him at the foot of the Castle Stair, and Percy adjusted the Valyrian Steel shield he carried on his back. Its sharp rim was a hazard, but he managed to have a special sheath made for it; no matter how sharp Valyrian Steel was, it still needed leverage and inertia to cut anything.

 

Its handle was not comfortable compared to his old shield - he dearly missed his brother and wished he was here; Tyson would have been a godsend in this medieval world. Thankfully, whoever designed the shield had left grooves on the inner side of the shield where the handle’s position could be adjusted. He just needed to find a dependable smith to make him a handle worthy of the shield - or just have Ben do it; he did just hire him.

 

As he walked the cobbled path to the ancient castle, Percy inspected the houses clinging to the outer walls - like all of White Harbor’s houses, they were made from whitewashed stones with a crenelated roof. White Harbor might be small and vulnerable to attacks from the shore due to its open harbors, yet every house and building was designed in such a way that it could double as a defensive structure. 

 

The blackened walls of the Wolf’s Den looked to have survived many fires and sported many scars of battle; a section had half of its top crumbled, and Percy suspected the rubble was reused to build some of the houses, using the wall as a fourth wall. The guards by the gates saluted him as he entered, finding himself in a large courtyard with men training and lounging. 

 

Everyone recognized him by sight or the hilt of Ice sticking from his back, and they all saluted him as he made his way through the courtyard. His destination was a massive set of double doors with a small side door, only to be stopped by an old knight with one leg and one eye.

 

“Lord Perseus,” The knight rasped as he eyed him with suspicion and wariness. “Ser Bartimus Snow, at your service. I was told by Lord Manderly you would visit, but…”

 

“I promise you I will not harm anything inside. I only wish to pay respect to the gods.”

 

The knight’s face was like a block of stone as he stared at him with his single eye, the other covered by a gray eye patch. Finally, he nodded and opened the side door for him.

 

Soon, he was in a lush garden with a tangle of oak, elm, and birch trees that were choked by the massive roots and limbs of the great Weirwood. A glance at the walls surrounding the Godswood showed a door that led towards a stairway connecting to the garden of New Castle. That one did not have a Heart Tree - Wyman Manderly confessed neither he nor his ancestors ever bothered to plant one. 

 

The Manderlys might follow the Seven, but from what he noticed in the city, the average citizen did not seem to hold to just one set of gods. There were parks and private gardens in the city with small Weirwoods, and he had seen men and women praying to statues of the seven made from the holy tree. Even in the Sept of Snow, when he accompanied Sansa to visit a tomb of a family member, he had seen small statues made from the wood; clearly, that little bit of heresy was tolerated by the clergy here or even encouraged by Manderly.

 

Yet those weirwoods he had seen lacked the hallmark of a Heart Tree, unlike the one before him. It was quite the foreboding sight, and Percy found himself gulping as thousands of whispers resounded in the godswood as he stepped closer to the fat and angry face carved into the bone-white trunk. They were much louder and far more incoherent than anything he had experienced. 

 

As he approached, the whispers got more urgent, more excited or angry, yet he could not understand anything - the tree wept crimson sap from its eyes and mouth, and a flock of ravens cawed from the branches.

 

“It looks like that fat lord if someone stole the last piece of lamprey from his plate.”

 

Percy burst out in laughter at the unbidden image, “Thanks, Pops. I needed that.”

 

With the spell of foreboding broken, Percy was confident to inspect the tree again. He could feel power thrumming from its bark; its leaves had a pleasant, sweet smell, yet the tree bore no fruits or even nuts.

 

“Are you sure about this, son? I do not feel hostility from whatever entities dwell in those trees, yet I advise caution, nevertheless.”

 

“That would be the wise thing, I suppose - to turn back and ignore that constant whispering that has plagued my mind since I set foot in these lands. Not even you could shut it up, Dad.”

 

“True. Then again, you are just like I am, son.”

 

“In that wisdom has chased us for so long, yet we always tend to be just a bit faster than it?”

 

“Cheeky. Touch the damned tree, and let’s be done with this.”

 

Percy’s grin melted as he prepared himself and placed his palm on the fat face.

 

His world turned dark.

 

A*H*M

 

Far, far, beyond the realms of men.

 

They came for him again. They had him bound to a throne of black stone with ice that he could barely feel. It was not cold, nor did it freeze him, yet it was tough. His arms almost melded with the armrests, and his legs bound the same way. His new home was a dark, icy cavern with a single hole in the ceiling, letting the moonlight through to fall on a pit where a crystal orb sat. The moon was seemingly eternal, for he had not seen the sun in so long.

 

Benjen Stark did not remember how long he had been held here. The last he remembered was his mission and his companions slain ignominiously. He fought those cold shadows and disarmed two, but his blade did nothing but shatter against their skin. They would laugh at him, their voices like shattered ice, grating heavily on his ears.

 

So he shoved his fingers deep into one of their eyes, killing it as he scrambled its brains.

 

That shut them up, and it was his turn to laugh as the fucker had inexplicably shattered to dust. 

 

Whatever magic they used, it repelled blades and steel, yet they could do nothing against flesh - as long as he endured the bitter cold. They were strong in body and had cat-like reflexes, yet they had no martial skills. Any proper knight could have bested them, for they fought worse than wildlings.

 

They still captured him, for they had numbers, and he was exhausted, but not before he snapped another one of their necks. They might be strong, but their frames were fragile, like brittle ice.

 

He could not recall how long ago that was, only that they brought him to their home. A snow castle deep in the Lands of Always Winter! It would have made his sister jump in excitement; so similar it was to the ones they would build in the Godswood when they were children. 

 

Benjen saw giant spiders and wooly mammoths along the way, for they also had villages and hamlets. They were herded by giants, yet they were entirely different from the giants he had known - less furry and far more comfortable with the cold; men, and women, towering over fifteen feet, while the children would make an Umber look small. 

 

There were far more strange creatures and things but his captors did not give him a chance to inspect more. They dragged him before their chiefs and elders - their women and children, too, and they stared at him like he was an unusual specimen. 

 

He couldn’t blame them, for he stared in return. It was not out of fear but shock and disbelief.

 

Pale skin with a bluish tint, like ice, as graceful as shadowcats. They were the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen. Their hair came in different pale colors, but most of them were white, silver, gray, platinum, or even the rare blue. Their faces were sharp and ethereal, their features as if sculpted by an artist, with straight noses and high cheekbones and eyes in all the shades of blue. 

 

Their bodies were lithe and tall for the men - willowy and curvy for the women. They were a much fairer sight than the ones who brought him here, who looked more like an imitation of what one of them should look like.

 

But they were not the only things he found there. 

 

There were humans there, humans like him, yet not truly there. It took him a few minutes to realize they were dead, with eerily glowing blue eyes, and served as menial servants. 

 

It was then he finally understood who had taken him captive.

 

Others and their wights!

 

He had struggled mightily then; he refused to be turned into some monstrous doll for them to be used against his brothers - his nephew! He could not afford to get himself killed, and he had to escape!!

 

But where would he go? The freezing cold was everywhere, and it seeped into his bones. He always prided himself on his fortitude against the chill, laughing and teasing the Southrons who joined the Watch in summer and complained about the mildest gale. 

 

They had yet to experience true winter, he would say.

 

And neither did he, it seemed.

 

Benjen had fully expected to die then, that they had brought him to their leaders for execution, a show before they would raise them as one of their thralls. 

 

Instead, they placed him here, his new home.

 

They would not let him move or exercise. He did not seem to need to shit, either. They fed him milk of some kind and meat, enough to keep him alive but not sated. Days flew by, weeks, months, maybe years - he could not tell. Every week, they would come and cut his wrists or feet, allowing his blood to flow down funnels toward the thing in the pit.

 

Some strange crystal orb that drank his blood hungrily. 

 

He had gradually grown weaker; the loss of blood combined with a lack of movement and proper food caused his muscles to atrophy, and he could barely feel his limbs.

 

Until suddenly, he could!

 

His sleep had always been mired by nightmares that he could not remember. Sometimes, he would be lucky and be too exhausted to dream. 

 

But one day, it changed. 

 

Benjen started feeling better. His sleep was more peaceful, and his dreams more vivid. Someone was trying to tell him something in his dreams, but he could barely remember them when he awoke.

 

It didn’t matter, for his body had started to regain its strength. Days passed, the moon turned its cycle, and suddenly, Benjen could feel it.

 

The ice, snow, and cold around him used to sap his strength and make him feel alone. Suddenly, it felt different. The frost fed him, gave him strength, and soothed him. 

 

Benjen felt far too calm and collected than he had any right to. More lightheaded, too. It shouldn’t have been possible. Not even Old Nan told such tales!

 

Perhaps he was dying or already dead, and this was some feverish dream or the afterlife. Perhaps… perhaps it was real. He could not yet tell the difference.

 

Before, the Others would send their ice dolls to feed him daily, while two older shamans or priests of some kind would extract his blood once a week. At least, he thought it was once a week. But since the day he had started to recover, there was a new addition to their numbers. 

 

A young woman he recalled seeing on that first day. Back then, she had looked at him disdainfully, like a queen would look at a dirty peasant. He suspected she was the daughter of their leader, for she had stood behind him back then, and had the bearing of royalty along with a small crystal crown over her head that held a large obsidian stone in the center. Now, she stared at him in interest, her blue eyes twinkling in amusement and her leaf-shaped ears twitching behind her blueish hair as he tried to talk to her.

 

At first, they could not understand each other, but he didn’t care. It had been a long time since he had spoken to anyone, and none of the rest seemed to pay him any heed. She would speak to him in her melodic tongue, yet he could not understand it either. Benjen was unsure why she suddenly became interested in him, but he did not mind as she always brought more food than the dolls. More milk, that strange meat, and even cheese!

 

Day after day, she would visit him. Talk to him. Soon, they could understand each other, taught each others’ languages, and learn about each other. Her name was far too difficult for him to pronounce, so he just called her Nyra. He learned the milk and cheese came from the mammoths, while the meat was from spider legs.

 

He was unsure whether he preferred to know whether he had been eating spider meat. In the end, he shrugged; It tasted like chicken.

 

The snowy princess seemed very interested in his name, his blood, and tales about the Wall. Benjen got the feeling she felt both excitement and fear from the mention of the Wall. Yet it was the sun that she asked about the most, and he could understand considering he had yet to see the bright light of the sun since coming here.

 

One day, Nyra arrived alone, and it was not feeding time. Benjen could feel his muscles recovering to their former strength and had slowly been trying to free himself from his icy binds. He stared at her then, for normally, she would be dressed in white silk, which gave her a modest and dignified appearance.

 

This time, she only had a cloak made from mammoth wool, and as she stood before him, Nyra shrugged it off, showing him her bare skin - naked except for the small crown on her head. 

 

Benjen had been bound naked to his frozen throne for so long, yet the sight before him had his mind go blank. He would not claim to have kept to the vows of the Night’s Watch religiously, for he had had the occasional tumble in Mole’s Town or even the daring spear wife who would sell herself for a piece of bacon.

 

It was a badly kept secret among the more senior brothers that the vows of celibacy were bogus, but none of that registered in his mind at the sight of sheer beauty before him.

 

Pale unblemished skin, large perky breasts topped with dark pink nipples, a toned stomach, wide hips, pert ass and long legs. Nyra was a sight to behold, and he felt his member rise from its slumber.

 

The minx had then sat on his lap and kissed him deeply, Benjen struggling mightily as he tried to free himself to grab that arse and slam her down his cock. Nyra merely smirked once she saw his struggles, and then she grabbed his member and plunged down with a pained moan. 

 

For a moment, his mind felt blank. 

 

Tight!

 

Even tighter than a vice, yet softer than velvet, her core gripped him almost painfully. The usual warmth of the coupling was replaced by a pleasant chill that made his spine tingle with pleasure.

 

He was surprised to see purple blood seep into his loins. She gently rode him then, her moans growing more sensual as she adjusted to his size, and the pain subsided.

 

It was a long time since he had laid with a woman, and no woman could ever compare to the ethereal one on his lap. Benjen continued to struggle mightily, his hips slamming upwards to meet her downward thrusts. His muscles bulged, and he could hear cracking sounds from the ice digging into his skin, the pain giving him moments of clarity.

 

He suddenly recalled the tale of the Night’s King and his Corpse Bride. The 13th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch had supposedly given his seed to his bride, whatever the fuck that meant. Could Nyra be doing the same? Did he care? The Night’s King remained married for ten years, thriving on the Wall with his bride, yet none cared about it until he declared himself king.

 

Benjen was not particularly pleased with his stay in this prison, yet he would not mind taking this woman for himself if he could be free. 

 

The moment the idea came to him, he managed to shatter his shackles and grabbed Nyra by her waist. Her shocked face caused something primal to roar in his mind as he claimed her lips and finished inside her with a powerful thrust. As she was frozen in rapture, he growled as his legs struggled mightily against their confines before, with a screeching noise, broke the ice to pieces; then, he turned his lover on the throne and thrust again from behind. His hands roughly kneaded her soft teats, while all his instincts demanded he claim her, mark her!

 

Benjen could not remember much of what happened later, only that he lost count of how many times he had spent himself inside Nyra… and the taste of her blood in his mouth as he bit deeply on her shoulder. The woman was exhausted and incoherent, yet he still felt plenty of vigor, if hungry.

 

This was his chance. 

 

The idea of abandoning Nyra never came to his mind - she was his woman now, his teeth marked her flesh as his, and his seed was sown inside her. Slinging her over his shoulder and wearing her heavy cloak, Benjen grabbed the crystal orb from the pit before making his way out of the cave. It was incredibly reckless, yet he knew he would never get another chance to escape. 

 

He stopped by the cave’s entrance and sneaked a peak behind a corner. There was one of those ice dolls, staring outwards and keeping watch for intruders - giving the impression that Nyra was not supposed to be here. There was also what seemed to be a horse with a pelt as white as snow grazing nearby. The guard was wearing armor but no helmet. Benjen carefully placed Nyra on the ground and covered her with her cloak before sneakily approaching the ice construct and grabbing its neck from behind.

 

It was a bit awkward as it was taller than him, yet he dragged it to the ground and with a grunt - twisted. The strange creature barely had time to choke before shattering to ice dust, but surprisingly, leaving its armor and sword. Benjen thanked the gods for the boon, although the armor was too tight. 

 

He wished he had actual clothes, for while he barely felt the cold now, the translucent ice was uncomfortable. Benjen stared at the horse, shocked to discover it had a horn. A Unicorn! And not like the goats of Skagos.

 

The unicorn lazily stared back before snorting and continuing to graze. It was saddled and nearly half again as large as the largest destrier he had seen. He warily approached it and patted its neck, noticing it was a mare rather than a stallion. The steed was docile enough as he led it back to where he left Nyra.

 

As he walked, he caught his reflection in a clear ice sheet and froze. Staring back at him with eyes that were more blue than grey, was a familiar face, if a bit gaunt, but his hair and wild beard had gone completely white. Just how long had he been here?

 

Benjen shook his head and quickly collected the sleeping girl and the crystal, chuckling to himself at a job well done, before climbing the unicorn and holding his woman before him. With a click of his tongue, the mare shook her head and exited the cave.

 

Outside, he found himself on a cliff's ledge, a bit far from the settlement and its castle. Looking at it now, he could tell it was not as large as he thought - barely larger than an average castle like Cerwyn’s and made from stone as well as Ice, yet with a queer design that was both sharp and elegant. He wondered if there were more castles and settlements, hidden by the inhospitable lands of always winter?

 

Benjen shook his head. Such thoughts could wait for later.

 

The skies were bright with northern lights, a beautiful sight that was rare in the North, yet he had learned it was the norm in the Lands of Always Winter. The land was covered in snow and rocks, but there was a surprising amount of woodlands and vegetation. 

 

He tried to figure out where he was, yet the constellations were difficult to see from the northern lights. Benjen needed to return to the Wall. Whatever the Others were up to, he had no idea, but he needed to report that they existed and were active.

 

Nyra fidgeted in his arms but continued sleeping as she snuggled deeper into his embrace. He had no idea how she would react once she awakened, yet he would cross that bridge when they arrived. Sighing, he nudged the horse away down the hill and towards the distant mountains. 

 

He had a long journey ahead of him. He just hoped those were the Frost Fangs.

Notes:

Percy meets the alchemists. Flamethrowers GET!

Spitfires are mentioned in the books yet are never elaborated on. We know medieval flamethrowers existed, so why not make some?

We finally get an update on our erstwhile Stark. Percy awakening magic had far-reaching consequences, such as giving Benjen a boost…as well as the Others.

What the Others gained from this remains to be seen.

And yes, I'm making my own twist regarding the Others plotline.

Chapter 13: The Son of Ice and Fire

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

---

Fist of the First Men

Lord Commander Jeor Mormont

 

“Hold the line! Hold the fucking line, damn you!” Jeor grabbed Fornio as he stumbled out of the line and shoved him back with a new torch in hand. “Don’t use your swords, you fools! Burn them, burn them all!”

 

His men roared in defiance as they brandished their torches and obsidian weapons at the enemy. Wights burned as if they were soaked in oil, and Tumberjon kicked a burning corpse down the hill, setting its fellows on fire. Simply stabbing them with obsidian was not enough, but it helped keep them in place long enough for a brother to set them on fire. 

 

Whatever foul magic caused the dead to rise and walk seemed to conflict with the dragonglass, rendering any wight stabbed with them inert. However, when the men withdrew the obsidian, the wights would stand back up and continue shambling towards them.

 

Cutting them to pieces was even worse, as they would have to stab each separate piece and burn it.

 

If only they had more than two Valyrian Steel weapons. 

 

Whatever magick the Valyrians had imbued in their blades permanently severed the connection of the Others with their wights, unlike obsidian. A single slice or stab was enough to drop the wights like mummer’s dolls with their strings cut. The men would quickly set them on fire in case the Cold Shadows reformed the connection.

 

Jeor glanced at his steward as he performed a deadly dance with the gifted Longclaw, sending limbs and heads flying everywhere. Jon Snow kept an entire flank of the monsters at bay, showing his fortitude. Jeor had given him twenty men to command, and Snow silenced any grumbling from the older rangers by proving his mettle and skill with the sword.

 

At seven and ten, Jon Snow had a good head on his shoulder, sharp wits to go with it, and a very stable sword hand. Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell’s master-at-arms, had proven his skill in teaching once more, building a good foundation in yet another pupil. Just like his uncle, Benjen Stark, Jon Snow was a diamond in the rough, an able warrior who only lacked experience, and if he lived long enough to gain it, he would be nigh unstoppable.

 

Or that was what Jeor had thought until things changed drastically over a moon prior. 

 

Every morning, since that fated day, there was a newfound confidence in Jon Snow, both in his actions and stride. The Lord Commander observed how, with every new dawn, the boy practiced harder, and that awkwardness that clung to youth quickly melted away like summer snow under the sun. It reminded Jeor Mormont of how a fresh squire or son acted after their first battle. However, it was as if Jon Snow was fighting a bloody war every time he went to sleep, and he woke up a bloodied and more experienced veteran the next day.

 

All that experience that the young Snow lacked was appearing faster than Jeor could comprehend. Watching Stark’s natural-born son dispose of the shambling corpses with well-practiced finesse and experience was a sobering experience. Each strike was precise, sharp yet fluid, and judging by the ease with which Longclaw bit into bone, bronze, and fur - strong . As an old man with his prime long gone, Jeor could admit, he would not be the boy’s match even at his peak.

 

In fact, the only two in the Night’s Watch that could hold against the current Jon Snow would be Qhorin Halfhand and Benjen Stark if he were found alive. And gods save him, Jeor would place all his coin on Snow in another sennight if he continued his current rate of growth.  

 

His choice for steward was beginning to pay even more dividends because it was one thing for the men to follow some highlord’s bastard and yet another thing entirely to follow another legend in the making. Any doubt in Jeor’s mind about the boy's mother evaporated. This could only be that legendary Dayne talent mixing with the blood of the Kings of Winter.

 

And gods, the rumors of Eddard Stark raising him as a spare were indeed proven true. Tactics, command, leadership, knowledge, heraldry, history–Jon Snow was trained in it all.

 

Jeor could still remember their talk on that fated day a moon ago.

 

 

They had just left Craster’s keep and were a sennight away from the wretch’s home when they camped for the night near a spring. Jeor was speaking to his commanders in his tent when a disturbed Jon approached them. 

 

The lad insisted he speak to him privately, but Thoren Smallwood had bristled at the impudence. The look in Jon Snow’s haunted eyes and his direwolf’s massive, looming form as it poked its head inside the tent convinced Jeor to give him a chance. There was something uncanny about the Weirwood colors of the Direwolf. Touched by the gods, some of the older rangers claimed when they saw Ghost the first time.

 

Jeor bid Jon enter, where the lad spoke to them about impossible things. 

 

Lord Commander Brynden Bloodraven being alive; a greenseer who can see through the weirwoods the past and present, the return of the Others, Craster colluding with them… so many mad things that Jeor had immediately refused to believe. Jarman Buckwell even rebuked the young Snow for wasting their time with children's tales while Thoren’s face increasingly turned red, muttering about heathen devilry as the young Snow spoke.

 

Then, Jon declared he had proof and brought them outside to show them. Despite Jeor’s hesitance, Mallador Locke, who had remained silent throughout, followed the lad, causing Jeor and the others to hurry after them. At the edge of the camp, they found flocks of ravens on the trees, Jeor’s own large raven screeching SNOW and flying to join them.

 

The bushes moved, showing figures with short statures and bright eyes. Jeor was a Northman and had been a member of the Night’s Watch for many years. He had his fair share of dealings with wildlings and their foul magics. Skinchangers and wargs were rare but not unheard of, along with whatever charlatans pretending to be woods witches existed in these parts. However, that was the extent of the so-called magic that the lands beyond the Wall offered.

 

And yet, even he could not deny the existence of the Children of the Forest when they stared at him from the bushes.

 

Thoren Smallwood had unsheathed his blade and nearly ran one of them through if not for Locke grabbing his hand. The Riverlander had wide, bloodshot eyes and was frothing in the mouth about devils, but a command from Jeor had him stand down. 

 

Only one of the Children could speak the common tongue; Leaf was her name. “We are Those-Who-Sing-The-Song-Of-The-Earth,” she introduced them, the Children being a name they loathed for some reason, but Jon called them Earth Singers for short. Jeor felt like he was in a dream as all the fables of the North came alive in front of him.

 

Leaf, the Earth Singer, claimed the Last Greenseer, Brynden Rivers, was on their side and would be helping them through Jon Snow. Jeor did not know why it had to be Jon Snow in particular, but Jon confessed to him later that Bloodraven was not keen on approaching the Watch. It was only due to Jon’s stubborn insistence that he acquiesced and sent the Earth Singers along with something else.

 

As a sign of goodwill, they gifted him a Valyrian Steel sword.

 

“Wait, this looks like the description of Dark fucking Sister,” Jarman Buckwell gasped in shock as he picked up the sword.

 

Any doubts about the authenticity of the claims were washed away then, for everyone knew the blade was with Bloodraven during his final, ill-fated ranging. 

 

Bloodraven even spoke to them through one of the ravens. Poor Thoren nearly got a stroke from the shock and had to lay down. The ancient ranger provided them important information about what was happening in these savage lands.

 

The Others were stirring once more. They were never gone, merely hidden to the far north and west beyond the Frostfangs, in lands neither the Watch nor anyone had ever charted. Jeor did not disbelieve him, for he had seen the corpses of Jaffer Flowers and Othor rise from the dead. His commanders were skeptical, but the existence of the Children rendered any of their suspicions moot.

 

“I spent decades trying to gleam into the Cold Ones,” the murder of ravens crowed out in a small chorus. “Past, present, future. But to my greatest surprise, the Others were not one folk or group. It reminded me of wildlings, coming and going in tribes and clans, with their customs and languages.” 

 

And what united them? Apparently, their hatred of warmbloods . Humans. In simple terms, they were like the Essosi scum to the East. They desired more slaves to do their bidding, and they did so either by raising the dead or by creating Ice Dolls with the use of human babies.

 

Jeor now knew what Craster did with his sons, and he had half a mind to turn back to gut the heathen scum on a Weirwood.

 

“What changed, then?” The Lord Commander asked grimly. “Why would they unite now, after so many millennia?”

 

“I know no more than you do,” came the bleak response. “But does it matter?”

 

It didn’t matter, of course. The Others were driving the wildlings towards the Wall out of desperation, and they were hunting the rangers. Whatever the cause, it was an act of war.

 

“And how can we defeat those foul fiends?” Ser Mallador Locke, a senior ranger and commander of the scouts, asked impetuously. “Surely, there is a way?” 

 

“There is,” Leaf’s voice was laced with sorrow, but then again, her speech sounded sad. “Wights take to fire like kindling, but it scarcely does anything to the Cold Ones. Obsidian or dragonsteel would shatter the frost dolls hewn from human babes. It’s those hidden ones that are the most troublesome. They could control their dolls and dead thralls from afar.”

 

“It’s not going to be an easy fight,” Brynden warned. “Or a short one. But you already suspected that. No, your immediate trouble will come from Mance Rayder and his army camped near the Frostfangs, west of the First of the First Men. The fool’s searching for a magical horn that he believes could bring down the Wall. Pah, lackwits, and imbeciles, as if Brandon’s Wall could be brought down by some pesky runic horn!”

 

The blatant derision in the raven’s crowing had gotten a few chuckles from the rangers.

 

The corvids continued with their gargled cawing, “Of course, there are other, not-so-urgent matters. Magic seems to have awoken fully, and some things have changed.”

Dread welled up in Jeor’s chest. Magic was feared, and for good reason. But he asked anyway, “What things?”

 

“Dunno. I can feel the change, but how in the seven bloody hells would I know all of it? Some things that I never thought possible now easily happen. You might feel different or awaken some obscure talent or ability previously dormant in your lineage. Perhaps something entirely different. Or, well, you wouldn’t notice a thing.” 

 

Jon Snow had stubbornly looked away as he patted his white direwolf, who happily wagged his shaggy tail like an obedient dog.

 

There was more information that Jeor found useful. Qhorin had left the Shadow Tower with one hundred men and was following the Milkwater’s west bank towards the Fist. Bloodraven warns that if he continues on this path, he might stumble on Mance Rayder’s wildling army. Jeor trusted Qhorin to have scouts on the field to avoid such a situation, yet he still decided to send Thoren and a score of men to better coordinate with the men from the Shadow Tower. 

 

Finally, there were the whereabouts of his First Ranger. Bloodraven had watched from the Weirwoods as Benjen Stark fought valiantly against a group of the Ice Thralls but was ultimately captured. His whereabouts were still unknown, but it was worrying that the Others would want him alive. Regardless, they had learned valuable information from that confrontation. 

 

Regular steel did nothing against the foe, but fisticuffs still worked - if you could overpower the mythical strength of the monsters and withstand their cold. 

 

From there, the Earth Singers split into two groups. One of them, led by Leaf, would head north and west, beyond the Frostfangs, as they search for the base of the Others, where they believe they have Benjen Stark in captivity. Apparently, one of them was a skinchanger with an owl companion, making them excellent scouts, and they agreed that they would shadow Thoren’s group as they meet with Qhorin and help them scout the wildlings. 

 

His commander of the rangers was far too tired to object to it, thankfully.

 

A dozen of them remained, promising to act as forward scouts and supply them with obsidian. The Singers had pointed the Watchmen to vast deposits and caches that could be found… all over the place, really. Bloodraven also promised to translate for them through his ravens, although Jon Snow asked to be taught their tongue.

 

“No human had ever managed to fully learn it before. Even Brynden still has difficulty speaking it.” Leaf had warned, “But I suppose it doesn’t hurt to try.”

 

And Jeor decided to keep his steward close.

 

Especially when it became clear the young man was a warg. Jeor had always suspected it with his uncanny control of Ghost, but his suspicions were confirmed when he saw him communing with ravens and reporting what they found. He did not care; considering their foes, a bit of magic on their side would not hurt.

 

Besides, it was not some wildling or a no-named peasant but the son of Ned Stark , a man who lived and breathed honor and duty. If any man could overcome whatever stigma or curse that came with using magic, it would be a Son of Winterfell. 

 

Snow or not, it did not matter; the lad was raised there, and the blood of the Kings of Winter flowed thickly in his veins.

 

Jeor had, of course, ordered his commanders and the rest to keep mum about the Singers lest the men do something stupid. But word about the Others would be spread out, so the rangers were not unprepared when the black brothers faced them in battle. 

 

The men were, predictably, distraught with the news about the Others. Many, led by Ottyn Wythers, had argued it would be best to return to the Wall now that they knew about the wildling army. If the Wall was impregnable, why should they risk their lives on the field? 

 

“What happens if the coming winter proves cold enough to freeze the Bay of Ice or the Bay of Seals?” Jeor asked then. “It happened thirty years ago and twice more half a century prior.”

 

That had silenced most complaints. The men grumbled, but that was something they always did.

 

“Besides, we still need to deal with the wildlings sooner or later,” the Locke knight added. “What if the savage fucks decide to ally with the bloody Others like Craster?”

 

The rest of the commanders and senior rangers all agreed. And so, Jeor led the ranging towards the Fist. Ser Mallador was ordered to keep an eye on the troops in case the dissent spilled out of hand. Without his First Ranger, that duty would need to fall on a trusted ranger, and Mallador Locke was a Northman, a knight, and most importantly, one of the scant few who had taken the Black out of duty, not to avoid punishment.

 

Over the days and weeks, they trekked through the Haunted Forest, finding it to be eerily empty of any wildling. It was full of wild game, however, for the lack of human predators had allowed plenty of deer, elks, moose, boars, and other such animals to propagate.

 

The same could be said for the predators.

 

Jon Snow’s direwolf prowled ahead daily, and returned with companions. It started slowly with a second direwolf, a she-wolf to be precise, then a couple of wolves, then more and more. Soon, Jeor suspected nearly a hundred bloody direwolves were just out of sight of the rangers. This was nearly five times the size of the biggest pack he had encountered prior - and that was regular wolves. Not even Jon Snow knew how many there were, as he claimed they followed Ghost. Even more grumblings sounded, particularly from the southerners and adherents of the Seven. The men had to waste time calming the horses while throwing dirty looks at his steward.

 

But one did not simply make problems for a man with a hundred direwolves at his beck and call. Jeor had seen a few shaggy beasts approach him late at night, rubbing playfully at the Stark bastard. Even two or three younger pups were always loitering around the young Snow.

 

It did not help that Jon Snow was in constant communication with Bloodraven. Jeor might have believed the ancient ranger’s words but did not trust the old bastard himself. Who would not have his wits scrambled after living to such an old age?! Spending so many decades alone with nothing to do but spy on the realm… it would surely ruin the mind. He hoped young Jon would not take a similar path with how he used those ravens.

 

On the bright side, the hounds they brought were foisted on the young man to care for. What did it matter if he had a dozen more canines? Strangely, Chett, the kennel attendant, seemed upset about relinquishing control over the hounds and joining the front. Jeor recalled the leechman's son was an aid to Maester Aemon but was replaced by the literate Samwell Tarly.

 

Any of the men’s worries and skepticism were squashed when they came upon the first group of shambling corpses. Jon's wolves sniffed them from miles away, and he, along with Jarman Buckwell, the second-best sword in the ranging after the young bastard, now wielding Dark Sister, led twenty men with obsidian and torches to clear them out. They lost no one, but they did not find the masters, only the thralls. There was no doubt it was a scouting party, and knowing the magic of the Others, they knew where they were.

 

At least the men grumbled less as they increased their pace to the Fist.

Jeor shook his head as he continued walking up and down the line, leaving Snow’s position and barking orders at the men to hold their ground. Their foes did not tire nor retreat. They did not suffer from the cold, nor did they hunger. They surrounded them from all sides except the west, where the Milkwater acted as a moat for the fort, and the north, where the incline was too sharp for even the dead to attack from. The wights were slow and clumsy yet incredibly strong once they got a hold of you, as they discovered the hard way when one of the brothers was torn to pieces by a few of them.

 

Yet, as long as they knew their weaknesses, they were incredibly easy to defeat. Jeor worried more about their masters. His army had arrived at the Fist of the First Men two days ago, and the Singers reported Qhorin was still a few days away but had found the Wildling’s camp, which meant his arrival could be delayed. The Halfhand would want to scout things properly, as he always did. Not that Jeor minded; knowing the position of your foes was essential in battle. 

 

They had barely rested and started building fortifications when the Others struck late at night. Thankfully, Jon had warned them an hour ahead, and they had enough time to prepare torches and fashion whatever obsidian they found into weapons. They had been fighting for many hours now, yet the lack of sunlight hid the true numbers of the enemy.

 

Suddenly, a sudden cold snap tickled his spine, and Jeor turned towards where a screeching sound was heard. It was not a sound he had ever heard. It caused inexplicable fear to crawl up his back. The sound was like steel grinding on glass. The men were wavering, looking around wildly at where the sound came from, but he quickly asserted his presence.

 

“Focus on the dead! Forget the noise, burn those wretches, damn you!”

 

His commanders repeated his orders, though some needed more than a rap on the head to keep them fighting. On the southern part of the fort, a cowardly brother dropped his torch and pushed one of his fellow brothers at the advancing wights in an attempt to run towards the horses. 

 

Before anyone could react, Mallador Locke stabbed the traitor from behind before beheading him. The Northern knight scowled as he dragged the corpse to one of the dismantlers to strip it of valuable clothes and armor before setting it on fire - then he turned to the rest of his troops, “You will fight, or you will fucking die. Better die doing your duty than be an oath-breaking scum!”

 

The men did not have time to think of retreating before the Wights increased their onslaught. But the clanging sound continued, followed by inhuman screeching. Jeor gathered his trusted reserves and hurried to the eastern side of the fort, where Jon Snow was stationed. 

 

One man hurried to him as he approached, “Lord Commander! It's them, they're here!”

 

He did not need to guess who They were. Everyone was armed with dragonglass daggers and studded clubs, while Jarman Buckwell adjusted his grip on Dark Sister. They hurried to the eastern walls, finding many wounded and a couple of naked corpses set on fire, their garments set aside to be reused.

 

Jon Snow fiercely dueled three of the Cold Shadows, his blade a whirlwind of steel as he slashed, parried, deflected, stabbed, and fought like a bloody demon that belayed his young age of seven and ten. The clanging and screeching sound came from the Valyrian Steel clashing with the Other’s Blade. His wolf pack had torn apart a giant spider and was in the process of tearing another, but many animal wights were attacking as well, yet the men peppered them with fire arrows.

 

The Others… were certainly a sight to behold, but now that he was forewarned by Bloodraven, he could tell that they were… lesser. Some imperfections like those he would find on the seams of a cheap cloak. Despite their ethereal beauty and the grace of their movements, they were too much like statues to believe them real.

 

They were Ice Dolls. Formerly human babes that were corrupted by whatever monstrous magic their masters used to become thralls. They lacked the skill to wield their blades as they threw wild swings at Jon Snow, which he expertly avoided, but they certainly did not lack strength, judging by the lad’s grimace every time his blade met frost.

 

It only took Jeor a few heartbeats to inspect the scene before coming to a decision.

 

“Men, advance!”

.

.

.

For once, the sun shone brightly in this cold land, and Jeor could feel the exhaustion of his age. They had been fighting without respite for hours all through the night. More of the Ice Dolls appeared after slaying the three fighting Jon Snow, but dragonsteel and dragonglass, combined with valor and skill at arms, had beaten them back.

 

Their greatest adversaries were two dead giants and a mammoth. The mammoth was brought down by the direwolves while the giants struggled to climb up the hill, allowing them enough time to gather as many archers as possible and rain fire on them. Their furry hide set them ablaze.

 

By dawn, hardly any of the foes remained, and by sunrise, the scant few remaining had completely retreated. The men rejoiced, and Jeor allowed many to sleep while those awake to have a hearty breakfast, while he conversed with the Greenseer and the Singers. The conspicuous absence of the hidden masters of the Icy Constructs frustrated Bloodraven. The Others had once again proven elusive, somehow capable of hiding from his senses, though perhaps their magic was simply so strong that they could control their thralls from vast distances.

 

The smell of charred corpses still permeated the air as Brown Bernarr tended to his bleeding temple.

 

“It's just a scratch, Lord Commander. Normally, a poultice and clean bandages should have it healed within a sennight, but I'm not sure what manner of sorcery was in those blades.”

 

“That will be all, Bernarr.” He sent the squat ranger away with a wave of his hand and nodded to the tired Mallador Locke as he joined their campfire. “How many did we lose, Ser Mallador?”

 

“13 men dead and 19 wounded, all but two would recover after a few days rest. We must have slayed over a thousand wights and a dozen Others.”

 

A low cheer sounded around the campfire, where most men were having breakfast or being treated for wounds. The casualties could have been far worse if not for Bloodraven’s warnings. The wights were difficult to count because many burned to ashes, and more were animals instead of men. 

 

“Seven fucking hells, those bastards used anything and everything to throw at us, even the bloody rabbits! Yet we still beat those bunnies!”

 

Another cheer resounded at one of the younger brothers' words, Pypar, he thought was his name. Jeor should work on remembering the names of his recruits.

 

“Jon the Slayer! Fucker slew three of those icy fucks. I swear on me mum, I saw it with me own eyes!” One of the younger brothers, Grenn, clapped Jon Snow's shoulder, causing the young man to grimace heavily; he had suffered a wound on his upper arm from the same blade that wounded Jeor.

 

Sam the Craven cautiously approached, and it seemed the fat lad had earned his moniker. 

 

“How did you do it, Jon? I-I was so terrified, and I was tending to the ravens!”

 

“Let’s hope you didn’t eat any of them out of stress, Fat Sam.”

 

“I-I did not!”

 

“Why so defensive, then? Ah, never mind. So, Jon,” Pyper coughed as Snow kicked his legs, “We knew you were a fancy lord’s son, but I swear I’ve never seen anyone swing a sword so damn fast in my life.”

 

Everyone stared at the young Snow in a mix of curiosity and respect. Jeor also looked on from across the campfire. He had fought alongside the young man and saw him holding his own and ultimately defeating those three monsters when his best men floundered against them.

 

It was now clear that Jon Snow had awoken something, something other than skinchanging or the like. And Jeor felt pained to imagine how this ranging would have ended if they had gone in blind without the knowledge provided by his young steward. Or without his increasingly lethal sword skill.

 

“I just…trusted in my training,” Jon Snow lowered his head. The boy was too humble for his own good; many others in his shoes would be boasting for the world to hear until their throat went sore. “The cold didn’t bother me much. All I felt was my heart beating like a drum and my blood singing for battle.” 

 

He then rubbed his right hand over that icy bracer he wore on his left - his eyes glazed over and a queer smile blooming on his face. “It was like…like I needed to show those things not to underestimate me. I needed to kill them, no, to assert my power and dominance…”

 

A strange silence fell over them before Pypar alleviated it with more jests. Jeor glanced at his commanders, Ser Jarman and Ser Mallador, who shrugged. Ser Jarman had also slayed one of the Cold Shadows after a brutal duel while the rest were driven back by a hail of obsidian-tipped arrows.

 

Ned Stark must have trained his son very well indeed. Snow’s wounded arm was bare, as if the cold did not bother him, and the linen wrapped around the cut had dried blood as if the wound was already closed. Strangely, he seemed to be recovering fine. Jon Snow had recovered a bracer from that icy material the Other wore. Any who touched it was burned by the cold, yet Snow felt nothing and wore it on his left arm. 

 

Starks were built different, he supposed.

 

After the tiring night, nobody questioned Jon Snow anymore. Even now, Jeor could see he had won the grudging respect of all rangers, new, old, veteran, from the North or the South. 

 

“Any word on Qhorin?”

 

The question was directed to Jon Snow, who was inspecting a sack of some sort that his snowy direwolf dug up. He stared into space for a heartbeat. “He's an hour away with Thoren Smallwood. They seem to have taken some wildlings captive.”

 

He nodded, even as he ignored the queer looks thrown by his men at Snow. He might have proven himself formidable in battle, yet it was still hard to let go of the fears the men grew up with. Wargs, skinchangers, sorcerers…what was the world coming to when that was becoming normal?

 

Snow returned to the sack in hand, where he uncovered more dragonglass, which he quickly distributed. Before Jeor could grow more curious, Ser Locke signaled for him to speak in private. The Lord Commander tiredly stood and joined him a short-distance away where the man’s squire, Donnel Hill, was waiting.

 

“Well, Mallador? What is it?”

 

“The traitor who tried to desert, and I beheaded. He was our former houndsman.”

 

“What about him?”

 

“I had Donnel befriend him and keep an eye for any mischief. Donnel?”

 

“Aye, Chett had planned to have you and many of the higher-ranked brothers killed, Milord.” Donnel Hill had an uneasy smile as he reported. “Tried to recruit many of us in some mad scheme to have Ottyn Wythers be commander, whom they hoped would then return to the Wall.”

 

Jeor wanted to groan; mutiny so deep into the cold wilderness? Madness! 

 

He once again lamented his order's lack of proper men of honor. There were enough in the higher ranks, but the common foot soldiers were scum who chose the Black over the noose. 

 

He turned to the nervous squire only for his master to speak on his behalf, “Donnel agreed to join in the plot under my orders. We needed to root out such corruption among the ranks, and this was the best method.”

 

Leave it to the most Southerly placed House in the North to have enough cunning to plan for such a ruse. Jeor was not made for such games; give him an ax in hand and a target, and he would gladly split an enemy’s head. “Aye, if you vouch for him. But the coward is dead, so why bother with this now?”

 

“Chett was but the ringleader. There were other conspirators, milord.” Donnel Hill glanced around warily as if worried they would be overheard. “They planned to kill Tarly to prevent ravens from making it to the Wall. I know they tried to recruit Small Paul, but he stuck close to Snow after receiving a raven chick as a pet from the warg.”

 

Jeor rubbed his brow as Donnel reported on all the conspirators who would most likely follow through with the plot, even with their ringleader dead.

 

“Any of the conspirators die in the fighting?”

 

“Aside from Chett? Sadly, no.” Locke answered him before glancing to the south. “I can see Qhorin’s group.”

 

Jeor turned to where over a hundred men and their animals stopped by the edge of the forest, most likely gawking at the burning corpses. They still needed to trek up the hill to their camp, so they got some time.

 

“Keep an eye on those men. The moment they so much as whisper any treason, you let us know.”

 

Donnel nodded and left, while Mallador gazed at him. “You intend to pick them out one by one?”

 

“Aye, I can't afford morale to drop now, not after a victory and with Qhorin's group arriving. Better to have them get into accidents or sent on suicide missions.”

 

The knight nodded, and they left to rouse the men and gather by the fort’s entrance, where Qhorin arrived. Greetings were made, prisoners were placed in stockades, and the rest of the men were assigned bunks in the ring fort. The wildlings would naturally be put to work rebuilding the fort, but that could wait.

 

Meanwhile, Jeor and his commanders discussed their next step in his tent. Qhorin gazed strangely at Jon Snow’s presence but shrugged it off.

 

“Eighty thousand?!”

 

“Aye, give or take five thousand, I say, though there were many more in the hills or on patrols. And that's aside from the giants. As many as two thousand we managed to count before the fuckers started scouting with their animals. We would have been caught if not for the Earth Singers,” Thoren grumbled, but Qhorin’s voice was full of awe as he spoke of the Earth Singers and, dare he say, worship. “Even the Thenns were there, and they were all digging for something.”

 

“That's good. They can keep digging and waste their supplies all they want. The Frostfangs are as inhospitable as they come.”

 

“Aye, I can't see them staying for another moon or two before they either find what they're looking for or decide to move on or risk starving.” Qhorin stared at a rough map they made of the region. “So what's the plan, Jeor?”

 

“You already know about the Others and Bloodraven's message?”

 

Qhorin glanced at Jon again, specifically his icy bracer, before nodding, “Aye, Smallwood talked my ear off about heathen sorcery and devilry.” His commander of the Rangers scowled but wisely remained silent. “Leaf also explained her side of the tale before she moved on with her own mission.” Again, his voice was full of respect compared to his fellow brother. “I've also seen the corpses outside. Spiders the size of horses, the lad’s bracer, and the queer chill in the air. Aye, I believe it even more after seeing all of that with my eyes.”

 

“Good, then we shall not waste time.” Jeor turned to Jon, who stood even straighter at his gaze before turning to his remaining commanders. “This is an opportunity. The savages might be humans like us and are escaping from the Others. However, we cannot allow them to pass through the Wall, no matter what. At least not on their terms, and only with the grace of the Lord of Winterfell.”

 

Jeor’s gaze lingered on every one of his commanders, and they all mirrored his resolve. Others or not, the Wildlings were still uncivilized savages, and allowing them past the Wall in large numbers would be a catastrophe. While Jeor, the Lord of Bear Island, could have thought differently about the matter, he did not have the authority to negotiate with Mance Rayder aside from his position of Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Only the King or the Warden of the North could have the authority for such negotiations.

 

Besides, what was a deserting oathbreaker’s word worth? 

 

The Night's Watch would also be unable to fight them on the open field. Even the best equipped and trained brother would fall against such numbers, even if less than half of the Wildlings could fight. No, the path for them was clear. Delay them as much as possible while preparing the Wall for a siege. Send word to Winterfell and the Northern Houses for men. Keep the Wildlings on the west bank of the Milkwater, destroy all possible crossings, and force them to attack the Bridge of Skulls.

 

Hopefully, the North would have enough men to provide them with aid. The only true problem here were the Others, but he could do nothing about them. Bloodraven promised to monitor them as best he could but warned that his powers were not infallible.

 

Jeor glanced again at Jon Snow; the lad would be crucial for his plan. “Here's what we will do…”

 

A*H*M

 

The Sea God

 

Poseidon sat at a table on a beautiful beach as he gazed at the calm sea beyond. It was a picturesque expanse of white sand that sparkled like crushed pearls. The gentle lapping of the waves against the shore was a rhythmic lullaby, unlike the turbulent waters in his son’s mind.

 

Heh, since when did he become so poetic? The last time he had tried poetry was when he was courting Amphitrite. Ah, those were some interesting times. He chuckled as he recalled his failure to woo the beautiful Nereid and then sulked in his empty palace like a child whose parents refused to give him a treat. Then, Delphin pulled him from his slump, gave him dating advice, and Poseidon successfully wooed Amphitrite. He was glad his son would not need to go through such drama to get married.

 

“But, My Lord. Such drama is what makes life worthwhile, is it not?”

 

Poseidon turned to his companion as she stirred a dollop of honey in her teacup. “Listening in again, my dear? Do you not know it is rude to eavesdrop on one’s thoughts?”

 

“I beg your forgiveness, but I could not help myself.” The woman smiled innocently, yet there was no shred of remorse in her apology. “It’s not every day I get to speak to a sentient god. One who had walked the Earth and sired kings upon humans.”

 

“Even if I am but a fragment of such a being and foreign to boot?”

 

“Especially so!” The Maiden, still taking the form of that lass Calypso, sipped her tea and hummed appreciatively, licking her full lips suggestively. “I would not dare to meet and speak to such an august presence if he was at full power. Why, I might accidentally provoke you, and judging from your youthful encounters, we would most likely be having a much different conversation.”

 

“…I was young and foolish.” A purring sound grabbed Poseidon’s attention to the golden cat sleeping on the chair beside him - he smiled sadly as he patted her head. “There is no need to fear me.”

 

“Mayhaps so, yet forewarned is forearmed.” The Maiden shrugged, allowing her brown tresses to shake along with a few other things - Poseidon groaned inwardly at such a childish attempt at seduction, she truly was more innocent than she pretended to be. “Regardless, how may I serve, My Lord?”

 

“You were the one who brought me here.”

 

“Indeed, yet you and your son caused quite the commotion after connecting with the Weirwoods. My, so audacious! Claiming every Weirwood in the region for yourself?” The woman hid a titter behind her long sleeves. “Makes me wonder what you are planning with it.”

 

“Now, I only claimed what was already abandoned, and we’re not planning anything malevolent here. Or at least, nothing that the overseers of the network, or as you call them, the Old Gods , would not approve of. Besides, they were the ones who invited us for a meet and greet, so to speak.” 

 

Poseidon shivered involuntarily as he recalled the truly eldritch monstrosities that were the overseers - protecting Percy’s mind from them had taken a great toll on him. Gods… no, they were something completely different from gods. Thankfully, they were…well, not benign, but truly neutral and fair in their dealings. 

 

“They did accept us into their pantheon, so to speak. It helps that the Merlin King’s position had been vacant ever since he had been betrayed by his lieutenant who in turn was banished to the west.” 

 

“Ah, such unpleasantness. I was but a newborn at the time. Or, newly released from the network.” 

 

Poseidon hummed noncommittally as he stroked the cat’s mane. According to the Maiden, the Weirwood Network, as it was called in these lands, housed all the souls of the deceased from around the world, but they were not limited to weirwoods alone. The trees connected any mortal who died in Westeros to the network, where they could be…properly registered, for lack of a better term, in the hive mind that was the network. 

 

Nevertheless, once in the Network, the soul would become an echo as it entered a period of hibernation, occasionally awakening when a Greenseer, traditionally a power exclusive to the dryads known as the Earth Singers but had become more common among humans, attempted to commune with them. In time, they would fully awaken and strive for a chance to reincarnate. There was also a system of judgement in place here; good deeds shall earn you a better chance to incarnate into a good life and guarantee a peaceful slumber. Bad deeds could have a former prince incarnate into a dung farmer, all the while suffering for potentially an eternity. 

 

On very rare occasions, a powerful soul who had done great deeds in life and was still remembered could be released from the network as a god. 

 

The Seven were such people, though the mortals, as usual, had vastly misunderstood their origin. An unbidden chuckle came to him as he recalled some of the ways the mortals attributed him as a Chthonic God back in the day when he merely acted as a guide for souls lost at sea. Poseidon had a lot of fun ribbing Hades on that.

 

Still, those gods were far more limited than him in what they could do and how they could affect the world. As the Maiden said, Poseidon was a novelty in that he was capable of walking the Earth and directly influencing the fates of men. 

 

At least that was the case until his son’s arrival and accidentally giving the network the equivalent of a steroid shot causing the world's magic to go into overdrive. The gods suddenly had more access to the mortal realm and could influence humans and other creatures more directly.

 

They still could not walk the Earth, however. Not yet, at least.

 

“She’s growing, nearly the size of a lion cub, now.” The Maiden nodded towards Myrcella on the chair beside him.

 

“Indeed, she is.” He still did not know why the girl constantly appeared to him in dreams, most likely a prank by one of the overseers, but he did not mind; he had always been a cat person from when his mother would let him play with her pet lions. “Now, we have yet to discuss what you aim to gain from attaching yourself to my son’s soon-to-be wife.”

 

“Oh, come now, I am the goddess of maidens. Of course, I would be interested in the girl. Did you not have a similar goddess back home?”

 

“That one made sure all maidens remained just that - Maidens.” He deadpanned at her, enjoying the woman’s grimace, yet she still pursed her lips, causing him to sigh and gaze at her seriously. “Fine, keep your secrets, but take this piece of advice from a more experienced deity. Do not play with the fate of mortals. There lies the stuff of madness.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry–”

 

“ Especially,” Poseidon continued, adding a steely edge to his tone. “Mortals that are demigods and have their godly parent actively watching over them.”

 

He did not need to spell out the threat, and the Maiden nodded seriously. “Fret not. I care deeply about her and all maidens. Considering her love and care for Percy, I shall naturally not cause any trouble with him.”

 

Poseidon nodded and continued stroking the cat, finding solace in the soothing act as he contemplated the dark future ahead of him and Percy.

 

He had met with many of Westeros's scattered and mind-addled deities in the Weirwoods. Hardly any of them were coherent, and the ones who were tended to be reclusive, like those nature gods that the dryads worshiped. Their scatterbrained methods had unintentionally caused the dryads to enter into a decline, and Poseidon did not like it. He had hoped to poach those dryads to care for the Weirwoods he would be claiming.

 

No matter how long he stayed in this world or how strong he could potentially grow, he would never achieve the same amount of power he had back home - this world was simply too different. He needed lieutenants, priests, and other minions to help him solidify his power. Percy would naturally be his champion, but Poseidon did not want to burden his son even more than necessary. Let the lad enjoy his married life and have plenty of kids.

 

Back to the gods, some were genial enough, such as that half-naked man in wolf furs with the hammer who thanked him for watching over the Stark girl. Poseidon strongly believed that the man must have been a Stark in life. Ironic that he would be worshiped as a New God, considering his family’s history.

 

But no, none mattered compared to the hostile and violent deities, and there were several. 

 

The Storm God, previously the God of the Narrow Sea, who managed to usurp the skies and the aspect of the Warrior. The ornery god was foaming at the mouth and would have fought them right then and there during that divine banquet the overseers invited them to. 

 

If not for Guest Rights. 

 

Just thinking about the overseers declaring those two words made him shiver. There was truly only one thing the Old Gods cared about: absolute fairness and keeping your oaths. Guest Rights were but the tip of the iceberg of it. As for fairness…well, the overseers had their own interpretation of it.

 

“Usurper! You dare show your face?” The Storm God had been furious when his avatar found them in the network.

 

“Hey now, you’re the fella who threw a tantrum when I woke up in that shithole.” Percy gave the god that cocky grin that Sally always claimed he got from him - Poseidon resented that; his grin was suave, with nothing cocky about it. “I thought that storm you threw was your doing, but eh, you kinda missed us…by a hundred miles or so.”

 

“Damn you, my champion shall–”

 

“Come on, man! Why the need to make that weird echo to your voice? I can hear you just fine here.” Percy poked his pinky into his ear for emphasis. “Besides, you're calling me Usurper? Weren’t you the one who took over that Storm dude’s job?”

 

“He was weak! While I am–”

 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re strong, you got thousands of supplicants, you’ve beaten countless enemies, probably have some monstrous pet in your backyard, yaddi yaddi yadda, heard it all a thousand times.” His son ran his hand over his messy hair before glaring at the cloud-clad god, forced by the laws of the overseers to keep to the size of a human - yet he still towered over them both at ten feet. “I have lost count of how many overconfident fools I had to take down a peg or two for such nonsense. You want a fight? I’ll give you one.”

 

Suffice it to say, Poseidon did not doubt that his son would face a lot of strife with that stormy god. The rest of the awakened gods in the Network had witnessed the face-off, and no self-respecting god would accept such insults, especially from an upstart mortal. 

 

Poseidon had never felt more proud of his son. Troublemaker that he was, he still lived and breathed the aspect of the Sea . They hated to be constrained, and not even another sea deity could dare threaten them.

 

Yet, the Storm God was not the only one to be feared, for there was another monstrosity hated universally by all, even the overseers. The Drowned God. It was not merely a sea god, yet it had much power over it. Poseidon did not get to meet it for obvious reasons, but he had been warned not to underestimate it.

 

From his understanding, it was a former overseer, a former Old God, who had gone rogue. The aforementioned lieutenant of the Merlin King had joined its forces as it attempted to usurp the network and take hold of the mortal souls sleeping in it. Poseidon compared it to an unholy mix of Tartarus and Pontus, with a smattering of Kronos’ malice. A true annoyance to deal with.

 

Thankfully, it did not appear to have a champion. Only unhinged zealots. It’s lieutenant, on the other hand…

 

There were other gods to the east, hundreds of them in fact, but only one of them did Poseidon think warranted some scrutiny at the moment. The fiery one, R'hllor, who seemed entirely occupied feuding with his own nemesis, was also absent from the gathering. In fact, only the gods residing in Westeros seem to be present, and none of them were fond of any outsiders.

 

It further confused Poseidon on why he was accepted so easily then.

 

And then, there was R'hllor’s nemesis, the so-called Great Other… Yet he also seemed to be absent. Strangely, none seemed to have a strong opinion of him, or her, for none know what the being looked alike, aside from giving them the creeps. Only the Builder (or was it the Smith?) seemed eager to speak of it to him. The being was worshiped by what Poseidon understood to be some sort of ice elves. He had not dealt with elves much, only when he had to deal with the Norse gods. 

 

The Great Other was also worshiped as the Stranger by followers of the Seven, ironically giving the god knowledge of the realm through that act, and begrudgingly accepted as part of the pantheon of Westerosi gods.

 

Poseidon likened him to Hades, not popular nor welcome on Olympus, yet still accepted as one of them. He wondered about the rest of the Seven, for he had not met the Father, Mother, or the Crone. They could only stay in the network for so long before Percy’s mind would suffer, and the Old Gods did not seem to be the type to host a gathering on a whim.

 

Perhaps they may yet meet them later on.

 

Movement from his lap had him look down - when did she climb onto his lap? - as the cat stretched lazily and opened her green eyes to stare curiously at them.

 

“About time for you to wake up, Myrcella. Today is Sansa’s wedding, and she gave you the honor to be her handmaiden.”

 

The lion cub’s eyes widened as she looked at them both before blinking out of existence, causing him to chuckle deeply. 

Notes:

We get a look at what’s happening beyond the Wall. To summarize, Bloodraven tried to tempt Jon into becoming his disciple, but dutiful Jon would not have it. A lot of arguing unfolded, with a lot of things spoken off-screen that I will expand upon later, and Jon eventually convinced Bloodraven to work with the Night’s Watch.

Mance Rayder having his entire army of Wildlings camping in the utterly barren Frostfangs was a recipe for disaster. GRRM strikes again with his lack of logistical knowledge. How would such an army feed itself? Jeor had a very good answer to that.

They don’t.

I was tempted to write an entire chapter about Percy and Poseidon larping about in the Weirwood Network, but decided against it. I think I left enough hints so readers can understand what happened, but feel free to leave me comments for clarification or, better yet, hit me up on Discord.

Suffice it to say, the gods are a messy topic. Makes me glad for our monotheistic religions. Praise be! Jesus is King! Allah Akbar! So much more simple.

Chapter 14: The Wedding

A reminder that I use a 13-month calendar in Westeros that consists of 28 days each. Why? Cuz of reasons.

---

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

4th day of the 8th Moon

 

“Good morning, Cella.”

 

Groggily rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Myrcella yawned back a greeting. “Mornin’ Rosa.”

 

Her friend was stretching her arms over her head yet was still seated on their bed. Rosa moaned in satisfaction when her back popped, and then she grinned at her. “Ready for today?”

 

Myrcella blinked in confusion, for it took her drowsy mind a few heartbeats to remember, and then she almost leaped out of her bed.

 

Today was the wedding!

 

It greatly surprised her when Sansa announced Percy as her betrothed, but she did think they looked wonderful together. At first, Myrcella thought Sansa did not feel that way towards Percy, but then she figured that politically, it was a sound decision, even if the red-haired princess viewed him as a brother. Although Sansa was a princess without dowry or estate of her own, Percy brought no land or titles, for his power was more than enough.

 

At least, that was until she caught them fervently kissing in the gardens, completely oblivious to everything else, and it finally clicked. They were in love.

 

Myrcella stretched, shaking her head and focusing on the here and now. 

 

“I’m as ready as a handmaiden could be for her lady’s wedding.”

 

Sansa would need her handmaidens to make her look pretty and help her with all her needs during the wedding. Myrcella was unsure she could do well, but thankfully, Lord Manderly’s eldest granddaughter was kind enough to join them in their lessons. Unlike what Myrcella expected, Wynafryd was nice, without any disdain, derision, or arrogance. She was a bit proud, but kind. Wylla too, for that matter, but Cella could not help but think the younger Manderly maiden tried too hard to appear pleasant. It undoubtedly had to do with the conspicuous absence of their mother, who had not once made an appearance yet, as well as their imprisoned father.

 

Myrcella prayed they would be reunited soon.

 

Strangely, she did not wish to be reunited with her family - maybe Tommen and Uncle Tyrion, but certainly not Joffrey, or her mother. Some days, Myrcella almost forgot that she was, in fact, a hostage. The supposed servant duties on the ship had turned out to be very fun instead, as Percy had shown, and she couldn’t be angry at the red-haired princess, for she joined in. Sansa genuinely treated her as a companion, confidant, and friend.

 

The two golden-haired maidens got busy preparing for the day. Bathing, rubbing scented oils in their curls, and choosing a suitable dress, Myrcella’s mind wandered toward her dream.

 

It was far more vivid this time…almost like a vision rather than a dream. She did not recall much of it, and what she heard made little sense. What Cella remembered clearly was the Maiden saying she was growing! Oh, and the elderly man had to be Percy’s father. He was…nice. He gave her a fatherly feeling that she had never felt before, not even Uncle Tyrion or Uncle Jaime gave her such a feeling.

 

The less said about Robert Baratheon, the better.

 

What was his name? Ah, “Poseidon…”

 

“What was that, Cella?”

 

“Oh, never you mind. Just a thought.”

 

Myrcella nearly tripped on the dress she was wearing when she heard a deep chuckle. She turned around wildly but only saw Rosa’s questioning look.

 

“In your mind, my girl.”

 

It took everything in her power not to scream in terror at the voice in her head!

 

“Come now, you are the one who called upon me. Don’t speak aloud. Just think what you want to say.”

 

“I wanted a father who would pamp– no, wait! I-I mean…thinking what I want to say is hard!”

 

Another deep chuckle, accompanied by a female one. “Don’t let him tease you too much, my dear.”

 

“… Are you the Maiden?”

 

“Uhm, Cella? Are you alright?”

 

Myrcella jerked, even as she realized Percy’s father and Sansa’s patron could now talk to her in her mind! 

 

“Yes! I’m fine.” Her voice was higher than she wanted, but Rosa only giggled.

 

“You’re so jumpy. It’s as if you are the one getting married, not Sansa.” 

 

Rosa giggled, undeterred at her pout, and a reluctant chuckle rolled off her lips.

 

“You can’t deny it’s nerve-wracking. I’ve attended a few weddings before the Seven but was just a guest of honor. This is my first wedding as the bride’s handmaiden, and part of the ceremony shall take place before the Old Gods. Have you ever attended a wedding, Rosa?” 

 

After browsing through many options in the wardrobe, Cella finally pulled on a simple green dress. It was not the one she would wear for the wedding, but a durable one made from soft linen for her work as a handmaiden. Then, she moved out of the wardrobe; Rosa followed her to the vanity, where a polished silver mirror waited. 

 

“I was handmaiden at my sister’s wedding, but it was a small affair. She married a landless knight from House Prester. I hope she is doing alright,” Rosa’s eyes glazed as she stared in the mirror, brushing Cella’s hair absentmindedly. “Margot was not particularly stoked about the wedding, but she was pregnant when I last wrote to her, and she seemed pretty eager to having kids of her own.”

 

“That’s nice to hear, Rosa.” Something niggled in Myrcella’s mind as they talked for so long. “Say, do you think we are, uhh… speaking queerly?”

 

“Speak what now?”

 

“Yes, exactly! Just like so. We’re speaking… oh, by the Mother and the Maiden! We’re speaking like Percy!”

 

Rosa’s eyes widened before bursting out in laughter, and Cella joined her. Eventually, their giggles attracted the attention of one of the castle’s maids, who checked in to ensure everything was alright, but Myrcella merely waved her away. Their position was a strange one: hostages, yet favored handmaidens to the princess. They were not provided servants, yet by Sansa’s orders, they lived in their own quarters on the same wing as the red-haired princess.

 

Right opposite her rooms in fact.

 

Speaking of, they quickly finished their preparations before leaving their rooms to wake up Sansa. Outside the room was the same maid who checked on them.

 

“My ladies, breakfast will be ready within the hour. Lady Wynafryd and Lady Wylla would like to join you along with the rest of the ladies of the castle. Where would Princess Sansa want to have breakfast?”

 

Myrcella thought for a moment, wondering why the maid would ask them what Sansa wanted before remembering as handmaidens, they were responsible for planning and managing the bride’s day. Traditionally, the bride would not meet with any men during her wedding day aside from her closest kin–her father and brothers. Considering she did not have any male members of her family here, Sansa had given the honor for Lord Manderly to give her away to Percy during the wedding.

 

“We shall have it in the Princess’s quarters.”

 

“Understood. The ladies Wynafryd and Wylla shall join you soon.”

 

The maid gave a short curtsy before excusing herself. Rosa double-checked they were presentable before they moved to Sansa’s quarters. Knocking gently on the door, they were surprised when the princess called for them to enter. Myrcella glanced at Rosamund who shrugged and opened the door; Sansa had the habit of sleeping in. They found her still in her sleepwear, standing by the window as she stroked Beauty’s soft feathers. The moon hawk had grown in size over the past few days, nearly the size of a dog when its wings were folded. Its upper plumage was grey, yet its belly and inner wings were a light blue. It was no wonder the bird was nearly impossible to catch, with such colors, it would blend in whether it was flying or roosting.

 

“Cella. Rosa. Good morn. Is it time for breakfast?” 

 

Sansa smiled at them, and Myrcella thought she looked more beautiful than normal - her long red hair was loose, reaching her waist, and her eyes were like two glittering sapphires as the first rays of the sun shone behind her. Beauty also looked at them haughtily, barely acknowledging them with a slight tilt of her feathered head.

 

“Good morning, Princess. I have asked for it to be brought here. Wylla, Wynafryd, and the rest should join us soon.”

 

“Good. Attend me.”

 

The sound of cutlery being placed on the dining table informed them that Meera Reed was also present, the older girl staring unblinkingly at them when they turned and subtly pointed to Sansa with her eyes. Cella and Rosa moved swiftly to the red-haired princess as she shrugged her dress off. Myrcella stared at the older girl’s beautiful figure before blinking and grabbing her dress from the wardrobe while Rosa dealt with the discarded sleepwear. 

 

Cella had heard plenty of comments on her mother's beauty, but she thought Sansa was far prettier… when she wasn’t being mean, at least.

 

She had been very kind after that cold, almost vengeful attitude at the beginning, yet Myrcella still didn’t know what had brought on the change. 

 

“You’re welcome, dear.”

 

Myrcella froze for a heartbeat, turning to the windowsill to find Beauty staring at her unblinkingly. She had been hearing voices when she woke up, and she did not think it wise to mention it; Cella shook her head and continued helping Sansa dress herself. Once done, she looked at Sansa’s face, and almost thought she saw a mischievous glint in her eyes as she stared at her Moon Hawk.

 

Soon, they were all ready for breakfast, and the Manderly girls joined them, along with a few other guests from Houses Slate, Locke, and Woolfield who had arrived late the previous night. The wedding announcement was quite sudden, and not many guests outside of White Harbor could make it. The following few hours would be very hectic, yet Myrcella couldn’t deny her excitement to be part of such a grand occasion.

 

It’s not every day a princess marries behind her family’s back to a powerful sorcerous warrior.

.

.

.

Myrcella thought Sansa looked beautiful this morning. Now, as she stood beside her in the Maiden’s room in the Sept of Snow, she had to revise her statement.

 

She looked resplendent.

 

Gone were the simple dresses she opted for, and now, the Princess had gone all out in dressing up for her wedding. Rosa had joked earlier that this was only possible thanks to the ludicrous dowry her mother set for her, yet she could not bring herself to feel envious.

 

Myrcella would not have seen anything from it, regardless.

 

The red-haired princess was garbed in an opulent gown of white silk with a low, square neckline edged with fine silver lace, and the sleeves were long and fitted, slashed to reveal an underlayer of soft blue satin. A bodice, intricately embroidered with delicate silver thread in wolf and trout motifs, made her already ample chest stand out even more. Myrcella wondered how the girl could walk around normally when they dwarfed even her mother’s. After a subtle glance down at her own lack of curves, she decided she preferred being slender over having to carry such heavy-looking burdens.

 

Sansa’s voluminous locks were meticulously arranged in an elegant half-up style, cascading in a loose waterfall of dark crimson down her back. Her pale brow was crowned by a silver circlet set with blue sapphires to match her cerulean eyes.

 

They had left New Castle in a special, heavily curtained wheelhouse for the bride, where no man was allowed to look at her until this very moment. Now, as they prepared to enter the Snowy Sept, Sansa stared in bemusement at the man who would act as her father and give her away to her betrothed.

 

“Are you ready, Lord Manderly?”

 

Wyman Manderly finally shook himself from his stupor, wiping his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief, even as his granddaughters giggled beside her. “Forgive me, Princess. You are the very vision of beauty, even more so than your mother. Calling you the North’s Delight would fall short of expressing my admiration.”

 

“Your silver tongue can put many a bard to shame, My Lord,” Sansa chuckled, moving to grasp his offered meaty hand, “Shall we?”

 

Myrcella and Rosamund hurried to grab the tail ends of the long blue shawl she wore before Lord Manderly pushed open the double doors and entered the Sept.

 

Percy stood by the altar, looking dashing in a strange set of garments that attracted a lot of attention. He had a blue velvet doublet adorned with intricate silver embroidery of dolphins, sea monsters, and a single horseman holding a trident similar to his own etched on the chest. His sleeves were not slashed, as fashion dictated; rather, they were straight and ended just before the wrist, where the cuffs were held by two silver buttons. Beneath peeked a fine white linen shirt with a high, straight collar and cuffs, paired with snug black silk trousers fastened with a leather belt with a silver trident buckle. Draped over one shoulder was a long, flowing sea-green velvet cloak lined with black silk and fastened with an ornate silver brooch shaped like a horse’s head.

 

Myrcella had learned that Percy wanted a merman as his personal sigil, but that would have caused confusion with House Manderly. Instead, he opted for a trident-wielding horseman that was etched on the cloak for all to see. The cloak that he would cover Sansa with and proclaim her under his protection as his loving wife.

 

Finally, on his side was the Stark ancestral sword, Ice, though Myrcella could spy his personal weapon in dagger form on his belt.

 

She thought Percy looked rather uneasy with so many eyes on him, yet even the unease was forgotten when he laid eyes on Sansa. In fact, the whole Sept stared with awe at the red-haired princess. Sansa slowly walked towards the altar, and all the heads turned to follow her along, completely enthralled.

 

Finally, Sansa arrived at the altar, where Lord Manderly commenced the ceremony.

.

.

.

The streets were in jubilation for the wedding. All around them, men, women, and children waved Stark banners and motifs while lines of Manderly and Stark guards ensured they did not block the road. Everyone was feasting on the sea monster that Percy slayed; Lord Manderly’s team of cooks had finally finished butchering and preparing the beast for the entire city to enjoy.

 

Sansa and Percy stood on a chariot dragged by a team of horses with no driver as they waved to the crowd. To any onlooker, they would think the horses were simply well-trained, yet Myrcella knew it was all Percy. She watched from the open wheelhouse following them; Rosa sat beside her, full of excitement.

 

“Look! There’s Meera.”

 

Cella followed her friend’s finger to find the crannogwoman blending with the crowd. Meera had taken to watching over Sansa should a daring assailant attempt to harm the Northern Princess. The only reason they found her was because she waved at them, and they were warned about her assignment.

 

Word of the bounty Cersei Lannister had placed on Sansa’s and Percy’s heads had spread in the city; Myrcella could only feel sick that her mother would so foolishly risk her safety over pride. Had it not occurred to her that she was making her even more of a target here? Thankfully, Sansa seemed to take the news of the bounty in stride, and none had dared to harm them so far, yet better to be safe than sorry.

 

Soon, they arrived at the Castle Stairs. Percy got off the chariot and then helped his bride down. Myrcella and Rosamund stepped out of their wheelhouse and then waited for Lord Manderly to leave his own, followed by his granddaughters. Once the rest of the retinue formed, they made their way to the Wolf’s Den, for Sansa had insisted on a double ceremony.

 

One in front of the Seven and one in the presence of the Old Gods.

 

Soon, they were in the Godswood of White Harbor, and Myrcella held Rosa’s hand in comfort. The Heart Tree was the largest she had ever seen, nearly twenty feet at the base, eerie in a way that made her spine crawl. Tangled roots the size of a ship’s anchor angrily stabbed into the ground, and the branches had spread out like a crimson crown, poking at the nearby masonry. Even the face, those red angry lines that looked like a wound upon the white, bone-like bark, looked as if it would weep from fury.

 

At that moment, Myrcella was deeply grateful this ceremony would be short and without pomp.

.

.

.

Myrcella gazed around the Merman’s Court. Both ceremonies had gone without a hitch, but her feet had almost gone numb from all the standing. Now, they were midway through the wedding feast, and the hall was packed. All of Lord Manderly’s vassals had arrived, along with the three guests of honor; The Flints of Widow’s Watch and their vassals, the Lockes of Old Castle and their vassals, and the Slates of Blackpool and their vassals. Invitations were sent to the houses neighboring White Harbor, yet Myrcella wondered if the rest of the Northern Houses would feel insulted for not being included.

 

That they were at war and the western half of the kingdom was suffering from marauding pirates did not matter. Myrcella was sure the lords of the Westerlands and the Crownlands would have felt slighted anyway. 

 

She nibbled on her food, trying very hard not to drool as the succulent meat almost melted on her tongue. The sea monster, or as the Northmen called it, The Leviathan, was the main feature of the feast. It certainly tasted great, especially with the special sauce Lord Manderly’s cook procured. It had a savory and salty taste that Cella felt complimented the surprisingly strong taste of the meat.

 

“My niece, Lyessa, would have loved to attend such a wedding, but sadly, the sickness in Widow’s Watch has yet to pass, and she’s pregnant as well.” 

 

The elderly mother of Ser Marlon Manderly, a Flint by birth, was telling her. Rosa beside her was talking to a Locke woman while a gaggle of Manderly vassals sat with them at the Ladies' table. Woolfields, Longs, Ambers, Ashwood… From what she read, Myrcella thought the latter two were extinct, but apparently, the names lived on.

 

“I pray she and her people recover and her pregnancy goes smoothly,” Cella replied solemnly; the elderly Flint woman smiled gently as she cut her Leviathan steak.

 

“You are such a sweet child. I met your grandmother once when she was but a handmaiden when the old queen was still young. Her daughter, your mother, was quite the hellion when she came to court, always dragging her brother to one mischief or another. I dare say you are proving to be much better than her in all that matters.” Myrcella was unsure if that was a compliment or not but accepted it with a graceful nod. “Still, to have two princesses in White Harbor, both from different kingdoms and also at war… Why, it must be fate! Surely, you will find a good man for yourself, Princess.”

 

Cella felt the flush creep up her neck; not many called her princess here, though she suspected it had more to do with her position as Sansa’s handmaiden. Most saw her as Sansa’s lady-in-waiting, not as her hostage or Joffrey’s sister. 

 

Still, her eyes wandered to the main table, where the newlyweds fed each other cake. Percy had insisted on something called Wedding Cake which was essential for every wedding in his homeland. He had vehemently opposed the pigeon pie, looking quite disgusted when explained that live pigeons would be trapped in the crust until he cut it open.

 

“What if they poop in there? Or suffocate and make a mess?”

 

To be fair, that happened more than Myrcella cared to admit in the few weddings she attended. Regardless, the demigod joined forces with Beren, the head cook of New Castle, to make a special white and blue cake.

 

Looking at them now, Myrcella wondered if she would be as lucky as Sansa to find such a loving husband like Percy. Comely, tall, dashing, honorable, loyal, powerful, and above all, he didn’t treat his wife-to-be as a means to an end - spawning an army of heirs and spares that could further his ambitions and expand his opportunities to forge alliances.

 

“Perhaps I will, but I am Princess Sansa’s ward now,” Myrcella replied to the Flint woman diplomatically - the rest of the table was listening in, and she had no wish to give the impression she was grasping. “I trust My Lady to find me a good husband if my stay with her lasts that long.”

 

“Ah, yes, you are still a guest here.” One of the Woolfield women, an older blonde that looked very similar to Wylla, raised her nose as she looked down at her. “Hopefully, the Princess will make sure you are safely home soon. The King would have done so if he were not busy with the war.”

 

A cold chill seemed to fall on the table as all the chatter died off to stare at the woman. Myrcella had only met her once, for she had isolated herself in the castle’s small sept, but Leona Woolfield had given the impression she was less than impressed with her or Rosa.

 

“Mother, Myrcella is welcome here for as long as Lord Grandfather and Princess Sansa desire.” Wynafryd politely reminded, placing a hand on her mother’s clenched fist. “I understand you are worried about Father, but–”

 

“But nothing! My poor Wylis rots in Harrenhal while we have the power to free him and many other Northmen. Even your brother Donnel is held there, Myriame.” The Locke woman talking to Rosa lowered her head while the other ladies whispered around the table. Lady Manderly seemed to feel emboldened as she continued. “Princess Sansa refuses to even entertain the idea of a prisoner exchange or even inform her kingly brother of her betrothal to a sorcerer we know nothing about, not until she was wedded and bedded. I even heard rumors of her joining the men in the war against the brigands and the Ironborn. Will she drag our guests with her as well? For how long will my Wylis be cursed to suffer imprisonment by honorless curs?”

 

Some ladies looked at Myrcella accusingly, others with pity. Most, however, seemed expectant, as if looking forward to a fight. Even Wylla, who had been nice to her so far, looked torn between helping her and supporting her mother. 

 

It seemed Sansa was not as popular here as she thought. 

 

Myrcella would not claim she was the best at reading people. In the Red Keep, she was sequestered most of the time away from court, busy with her gardens, and rarely interacted with anyone. Her mother had not allowed her to befriend those of lesser stock, either. Of course, she had not been talking about servants but the noble daughters of knights, lords, and other courtiers in the royal court.

 

It was as if Cersei believed anyone not a Lannister was lesser, thus unworthy of even talking to.

 

Yet, her voyage through the Narrow Sea and the chores Sansa made her do had taught her to pay attention to her surroundings. Granted, the danger was limited to cooking oil or gutting a fish wrong, but the lesson still stuck with her: Inspect your surroundings, look for allies, and prepare appropriately. For right now, she was in the midst of a battle!

 

Steeling herself, Myrcella slowly gazed around the table, staring at every woman in the eyes before settling on Leona Wollfield, and she tilted her head.

 

“When I was taken captive, I feared that I would be mistreated, for I have seen firsthand how Joffrey treated Sansa. The Princess had every right to treat me the same way, yet it quickly became clear that the daughter of the late Lord Stark was raised differently. She was strict yet fair. Stern yet courteous. She had a sharp and ruthless mind tempered by a compassionate heart.”

 

Myrcella smiled then, feeling as if a warm hand was rubbing her shoulders even though no one was behind her. 

 

“I will not confess to knowing what goes in the Princess’ mind, but so far, I believe she has done wonders with what she got. Sansa escaped King’s Landing and my vile brother’s clutches, recruited a powerful sorcerer to her side and safely returned to the North.” She took a sip of watered-down ale to wet her lips before smiling sweetly at the Lady of New Castle. “Lady Manderly, I can sympathize with your woes and fears, yet please remember that I am a guest of Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Princess of the North, not yourself.”

 

The woman pursed her lips at the slight rebuke but gave a slight, begrudgingly nod, realizing the insolence of her claim.

 

However, Myrcella hurried to continue, to strike while the iron was hot.

 

“You are not the only one who has loved ones in captivity. I heard Lord Stark, Eddard Stark, mention how war was terrible and made monsters out of us.” Myrcella would not claim to have interacted a lot with the Wolf Lord, yet he always had valuable nuggets of wisdom in the few times she heard him speak. “Men can go fight and die, but it’s the women who would have to endure and keep their homes safe.”

 

The ladies at the table nodded along, and she wanted to believe it was due to her words and not just platitudes for her age and position. They seemed to greatly appreciate her mention of Eddard Stark and capitalized on that. “But what does a little girl like me know of honor and duty? I am too young to understand some things, but I know this. You Northmen have followed House Stark for millennia and have yet to be disappointed. I know your words come from a place of grief, but surely you must have trust in your liege? If not in King Robb or Princess Sansa, then in the late Eddard Stark, who was the one to raise them.”

 

The table had gone silent, too silent, and Myrcella realized that the surrounding clamor had all died out as even the neighboring tables intently listened to her heartfelt speech.

 

Heat rushed to her face, and Myrcella wanted to disappear from all the gazes set on her.

 

“Well said!” Lord Manderly’s voice boomed from the head table, and Cella gawked; even Sansa and Percy must have heard her! Sansa was smiling brilliantly at her, while Percy gave her that lopsided grin of his. “I know many of you worry about the war and the issues plaguing our lands. Yet with a Stark at the helm, there is no need to fear.”

 

“HEAR, HEAR!”

 

“STARK! STARK!”

 

The cheer was almost deafening, mugs clanging on tables and men roaring the Stark name with zeal.

 

It was at this moment that Myrcella realized something. It was not the old or the new gods that were worshiped by the Northmen, but House Stark. She had never seen men so fanatical, even in the Great Sept of Baelor. Glancing around her table, Cella found Lady Manderly still looking miffed, yet there was a sliver of respect in her heavy gaze. 

 

“IT’S TIME FOR THE BEDDING!”

 

She was unsure who started the roar, but it did not matter, for within a few heartbeats, the men and women of the court rushed towards the head table, leering at the newlyweds.

 

The tradition was not particularly pleasant, yet even Myrcella stood up to join; she would not deny looking forward to stripping the groom of his extravagant clothing. 

 

But it seemed Percy didn’t care much for the tradition.

 

“Yeah, nobody is laying a hand on my wife!” He swiftly picked up his bride and dashed through the crowd, jumping on tables and weaving between the guests like a slippery eel. All the while, he cackled as men and women groaned in disappointment.

 

Later that night, Myrcella and Rosamund returned to their quarters, tired and ready to sleep. Only to blush madly at the impassioned sounds coming from Sansa’s rooms. They hurried to their rooms and changed to their sleepwear, before going to bed, yet it hardly helped.

 

Rosa, that traitor, had somehow procured some kind of ear plugs and buried her head under the pillows, instantly asleep. She could have lent her some, as the pillows did not help her.

 

Cella regretted having her rooms across Sansa’s, for it took a long time for the newlyweds to finish and then allow her to sleep. Morning greeted her with the sound of coupling again; the rhythmic slapping of flesh against flesh continued on to noon, even if Sansa’s cries of pleasure were replaced by incomprehensible moans.

 

A*H*M

 

12th day of the 8th Moon

Dragonstone

The Crown Princess of the Narrow Sea.

 

“Thank you for the offer, Princess, but if I am to be killed in some heathen ritual, then so be it. It is the will of the Seven, and I know they always have a plan.”

 

Shireen gazed at Lord Sunglass, who had refused the extra food she brought and requested it be given to the late Lord Rambton’s sons. Yet in the cell to the right, the Septon gorged on the meal she brought like it was the last thing he would ever eat. Well, it was quite possibly the last thing he would ever taste…

 

The Rambton sons, Dontos and Eustace, ate more sedately, yet they were still hungry after moons of imprisonment with little food. Shireen had convinced the gaoler to let her meet the prisoners and bring one final piece of meat and a cup of wine in addition to whatever slop the prisoners were fed.

 

It was kindness, but one her granduncle Axell seemed hell-bent on denying.

 

Many of the castle’s residents had subtly supported her in any endeavor she aimed for. Her mother was the Lady of Dragonstone, yet her erratic nature and adoption of a heathen faith had turned many against her. None dared to rebel, of course, for her Lord Father endorsed the Red God, and thus any who had complaints kept them in their hearts lest they suffer the same fate as Lord Sunglass and the rest.

 

At least, that was the case until word arrived of her father’s return to the Seven. 

 

The stories were mind-boggling. A riveting tale of an epic duel beneath the mighty walls of Storm’s End. Yet the victory was already known, for the Baratheon Seat had surrendered. No, the fantastic part was when the Warrior himself blessed her father with a blade of lightning. It would have been easy to dismiss this as hearsay, for the words of peasants were hardly reliable, but Shireen had heard many similar tales of sorcery from all over the realm. Some came from Dorne, others from the Westerlands, the North, the Vale, or even Crackclaw Point, but they had a single thing in common. 

 

They were all fantastical, like something straight out of the legendary Age of Heroes.

 

Word had come of Myrcella Bara– Waters’ capture by Sansa Stark and her sorcerer friend, now husband. Not to mention the sighting of massive sea serpents and other creatures from the deep, but most importantly, the dragon eggs.

 

Her dreams had gotten worse and more plentiful as of late. In her dreams, or well, nightmares, the skies turned blood-red, and the world sank into chaos and destruction. She dreamt of hordes of misshapen monsters that looked as if they had crawled straight out of the Seventh Hell, battling against dragons, fiends, and even giants. Unholy abominations rising to slay the living, small green leaf-clad beings, and ethereal beings hewn of frost with eyes like cold blue stars.

 

A young, dashing warrior with a rugged face and dark hair stood against the rising tide, a sword of flame in his fist. Clad in bright armor, he rode on a winged stallion of ice, slaying a myriad of fiends and demons.

 

Of all the things Shireen dreamt of, he was the most vivid and the one she actually looked forward to seeing again. 

 

Regardless, since losing the favor of the King, Melisandre of Asshai, who had arrived a sennight ago, could only lean on the influence she had gained with her mother, Selyse, and the few men who still swore to the foreign god. Many in the castle now eagerly helped Shireen with whatever she needed. It was through some of the scullery maids that she learned of what they planned. The Red Witch had been enamored with the dragon eggs, claiming Azor Ahai would need them for the battles to come, and that the Lord of Light would wake them through the flames of disbelievers. 

 

It did not take long for Shireen to understand she meant their prisoners. None had disbelieved R'hllor more than Lord Guncer Sunglass and the Septon. Thus, she was here, trying to convince the Lord of Sweetport Sound to escape.

 

“They would know it was you who freed us, Princess, and I would not dare bring upon you such scrutiny.” The kindly lord had stated, Shireen felt endeared that he still called her princess - despite everything, he was loyal to her father. “Your mother’s mind is ill and has been subverted by that wretched witch. I would not put it past her to do something truly dreadful should you aid us to flee.”

 

Shireen left the dungeons feeling more despondent than when she entered. Her mood only grew more sullen by dinner, and she had to hurry to the Great Hall before her absence was noted. Thankfully, Steward Hugh had assured her that dinner would be slightly delayed in its call, which allowed her to easily slip in before the rest of the nobles arrived.

 

Her mother insisted on making dinner a grandiose affair every evening, allowing Melisandre a seat of honor and a chance to bewitch the nobles into following the Red God. None gave her more than lip service, as if she was a nuisance that had to be endured before a meal was served.

 

This time, however, there seemed to be a commotion among the noblemen. For a heartbeat, Shireen worried her mother had learned of her visits to the dungeon or her less-than-loyal intentions, but no - it appeared word had arrived from the mainland. 

 

“The entire fleet had sailed past us a sennight ago. By now, the King should be halfway to King’s Landing to put it under siege.”

 

“Word is, the Stormlands army has taken the Wendwater and has secured the Rose Road. They would then attack from the south but–”

 

“…The King had ordered that the Golden Bridge be blocked to deny a potential Lannister or Tyrell crossing of the Blackwater Rush.”

 

“It won’t be long now until the city falls. They put the bloody Imp in charge of the defenses if you believe the rumors. What does a dwarf even know of war?”

 

“Quite, it seems, for he had already chased away half the population of the city! The Crownlands is teaming with vagrants and poor folk, all of them claiming the imp has gone madder than a hat with his army of savages.”

 

“Did you hear? The Kingslayer has escaped from Riverrun. Rumor is everything south of the Red Fork is swarming with outriders searching for him but to no avail.”

 

Whoever said that only noble ladies gossiped was mistaken. Men loved to gossip as well, especially when the matter involved fighting. There were plenty of embellishments, boasts, and derision mixed in, but once she managed to look past them, Shireen was kept abreast with matters of the war.  

 

Shireen was on the ramparts when she saw parts of the fleet sailing past them a few days ago. She was saddened that her father had not taken the time to visit the castle, to visit her - instead, the lone ship that came to port contained the Red Witch.

 

Soon, the rest of the hall filled up; Selyse entered from a side door and bid Melisandre sit on the Lord’s chair. Shireen bit her cheek at the insolence; that was her father’s seat!

 

Many murmurs of disgruntlement could be heard, and Shireen could no longer stand for this. She was about to march to the throne, but Melisandre declined the offer and went to her usual seat. It appeared the Red Witch was smarter than Shireen thought, or perhaps it was all a mummer’s play to gauge the reaction of the courtiers.

 

Regardless, whatever commotion was about to erupt was instantly doused. A couple of men brought the chest with two dragon eggs forth and placed it on a table for all to marvel at. Shireen could feel her heartbeat quicken rapidly as she gazed at the gem-like objects. Her mother had vehemently refused to have her inspect them closely, especially when the Red Witch arrived, and Shireen was not even allowed to sit on the same table as the dragon eggs.

 

Even Maester Pylos was forbidden from informing her royal father about the existence of the eggs. “The King is preoccupied with the war, and there is no need to trouble his mind with such trifles.” One would almost believe her if not for the claims of the dragon eggs being a gift from R’hllor. Melisandre certainly seemed to believe so, and the way her eerie eyes sometimes fell upon poor Patchface made Shireen frown. 

 

She knew the woman did not like her Fool, but her distaste for him had increased since her arrival.

 

His singing of doom, sea fighting sky, lightning clashing with fire, and painful moans had increased even more. So much so that her mother refused to have him in the hall anymore. Even now, he was isolated in his small room, though Shireen did manage to convince a couple of maids to tend to him until he got better.

 

Shireen only hoped Patchface would get better soon. She prayed that her father would win the war swiftly and return. Only then would things be better. 

 

Hopefully, he would kick out Melisandre for good, and maybe her mother would be better as well!

Notes:

Poor Shireen, she just can’t catch a break.

Percy was wearing a tuxedo, or at least what he hoped to make of a tuxedo. It… didn’t come out as good, but since he was a powerful dude who just married an important lass, who knows how that fashion statement would cause?

With this, we are done with the White Harbor mini-arc…for now.

Chapter 15: The Wedding Night (LEMON WARNING)

Notes:

Never thought I would write an entire chapter’s worth of what amounts to porn.

To be clear, this is Percy's and Sansa's first time, as the title suggests, during their wedding night.

This is for all of you horny people who kept asking for it. You know who you are. You better enjoy it!

There is no plot here. If you don't want to read smut, just skip to the next chapter.

Percy kicked open the door to their room before carrying Sansa inside, kicking it closed once inside. Their room was a luxurious one with tapestries and wardrobes, a blazing fireplace to keep it warm among other things, but he couldn't care less about them at the moment. No amount of displayed wealth or art could hold a candle to the beauty in his arms.

Sansa hugged his neck as she smiled shyly. “We’re alone now.”

“Yes, we are.” 

Driven by lust and a hunger he never realized he had, Percy lifted the girl closer and captured her lips for a deep kiss. Sansa reciprocated, adjusting herself as she hooked her legs around his waist and Percy held her butt and passionately tasted each other. She hurriedly took off his cloak, throwing it away like a used rag, while he did the same for the cloak he had put on her at the altar. The kisses reluctantly halted as they continued to discard their clothes as swiftly as possible. 

Sansa slowly unbuttoned his doublet while he pulled the strings on her bodice, allowing it to fall to the ground and releasing a relieved sigh from the girl’s lips. Percy’s eyes were glued on the shaking of her ample bosom as it threatened to spill out of her white dress, while Sansa started unbuttoning his shirt, running her hand over his chest and neck. Unable to hold back, they both returned to kissing again, their attempts at stripping each other growing clumsier by the second.

Finally, Sansa reluctantly tore her lips away from his and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Sorry, I can't hold my breath for very long.”

“It's all good.” Percy gave her a few seconds to breathe before kissing her again, but this time, he couldn't help but awkwardly think he had no idea what to do next with his newly wedded wife.

A wife…he never could have imagined he would be married so fast and so soon. He hadn't even finished high school! What should he do next? Percy was never one to watch porn and neither did he get any real sexual education classes—neither in school nor in camp. But he knew enough what to do with his hard dick and which hole to stick it in thanks to a talk he had with his mother. 

Now that he thought about it, he couldn't recall anyone in camp talking about sex, which was incredibly strange considering their heritage and every boy or girl in camp were practically sex gods in looks—even the Hephaestus kids and the Ares kids were better looking than the average mortal, though not by much. 

Regardless, it would seem like such an important topic for Chiron to talk to the campers about—weren’t half the Greek tragedies about heroes and gods unable to keep their dicks inside their togas? Particularly because the only time the centaur spoke to him regarding something in the same vein, he gave him a grave warning about being extra careful with whom he slept, preferably never at all.

Sansa bit his lips as she moaned, and Percy realized he had been kneading her ass as he rubbed her close to his groin. Should he just follow his instincts? He looked at Sansa's glazed blue eyes, so full of lust and love, as she moaned at his touch. Percy nearly growled in pleasure as something deep inside him roared its agreement; he wanted to tear apart her elaborate dress, throw her on the bed, and mount her like a horse breeding his mare.

A small, romantic part of him wondered if that was what newlyweds did, but he squashed it. Sansa held his cheeks lovingly as she moved her hips in tandem with his own, both of them rubbing their groins over their clothes. His left hand had moved to her right breast and fondled it; he had taken off her dress at some point, releasing her large tits in all their glory.

Sansa’s breathing got harsher and so did her panting as she kissed his neck, jaw, and lips like a woman possessed before suddenly, she hugged him tightly, squashing her naked torso to his own—he had also lost his shirt at some point and now both of them were naked from the top. A small keening noise came from her lips as she shuddered, her legs held his waist in a vice grip, while her entire body seemingly froze for nearly a minute before she went lax in his arms. 

Percy held her before her legs gave out on her, while Sansa gulped air like she had just run a marathon. “Are you alright, Sansa?”

The red-haired girl raised her head, showing cheeks just as red as her hair, before giving him a dopey smile and breathed, “Never better, husband~”

Something seemed to snap in his mind. His heart beat like a war drum and his blood rushed through his veins and down to his diamond hard cock that threatened to tear out of his silk pants. He wanted her, no, he needed to take Sansa NOW!

He was about to throw her on the bed when Sansa suddenly flinched and averted her eyes, her grip on him slightly shaking. Percy was confused and was about to ask what was wrong when an exasperated voice froze him. “Get a hold of yourself, you fool.”

“Dad! What the hell are you doing in my mind?”

“Making sure you don't kill my daughter-in-law on your first night together,” Poseidon grumbled. “Believe me, I would rather not be involved with this, but then I remembered you have no experience at all with mortal women—or any woman for that matter.”

“What does it matter whether Sansa is mortal or not?” Percy panted, fighting the urge to continue humping the girl. Thankfully, Sansa still weirdly looked away and didn't notice his no doubt funny face as he talked to the intruder in his mind. “I know how to fuck, Dad.”

“But do you know how to be sure you don't break the girl with your inhuman strength?” Poseidon's words cut deep, and Percy felt ice in his veins. “Not to mention, this is the girl’s first-ever experience with a boy. Who knows what these medieval schmucks filled her head on what to expect on her wedding night?”

It finally dawned on Percy why Sansa looked hesitant; she was afraid. Afraid of him. He nearly dropped her from shock if not for his father continuing.

“Don’t act like a pussy, Percy. Your wife needs you, and she is more than willing to bed you. You must show her kindness, but also firm confidence. Otherwise, she will forever think you're a wimp who can be trodden on and can’t be counted on.”

“Hey, Sansa isn't like that. And I'll treat her like a princess…which she is by the way.”

“And what is a princess’s most important duty?”

“Uh, to look pretty? Ah, no, she must also be diplomatic and—”

“To be married off and give heirs to her husband!”

It was like a thunderbolt that crashed in Percy's mind as he finally understood what his father meant. He and Sansa…having children!

Poseidon sighed in exasperation. “You really have no idea how to go through with things. It seems Chiron has been overly zealous with his true purpose in camp.”

“Say what now?”

“Did you really think the gods would want their children to fuck around and sire armies of legacies to give us even more headaches? Especially with your absurd puberty that puts even the gods to shame?”

“Wait, are you telling me the reason the camp is so prudish has to do with Chiron being a major cockblock?”

“What did you expect? Especially from you, my son. I am a nature god, one of the most powerful at that. The effects of my seed are far more powerful than other gods, and you have also inherited that, in addition to humanity’s natural proclivity to procreate.”

“Oh…does that mean–”

“Yes, you and I do not need to worry about this. In fact, I want you to have as many children as possible.”

“Oh.” Percy had no idea why he felt so casual about such a topic, but his father’s words had lit a fire in his belly. The desire to breed his wife was overwhelming, even if he didn't really think it would happen soon. 

It couldn't be that simple to have children, right? “I'll try my best, but it's really up to Sansa.”

“Yes, yes, now listen. Our thoughts might be faster than normal talking, but not by much. Quickly, before your wife asks too many questions. Gently place her on that loveseat, grab that decanter of wine and an empty goblet, then wine her.”

“Whine? What do–”

“Has all your blood left your brain for your cock, Percy? You will pamper and spoil your wife to ease her worries, so when you shove that tool in your pants into her vagina, you don't rupture her internal organs. Now listen closely!”

The rare commanding tone in his father's voice had Percy obeying at once and listening intently to his father's advice as if they were the secrets to a long and happy marriage. He placed a confused Sansa on the long couch that had only one large armrest set by the window before grabbing the wine bottle and goblet from the wooden bucket full of ice. There was even a plate of cheese and some crackers, along with a bowl of fruit and a jug of chilled water. All the while, he listened intently to Poseidon before the sea god retreated deeper into his mind and closed off the connection.

“Oh, I thought you didn't like wine?” Sansa smiled as she unconsciously hugged her naked chest—she wore nothing below, aside from a pair of black panties. He didn’t know they had those in the past, but apparently, it was a fashion from Dorne or something.

“First time for everything, love.” Percy grinned as he poured the golden liquid into the goblet, before joining her on the love seat. He took a sip from the sweet drink before bringing it close to his wife's lips. “Here, have a sip.”

Sansa giggled and drank deeply, her bright blue eyes staring at him with a lust and desire that instantly had him gulping, and he unconsciously started unbuckling his pants.

“Arbor Gold certainly deserves its reputation as one of the finest wines in the world.” Sansa smiled hesitantly before placing the goblet on the table and cupping his cheeks. She brought him down to her face and whispered, “But I would rather not be drunk for this.”

She kissed him again, and Percy was surprised by her boldness. Hurriedly taking off his pants and briefs, he leaned forward into her kiss. They were both laying down on the large velvet sofa, with Percy grinding his hard cock on her thigh while he massaged her tits—and by the gods they were large . Bigger than any other pair he had ever seen, and he had seen some of the goddesses, including Aphrodite, in their skimpy outfits. 

Sansa’s tits weren’t just large but firm yet soft and perky, as if defying gravity in their refusal to sag—even with her laying on her back, they did not sag sideways but stayed upright. Her pink nipples were cute and stood erect as he gently pinched them and traced his fingers over her puffy areolas. They were simply beautiful!  

Sansa separated from him then, breathing quickly with her face blushing prettily as her hands moved to his dick, only to freeze as she held it. “Uhm, Percy? Is this a normal size for penises?”

To say she was surprised would be an understatement. Sansa had never seen a penis before in her life and what little she learned about the bedding from the septa had her worried at the start, but then she remembered her mother’s words; how making love was pleasurable for both man and woman.

Nevertheless, as she tried to hold the massive member in her hands, she could not help but wonder if such a thing would fit inside her.  Percy's penis was so large and girthy that she couldn’t hold it with one hand—nearly as big as her forearm. Sansa was nearly hypnotized as she stared at the blinking slit at the tip before she moved her hands up and down the shaft. So beautiful and smooth, with bulging veins that beat powerfully with the rhythm of his heart. Pure liquid spilled from the slit and down the shaft, and Sansa realized she would definitely need all the lubrication she would get as she pumped her hand up and down, making sure to make it nice and slick. Her left hand drifted down and cupped one of his bulging testicles; they were heavy and hot, clearly eager to spread their seed inside her deepest depths.

The children she would bear for such a man…Sansa wanted it. She needed it inside her!

Percy had never felt as much pride as he did now. “I wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen anyone else’s erect dick to compare, although,” he purposely grabbed the last bit of cloth hiding her modesty and wiggled it down her legs, exposing her shaved pussy and placing his dick over it—the tip reached well past her belly button. “I will make sure to be gentle. Just tell me if you feel any pain and I will stop at once.”

If possible, Sansa’s eyes went even wider as the love in them intensified, “Thank you.” She took a deep breath and looked resolutely at him, “I’m ready.”

Percy stared deeply at his wife’s face, drinking in all of her features. Her high cheekbones, large blue eyes, sharp eyebrows and red hair that splayed on the green couch like a bloody curtain as well as her puffy lips, straight teeth, delicate nose, and sharp chin. He sawed his turgid dick over her puffy pussy, lubricating his length with her arousal as her breathing hitched. Then, he slowly inserted the tip and immediately stopped as Sansa stiffened.

“Are you alright?” Percy had not really inserted the tip yet, barely hovering over her entrance; he could see a thin muscle that he realized was her hymen. The idea that he would be breaking that pure protection had him gulping in anticipation; a primal part of him grinned wickedly like a wolf finding a lone fawn in the forest, but he shook his head inwardly.

“Keep going,” she whispered urgently, her breathing growing harsher as her pale skin gained a healthy red hue that went all the way down to her heaving tits. “Please, I want it, Percy!”

It took all of Percy’s self-control to not ram his entire length inside her. Remembering his father’s words, he slowly moved his hips, the tip going barely an inch before he felt her hymen stop him. Finding Sansa eagerly anticipating it, he took the plunge and pushed.

Sansa squeaked and grabbed his arms tightly but did not push him off. Percy could feel a warm liquid covering his dick, but he did not look down. Eyes only for his wife, he continued pushing his hips forth, his cockhead finally breaking through and into her vagina. Suddenly, Percy was overcome by possibly the greatest sensation he had ever felt. It was only his the head, but Sansa’s soft insides were indescribable. Shivers ran up and down his spine, goosebumps formed on his skin, while Percy’s balls felt incredibly heavy and tight.

“More!”

Heeding his wife’s cry, Percy moved his hips once more, slowly but surely, inch by inch, his penis dug deeper, while Sansa’s moans grew louder and faster. Despite the softness, her insides were like a vice grip that threatened to tear his cock off as the muscles contracted around him.

Suddenly, Sansa convulsed and moaned even louder, causing Percy to stop; he had no choice. Her grip on his cock was simply that tight. He grinned as his wife came down from her orgasm and sighed in pleasure. 

“That's twice now. I thought it was more difficult for girls to cum?”

“Come?” His wife mumbled incoherently, only to flinch as Percy pushed his dick further. “How much of your cock is inside me? I feel so full already but so good!”

Percy glanced down and chuckled, “almost half of it.”

“Half?” Sansa squeaked in worry.

“Don’t worry, you will get used to it. By the end of the night, I will have all of my dick inside you, and you will love it. Now let's continue.”

Not giving the girl a chance to protest, Percy withdrew his cock to the entrance and then plunged back in nearly halfway. Sansa moaned as he started pumping his hips in slow, methodical thrusts. His father was right, there's being gentle and kind to your wife and then there's being firm and dominant.

“Percy! Oh, Percy, don't stop!”

He continued to fuck his wife, slowly going deeper with every thrust, and bumping into a barrier of sorts that he realized was her womb. Sansa occasionally grimaced in pain, but he would distract her with a kiss or fondle her tits and suck on her nipples; something he greatly enjoyed. It must have been ten minutes or so since he started, and he could already feel his balls contracting. He was going to cum, but he didn't want this to end. He tried to control himself, to extend the pleasure as much as possible, but Sansa suddenly shivered as she orgasmed once more.

Her convulsions were too much, and Percy groaned as he thrusted one last time before exploding inside her. He could feel his dick expand as his seed rushed through ducts and tracts before bursting deep inside Sansa. Burst after burst of cum poured deep inside his wife's womb as Percy continued to thrust his dick gently with every burst. Sansa looked catatonic, with her eyes glazed and a dopey smile on her face, yet Percy would not stop cumming!

It was the most pleasure he had ever felt in his life. His eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head as his orgasm continued, and he continued humping his hips, allowing his primal instincts to take over as nothing else mattered but giving his wife all the seed he could. The proof of his love!

It must have been an entire minute, or maybe two, before Percy’s orgasm finally tapered off, and he released a breath he did not know he was holding. Sansa had yet to recover from her own orgasm; at some point, she had gripped his arms tightly and circled her legs around his hips. Giving her a deep kiss finally awoke her, and she gasped as he placed his palm over her stomach; he could feel his still hard cock through her body and could almost imagine the deluge he deposited in her womb sloshing inside, plugged by his cock.

“T-That was amazing!” Sansa breathed. “I never thought coupling would feel so good.”

“Same. I've never felt such ecstasy in my life.” Percy kissed her again before lifting her from the couch, with his dick still inside her of course, and sat her on his lap. “Ready for round two?”

Sansa blinked, “b-but you already, uhh, cummed?” 

“You didn't really think once or twice would be enough for me?” Percy grinned and pinched her bubbly ass; it was not just her tits that were sexy as hell but everything about her. To be honest, Percy did not think he would be satisfied with just fucking her once—he had no idea what his limits were. His cock was still as hard as earlier and raring to go. He could feel inexhaustible energy all over his body coinciding with his desire to breed his wife. “This time, you will get to move for a change. Come on now, chop chop.”

Sansa giggled shyly before awkwardly moving her hips. It took a few tries for her to get into a proper rhythm without accidentally trying to break his dick, but soon she was bouncing on his cock like a woman possessed while Percy suckled on her nipples; gods she tasted wonderful, and he wished her tits would give him a real treat. The vision of his wife’s already large tits swollen even more with milk nearly had him cumming right then and there.

Sansa hugged his head to her chest as she froze in another orgasm while Percy kneaded her ass. The girl had gotten tired after a few minutes, as expected from a pampered princess, so Percy began moving her up and down instead until his own orgasm hit again.

This time, he pulled her down hard, his cock forcing its way through to about two thirds before he erupted once more. Strangely, Percy could feel most of his previous load had seemingly been absorbed by the voracious red head, but he didn't dwell on it. After another couple of minutes, and filling her womb to the brim once more, Percy stood from the couch and moved towards the bed all the while kissing his wife and not allowing her to speak.

The time for talking was long past.

Their bed was huge, but he didn't dwell on it before laying Sansa down on her back and once again thrusted inside her. It was strange, his cock would simply not calm down, nor did he feel any sort of exhaustion. Sansa's moans were turning delirious as he thrusted hard, his hips striking her thighs as he tried his damndest to bury his dick fully inside her.

“More! Give me more!”

His wife's nearly unintelligible words were the only thing that assured him she was loving it and when Percy came for the third time, he laid his full weight on her, enjoying the sensation of her tits getting squashed underneath him. There was something satisfactory about having a beautiful woman below him, entirely covered by his body—maybe romantic even. It was as if he would protect her with his whole being…or devour her entirely. 

His balls felt even heavier and not at all as sore as he expected, while his dick remained as hard as rock, even as rope after rope of cum poured into Sansa’s already bloated womb. Pulling his body slightly up, he looked at Sansa's stomach and couldn't help but gape at her slightly bulging belly. Percy was not an expert in biology, but he was certain the human body should not act like that. He placed his palm over her full stomach and instantly realized his seed was being absorbed into her body.

Something seemed to snap inside him at the sight, and before he knew it, Percy had Sansa on all fours as he fucked her once more, mounting her like a stallion would mount his mare. He held her hair in one hand while the other gripped her narrow waist tightly and ravaged her. Any concern for her did not register as she continuously moaned in ecstasy. Feeling her vagina gripping him tightly in yet another orgasm, Percy grinned and thrusted deeply before letting out a low groan as his own orgasm poured inside once more.

His hand trailed to her steadily expanding belly. It was barely noticeable, but Percy was certain now; Sansa's body was adapting to him somehow and greedily consumed his seed like nectar. The idea sent shivers in his spine as he moved once again, pulling on his wife's hair to bring her face closer for a kiss. She was barely coherent, yet she still kissed back, her hands moving to hold his neck while he fondled both of her tits and steadily thrusted inside her. He wanted to give his everything to her, to keep pouring more and more of his life into her—it was just right!

For many hours, Percy took Sansa in all sorts of positions he had heard about but never actually seen before. On the bed with her sitting on his lap. By the window as he took her from behind, while her cries of pleasure echoed for all the castle to hear. When he started feeling peckish, they cuddled on the bear skin rug by the fireplace, and ate the crackers, cheese, and fruit provided, all the while Sansa sat on his lap with his dick inside her. Percy’s hunger for her was becoming indistinguishable from the actual hunger he felt, having eaten nearly all the food by himself—his lust might be insatiable but clearly it required a lot of sustenance to fuel it.

At some point, they were back on the bed and Percy came once more inside her. This time, however, he could feel her body growing limp and would not absorb his seed, leaving her belly bulging from the last load he deposited into her. His wife had also stopped moaning in pleasure but merely breathed as hard as she could, causing him to grow worried.

“Sansa? Are you alright?” The red haired princess mumbled something, but he could tell she was exhausted. “Should we stop?”

“A-Are you not satisfied, husband?” Sansa replied weakly. “I can keep going, my love.”

Percy sighed inwardly. This was what his father warned him about. He did not at all feel satisfied, and felt like he could easily go a dozen more times for hours before he would even begin to feel tired. Yet, the health and safety of his wife was far more important than his pleasure. 

“That's okay, sweetie,” Percy faked a yawn and glanced at the dwindling fire of the hearth; they must have been at it for hours. “Let's go to sleep.”

Sansa looked upset, however, “But Percy, you are still aroused. I can feel you inside me; you have not been satisfied yet. You can keep going, my love. I have had the most pleasurable night in my life, it’s only fair that I would make sure you are completely satisfied as well.”

“Don’t worry about it. You were amazing and even managed to take my full length and girth to the hilt for hours.” And it was true. Percy had realized as he fucked his wife that his size was unnatural—at least when erect, as his penis never bothered him when it was limp in his pants. Even his balls were larger when he was aroused; normally they would be the size of a lemon, but right now, they were swollen and easily the size of an apple, each! Not to mention, even now, he could feel them churning out more seed for him to release. Percy had no idea how they continued working after so many orgasms, when they and his penis should be chaffed and burned from all the friction.

How many orgasms did he have tonight? He had lost count after twenty and that was a couple of hours ago.

Shaking his head, Percy did his best to bring his arousal down; slowly but surely, his dick softened inside Sansa, while his balls stopped shaking. “Let’s get some sleep. You want me to add wood to the fire?”

He was about to extract himself from her before she held tightly to him. 

“Stay,” she mumbled as her eyes glazed, and she let out a cute yawn. “You are warm enough as it is. I want to keep feeling you inside me.”

With that, Sansa closed her eyes and snored lightly. Shrugging helplessly, Percy reached for the blanket and covered themselves before trying to fall asleep. This was a brilliant day all around, but perhaps having a godly physique and stamina wasn't all it's hyped to be if it meant his wife would never be able to match him.

He closed his eyes, helplessly hoping for the blood in his cock to recede and his balls to shrink again. He allowed sleep to consume him as he hugged Sansa close to him.

***

Percy groaned as he felt cool air on his cock. The room was bright from the sun's rays, and the sound of birds chirping and the residents of the castle came from the open window. He would rather go back to sleep, but the warm body of his wife was missing, causing him to blink awake.

“Sansa? Where–” Percy’s question died in his throat as he felt something wet licking his cock. Looking down, he found his wife's large eyes blinking at him as she sucked his cockhead, licking the slit, and pumped the shaft with both hands. “Well, good morning there.”

Sansa grinned before pumping his cock harder, one hand trailing down to his balls while she licked all along his shaft. “Good morning, love. Ready for more?”

Percy chuckled. No small talk or chatter. He loved it. Grabbing the back of her head, Percy gently forced Sansa to gulp his cock deeper and deeper, the girl doing her best to stop her gag reflex. He sat on his knees and thrusted down her gullet; it did not nearly feel as good compared to her pussy but the way his wife gazed at him lovingly and how she massaged his steadily growing balls was enough for him to sigh in relief after a couple of minutes as he unleashed the first load of a new day straight into her stomach.

He allowed Sansa to pull her head back until only the tip was in her mouth, even as he continued cumming. The way she gulped every burst of seed he shot and how her face flushed in pleasure was too much, and Percy ended up cumming even more than normal.

Once he was done, he pulled his cock out yet Sansa hurried to lick his tip clean before sighing in pleasure.

“Your seed…it tasted so strange.”

“Strange good, I hope?”

“It’s definitely unique, but not bad. Salty and tangy and a little fatty, perhaps. Definitely something I would enjoy drinking again.” Sansa stretched her arms above her head, showcasing her naked nubile body for him to enjoy; her tits were as beautiful as ever, if marred by many hickies courtesy of the extra care he gave them. Her stomach was flat and her pussy was puffy and swollen from their extensive coupling—he felt a little guilty as she no doubt felt sore and pain from the ravaging he gave her. 

She suddenly blinked, “somehow, I'm feeling a burst of energy coursing through me.”

Percy was about to ask her what she meant before she grinned cheekily at him and cupped her tits seductively. “My vagina is a little sensitive still, but how about I use these instead?”

Suffice it to say, they spent half the day fucking, even as Sansa was unable to match him no matter what. Nevertheless, Percy had loved every moment of his first day as a married man, even if he felt extreme hunger after the marathon of sex and ended up eating three whole ducks for lunch and drank an entire butt of ice-cold water.

 

Notes:

Well, that happened. At least the first 1500 words can be counted as plot of some kind.

This is the first time I ever wrote smut, as in, complete lemon. Let me know what you think.

Personally? I neither liked nor disliked writing it. It was interesting, I suppose, but I think I prefer writing actual plot than investing a chapter’s worth of porn, even if I teased a lot about it.

Anyway, Percy is not exactly normal even by demigod status when it comes to sex. It can be attributed to his father for the most part, but let’s face it; he suffers from protagonist syndrome. What kind of protagonist isn’t a god in bed?

Same thing for Sansa, and probably every woman Percy will sleep in, as her body magically adapts to him to best serve him. Is it realistic? Of course not. With magic and stuff happening, keeping things realistic would be foolish.

Porn logic at hand, I suppose.

Chapter 16: Of Schemes and Arrogance

Edited by: Gladiusx. Beta reader: Deimos

---

16th Day of the 8th Moon, 299

Pentos

The Eunuch 

 

Varys watched over the grounds in his friend Illyrio’s manse as preparations for the journey ahead were almost finalized. He would have wished to take a more subtle means of travel, yet due to political and religious strife, Essos was ripe for conflict. He stared down from the balcony as lines of hired blades, a few Unsullied, and hundreds of workers prepared the carts to be taken to the docks. Varys reminisced on how things had gotten so out of control that he was forced to play his hands prematurely.

 

It had taken him longer than he desired to arrive in Pentos, having been forced to flee King’s Landing over a moon ago. At the time, he felt that assassinating Tyrion Lannister was the most prudent choice; the way the little lion stared at him during that council meeting told that he had seen through all the horse shit that Varys came up with on the mysterious savior of Sansa Stark. Many people underestimated Tyrion Lannister, but not him. Varys knew that such a man could be a true danger to him and their plans, one that needed either brought to his side…or silenced.

 

It was such a disaster, perhaps the Spider’s biggest misstep so far. Even now, more than a moon later, the former Master of Whispers bemoaned his moment of panic. Killing Tyrion was a wise decision, yet the failure! Oh, the failure…how could he have foreseen that the dwarf would have one of the Kingsguard for himself? One that was eager to prove himself, no less. Westerosi knights were renowned worldwide for their martial prowess, and the kingsguard were the finest swords of the Seven Kingdoms. No wonder Arys Oakheart had managed to slay a dozen of his catspaws who would not have been allowed to wear armor or even carry swords.

 

Only men-at-arms or nobles were allowed that privilege in King’s Landing.

 

Worst of all, Varys had missed the crucial council meeting that doomed him. Perhaps if he was present, he could have reassured the boy king of his loyalty and knowledge, yet his disguise as the gaoler did not allow him access to such lofty places in the Red Keep. By the time the bounties were issued, Varys had already committed to the murder, and once Tyrion survived, he knew that his time in Westeros was numbered, and he needed to go.

 

Normally, the journey to Pentos would take less than a sennight on a fast ship, yet with the lack of docks or any ships in the city, he had been forced to trek to Duskendale for a vessel.

 

It was a miracle he had managed to send a messenger bird to Illyrio. Normally, pigeons could not travel across the Narrow Sea without stopping to rest. However, through a clever implementation of relay boats, which would wait halfway to Pentos, Varys could send word ahead of his arrival. That such a method would cost plenty of gold to keep those boats afloat, their sailors fed and rotated, and sworn to secrecy was of no issue. Robert Baratheon was eager to fund anything to receive faster reports over the Targaryen siblings, and neither the Lord Hand nor the Boy King had seen fit to ask him where the gold was going.

 

A pity that with Stannis' fleet prowling in the Narrow Sea, those boats had to be brought ashore. Still, it was a shamefaced Varys who met his dear friend in his manse when he arrived a moon ago.

 

“To think you would make such a mistake, My Friend.” Illyrio laughed when he told him about his panic and why he returned so early. “Decades of service in Westeros and careful planning, nearly all thrown to the gutters due to Magic of all things.”

 

“You believe me?”

 

“Of course I do! Our bond is deeper than anything this world could break, and our ambitions are lofty indeed for me to doubt you in anything.” 

 

They were watching a group of scantily clad dancers perform a show in the gardens. His friend’s two greatest vices were food and the pleasures of the flesh. Varys lacked the tools to comment on the latter, but a pat on his fat belly reminded him that he had partaken too much of the former; perhaps he should take the opportunity of the upcoming sea journey to shed some of that weight.

 

“The Sunset Kingdoms are not the only place that had woes of the magical kind.” Varys had turned swiftly to his friend; the mere talk of magic had given him a terrible feeling and an acute reminder of what it had cost him. “The Red Priests have suddenly gained conflicting visions, with each head priest of each temple accusing the other of heresy. Then we have the power struggles, and it seems like every lowly acolyte has suddenly gained the ability to commune with the flames and true fire control.”

 

“Control of fire? Was that not just smoke and mirrors? I recall the charlatans used special powder to ignite flames and placed plants in the crowds to stir them up into a frenzy.”

 

“For the lowly acolytes and initiates? Yes. But the higher clergy's magic was real enough, and they utilized their powers to ensure their positions and that of their people for decades… At least that was the case until the first day of the last moon.” Varys’ eyes widened, and Illyrio nodded, “Coincides with the appearance of that rogue that kidnapped the Wolf Maid, does it not?”

 

“Indeed. What is the situation in Essos, then? My little birds do not stretch across from Westeros, I fear.”

 

“I’m sure you noticed the signs of fighting and scorch marks on your way from the docks?” Varys nodded. Pentos looked like it was gearing up for war with itself when he arrived, yet it was not bad enough to cause trade to stop. “The power of the Lord of Light has proven to be very real, too real . Priests challenge other priests for the slightest chance of increasing their influence and prestige. Upstart acolytes challenge apprentices, who challenge their teachers for positions in the temple. With the highest members of the clergy secluding themselves as they feuded with the nonsensical visions their god sent them, the rest of the temple had gone into anarchy.”

 

Varys nodded as he gazed at a couple of the dancers; the two women were twins and must have been blessed by both the gods of Valyria and the Lord of Light. A thick curtain of curls the color of burnished silver cascaded down their ivory shoulders, and their beautiful faces were adorned by two smoldering indigo gemstones. They swayed in ecstasy to a drummer’s frantic rhythm as the slight fabric struggled to hold their bountiful teats and bouncy butts; perhaps it was more likely they were blessed by the love goddess of Lys.

 

One would think they were merely bed slaves from the Valyrian pleasure island if not for the fiery performance they were doing. Flames danced along their fingers and up their arms, caressing them like a warm blanket and licking their hair and brows. They clearly felt no discomfort as they danced on the specially prepared marble stage that would not risk catching fire.

 

Even for a eunuch like him, Varys could appreciate the beauty of the girls, and there was no doubt they were young girls, barely the same age as his dear nephew.

 

“I take it that the reason I am seeing several of those priests in your employ has to do with those troubles in the Red Faith?”

 

“Verily so. I have managed to recruit many of the disenfranchised members of the temple. Many of them were sold off by their parents to cover debts, or simply slaves sent from other temples.” Varys nodded along; not even the Braavosi treaty could force the followers of the Red God to abandon their habit of taking in slaves for the temple - it was far too useful as they helped keep the peace and offer a home to them. “Apparently, with the sudden manifestation of their powers, they do not seem as eager to swear themselves to crotchety old men. Many feared the loss of their powers if they abandoned the temples, but when that didn’t happen, whether from R’hllor’s generosity or some other unknown reason, they decided they could have better lives elsewhere.”

 

“Lives such as being dancers?”

 

“Ah, do you like those two? I picked them myself before they could be sold to the temple. Unspoiled, talented, beautiful, and most importantly–loyal. They would make excellent attendants to our king and handmaidens to the queen later on. We will need more of your sister’s blood, for there are so few of us anymore.” Varys questioned the wisdom of that choice. The Westerosi were notoriously picky and a foreign king would already be a hard lemon for them to swallow. Add to that two witches as mistresses? Still, if what he heard from across the Narrow Sea was true, it would not be the strangest thing for a king, and Varys would admit to loving the idea of having more True Targaryens around - his sister's Blackfyre blood combined with his friend’s Brightflame blood; they shall cleanse the sickness that plagued the Targaryens with new purer dragon blood. 

 

“Apparently, you don’t need to swear yourself to R’hllor to be blessed by the flames.” Illyrio was saying as he guffawed over his cup of wine, “Or perhaps it was not the Lord of Light, but some Dragon God from Valyria?”

 

Varys chuckled deeply along with his friend. It did not matter whatever deity blessed them with good fortune; they would need all they could get in their attempt to install his nephew on the Iron Throne. Their ambitious plan was merely one of many, many schemes that he and his sister’s lover had planned over decades. Varys could not have predicted Robert’s rebellion or Aerys’ madness, yet they had proven to be a great boon. While Illyrio managed to entrench himself in Pentos and spread his web over Essos, Varys had used his position as Master of Whispers to greatly help empower their clandestine operations.

 

Who would have thought that the Blackfyre’s greatest supporters would be the unwitting kings of the kingdom they planned to usurp?

 

“Are the Red Priests the only ones with such woes? From my understanding, magic does not differentiate between temples and people. So long as you have the blood for it, and Essos is plentiful in magical blood.”

 

“Indeed, I have heard tales from Braavos that the House of Black and White had recalled all of their agents and closed their doors. Who knows what plots they are brewing? The Moonsingers have clashed a few times with the Red Priests of the Bastard Daughter. Apparently, the erratic visions the fire worshipers received from their god had led them to somehow interpret a coming conflict with the Moonsingers.”

 

“Dear me, the Braavosi honor the Moonsingers more than any other faith. I take it the city had to intervene?”

 

“They did, yet it ended in catastrophe. The Red Priests went on a rampage that burned part of the Arsenal and a third of the Braavosi fleet. However, there were not many of the fire worshipers to begin with, and they were as mortal as any man. After dealing with the ringleaders, the rest of the city purged the temple and its followers.” Varys’ eyes widened, such madness! “The Magisters here are clamoring to use this chance to break away from Braavos. To use the troublemaking Red Priests here as our vanguard in an assault against the Braavosi.”

 

“Then, the city truly is gearing up for war?”

 

“Perhaps, yet war is an opportunity. Since we were not allowed to hire Free Companies, the city had prepared a Citizen Army for decades. Trained by Westerosi knights, they are eager to test their mettle in battle.”

 

Varys was not knowledgeable on matters of war, yet he knew waging it was not a simple matter. He had seen those citizen soldiers, second and third sons, and many free bond servants marching and training. True, they were well armed and trained in Westerosi formations, yet they lacked the martial spirit that those from the Sunset Kingdoms have instilled since young. 

 

‘Green as piss,’ Robert would describe them.

 

“But accommodating so many Faiths in a single city has caused even more problems for the Braavosi.” Illyrio continued, “Followers of the Silent God claim their god has spoken, prophesizing a calamity from the sea, which coincided with the burning of the Arsenal. The entirety of the Patternmaker's Maze had suddenly disappeared overnight; it was almost as if they were swallowed by one of their mazes.”

 

Varys gulped his cup of wine in worry as Illyrio briefed him on the many problems in the Free Cities. With the death of Khal Drogo, many of the Khals abandoned their ambition to invade Yi-Ti and returned to harass Western Essos in great numbers - almost as if they were escaping from something. In Volantis, the woes of the Red Faith were far more brutal and destructive than in other cities; The Old Blood was attempting to mediate between the many conflicting factions of the most popular faith in the world, yet the First Daughter was clearly heading to civil war.

 

Surprisingly, the Three Daughters remained silent, yet knowing them, such a false peace would soon fall apart at the earliest provocation. Illyrio mentioned rumors of Lyseni ships meeting with Corsairs from the Basilisk Isles, yet it was known that Stannis Baratheon had hired many sellsails and pirates from the Stepstones. Perhaps Lys was seeking an opportunity to invade and take over the islands? The moment they did so, however, would immediately provoke a response from Myr.

 

The Tyroshi’s lust for slaves was already in a fever pitch; their docks and harbors were full of warships awaiting the outcome of the siege of King’s Landing. If Stannis won, Varys doubted they would have the audacity to attack, but if he lost or the siege took too long, then he wagered the eastern coast of Westeros would suffer massive raids without a Royal Fleet to protect them. It might even drag the other daughters from any potential conflict to swoop in and reap the benefits.

 

So many unexplainable things happening, so much magic in Essos, and with the shadow of war approaching these lands, it behooved them to expedite their plans. Illyrio might have other plans or schemes in Essos and had gotten attached to Pentos, yet once his son was king, they could channel the full might of the Seven Kingdoms to support Pentos as the first foothold for their resurgent empire.

 

For their ambition was not merely claiming the Iron Throne; no, that was merely a stepping stone. The Valyrian Freehold was the sole dominant power over much of Essos, yet for some inexplicable reason, they never ventured to Westeros aside from a couple of colonies on the Narrow Sea. Varys and Illyrio wished to change that, yet instead of working from the East, it shall be from the West.

 

It would take a long time, a plan spanning several generations, yet they would make it work, even if they were not likely to be alive to see that dream come to fruition.

 

It had been weeks since that discussion in the gardens, and now, Varys was prepared to set sail for his nephew. Illyrio had managed to contact Jon Connington and had them sail away from Volantis before any trouble could shackle them to the city. They awaited them in the town of Vaelysaar on the mouth of the Orange River, east of the Disputed Lands and west of the Orange Coast. The Golden Company had a contract there that expires soon, but would await their arrival.

 

“Our first goal is for Aegon to assume command of the Golden Company. Though he may need to prove himself to the Brotherhood of Exiles, it should not be a pressing issue, but what comes next may be so,” Illyrio had explained a sennight ago as they reviewed the maps of Essos. “Volantis is on the cusp of civil war, yet you would have to pass through their lands on your way to our wayward queen - perhaps Aegon may bloody himself in the coming civil war. I would have liked to purchase a few centuries of Unsullied but Astapor has been incredibly stingy as of late. I will trust your judgement on which faction to contract with, but we need to expand our strength, not squander it.”

 

“I will do my best to increase our ranks and enrich our coffers, but I will need all of our resources in that region to help our king.”

 

“Naturally, you shall have them. I will connect you with my spy network in the region, along with a couple of other sellsword companies you could ally with. Yet, you will have to both contend with the company’s own spymaster as well as make sure our queen is secured.” Varys nodded, he understood that he will not be expected to strategize or be involved with the military aspects of a campaign, yet a war of shadows and intrigue was more his domain. “I have received word from Qarth, Daenerys Targaryen has just left the city and is heading west, either to New Ghis or Slaver's Bay. Her dragons are very much real.”

 

“I am surprised she managed to leave the city so easily. Did not the Warlocks face trouble as well?”

 

“Yes, some sort of inner turmoil had caused them to shut their doors to all visitors. My sources tell me that our erstwhile Targaryen had even been turned away when she visited the House of the Undying with her dragons.”

“That’s good to hear. I would rather not have our queen’s mind poisoned by those wretches.” Varys shivered at even more problems of magical nature sprouting around the corner, and it was bad enough that they were forced to reassess their plans with Daenerys - her fate should have been to be married off to the savage and sully the last of the Targaryen name, while Aegon would marry any of the plentiful maidens of the High Lords of Westeros. Now, they could not afford to leave her to her own devices, not when she had dragons on her side. “I remember you sending Ser Barristan Selmy and a ship to pick her up. How fares the old knight?”

 

“Our knight has managed to get in contact with her and convinced her to leave the city. And not a moment too soon, for the city was visited by a plague ship from Yi-Ti. It was suspiciously timed after a certain red-hulled ship, with a golden kraken on the sails, had docked in the harbor, and a one-eyed man with another dragon on his shoulder entered the House of the Undying, then left with several warlocks in tow. Once the Silence had left, the plague ship struck, and the entirety of Qarth is now locked to all outsiders.”

 

Varys’ heart nearly skipped a beat, and he stared in shock at his friend, who nodded grimly. Euron Greyjoy with a dragon… Dragons had been extinct for nearly two hundred years, yet now it seemed anyone could hatch them, even non-Valyrians! It was clear had it tamed even, keeping it on his shoulder like a pet cat. J-Just how did the Crow’s Eye manage to do it? 

 

What was next? Grumkins and snarks?

 

Were the White Walkers real too?

 

Would the Deep Ones crawl out of their dark, watery halls and plague the lands once more?

 

“While I’m sure such news is dire for the Qartheens, I doubt it will affect us or our goals.” Varys shrugged, “Regardless, my little birds have brought me news from Westeros. Specifically, the North.”

 

“Oh? I thought you always complained about how difficult it was to plant your birds in that frozen wasteland.”

 

“It most definitely is, but this news comes from the Vale, yet it is about the North. Sansa Stark has arrived in White Harbor and wed her pet sorcerer. The man had proven his mettle by slaying a massive sea monster and showed it off to the entire city like a trophy.”

 

It was ironic that Varys complained about the existence of yet another dragon, but here, they had a different kind of dragon problem. Sea Dragons, the sailors have been calling them despite just being gigantic monstrous eels with no wings, have surfaced in the Shivering Sea. Yet another woe for the Braavosi that further encouraged rebellious sentiment in Pentos.

 

“This does not bode well, Varys. This Perseus character has proven to be extremely powerful. If he could slay a sea dragon, what stops him from slaying a true dragon? You told me of the tales of his personal prowess against humans, as well as his water magic. By marrying the Wolf Maid, he has firmly aligned himself with the Starks.”

 

“There are always ways to get rid of such high-profile nuisances,” Varys waved his friend’s concerns away. “A borrowed knife while that monster is sleeping, or even when he is in the thick of battle, would solve that problem.”

 

“And if his sorcery proves too much?”

 

“Then we treat with the North. In the end, the land of the North might be large enough to be the same size as the rest of the kingdoms combined, yet they are poor and not as populated as their size would suggest. At best, we welcome them back into the fold, promising them a princely title, royal marriages, and support for the Night's Watch. At worst, we acknowledge the kingdom’s independence and forget about them. The North was always left to their own devices anyway, and they did not provide much in the way of taxes.” 

 

“If you believe that’s prudent,” Illyrio clearly misliked the idea of relinquishing half the kingdom, and so did Varys, yet he had not survived and thrived for so long by not being pragmatic. “Though having such a power untamed is like a lance pointed at your back. How can we expand into Essos without consolidating the Seven Kingdoms first? If the North remains free, it could very well sow the seeds of doubt and rebellion amongst the rest of them. Dorne-”

 

Varys raised his hand, smiling. “Yet there is only one Perseus. Knights and swords and spears might be the backbone of any force, but they pale before the might of the dragon. Fret not, my friend. Plans shall be made to deal with the North as things come. For all we know, they will stumble down and fall with the rest.” 

 

They had ended their meeting then, and now, Varys was prepared for a long journey by sea. He only prayed that their voyage would not face troubles and that the Mother of Dragons would be easy to find once he had finished setting up his web in the region. 

 

Preferably in New Ghis. Varys misliked Slaver's Bay, such an uncouth name. Wars took a long time, but a ship from the Orange Coast to the Gulf of Grief and back shouldn’t take longer than a moon.

 

He tittered as preparations were finally set, and they were on their way to the docks. Varys had never prayed before, but with the resurgence of magic and the gods, perhaps he ought to try praying too.

 

A*H*M

 

19th Day of the 8th Moon

Maidenpool

Jaime

 

A figure sneaked into the town's alleys, careful to avoid the lanterns and torches lighting the streets. It was the hour of the wolf, yet the town was buzzing with activity as troops wearing the salmon sigil of House Mooton hurried up and down the streets. Maidenpool was a town in name, yet it was still large enough to be considered a city. However, their lords, the Mootons, did not earn a city charter, and thus could not claim to own a city and all the power and prestige that came with it - the ability to tax merchants and place customs, and other things that his brother would be more suited to explain. 

 

Never had Jaime Lannister ever thought he would be sneaking into the streets of a town he had visited several times. 

 

After he had been rescued a moon ago, he and his brother’s men sailed that ferry all the way to Harroway before they were forced to abandon it when they found the patrol barges full of Tully men sailing the opposite way. Jaime and his three remaining saviors, the thief, the poisoner, and the murderer, had shaved their heads and dressed as wandering beggars as they made their way to Darry, the only confirmed Lannister stronghold in the region, only to find it besieged by Northmen.

 

The castle was small, yet it was well-provisioned and garrisoned. Still, It was only a matter of time until the castle either surrendered or the Northmen took it by storm, yet Jaime could only wonder about Roose Bolton’s wits as he sent his troops to their deaths, assaulting the walls. Strangely, none of them wore the flayed man livery, but rather, most of them wore either a merman or a moose coat of arms.

 

Still a terrible strategy, and Jaime felt he had learned something important about the Northern army and its commanders.

 

They did not linger and moved on, heading east towards the Widow’s Ford. The roads were dangerous, and in the first week, the poisoner was killed by wolves as he went for a piss during the night. In the second week, the thief was killed by poachers that the fool tried to steal dried meat from, and merely a few days ago, the murderer simply disappeared in the middle of the night.

 

Jaime had thought he had abandoned him, but his meager belongings remained in camp. He could have sworn he saw small grey figures sneaking around the woods they camped in, yet Jaime was busy puking his dinner out that day after eating a mushroom that grew he thought was edible. In hindsight, that white tree was most likely the stump of a weirwood rather than what he thought was a birch.

 

His nights had been unpleasant and disturbing since then, with dreams that he could barely remember. It definitely involved wars, for he had seen all kinds of men fighting first, against each other, then against what must be demons from the seven hells. Whispers in the night kept him awake; a soft woman’s whisper in his ear, telling Jaime to repent, that he still had honor and not allow himself to be led astray. 

 

Jaime scoffed, he had no idea what that mushroom he ate was, but it definitely awakened his more imaginative side. Repent? A lion did not concern himself with the opinions of sheep. Though, he did wonder who that voice was, and if it would speak to him again; it made him feel…warm. Warmth he had not felt in a very long time .

 

Still, Jaime continued on his lonesome and managed to make his way to a nearby fishing village, where he spent the last of his coin to hire a fisherman to take him to Maidenpool, arriving two days ago. Since then, Jaime had kept the beggar disguise, which helped when thugs in the alleys tried to mug him, only for him to take all the coin they had.

 

He might not have a sword, but he was still a knight of the kingsguard.

 

It was barely enough for a couple of nights in a crowded tavern called the Stinking Goose and hardly enough for a couple of meals. Once settled in the only available room that smelled as bad as the tavern name suggested, Jaime tried to glean as much information as possible about the war.

 

It irked him to engage in all that skulduggery, yet his time as a captive in Riverrun had taught him to temper his recklessness. That same recklessness had nearly killed him in the Whispering Woods, and Jaime very much liked his head to remain on his shoulders.

 

What he had learned from listening in on drunken sailors and fishermen in the taverns was very strange indeed. The most relevant news was why there were so many people in Maidenpool; the city was crowded beyond its limits with refugees from the Crownlands and King’s Landing; apparently, his brother Tyrion had been busy preparing the city for a siege, and had evicted many of its citizens, sending the vagrants all over the Crownlands.

 

He would have scoffed at the tales of sorcery, and the Stark girl’s escape if not for the bounty the town criers constantly reminded the citizenry. Ultimately, Jaime wasn't concerned with the girl’s escape or some sorcerer; it was Stannis’ march on King’s Landing that worried him. He nearly decided to head straight to Mooton’s castle and demand an audience, for the man was clearly loyal to the Iron Throne. Otherwise, he would not have allowed those criers to announce the bounties or risk his liege lord’s ire.

 

In the end, Jaime had chosen to wait in secret when he learned there was an army approaching the town. This brought him to the present, where he scaled the walls of Jonquil’s Tower to get a better view of the army when it approached in the morning. He could have waited for tomorrow, yet the past few weeks had him on edge, and Jaime could not sleep, fearing he would hear more whispers in the night - or worse, enjoy them . 

 

He had only planned for a simple stroll earlier when he heard whispers of the approaching army. Before deciding whether to return to the Stinking Goose, Jaime was already on his way to the walls, only to find them manned. 

 

In the end, he decided on this venture.

 

Settling on the tower's roof, Jaime yawned as the exercise helped burn some of his excess energy, though it had tired him a lot more than it should have. He was treated well enough in Riverrun, yet weeks on the road with little food aside from hard rations had weakened him and left him with little energy. 

 

There were no torches or any source of light nearby, and the grounds beyond the walls were just as dark as the sky above him. He adjusted his cloak for comfort, putting on the hood, before closing his eyes, wondering what the future held.

 

Only to open them barely a heartbeat later at the sound of a loud horn blast that caused him to sit up and nearly hit his head on a crenelation. Jaime blinked his eyes blearily as the morning sun shone on him, but within moments, he was on his feet and staring at the grounds below.

 

He saw an army, probably about ten thousand strong, yet that was not important. Many banners were dancing in the wind, mostly Riverlands and Crownlands, yet there were also banners from the Westerlands.

 

One of them flew higher than anything else. The golden lion of Lannister!

.

.

.

“Quite the adventure you were in, nephew. None of us even knew of Tyrion’s scheme to free you, so when we learned of your escape…”

 

Jaime could only nod along as he ate voraciously from the feast Lord Mooton prepared for him in his quarters. The moment Kevan Lannister demanded the craven William Mooton’s hospitality, the man obliged and opened the city gates. His uncle had entered the city with his retinue and headed towards the castle, where Lord Mooton welcomed them with bread and salt.

 

And that was when Jaime announced his presence as he descended Jonquil’s tower.

 

To say everyone in the vicinity was flabbergasted would be an understatement. The look on the timid Lord Mooton’s fat face had Jaime burst out laughing. A sound that was apparently familiar enough for his uncle to recognize immediately and grab him in a tight hug. 

 

Jaime smiled as he drank deeply from the mug of ale on the table, “Tyrion has always been resourceful and cunning. Not many in our family appreciate that about him.”

 

“That he is,” Kevan nodded as he sat on a tapered armchair and waited until he finished eating the last of his salmon. “You cannot imagine how glad I am to see you safe, Jaime.”

 

“Me too, Uncle. I never thought I would find you here and with an army as well. How goes the war?”

 

“Not well. Last I heard, your father had treated with the Tyrells; we get forty thousand men, and they put a crown atop their Golden Rose of Highgarden along with other benefits I am not privy to; their combined armies are marching to King’s Landing as we speak. It is slow-going due to the long distance, and Tywin had exhausted his supplies rushing to Bitterbridge, forcing Mace Tyrell to open his stores for them.” 

 

“I heard Stannis had left Storm’s End. I also heard some very fantastical tales happening around there.”

 

“You will be surprised to learn that the truth is even stranger than mad tales.”

 

Jaime listened attentively as his uncle informed him of the happenings of the war. Robb Stark’s campaign in the Westerlands continued with impunity, his former captor now last seen besieging the Golden Tooth. That report reached Kevan two days ago, and he had already used Mooton’s ravens to send word to Casterly Rock to update them on the siege. Stannis had just landed on the shores of King’s Landing a few nights ago, though they were not certain of the particulars of the siege. Jaime could only hope his brother and sister remained safe.

 

He clenched his teeth in fury when he learned of the attempt on his brother’s life. Varys had not been seen since, yet Tywin Lannister had placed a ludicrous bounty on the eunuch’s head for attempting to murder the Hand of the King. Jaime scoffed inwardly, no matter how much his father disparaged Tyrion, he was still a Lannister, and any who insults the name of Lannister in any shape or form would be retaliated against with extreme prejudice.

 

“And who are you?” The proud Lord said, “That I must bow so low.”

 

Tywin Lannister was never one to suffer insults or fools, though Jaime wondered what made the Spider so bold as to attempt such a reckless scheme.

 

“Wait, Sansa Stark wed some pretty boy she just met? Without her House’s approval?”

 

Jaime snickered as he imagined the look on Catelyn Stark’s face when she got the news. When he had first learned of the girl’s escape, he feared she would go straight to the Vale and marry one of the heirs there to bring the so-far-neutral kingdom into the war. Sansa could have even betrothed herself to her cousin, Robert Arryn, yet she instead eloped with some rogue?

 

“A pretty boy who personally slaughtered over a hundred men in his escape from the city, used wicked sorcery to flood King’s Landing, and somehow caused a massive cache of wildfire hidden under the River Gate to explode, destroying everything from the docks to Fishmonger's Square.”

 

Jaime’s heart dropped. Wildfire? “B-But, wildfire loses potency when–”

 

His uncle’s eyes widened as he suddenly stood, “You knew about them?!”

 

A heavy lump formed on the back of Jaime’s throat. This was his biggest pride and his greatest shame. He still remembered the fear, the hesitation that day. The weight with which all of his vows pressed on his shoulders.

 

Obey your liege.

 

Protect the weak and the innocent.

 

No matter what, a vow would be broken. But which one was he supposed to break?

 

Kingslayer, Stark called him, and many more echoed after him. They were not wrong. But… did it matter?

 

Jaime could have told everyone about the wildfire, but he had sworn to protect the king’s secrets. His pride had taken enough hits that day to be accused of more oathbreaking.

 

In the end, Jaime had decided not to say anything. There had been some doubts in his mind, but when nothing blew up, he just dismissed them….

 

Yet he could no longer remain silent. “Yes, the king, the Mad King, had those caches planted all over the city in an insane attempt to blow it all.” His throat went dry. He could still remember the smell of charred meat and the gurgle as Brandon Stark strangled himself in a bid to reach that sword. He still remembered the mad cackles that day, he still remembered Rhaella’s wails when he guarded her room at night. “ ‘Burn them all’ he said, ‘Let Robert rule over the ashes.’ ”

 

“Is that why you killed him, Jaime?”

 

“What other choice did I have?” A hoarse laugh bubbled out of his throat. 

 

His uncle stared at him as if he had seen him for the first time. Kevan paced towards the window and gripped the edge tightly before sighing and returning to his seat. “Why didn’t you tell us? We could have announced it to the kingdom, and you would have been lauded as a hero.”

 

“The Kingsguard keeps his king’s secrets.” Jaime shrugged, yet it sounded hollow, and his uncle saw through him but simply shook his head. 

 

“I will need you to make an extensive list of where all the other caches are. It is not too late to tell Tyrion of their existence, and with the city under siege, they are a huge risk.”

 

Jaime’s guts clenched in worry, did his vows of silence doom his brother to a fiery death? No, Tyrion was cunning and resourceful. Most importantly, he was a survivor. 

 

“Very well. What other tales do you have of that man?”

 

“Who, the sorcerer? Tyrion mentioned his name, Perseus, and said that he could control the sea.”

 

“Control the sea?” Jaime stared at his uncle like he just said dragons were soaring in the skies again. “What do you mean he can control the sea ?”

 

“According to hundreds of eyewitnesses, the man caught up to Myrcella’s fleet, which was on its way to Dorne to be betrothed to Doran Martell’s son,” Kevan explained, and Jaime sucked a breath - that was the first he heard of that. “And then he simply raised the sea to the sky and threatened to drown them all if your niece didn’t surrender. Poor Myrcella had no choice but to comply, and any hopes of gaining the spears of Dorne were gone with her.”

 

Silence settled in the room, and Jaime could hardly think of any witty reply. He dearly hoped his uncle was simply pulling a jest, but no, his grim face and the fact Kevan Lannister rarely made any jests, told him the bitter truth. His daug– niece was now in Northern captivity, most likely in White Harbor. Jaime felt restless; he needed to do something, or at least change this grim topic to something more useful. There was nothing he could do now, and the only silver lining in the whole tale was that Sansa Stark was still Eddard Stark’s daughter.

 

He prayed to the Mother and the Maiden that the girl would treat his Myrcella well. Jaime flinched as he almost thought he heard a woman’s whisper in the wind, yet he shook his head - he must be very tired indeed to be hearing voices.

 

“So what are your plans, Uncle? I saw plenty of troops but little horse.”

 

“That is true. Tywin had taken all the horse with him, and most of the troops you see are levies. Lorch is busy training them in Harrenhal, but I fear now that Darry has fallen to the Northmen, they will march onto that hideous castle.” 

 

“So we make for Harrenhal? Break the Northern Army while they are busy sieging the castle?”

 

“A sound idea, but no. At least, not yet. First, we need more men and supplies. I aim to head to Crackclaw Point and raise more men from there.”

 

“From the Clawmen? I doubt it would be easy. They are notoriously surly and are more likely to fill you with arrows than give you guest right.”

 

“Nevertheless, I have no choice. Stannis’ army is massive, estimated at forty thousand troops without considering his fleet. If he brings his men ashore, that could be another thirty thousand.”

 

Jaime’s blood ran cold as he realized the gravity of their situation. Mace Tyrell would not be able to bring the full might of the Reach in a short time. Forty thousand men were not even half of what the Reach could muster, but Stannis had fifteen thousand of them, while the rest were needed to protect the Dornish Marches or stayed behind for one reason or another. With the Roses joining them, nothing would stop Robb Stark or Edmure Tully from marching to the Reach and laying waste to half the kingdom while they were busy dislodging Stannis Baratheon from the walls of King’s Landing.

 

“I will need your help, Jaime.” His uncle’s words woke him from his stupor. “There is so much to do, and we need more men. More supplies as well, but fighting men would be of more use. We leave in a moon at most, with whatever forces and supplies Mooton and the Clawmen shall spare.”

 

“Maidenpool has remained unmolested by the war. I’m sure he could muster around three thousand men, and he already had. I’ve seen their troops training and marshaling over the past couple of days.”

 

“That’s good to know. I can tell the craven will not personally join us; the man seemed to have lost all wits and courage after nearly getting mauled by a giant wolf near the God’s Eye. He claimed that packs of wolves have terrorized his people over the last few moons and that he will need to keep men-at-arms to deal with them.”

 

Jaime grimaced, “That could only be Arya Stark’s direwolf. She let her escape when Cersei called for its head near the Ruby Ford.” 

 

“Ah, your sister.” Kevan did not hide his disgust over Cersei’s handling of affairs. He looked ready to go on a tirade about her - most likely how she allowed Ned Stark to lose his head or let Sansa Stark slip from their grasp - yet his uncle took a deep breath and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, we must make haste. I shall go and try to treat with the Clawmen, but I need you here to take command of the army and train them as best you can. Continue sending forces to gather supplies, it’s too late for Tywin and Mace Tyrell to beat Stannis to King’s Landing, instead, they plan to let him thin his numbers on the city’s walls.”

 

“And then?”

 

“Once we are ready, we will march to King’s Landing. Hopefully, Tyrion could hold the city long enough for all of our armies to make it and force Stannis to a battle.”

Notes:

Varys fucked up. It happens. He acknowledges his fuckup and will try to work around it. I feel this is much better than the infallible persona GRRM had created for him. No plot armor, no random plot devices for him…just schemes upon schemes and contingencies.

Vaelysaar is an original city. The Disputed lands must have something worth fighting for, and this is but one of many cities that litter this fertile region.

We get hints of what’s happening around the world as well. I was tempted to write a Daenerys POV, but I already struggled so much with two fresh POVs. Nevertheless, I think I managed to tell what happened, though not show which is a shame.

Regarding the siege of King’s Landing, this will be dragging on for a long time. Sieges irl took weeks to just set up the lines, and moons as they battered down the walls or sapped the gates. Yes, King’s Landing is missing its River Gate, but it’s built along the Blackwater Rush where Stannis will struggle to land his forces and march into the city. Not to mention, Tyrion has been very busy over the past two months. Rebuilding the gate and the wall is impossible, but filling them with rubble is far easier, and the mouth of the river could be easily blocked with chains and other debris that would make turn any amphibious landing into a nightmare.

I had planned to write more POVs in this chapter, as I mentioned with Dany, but it didn’t work out with the time constraint. Expect more fresh povs in the coming chapters.

Chapter 17: Honor and Chivalry

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

---

25th Day of the 8th Moon

On the Rose Road

Garlan Tyrell

 

Ever since they agreed on the alliance with Tywin Lannister, the skies had been clear. Even now, the late afternoon sun was particularly scorching, and Garlan’s doublet was damp with sweat. Some pious men would claim it was an omen of the Seven’s favor. It was the height of summer, and such weather was the norm, yet that did not stop the men from claiming that the Seven were on their side to bless them with such good weather.

 

The men that Tywin Lannister brought to the negotiations were all ahorse, not even all of them lancers or knights, numbering a meager seven thousand. While that would normally be a significant amount of cavalry for a High Lord to bring to war, it paled to the full muster of the Chivalry of the Reach.

 

At least, it would be if most of said chivalry had not defected to Stannis.

 

The rest of the Westerlands army, consisting of eighteen thousand foot, were trailing behind their liege lord. There had been talk of marching both armies separately, but ultimately, it was decided that it was safer for both armies to combine before marching.

 

Thinking of Lannister’s army, Garlan inspected the sprawling war camp as he made his way towards his father’s pavilion. 

 

They had left Bitterbridge a sennight ago, yet they had barely covered twenty miles. Ideally, on the well-maintained Rose Road, a well-supplied and disciplined army could travel twenty miles a day provided no mishaps occurred. Sadly, the reality was far more different, for they could barely average three miles a day! True, his father had intentionally set the army on a relaxed pace until the Lannister foot joined them, yet even if they were forced to march, they would be lucky to make ten miles a day.

 

It irked Garlan to admit it, yet the Reachmen were not disciplined nor particularly well-trained. Sure, he had complete trust in the knights and the veteran men-at-arms of the Reach, yet it did not bode well when many of them had defected to Stannis Baratheon or remained in their castles. 

 

Ironically, Tywin Lannister matched them in numbers when it came to knights and free riders.

 

Still, as Garlan stared at the poorly lined tents of levies and men-at-arms, he frowned. While the Reach boasted of their heavy cavalry, their foot were not an inspiring sight.

 

Many were farmers, farriers, stable boys, and other lowly craftsmen, hailing from peaceful hamlets and villages along the Mander - forced into service as a levy and obligation to their overlord. They were not at all accustomed to conflict like their cousins on the Dornish Marches, who were conspicuously absent due to the need to protect their southern border. Every Reach Lord was only required to arm his levies with spears and shields and provide them with food and drink. Armor in the form of gambesons, boiled leather, or even a helmet were rare luxuries, and the men were expected to save up their pay to buy further protection or even a proper pair of boots!

 

Usually, that would be easy to acquire in plunder, yet the Reachmen had yet to participate in even a single battle after nearly a year of war. They had not participated in the Greyjoy Rebellion, aside from his uncle Paxter's fleet, and even during Robert's rebellion the battles were few and far between. No fathers to hand their swords or even daggers to their children, or even the odd chainmail sleeve that could survive years with good maintenance.

 

Even tents were a luxury, as Garlan stared at a score of men sleeping on the bare ground. 

 

Only the men-at-arms were well armed and provisioned, as would be expected from the rich lands of the Reach. Yet, they were not plentiful, for much of the Reach had enjoyed peace for a long time - it was not cheap to maintain a constant force, and the Reach had famously paid their taxes to the crown in the form of grain instead of troops. 

 

Except for the aforementioned Marcher Lords who were absent aside from the bare minimum. They were also the only force in the Reach that maintained a standing force of archers, yet the rest of the Reachmen disdained the use of the bow. Garlan might agree in that he would rather face his foes with sword in hand, but tactically, bows and skirmishers were crucial in battle.

 

The second son of Mace Tyrell sighed as he accepted the fact that their snail-pace would remain for weeks and moons to come. It was seven hundred miles from Bitterbridge to King’s Landing if they followed the Rose Road, yet outriders report that the Kingswood was teaming with Stormlanders. Traveling through it would be a nightmare, and they would most likely need to divert their army north for the Gold Crossing… which was most assuredly heavily fortified by Stannis Baratheon, and that meant even more delays.

 

His lord father did not mind, for he was in no rush to attack Stannis' army.

 

“Why would we give him time to build siege lines and assault the city?” Garlan had asked him last night when he brought up their slow pace.

 

“Stannis won't be able to take the city so quickly, and even if he does, the Red Keep is a completely different monster for him to tackle.” Mace Tyrell assured him as he ate his dinner, a juicy steak peppered with roasted vegetables. “If the men are brave and loyal, and the castle is well-stocked, then they could hold the Red Keep for months, even years, while Stannis gnashes his teeth in frustration.”

 

“And if they are not? If they surrender to Stannis when he is standing outside the castle's gates?”

 

“Then Stannis would find himself facing a similar position when I sieged Storm's End.” Mace shrugged as he drank from his goblet of Arbor Gold. “Now that we have confirmation that Tommen Baratheon was smuggled out of the city along with the released hostages of our kingdom, it would not be a major loss if Joffrey is killed by Stannis. Your grandmother had managed to unearth some unpleasant rumors about him. Dear me, the tales that some of our kin had managed to send! I fear for my dear Margery to forever be beholden to such a vile creature.”

 

“Still, it would hurt our cause if the Iron Throne is in Stannis’ grasp; the legitimacy he would gain from taking the royal seat could tip the scales of the war against us. He has the Royal Fleet at his beck and call. What stops him from bringing the Vale to his side and ferrying them with his fleet?”

 

His father paused, his face turning pensive. “That is a good point, my son. Regardless, it is not so simple for us to rush to battle, for Stannis is not the only king we have to fight.”

 

“You are talking about Stark?” The Young Wolf was not so easily forgotten, even if plenty of men claimed most of his victories were due to some dark heathenry, though Garlan did not believe that one bit. Clearly, the young Lord Stark was as talented as his forebearers. The wolves of the North had a long martial tradition from before even the Andals came. To rule such a vast kingdom could only be done with a strong sword wielded by an iron fist.

 

“And Greyjoy as well. Heh, who would have thought the green squid heir would betray his foster home so easily? For now, we can thank the Seven that Balon Greyjoy is an utter fool; otherwise, we would be halfway down the Mander fighting reavers off our shores instead of warring with Stannis.”

 

“Is that why Uncle Paxter has returned to the Arbor? To prepare his fleet in case the Ironborn start raiding our shores?”

 

At Mace’s nod, Garlan understood what his father was telling him. They were not truly in a hurry to reach King's Landing. What awaited them under the city walls would be a terrible slaughter. It was wiser to conserve their strength and let Stannis waste his army on storming the well-fortified defenses while also keeping an eye on Stark and Greyjoy.

 

Tywin Lannister could not even complain, for it was him who was in a hurry and was losing the war to a boy younger than even Loras.

 

Still, a large part of him was miffed at the slow pace and lack of fighting. He dearly wished to prove his mettle in battle, to win glory and accolades for his House. Tales of Robb Stark beating host after host and earning uncountable loot and glory arrived with each message from the Westerlands. Garlan would like nothing more than to test his valor against the young wolf lord.

 

At least, they need not worry at all about supplies. Garlan had been in Highgarden with Willas when the land had begun acting…strangely. It began with minor things; flowers blooming brighter, bees prospering and providing more honey than usual, game flourishing in the woods, cows bearing more calves and milk, and the fruit trees bearing fruits off season. 

 

Then, the harvest came. It was two moons early, yet it was still vast quantities as if the crops were allowed their full cycle to grow. What else could this be than the blessings of the Seven?

 

His belly was full, but his mind grew restless. Garlan strapped his sword and let his feet lead him through the camp. Perhaps one of Tywin’s knights would prove a worthy training partner before the meeting came around.

 

“Ah, Ser Garlan! A good day to you.”

 

Garlan turned to find the small form of the Master of Coin approaching him. He nearly frowned at the man's humble demeanor and warm smile; Loras had warned him the man was an opportunistic snake who would stab anyone in the back at the earliest convenience for any benefits.

 

“Lord Baelish.” Garlan nodded politely, “A good day to you.”

 

“Indeed it is a good day, with a bright sun and clear skies. Why, the Seven must be looking on our cause with favor!”

 

“I did not realize you were a godly man, Lord Baelish.” Garlan continued on his way as the man joined him on the path to the pavilion. 

 

“As much as any noble, Ser. The gods are a tricky thing. Proving your piousness might be impossible, but displeasing them is not something one should ever entertain.”

 

This had to be the biggest steaming pile of horseshit Garlan had ever heard. The smile was warm, wide, and almost pious, but the grey eyes above it were cold and calculating.

 

Alas, Baelish was an influential man, and no matter how much Garlan instinctively disliked him, there wasn’t much he could do. Still, that didn’t mean he would indulge in his games of cunning and scheming. “Were you also called for the meeting?”

 

“Indeed, I noticed several riders arriving this morn on my way to meeting Lord Merryweather. News from the realm, I'm sure.”

 

Garlan nodded silently. He knew about the riders, for he was the one to greet them while he was out on patrol. Messengers from the Westerlands and the Riverlands, as well as nearby castles with raven scrolls to his father or Lord Tywin. He did not need to be a genius to understand that the grasping Master of Coin had greeted him in an attempt to glean any sort of information before the meeting.

 

Petyr Baelish was supposed to be the chief negotiator of the Iron Throne, yet he had taken too long to arrive at Bitterbridge. By then, Tywin Lannister had ridden in with his significant force and wasted no time to strike an alliance. Baelish had been nothing but a tagalong that provided nothing of use aside from sycophantic quips or the occasional nugget of information.

 

Garlan saw no reason to do anything of the sort, of course. Truth be told, he would be more inclined to entertain the man with some random bit of news if he had just asked directly or if he wasn’t dabbling in distasteful things like peddling pleasure and flesh…

 

They walked for a few more minutes. Baelish tried to engage in idle talk, but Garlan did not budge. The glaring sun above them did not invite friendly chatter.

 

Soon, they were in his father's extravagant pavilion, finding they were early - only a handful of nobles were here. His father was speaking to Lord Tarly at the head of the large table when he noticed him.

 

“Garlan, you're here. Come, join me, my son.”

 

Garlan nodded and walked towards the empty seat next to Mace Tyrell, noticing his brother Loras standing behind their father in his resplendent enameled white plate engraved with roses, vines, and thorns of the now-defunct Rainbow Guard. He would retain his position as kingsguard once they were in King’s Landing, yet Garlan could not help but feel odd as he looked at his brother. He was not present during the murder of King Renly, and there was a good deal of conflicting information about it, but one thing stood out that all the realm knew by now that he greatly disapproved of his brother.

 

The unashamed murder of two of his fellow kingsguard. Ser Robar Royce and Ser Emmon Cuy were noble sons of major houses of the Vale and the Reach respectively. Slaying them in cold blood over an ungrounded accusation and without a trial or even giving them a chance to prove their innocence…his grandmother had waved it off that Loras was in grief. Still, she seems to have forgotten the severity of such an act due to her old age.

 

House Cuy had denounced the act and demanded justice, yet even now, Garlan could not bring himself to punish his brother, even if his honor demanded it. Needless to say, there were no troops at all from House Cuy, and he shuddered to think what the formidable lord of Runestone would think over the death of his son. He had met Bronze Yohn in several tourneys, lost to him in every melee in fact, and Yohn Royce did not strike him as someone who would meekly take such a grave insult.

 

“Father, Lord Tarly.” Garlan nodded to the two before taking the empty seat. “How fares your day?”

 

“Splendid, have an apple.” A servant came out of nowhere and placed a fruit bowl in front of him. “We were just discussing the march so far.”

 

Baelish stood awkwardly for a moment, as if waiting for his father to acknowledge him but aside from a quick nod, he was ignored. The thin Master of Coin kept his friendly smile as he sat beside Lord Lewys Lydden, striking a quick conversation with him.

 

They engaged in small talk until the rest of the lords arrived, Tywin Lannister entering the pavilion with his lords ten minutes later - the towering form of Gregor Clegane acting as his shadow as the Mountain moved to stand with the rest of the guards instead of taking a seat with the lords. More courtesies were exchanged along with fruits, wine, and finger foods, before the crux of the meeting got underway.

 

“Word has come from the Golden Tooth.” Mace Tyrell began the meeting with aplomb. “Edmure Tully had taken the castle and wed Alysanne Lefford.”

 

The news was quite the surprise for many of the nobles. It was barely a fortnight when they learned that Robb Stark was seen besieging the castle, yet it was Tully who took it? Garlan remembered the amiable Lord of Riverrun, a man who could have been his friend if not for their current situation. He did not strike him as a particularly gifted commander, but even if it was Robb Stark, none believed he would succeed in cracking the Tooth. Jests and japes were thrown around campfires as they wondered how the Young Wolf would take the castle when he had proven successful only on the field with cavalry superiority.

 

Perhaps he charged the walls down? He nearly chuckled before the table erupted into murmurs. 

 

“How could the Golden Tooth fall so quickly?” Lord Lydden’s eyes were wide, and he was already tugging on his sandy hair, “Ser Forley Prestor was in command and he had enough supplies and men to last a siege for nearly a year!”

 

“Edmure Tully had his men scale the cliffs behind the castle and rain arrows down at the defenders while his men stormed the walls.” Lord Tarly said, his beady eyes glinting with what Garlan recognized as subdued respect. “They were too far up for the defenders to return the favor, especially when faced against the renowned Blackwood archers and their powerful longbows. They could do nothing but hide while Edmure Tully led the first charge up the ladders. He dueled Ser Prestor on the ramparts and defeated him, allowing his men to take the walls while Lady Leford barricaded herself inside the keep.”

 

“And that vile man forcefully wed the Lady Leford?!” Lord Arthur Ambrose exclaimed, “I would expect such acts from the barbaric Northmen not from House Tully.”

 

“Apparently, it was a negotiated surrender. She only had twelve men left while the rest surrendered. Tully gave his demands, and she agreed. She could either wed him or renounce her claim on the castle and be sent to her Lannister cousins in Lannisport.” His father then turned to the stoic Tywin Lannister, “It seems the Young Wolf wants to annex the Golden Tooth into the Riverlands through that marriage as well as the right of conquest.”

 

Many lords and knights murmured and muttered while throwing glances at the Lion Lord. It was yet another blow to the prestige and authority of the Lion of Lannister, and Garlan noticed several of the Westerlands nobles peering with disgruntlement when their liege wasn’t looking. He was certain that the Old Lion had learned of the fall of the Golden Tooth days ago, yet he had kept quiet. With so many defeats, their homes plundered, their women taken, and half their manpower gone, to say that many of the lords of the west were displeased would be an understatement.

 

“So the entire siege and assault was planned by Tully? I did not expect that from him.” Lord Crakehall grumbled as he folded his arms. “How did you come by such a detailed report of the siege, anyway?”

 

“The castle's Maester is a Reachman.” Mace shrugged but did not elaborate, “As for Tully, he had his nephew and uncle to help him, I'm sure.”

 

“Speaking of Robb Stark, it appears he had taken a paramour while he was in Ashford.” Lord Uthor Footly gave a sardonic grin to Addam Marbrand. “Didn’t your father surrender his castle to him without a fight? Did he perhaps give him his daughter as a farewell gift as well?”

 

“Why you–” 

 

The heir to Ashmarke gritted his teeth as he prepared to stand, but a light cough from Lord Tywin had him calm down.

 

“Robb Stark had shown how little honor he has by taking a fair maiden’s purity, then keeping her as his plaything.” The Lion Lord spoke, and even after all the defeats he suffered and the ridicule given behind his back, when he spoke - everyone quieted. “He did not even wed the girl, who surely must be lamenting her misfortune, not to mention the grave insult he had given to House Frey whom he had promised them a queen. It appears the Young Wolf had not inherited his father's honor and resorts to his baser desires.”

 

Of them, the young Baneford heir looked the most irked–his grandfather and cousins had fallen in the Battle of the Green Fork and the Camps, leaving him next in line. Some would celebrate the lordship that landed in their lap, but Garlan could tell the young knight looked particularly furious. 

 

“Justice and retribution shall come for the Vile Sorcerer!” Tybolt Banefort’s declaration was met with grim nods, and some even swore to see Stark to justice. Yet Garlan knew the words of such oaths given in the rush of young, hot blood would never last. 

 

“All that is well and good, but that still does not stop the fact that the Westerlands are now completely open for a full-scale invasion.” Alfred Estren, the young heir of Wyndhall following the capture of his father, Lord Regenard Estren, coldly pointed out as he stared at the rest of his fellow Westermen - Tywin’s emerald eyes boring into the young lord’s head but Estren did not care. “What stops the Northmen and Rivermen from sending their armies into our homes and razing it to the ground? Robb Stark had crippled our kingdom with barely five thousand men; with access to his full army… Do we even have any other forces in the Westerlands to stop them?”

 

“Ser Daven Lannister had sallied from Lannisport when news of the siege arrived, only to be ambushed by a Northern force led by Rickard Karstark.” Lord Titus Peake informed the lad with a grimace, “My wife’s family in Lannisport informed me that brave Ser Daven had managed to break through the ambush and charged for Karstark’s position, managing to avenge his father’s death, but was cut down by the vengeful Northmen. Barely a few hundred had returned to Lannisport out of thousands, and… I do not think your home has any more troops left, laddie.”

 

So Robb Stark had just lost one of his most powerful bannermen? If Garlan remembered right, Rickard Karstark had lost two of his sons to the Kingslayer, while his heir was imprisoned in Harrenhal. Still, as the Westerlanders threw insults at the Reach Lord for implying they were weak, Garlan felt that things were going well for them. Both Tywin Lannister and Robb Stark were weakened, the former a lot more than the latter, yet Stark’s situation was far more dangerous, especially after the wild rumors coming from the Capital turned out to be true.

 

Everyone had heard of the wild tale of Sansa Stark’s escape, as well as the kidnapping of Princess Myrcella. News had arrived from the North; The Stark princess had wed her sorcerer savior in White Harbor. Such a powerful force of nature was best left in the North, while they secured their kingdom.

 

Garlan glanced at his father, who seemed to be enjoying his goblet of wine a bit too much, but his gaze did not move from the Old Lion. Both of them ignored the squabbling around them, none willing to show weakness in calling for their lords to calm down first. Garlan thought it was a silly game that the old men were playing, yet despite his desire to grab his mug of ale and bang it on the table for order, he was too dutiful to allow such an act of impudence when his father remained content.

 

Finally, after what felt like an hour but was most likely only a few minutes, Tywin Lannister raised his hand, and his bannermen were struck silent. Years and decades of ruling with an iron fist had ingrained discipline and fear in the Lords of the Westerlands whenever the Lion of Lannister spoke.

 

“Robb Stark will have other things to worry about instead of acting like a wildling, sacking and raiding our homes before stealing our women. His lords will not remain silent while the Ironborn are plundering their homes. Moreover, my son Jaime has escaped from Riverrun and joined with my brother Kevan in Maidenpool.” Tywin Lannister's gaze roamed over his lords if pausing on the young Estren for half a heartbeat longer, “The Young Wolf has already overextended and will be forced to either return north to save his home… or not have a home, to begin with. Our focus shall be on the greater threat facing us; Stannis Baratheon.”

 

The lords of the West still did not look overly convinced or joyful, yet there really was nothing they could do. Even if Lord Tywin allowed them to take their troops and return to their homes, they would only be smashed by Stark’s veteran forces.

 

“Speaking of Stark, we must not forget the reality of our missing hostages.” Surprisingly, it was Littlefinger who spoke for the first time in the meeting. All eyes fell on him as he lowered his head and gave a humble smile. “We have no leverage at all over Stark and the North. Sansa Stark is in White Harbor, wed to some foreign sorcerer, while Arya Stark is presumed dead. No matter how much the Ironborn raid and reave the North, they would never be able to truly threaten that vast kingdom, thus what we need, is another hostage to force Stark into the negotiating table.” 

 

“Oh? And whom would you suggest then, Lord Baelish?” 

 

Undaunted by his father’s seemingly innocent question, Littlefinger’s eyes twinkled.

 

“The Queen Dowager of the North, of course.” The words were so soft that Garlan could imagine Baelish’s tongue dripping with honey. “I heard that Catelyn Stark had visited you a few moons ago as an envoy of her son, Lord Tyrell. She followed King Renly to Storm’s End, but has yet to be seen ever since.”

 

A foreboding silence fell on the table, as many lords looked at the Master of Coin as if they had just met him. Even Tywin Lannister had an inscrutable look on his face; almost grudging respect for bringing up a matter that none considered relevant.

 

Yet the more they thought about it, the more it made perfect sense. What better hostage against the King of the North and the Trident than his mother? Aside from the sheer disgust that threatened to have Garlan puke from truly entertaining the idea of kidnapping a noblewoman.

 

“I presume you know where Lady Stark is?” His father asked as he leaned forward on the table, clearly interested, much to Garlan’s dismay - yet he remained silent, even as he clenched his fists under the table. “You would not have brought this up unless you had an idea.”

 

“Indeed, My Lord. No doubt she desires to return to Riverrun, but with Lord Lannister marching his army south of the God’s Eye, she must have been spooked. My sources tell me she has yet to enter the Riverlands, and I have sent my best men to track her in the Crownlands. Once she is found, we shall invite her to be our guest.”

 

Littlefinger’s proposal was met with easy, welcoming approval, as his father smiled widely and the rest of the nobles on the table murmured their support. Garlan couldn’t believe his eyes, he thought for sure there would be others who would denounce such an underhanded method. Yet, even if there were, they remained silent, not wishing to risk the ire of their liege lords over a woman they did not know.

 

“I will send word to my brother to send hunting parties from Maidenpool in search of her.” Tywin declared before gesturing for an aid to bring him parchment and ink. “More horsemen led by my best will travel from here as they scour the lands for Catelyn Stark.”

 

“House Tyrell shall do the same.” Mace snapped his fingers at another servant to give his orders. “The Heart of the Reach would be a far more suitable place as a guest for the mother of a king.”

 

Many other voices of agreements sounded; lords and knights vowing they would succeed in such a mission if given the chance. Suddenly, everyone had become excited as if they were about to join a hunt for a rare animal - as if Lady Stark was but a trophy to be captured and whomever caught first would earn unending glory and fortunes. Garlan stared in both horror and incomprehension as some of the lords even entertained the idea of wedding the widow of Eddard Stark, claiming if her brother did the same to a noble lady of the realm, then she too should be prepared to receive similar treatment - even as they ignored Edmure Tully giving the Lady Leford the choice of safe passage to her kin.

 

He glared at the slender man who started this entire debacle - Petyr Baelish still had that easy smile as his now laughing eyes trailed over the rest of the nobles as if he found the entire situation entirely too entertaining. 

 

Littlefinger suddenly stood from the table, drawing the lords’ attention; no longer did the lords look at him with disdain or contempt, instead, they looked expectant as if he would conjure another scheme from thin air.

 

“My Lords, I have already promised my meager men to the hunt for Catelyn Stark, but I request leave to return to my lands.” Several of the lords looked disappointed, even with scorn, that the man would decide to abandon the plot he himself proposed.

 

“You are the Master of Coin, if you wish to leave, you will have to relinquish your seat on the Small Council,” came Tywin’s cold reply, “Unless you have a pertinent reason for heading to the Vale?”

 

“Why I most certainly do, my Lord Lannister. It had been some time since I have visited my dear foster sister, Lysa Arryn, and I worry why she had not yet answered the Iron Throne’s call to arms.” His eyes trailed from Lord Lannister to his father before they settled on his own, and Baelish’s smile grew even wider. “I am confident I can alleviate the grief she must still feel over the death of her husband, the late Lord Jon Arryn, and convince her to have the Vale join the war; provided I am there as an envoy of the Iron Throne, of course.”

 

Garlan had not underestimated Petyr Baelish, his brother’s warnings did not go unheeded. Yet it was then he understood that even with all his guard up, he had still unwittingly underestimated the small and slender Vale lord.

 

He truly was a dangerous fellow.

 

A*H*M

 

A cove along the headway of the Hartspear River

Asha

 

Asha Greyjoy watched as more longboats rowed up the river to their hidden cove, mooring at the makeshift docks they constructed over the past few weeks. Nuncle Aeron had returned to the Iron Isles to recruit more captains for Theon’s plan, yet those were not ships from the Iron Isles. Asha had spent the last few weeks sailing up and down the western coast of the North, rallying the lone Ironborn captain who thought they could have better loot raiding the depopulated lands of the Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point. A handful of ships attempted to make a landing on Bear Island, only for the savage women of that island to beat them off, losing Arrold and Uden’s crews in the process.

 

It did not take long for her to find them and coerce them to join their endeavor. Nuncle Aeron had been sending them captains sporadically, yet her obstinate father had proven reticent in sending more ships for his son - especially when Victarion had besieged Barrowton and needed more ships to attack the town from the river. Even with Damphair vouching for him, few on Pyke dared to disobey their King, yet there were many other islands who had answered the call of the Drowned God’s chosen - particularly from Orkmont and Old Wyk. Lord Alyn Orkwood promised twenty longships while old Lord Dunstan Drumm was finally roused with the assurance of the great loot of Winterfell and promised thirty longships.

 

It had been many weeks since that fateful day near the Wolfswood. Theon had managed to gather nearly two thousand reavers so far, including her own forces, and many of them were starting to grow restless as he had them wait in this cove that he claimed the Drowned God had shown him in a vision. Lords Orkwood and Drumm together brought another two thousand men, yet the lords themselves had yet to arrive. Their ships had trickled in over the past few days; however, Asha did not think they would have been eager to join the rest of the men waiting in this cove instead of out raiding or reaving.

 

Now, Asha was making her way to the top of the cliff, finding her brother gazing north. For once, he seemed calm, his eyes were no longer as bloodshot and he turned to her when she approached.

 

“Sister,” He nodded before folding his arms as he continued his vigil north.

 

“Brother.” She joined him, unsure how to bring up the men’s concerns. It was strange for her to feel nervous around Theon, the same boy who did not recognize his sister a few moons ago and tried to flirt with her. Yet now, he seemed entirely different.

 

“What ails your mind, Asha.” He suddenly asked, yet kept his eyes on the far north, where a storm seemed to be brewing.

 

“The men are getting restless. There are too many of them forced to hide here doing nothing but twiddling with their thumbs up their arses.” Asha started slow, before she felt confident as her brother merely listened without interruption. “They want loot and salt wives, gold and good steel, thralls and hostages to ransom. You promised them all of that and more, yet we’ve been hiding in this damp cove for nearly a moon now with nothing but salted fish and garum for food and whatever game the men could catch without venturing too deep inland.”

 

Asha took a deep breath as she vented her frustrations, her hand rested on her ax for comfort. Theon simply smiled once she was done, and turned fully to her.

 

“Believe me, I understand. I feel even more restless than any of them, it is like a storm is in my heart demanding that I go and take what I deserve. Yet, if my plan is to work, patience will be of the utmost importance.”

 

“There is a limit to patience, brother.”

 

“Indeed, yet know this; The Drowned God had promised me Winterfell, he only asks to wait until the time is right. Soon, something will happen in the far north, don’t ask me how I know.” He waved away the question before she could speak. “I just do. We need only to be patient and then… we shall strike.”

 

She was not satisfied, and Theon knew that. Asha raised a single finger for him to see. “One week, that’s as long as I can promise to keep the men in order. Any further delays will probably be met with a mutiny, especially when Lords Orkwood and Drumm arrive; they are not ones to suffer fools and delays. Do not say I did not warn you, brother.”

 

Theon stared at her blankly, his irises growing larger, so large that she could no longer see the grey in his eyes. “Very well. Go rest, sister. You will need to conserve your strength.”

 

Asha left her brother then, hoping that whatever it was the Drowned God had shown her brother would come true. In the end, it did not truly affect her, for if Theon proved to be a fruitless tree, that would only solidify her claim as Lady Reaper of the Iron Islands.

 

Perhaps she could join Nuncle Victarion in Barrowton? 

Notes:

Short chapter as we further transition from the wedding arc.

It is a fact of writing ASOIAF that there will be many povs and actors moving around in the background. I can’t simply summarize every single event that happens, so chapters like this are necessary.

Every action has a corresponding reaction. In the books, Catelyn managed to sneak back to Riverrun through the Gold Road (I assume) but here, Tywin’s army blocked the way causing her to make a detour.

Baelish… I don’t think I need to say anything about him.

The butterfly effects are real guys. Expect even more in the coming chapters. Next chapter will be back North.

Chapter 18: Stormbringer

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

---

26th day of the 8th moon, 299

Moat Cailin 

The Reaver Captain

 

“Fuck!”

 

Ralf Kenning swatted at yet another bug that had stung him. The damned thing had somehow managed to land on the back of his neck without him noticing before stinging him. He withdrew his hand to find a mosquito the size of a frog, and his hand dripped crimson. He wiped his palm nervously, hoping he didn’t catch some sort of fever like Dagon Codd, who was still in bed, moving only to puke his guts out. Grimacing, Ralf continued walking the grounds of the once massive stronghold, checking on his men and ensuring there were no attacks from the bogs.

 

Worst of all was the low buzz ever present in the air. Fleas, flies, and nasty bugs that Ralf couldn’t even put a name on oft hovered just out of reach, waiting until you let your guard down. It was almost inevitable; even the most vigilant man had to sleep. But sleep did not come easy with the constant buzzing and the itch that accompanied the bite of the vermin. It was not even supposed to be hot enough for the bloodthirsty bugs to be around; the Northern summer was named deceptively-Ralf had seen snow on a colder night half a moon prior.

 

Yet it seemed the cold did not halt the bloodthirsty vermin.

 

It was a foggy and misty day, typical of the climate of the Neck, but not exactly normal midday. In the end, fog and mist were yet another layer of defense to an Ironborn. 

 

Several of his men saluted him when he passed by, but Ralf could tell they were disgruntled. None wanted to be stuck in this hellish marsh, far away from the sea. After Victarion Greyjoy led the Iron Fleet up the Fever River to its headways and captured the ancient stronghold from the paltry defenders, many of the captains were lost on how to proceed with their invasion. 

 

Some fools suggested simply raiding the hinterlands, but Harren Botley, Lord Botley’s eldest, had the temerity to suggest they go deeper in the damn bogs in search of the legendary Reed seat.

 

“It will be good to bring the damned crannogmen to heel,” he boasted to Victarion. “They stopped countless Andal invasions for thousands of years, the riches they must be hiding in their swamps must be legendary! Give me a thousand men, and I will crush them within a moon!”

 

Thankfully, the Iron Captain waved it away.

 

Wiser heads proposed they invade Flint’s Finger and use it as a springboard for further invasions. Yet, none desired to enter such a grinding slog against the Capemen that promised little loot and plenty of death as they tried to navigate the cliffs and mountains of Flint’s Finger.

 

Ralf, however, knew where the true prizes were and how to convince the captains of his plan.

 

“We have 13,000 men and nearly 200 ships.” He had told the Iron Captain, “We can keep a dozen ships nearby to man the Moat while the rest of us besiege Barrowton. Many of the Northerner’s riches would be in that city, and we can even reach it by boat!”

 

Victarion Greyjoy had taken his suggestion and decided to go with it… only he was given the honor of staying behind to protect their rear. It was the damned cripple, his namesake Ralf, the Limper, who suggested to the Iron Captain that he be the Castellan of Moat Cailin. Some days, Ralf suspected that the Iron Captain simply confuses the two of them…

 

He shook his head and continued his patrol.

 

A hundred of his men raided for supplies with two of the longships while the other five hundred manned the towers. The real problem was that while they were about to rotate to another party, they reached the Fever River only to see their ships aflame.

 

Ralf and his men were now stuck here, with no way out until the Iron Captain broke Barrowton because of these thrice-cursed bog devils and frog-eaters.

 

The Crannogmen had been relentlessly harassing his men since they arrived in the Neck. Things had worsened in the last three days as if they knew precisely where and when to hit them at their weakest to inflict the most damage. 

 

Ralf was starting to think he had traitors in their ranks, but that made no sense; his men had nothing to gain by assisting the damned bog devils. Even their women were short, ungainly, and ugly.

 

Their poisonous darts hit several of his men, and they were forced to mercy kill them after the first two suffered for days as they slowly expired in agony. A greenish rash covered their bullocks and quickly started spreading everywhere, and their skin began to slough off as if it was rotting on the spot. More of his men wishing to supplement their diet with meat dared to venture into the swamps without his command, only to become prey to the lizard lions and ambushes from the Crannogmen.

 

One such attack happened right before his eyes as he watched from the Drunkard’s Tower. Ralf had to rub his eyes and pinch himself several times at the sight of that bog devil riding a lizard lion munching on one of his reavers. Then, the whispers started among the men about how pointless it was for them to be here.

 

“This place is cursed. The whispers in the night…they don’t let me sleep!”

 

“I swear on the Drowned God I saw a shade floating over the Children’s Tower as it danced to the full moon.”

 

“I heard the Iron Fleet had beaten back a host from Barrowton and are now besieging it. Soon, they will be drowning in riches and women, while we are drowning in bugs and poisoned arrows.”

 

The grumbling and complaints followed Ralf all the way to his destination, the Children’s Tower. He would confess to being sorely tempted to abandon the dreary castle and march his men to Barrowton, but with their boats gone, that would simply open them to get buggered in the rear by the swamp dwellers.

 

As he entered the courtyard in front of its gate, one of his reavers shouted from on top of the tower.

 

“Captain, something queer is happening!”

 

The fear in his voice was evident, and Ralf cursed under his breath as he hurried up the tower, grabbing a few men with him. Soon, they were on the roof, and Ralf found the lookout staring out into the Neck with his jaw open. Ralf did not need to ask what was wrong, for his gaze unveiled the short-lived mystery well enough. 

 

The ancient stronghold of Moat Cailin used to be a massive fortification that stretched for nearly a mile across, blocking any army marching from the south, with basalt walls standing proudly at a hundred feet tall. It had twenty towers that acted as separate keeps, so large were they that they might as well have been castles in their own right. Only three of the towers remain, and the basalt wall had sunk into the shallows, its foundations weathered by eons of ill-maintenance, even if some giant-sized chunks still littered the nearby marsh. 

 

To the east, it bordered unscalable hills that stretched to the cliffs overlooking the Bite. To the west and south were swamps and bogs as far as the eye could see, where most of the Crannogmen lived and where any invading force would need to follow the raised causeway to reach the only entrance to the North from the south.

 

Yet, now, it was different. Ralf and a handful of his reavers stood over the slender tower, missing its crenelations, and watched the wide, turbid bog… disappearing . 

 

Before their eyes, the swamps receded as if suddenly drained by a maelstrom like the ones that suddenly appear in the Smoking Sea, and the raised causeway that was barely a few inches above the water was now nearly ten feet above the drained mud and muck. Strangely, no fish, frogs, or lizard lions were left behind in the water, but before Ralf could wonder what witchcraft was happening, a shout from behind grabbed his attention.

 

“Captain! We are under attack from the North.”

 

Cursing under his breath, Ralf grabbed his shield and rushed to the Gatehouse Tower–the most intact of the three, and where most of his men were garrisoned. He could see they were busy stringing their bows and putting on their armor, roused by the sudden warning of an attack. Ralf was still worried about whatever drained the swamps to the south, but having an enemy in front of him was far easier to deal with than whatever sorcery was behind him.

 

“Men, to arms! To arms!”

 

The call echoed out as he descended the tower and hurried to the north, gathering with him dozens, then over a hundred men as they reached the Gatehouse Tower. He had his men wait on the ground as he climbed to the roof of the tower and found the lookout pointing ahead.

 

“They came out of the fog.” Gone was the usual composure of Torywn–one of his best men, if somehow balding and bow-legged. Despite the cold, Ralf could see small rivulets of sweat almost forming a river on Torwyn’s glistening face, and his tunic was already damp with sweat. “I swear the valley fog just cleared in seconds, and they were suddenly there!”

 

He was not one for lies either. These strange lands caused mist and fog to form and stick to the ground yet it did not climb any higher than a dozen feet. Despite the clear skies, it left a white blanket on the north side of the stronghold.

 

They were about two hundred men, all on foot except for their apparent leader, a knight mounted on a large and armored stallion. The men were well-armed, their plate armor gleaming like a trove of diamonds in the afternoon sun. A quarter of the men bore the unmistakable direwolf of House Stark, while the rest were emblazoned with Mermen, Keys, and other coats of arms. While clearly an elite and dangerous force, Ralf could only snort in derision at such a small number daring to attack their castle.

 

Even fools knew that to storm a keep, even one as dilapidated as Moat Cailin, you needed to outnumber the defenders at least three to one, not the reverse!

 

Their apparent leader nudged his steed forth and stopped well within bow range; one of his men raised his bow, but Ralf stopped him - a white flag was fluttering in the air above, on the tip of his lance, and bow range was also shouting range. Might as well listen to what he had to say. The knight took off his helmet, revealing a very young man with dark hair, sea-green eyes, and a lopsided grin - he immediately gave the impression of either a fool, a daredevil, or both.

 

“Pretty boy,” Ralf snorted before coughing to clear his throat. “Nice and clean white flag you got there. Are you perchance surrendering?” 

 

The knight’s face contorted for a heartbeat before the smile returned to his face but colder in a way that made Ralf’s skin crawl.

 

“Not a believer in the Seven,” came the mocking response. “I see no reason why I’d use their rainbow flag, so I decided to go with my own style.”

 

The Ironborn jeered.

 

“Craven!”

 

“Go back to mommy, pretty boy!”

 

“Tsch,” Ralf snorted once the clamor of his men died off. “And here I thought you wanted to surrender.” 

 

“You thought wrong,” the young knight shrugged, though his free hand started fiddling with his dark shield. “Well, here it goes. In the name of Princess Sansa of House Stark, I offer you this one chance to surrender.”

 

“Or what, you’re going to storm the towers with your men?” Ralf nodded at the array of Northmen behind the envoy. “I can see you brought some good soldiers. But while I’d hate to fight them on an open field, this is a castle, and your men are paltry in number.”

 

His men laughed again, and truth be told, Ralf was tempted to sally out and crush the Stark knight. It would be bloody, but each Ironman was tough, and they had the numbers. Yet that eerie visage from earlier, where the marshland receded in heartbeats, made him cautious. His senses were tingling, as if a shadowy axe was somehow hanging above his neck.

 

It didn’t help that the young knight was undaunted, and Ralf could see his sun-kissed face filled with anticipation. Was he a fool or perhaps a madman?

 

“Your answer?” His voice was loud and clear, echoing almost like a warhorn.

 

At that moment, Ralf decided the Northman was surely a fool.

 

“Go bugger off,” Ralf yelled. “Or, well, you’re welcome to rush the Moat. I’ll take my first turn at buggering you.”

 

The knight’s grin somehow grew even more sinister as it widened. 

 

“So you refuse? Oh well, I suppose everyone did warn me y’all were dumb as fuck. Besides, all of this pompous acting is just not my style anyway. I suppose death by drowning is what you Ironborn are all about.”

 

“I don’t know what mummery you are playing at, but don’t think we are afraid of death.” Ralf was annoyed with the arrogant fuck and quickly barked at his men. “Archers, ready.”

 

As his men nocked their arrows, the knight simply shrugged before raising his arms, holding the shiny lance with the parlay flag in both hands like a staff as he gazed at the heavens. 

 

Before Ralf could give the order to draw and loose, a drop of water fell on him.

 

His neck cracked as he twisted himself to look up, and at first, he was unsure what he was seeing. A storm? It was midday, and the skies were clear earlier, yet now the sun was blocked by some sort of dark cloud. Another drop of water fell on him, but something heavier smacked one of his men in the face.

 

“What the fuck?” The Ironborn grabbed what fell on him, only for them to gawk. “Is that…a frog?”

 

“C-Captain? I don’t think those are clouds.” 

 

Ralf looked up again, suddenly realizing what the dark cloud was. Frogs, fish, and bugs fell upon them as an utterly massive wave of brackish and filthy swamp water floated above their heads. 

 

The whole tower was silent as if everyone had swallowed their tongue, and Ralf was no different. Those on the ground could only stare at the knight as he chuckled - the sinister sound ominously echoing all around them as the wind rose and battered the few pennants they placed on the tower.

 

“You should have surrendered.”

 

Before Ralf could do more than yelp, the tidal wave crashed down.

 

A*H*M

 

Percy

 

Percy watched the mayhem in front of him, and he couldn’t help but feel bad for some of the frogs and wildlife that were too slow to swim away from the swamps to the south. He had tried to warn the fish, but the damned things owed him no loyalty, even after claiming all the Weirwoods along the coast - most likely because they were freshwater fish. Rude little fuckers practically flipped him off when he warned them of his plan; after crawling in the muck all morning to sneak around the fortress so that he could assuage his guilt.

 

Stupid fishes got what they deserved.

 

At least the men won’t have trouble finding food for the night. Didn’t the Crannogmen eat frogs? They must be the French equivalent of this world, though when he tried speaking the little French he knew to Meera (which was just him slurring every other word), she grimaced and demanded he “Halted and never speak so again or find himself with a frog spear up his rear.”

 

Charming girl.

 

“Alright, boys. It’s everyone’s favorite time after a battle.” Percy waved his hand, causing the water to recede away from the stronghold and back to the swamps. At least most of his men no longer gawked at the open display of power, though some did, and he couldn’t blame them. It probably looked like magic, and Percy had no desire to disabuse them of the notion, “Let’s take prisoners and loot the place.”

 

A hesitant cheer followed him as he led the way to the tower, finding what was left of the Ironborn moaning and groaning on the ground. It might have seemed like a completely indiscriminate attack, but Percy was careful to hold back lest he caused the remaining towers to collapse completely. As a consequence, only half of the Ironborn died or drowned from the sudden flood, though they were certainly too dazed to stand up, let alone fight. A good chunk of them were flung into the marshland along with the lizard lions, and Percy could feel that a lot of beasts would feast for days.

 

“Take prisoners, but don’t be gentle with any who struggle.”

 

His men hurried to follow his orders, the sounds of fighting and scuffles soon filling the stronghold as pockets of resistance were found and flushed. Percy did not worry about them; he had personally trained fifty of them for a month while the rest were the best of Lord Manderly’s men. Donnis, Mark, and Kyle remained in White Harbor with the rest of the Stark contingent to serve at Sansa’s side. He had purposely not taken them to give a chance for other men to prove their worth; he planned to have five captains in his small army, which left room for two more, and he had his eyes on his targets already.

 

He nudged Blackjack with a thought, and the horse trotted to the castle's southern side. Percy may act nonchalant and confident, but this stunt had greatly exhausted him. He could barely hold on to his lance as Blackjack did his best to keep him steady while he caught his breath. 

 

“Die, you Northern scum!”

 

A trio of Ironborn dashed out behind a block of basalt, their axes poised to hack at his horse's legs. It was a smart ruse to take him down while seemingly unguarded, but unfortunately for them, Percy was not as alone as he appeared. 

 

Before the Ironborn could so much as take more than two steps, they were riddled with arrows and dropped to the ground bonelessly. Percy stared at the corpses for a moment before grinning at his saviors.

 

“Nice shot! I take it things went well on your side?”

 

Five cloaked figures appeared from a nondescript bush, almost as if they materialized out of the ground. They were the squad that met with him a couple of days ago to coordinate the attack with the rest of the Crannogmen, as well as covered him while he instilled his will on the waters earlier.

 

“Aye, your distraction was well-timed.” Their leader, Lonnel Fenn, was a small man in his forties, yet had the uncanny ability to seemingly melt into any shadow or bush with the help of his cloak - a target for him to recruit, though he had doubts he would agree if he were honest; he was too loyal to Meera’s father. “The squids didn't even notice us among them as we prepared our contingency. ”

 

Percy grimaced at the mention of said contingency. He was not a fan of poisoning his enemies, especially when they were asleep or eating. Perhaps it had to do with him getting poisoned one time too many, and the feeling was not one he wished on others. 

 

“Glad we could avoid that.” The sound of a horn blast from the south had him turn to the makeshift gate covering the causeway. “Let’s go meet your elusive liege then.”

 

The Crannogman nodded and followed him; the rest of his men had melted away when Percy was distracted by the horn blast. They stopped by the gate, where a small army of cloaked individuals marched up the causeway. Several of them rode those giant alligators as if they were horses; Percy found that to be super cool, yet also wondered how they tamed them.

 

Three riders approached; all three were small, like every Crannogman that Percy had met so far. The tallest among them was barely over five feet and their leader. The man wore a shirt of bronze scales, wielded a three-pronged spear, and a leather shield was slung over his back. He had a short recurve bow sheathed on his hip along with a quiver of arrows as well.

 

“Hail, Perseus Jackson.” The Crannoglord raised his right hand in greeting, and Percy returned it with a salute of his own. “I am glad to see you have attained victory so easily.”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t say easy ,” Percy exhaled slowly, feeling the exhaustion almost deep in his bones. Sea was his forte, and while he could use other bodies of water, swamps were… murky and hard to move. Unlike in America, there were no river deities or spirits that owed any loyalty or allegiance to his father, and any time he controlled fresh water it exhausted him far more than seawater.

 

He had been more tired before, but it was never pleasant. Even now, Percy had already recovered enough to fight if need be, but he would prefer a hearty dinner and a nice nap. “Still, it is good to finally meet you, Lord Reed. In person, at least.”

 

The man pulled back his hood and gave a genial smile as a raven landed on his shoulder and spoke in his place. “The honor is all mine.”

.

.

.

“What should we do with them?”

 

Three hours later, after a cold meal without a nap, what was left of the Ironmen was arrayed before Percy. Out of six hundred, barely a third had survived, and all of them were bound up and forced onto their knees.

 

Not a single one of Percy’s Stark men was killed in the battle, if it even could be called one, for there was barely any fighting. Only a few were injured from slipping on the wet ground. The Locke and Manderly contingent were ambushed by reavers playing dead, however, and they lost a couple of their men due to letting down their guard. The Ironborn were restrained on the ground with ropes and shackles - most of them were from the Ironborn’s supplies. They had planned to enslave as many Northmen as they could to ship back to their islands, at least until they were forced to guard this stronghold.

 

Now, their hands and feet were all bound in those very same shackles, for none of them would be able to escape unless he dragged all two hundred of the prisoners with them. Percy had already dealt with those guarding the ships before even attacking the Moat - the longships were of no value as they were nothing more than oversized dinghies and were thus torched by the Crannogmen a couple of days ago. Sadly, they could not wait for the two raiding ships that Lord Reed had warned about, and judging by the fact they never showed, they must have seen the flames and were most likely halfway to Barrowton by now.

 

Percy had been tempted to chase them in the Saltspear, but it would have taken too long and would have been too much of a distraction from their main goal: liberating Moat Cailin. Then, there was the uneasy feeling he got from the sea to the west, and Percy did not feel like tackling that issue at the moment.

 

“Normally, war captives would be ransomed if they are nobles, but the Ironborn rarely ransom back their own.” Howland Reed stood beside him as he stroked his beard - his son Jojen was also nearby caring for the alligators. “If you are feeling merciful, you could always set them free, yet without their boats, they would have nowhere to go but join Victarion’s host near Barrowton.”

 

“Yeah, no. I don’t mind them returning home after the war, but now they are combatants who understand the risks of what would happen to them when captured.” 

 

Percy gazed at the defeated reavers, who still retained a lot of defiance and anger at being so soundly defeated. Some glared at him while whispering “Greenlander sorcerer” and other similar rudeness, yet would quickly lower their heads when he glared back in return. He was usually a chill guy, yet the slaving scum was beginning to get on his nerves.

 

“You could always offer them the choice to take the Black. Yet, I am unsure if we have the logistics to send them to the Wall.” 

 

Percy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That shouldn’t be a problem. I have a few ships docked in a nearby cove under the cliffs. It’s a couple of day’s march there, then there’s a hidden stairway we can take before sailing to White Harbor. Once there, I’m sure we can send them by boat to the Wall.” 

 

The stairway was something that Percy had to clear after they were found to be blocked by several tons of rock and debris. Still, he had to thank Sansa for sending Beauty to scout those cliffs over the past month as they prepared for war. He had greatly enjoyed making love to his wife, and by Hades, it was weird to be married; A good sort of weird, of course. They were quite busy exploring each other’s bodies and keeping the castle awake every night and he would have preferred to stay by her side for as long as possible. Sadly, the world kept moving, and Sansa’s homeland was at war, so she couldn’t close her eyes to the problems facing her people, nor go on a honeymoon.

 

Heck, honeymoons weren’t even a thing here!

 

“Whatever your decision will be, we shall respect it, but beware. Most Ironmen are curs without honor and have been known to break their oaths at the earliest opportunity,” Howland shrugged before his eyes hardened. “However, the Wall is in constant need of able-bodied men, especially now more than ever.”

 

Reed’s words were filled with conviction, and Percy couldn’t help but wonder what was so scary in the local version of Canada. Then he shivered as he remembered his own meeting with Canadians. Damned giants and their flaming balls of bronze; might as well ask those in question what they wanted.

 

“What do you think, men?” Percy inspected the unwilling prisoners, but not even one of the pirates dared meet his gaze. “Black or the block?”

 

Even as he said it, he dreaded them desiring death over service. After quite a lot of contemplation, Percy realized he had no qualms about killing enemies in battle–those who decided to live by the sword should have been prepared to die by it all the same. He himself never expected to make it to sixteen, yet here he was.

 

But killing someone unarmed after they had surrendered was an entirely different matter. The mere concept of executing war captives left a bitter feeling on his tongue. Not to mention, the amount of international laws he would be breaking would have earned him a red notice from Interpol.

 

‘There are no such laws here,’ his father gently reminded. ‘Even such laws were imposed back home only because the big countries used it as methods of control on the smaller ones. It did not stop them from breaking such meager things when it got convenient. In the end, whoever has a bigger fist has a bigger say.’

 

Percy realized the truthfulness of the statement, but it didn’t mean he liked it. Sure, he could probably order the death of all the pirates before him. But he would like to avoid resorting to such distasteful slaughter unless all other options were exhausted.

 

‘Some men ought to be killed, Percy.’

 

Percy grimaced. ‘ I don’t like murdering people in cold blood, Dad.’

 

“It speaks well of your character that you can find mercy in your heart for even animals like these. But in their nature, humans are cruel beasts, and the only reason you enjoy society as you know it is because all of the generations preceding you cut away the rot and struck down any foes that rose. And they did not do it by being merciful.’ His father’s voice grew wistful. ‘In the end, laws and peace are upheld because of the threat of consequences–violent consequences. You’re a married man now, my son, and cannot afford to close your eyes to the reality. Anyway, I need time to slumber to reflect on my gains.’  

 

It made sense in a morbid, harsh way, making Percy wish he was still a child. The world looked cold and cruel then, but he couldn’t deny the truthfulness of his father’s words. It instinctively made sense and any argument he used to refute felt weak. 

 

In the end, the Ironborn had broken the peace. They had broken plenty of laws, too, but Percy suspected nobody cared about law and order in times of war. But now it was his problem, as a man married to the Northern princess. Sighing, Percy halted his stride before their leader, the same man who bravely claimed they did not fear death.

 

“What is dead may never die.” Ralf Kenning stared at him defiantly. “But rises again!”

 

For some reason, the words pissed Percy off to no end. The arrogant dismissal of life aside, there was something foul about them, and even as they were spoken, the rest of the captives echoed along. Percy could feel the conviction in their words, accompanied by an unsaid challenge in their hardy gazes.

 

At this moment, he understood what his father meant a little better.

 

The lore around the Drowned God did not help matters one whit, nor did the Ironmen’s fanatical devotion to it. The same entity that was using them from whatever hellhole it was hiding in, while its lieutenant ruled from those piles of rocks as their god. 

 

In life, the supposed lieutenant was known as the Grey King, a mythical demigod that betrayed its overlord, the Merlin King, and slayed its charge, a giant sea serpent dear to the king, and was subsequently banished to the Iron Islands by the Old Gods following some gruesome war under the waters. In death, he had wholly surrendered its existence to the Drowned God, forsaking whatever name he had and practically making himself another avatar of its master.

 

It was so damn confusing that it only gave Percy a headache trying to rationalize it, only to realize that logic and rationale did not work with the divine. In the end, they were one and the same entity, The Drowned God, one that the Ironborn worshiped, and another, higher being with the same name that schemed and dwelled in the darkest places of the world.

 

Percy felt torn. Such a show of devotion was admirable - even his father was impressed - but its target was… lacking. It didn’t help that their religious piety left plenty of corpses, enslaved the rest, and looted everything in its path.

 

Especially as it was the North that they decided to attack, the home of Sansa, his wife, and now his new home. Ever since they had been wed, and Percy had begun claiming more Weirwoods, his connection with this land had increased to a frightening degree. He did not gain any new powers or at least nothing tangible, but the faint feeling of rejection and coldness he had initially felt had melted away.

 

Now, he almost felt at home here. Poseidon theorized that it had to do with marrying into the Starks. While Percy still retained the name Jackson, he was now a Stark by marriage, and the authority that came with that name was now his to use… and endure.

 

The Son of Poseidon growled as his anger manifested in the world around them. The skies darkened as storms gathered, thunder rumbled in the heavens, and rain started pittering down on the Ironborn, who seemed to break out of whatever trance they were in.

 

The storm brewing in his belly roared, and the tug on his navel intensified. Usually, Percy would simply push the anger aside and swallow the rampant rage that reminded him of the stormiest nights at sea. Yet he had no desire to do so this time. This was not just a challenge to the North, he realized.

 

It was a challenge to him from the Drowned God.

 

In the end, the sea could not be restrained, so why try?

 

It was as if something suspiciously similar to a dam had broken inside him, but Percy never felt more free as he let go.

 

His hand grabbed the Ironborn captain by the collar and lifted him with one hand to force him to meet his gaze properly. “Do you really think your pathetic god is anything to me? That he can get away with provoking me and attacking my people! You are nothing! Your worthless god is nothing!! I am the god of these lands now, and you are mine to do with as I please!!!”

 

The world turned white at his proclamation as a massive lightning bolt crashed into the nearby hills, and the earthshaking roar of the thunder nearly deafened them. The winds howled as Percy breathed harshly, only to scowl at the smell of piss and shit as the pathetic Ironborn captain's bowels surrendered from sheer terror. He threw the man on the ground and turned to the rest of his captives, all of them staring at him in something different from earlier.

 

If reckless hate and defiant gazes met him earlier, it was now far worse.

 

Awe.

 

There was also a lot of terror in those eyes, yet the occasional whisper of “Chosen” and “Sea God” were ignored, for he had no use for fanatics, especially the savage kind. Percy was unsure how to deal with them, and his father had started napping more often since they claimed the Bite and the Weirwoods. He could still call on him for advice, yet Percy felt like this was something he needed to do - something that showed his maturity and growth as a leader. 

 

Raising his hand, Percy willed the winds to die and the clouds to disperse, intentionally showing the pirates that it was by his will he controlled the weather. Then, he allowed the sunlight to shine down on him from the broken clouds. 

 

“All of you have come to these lands with ill intent. You were unprovoked and yet foolishly came here to raid, steal, and enslave my people. Such a despicable act called for retaliation, and now you sit before me, defeated and at my mercy. You spat at my offer earlier, but I am a merciful man. I will offer you this only once: a chance to redeem yourself and any semblance of pride and honor you had. You will rebuild what you destroyed, and then you shall take the Black. Or you shall all hang, like the pirate scum you are, and become a feast for vultures.”

 

He was unsure if it was his speech or the earlier show of power, but they all scrambled to accept. Percy was still miffed at the worshipful eyes they threw him, though they whispered a new epithet that he could not help but approve of.

 

Stormbringer.

---

Later that same day 

 

Percy stood before the Heart Tree of Moat Cailin, the face carved on its bark–a frowning one, with too large eyes as it stared to the south; an ever vigilant gaze searching for any invader. The tree was planted a distance away from the castle, near one of its sunken towers whose name had long since been lost to the ages. 

 

He placed his palm on the bone-white bark, feeling the tree probing him curiously. Percy couldn’t help but smile at the innocent gesture from a tree that historically had been used for human sacrifice. Yet nature did not care about the intent of humans; Weirwoods could grow naturally like any tree, requiring only good soil, sunlight, and water. They are unique in that they could also feed on blood, and while they would not grow to massive sizes above the ground, their roots would eternally dig and connect to other trees.

 

Sacrificing people to a tree was something that Percy could never understand, even if it was merely their physical bodies. True, the people sacrificed were usually criminals who would have been executed anyway, but something about it still bothered Percy.

 

“It’s your modern sensibilities.” His father explained, “You have never seen an execution before. It used to be a public affair until the second world war or so. Fathers would take their sons to watch an execution the same way they would go to the theater. Yet things have changed; People change their view on entertainment as they grow more used to peace.”

 

“Doesn’t make it easier to see someone helpless getting slaughtered like a pig.” Percy shook his head yet narrowed his brows in determination. “At least this time, it won’t be anyone’s blood but my own.”

 

He withdrew his palm and unsheathed his dagger; it wasn’t the first time he had claimed a Weirwood, but Percy discovered that heart trees were a bit more sentient than regular trees. Cutting his palm and staring at the gathering blood, Percy focused intently, remembering his father’s words when he dabbled with the Wildfire.

 

Instill your will!

 

His blood shone gold, almost like Ichor, yet still mortal red. Quickly, Percy brought his palm over the tree’s face, dripping the shining blood over its forehead. Just like the heart tree of the Wolf’s Den, the face came alive as the blood dripped down to its mouth. It licked it, almost appreciatively, before its eyes widened into two black holes akin to an abyss. Then, its mouth opened into a silent roar of glee, bleeding sap from its eyes, and mouth, before whispers erupted around the derelict godswood. The winds howled, and the leaves danced. 

 

Suddenly, everything stilled as fast as it had started, and the face returned to its watchful vigil on the south. Percy breathed a sigh of relief before placing his palm on the tree again and nodding.

 

“It’s done. I can already feel more in tune with the land around me.” And he wagered if he had to control the waters around the castle again, it would be marginally easier. Not by a lot, and certainly not like seawater, but a similar stunt to what he did earlier would not nearly knock him out. Only wind him slightly.

 

Before Percy could remove his palm from the tree, something tickled Percy’s mind. He focused more on the tree, and suddenly felt like he could look through it. Percy knew about the strange method of connecting with the Weirwoods, whether to spy on someone else, or simply to communicate with another user of the network. He had tried connecting once, only to get so lost he nearly lost his mind if not for his father. This time, he could feel a clear anchor, almost like someone was on the line and waiting for someone to pick up the call.

 

Chuckling at the comparison, Percy focused on that link and accepted the call…only to find himself staring at a little kid who looked surprisingly similar to Sansa. They stared at each other in silence for several moments, Percy looking around the godswood and finding it far more beautiful than any he had seen before. He could see a massive fortress casting a shadow on the godswood, and feel thousands of people walking and talking and training and doing a plethora of other things.

 

A squeak came from the child before him, and Percy couldn’t help but grin. “Why hello, there.”

 

The boy flinched and withdrew his hand from the tree, and Percy watched as a massive man leaned down to carry the boy away from the godswood. Shaking his head, he quickly withdrew from the network, as he could already feel his mind getting frayed by millions of dead voices trying to talk to him at the same time… or worse, drag him into one of their eternal get-togethers.

 

Percy had no wish to test his limits using the Weirwood, for, unlike whom he recognized as Sansa’s little brother, he was not a greenseer. Hell, he wasn’t even a skinchanger, and both abilities were requisites to any who wished to connect with the network. His method was simply too different for the spirits that dwell in the trees to understand, and dealing with them was not something he planned to do anytime soon.

 

Talking with the divine was far simpler than the dead.

---

4th day of the 9th moon, 299

 

Percy looked on as the men from the Flint Fingers and White Harbor worked on rebuilding the stronghold of Moat Cailin while the Ironborn prisoners were forced to do the heaviest of the labor. Sansa had declared her intent on fully repairing the ancient fortress. 

 

It sounded nice, but realistically, they could only fix the remaining towers and perhaps raise the unearthed basalt after he drained the swamp. It’s why he had remained here for the past few days; the Flint men were contacted via raven when he was still in White Harbor, and Howland’s men had guided them here before the attack. The drained swamps would refill again in time, but Percy was needed to continuously drain it to the Fever River, which led to flooding and a lot of migraines as the damned river was about twenty miles away, at least for the heaviest of the workload to finish.

 

They had managed to recover enough of the basalt to rebuild a sufficient portion of the curtain wall to form a proper stranglehold of the causeway - it would still take considerable time, time that he could not afford to waste here. Still, with the region secured, it should not be an issue for the Crannogmen and the rest of the Northmen to oversee the rebuilding efforts. 

 

Percy gazed down at the prisoners, making sure none of them got any ideas, yet for the past week, they had been the epitome of politeness and obedience. None dared to challenge him after that show he gave, yet it remained to be seen if they would retain their compliance after he departed.

 

A figure approached him from where he stood atop the Children’s Tower, and a glance told him it was Howland and Jojen. “You have done wonders in cowing the squids. Many have tried to break their spirit, and even the Andals gave up after millennia, so I never believed it was possible, yet you have done it.”

 

“The Flint men explain that I paid the Iron Price by defeating them so thoroughly. In their culture, I’m practically their lord now.”

 

It honestly didn’t make any sense to Percy, but it was the only explanation he got.

 

“Well, I wouldn’t say lord, but at least you have established yourself as a power they cannot contest against. Makes sense for the men of Flint’s Finger to know best about the Ironborn, they had interacted with them most and many share their blood as well.” Howland coughed as he smiled sardonically at the Ironborn below. “Just look at them. One might mistake them for proper Northmen now that they are stripped of all their arms and armor and no longer act like lusty reavers.”

 

“They certainly look similar to most Northmen I’ve met.” Percy nodded as he rubbed his chin, “A bit more vulgar and less hygienic, yet remarkably similar.”

 

“The blood of the First Men runs thick in both our peoples.” Jojen replied, “The Andals failed to conquer the North or the Iron Islands, and the Faith failed to take despite previous attempts.”

 

“Heh, the Faith of the Seven ? Don’t worry about it, just a private joke.” Percy chuckled as he recalled what he had learned in the Weirwood Network but waved off their curious gazes. “So, what brings you here? I thought your men were busy scouting and fortifying the north side of the Moat?”

 

It would not do to let their guard down and get attacked from the least likely place, where anyone would attack Moat Cailin. Another curtain wall was planned to be built to the north, but it would still take a long time even to procure the stone and material necessary for such a venture. Nevertheless, Sansa was adamant about not allowing the gateway to the North ever to be threatened again. Lord Manderly saw it as an ambitious project, too ambitious with the North at war and not having the means to build such a massive undertaking.

 

In the end, Percy wasn't concerned about the specifics; his wife had a plan, and all he needed to do was make sure no hiccups formed and deal with any complaints directed to him.

 

As Percy had just discovered, he can be very persuasive when he wanted to.

 

“We are, and I have trusted men on assignment, yet we have word from White Harbor.”

 

For a moment, Percy’s heart skipped a beat as he wondered if anything happened to Sansa before calming down; if anything ill did happen, his father would let him know. “What is it?”

 

“It’s nothing distressing.” Jojen’s smug voice answered him while Howland merely smiled, “Preparations are complete, and the army is ready to march on the Bolton Bastard.”

 

“Oh, good.” Percy let out a sigh of relief - Meera’s brother gave him the creeps sometimes with how eerie he could sound and how he knew things that he had no right to know. “I suppose I can get the men to the ships, and we can be off within a few hours. We just need–”

 

“I also believe your wife is pregnant.”

 

Silence. There were no sounds, no shouts of men working, blocks of stone getting dragged, or anything. Percy could only hear his heartbeat hammering so fast that it went at a hundred miles an hour. His eyes widened as he processed those words, and his mouth opened and closed as if unsure what to say.

 

His feet felt shaky then, and Percy instinctively found the nearest place to sit–a weather-worn chest. He struggled to deal with the complex tangle of emotions battling within his gut. Numbness took over, but a glance at Jojen told him it was not a lie.

 

Eventually, he settled on a weak “Okay.” 

Notes:

Damn Perce! Got her preggers on the first try. It seems Catelyn’s blood runs thick in her daughter.

Once again, I suffer from an extreme case of bloated POVs. This chapter was supposed to be several scenes, yet the retaking of the Moat ended up being the only scene in the chapter.

Moat Cailin does not seem to have an encircled wall, let alone a gatehouse. It’s literally just three towers along the causeway, seemingly permanently flooded with swamp water. I tried to make as much sense out of it as possible, but I doubt I succeeded much.

If they are truly just towers overlooking the causeway, then the easiest way to completely nullify them is through covered wagons or just a shield wall. The defenders can only rain arrows at anyone trying to cross, and any melee would force them to wade through swamp water to reach the elevated causeway.

In my mind, there is still enough of the basalt curtain wall to form a proper encirclement, while Moat Cailin itself is a series of fortifications on some sort of hill that keeps them dry, along with a gatehouse. The Gatehouse Tower comes to mind as the Northern entrance, but the southern one uses a makeshift gate since its tower collapsed with time.

Percy “I am the Captain now” Jackson, lays down the law to the squids, but it remains to be seen if their miniscule brains will retain the obedience he managed to instill in them.

Chapter 19: Judgement

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

---

28th day of the 8th moon (2 days after Percy took Moat Cailin)

Winterfell

Lord's Solar

Bran tapped his fingers on the desk as he reread the letter. This morning, a knight under Lord Manderly's service delivered it, along with one of the many shipments sent from White Harbor up the White Knife to the nearby river port.

"…The audacity of the princess!"

"…Brings up a couple of good points…"

"…Know nothing about this foreign sorcerer!"

Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik left him to his thoughts as they argued and discussed the contents of the message. They had been at it for the past few hours, and Bran dearly wished he could be like Rickon, who ran off after the first hour from boredom. But the sliver of envy disappeared as quickly as it had appeared - he could not, would not, run away from the troubles of his home anymore.

Bran still remembered that day when word of Sansa's safe return North had arrived, and the elation that threatened to overwhelm him. So happy he was, that he had not bothered visiting the Godswood for three days as he ordered a feast to celebrate. Since the sudden silence from the three-eyed crow, Bran had consistently tried to connect to the Weirwoods. He could tell that something had changed, and his powers had come far easier to him.

It started with him wearing the skin of a raven and finally learning to fly! It was such an addicting feeling that he could not help but occasionally ignore the world around him as he flew around Winterfell. At times, Bran would be attacked by larger birds of prey. The first time he was so scared he immediately cut off the connection, though the echo of the poor raven's death had made him wary of flying again… at least for a few days. That was when he started visiting the Godswood; The Reed siblings occasionally joined him until Jojen got sick, and Meera stayed by his side.

Alone in front of the Heart Tree, with only Ho–Walder nearby in case he needed anything, Bran felt solace in front of the melancholic face. Once he fell asleep on its roots, he dreamed of things… strange things that he had trouble understanding. Some terrible, some inhuman, and others beautiful and cold.

But mostly, Bran dreamed of faceless figures speaking to him. It was a strange ghostly realm he found himself when asleep. Figures of brilliant white, eyeless yet not unnerving. Many voices attempted to speak to him, yet he could barely understand them. Bran discovered they spoke in a tongue that felt familiar yet still different.

One of them stood out more than most, for instead of being shining white, he seemed more… real. Powerfully built, clad in wolfskins with a hammer hung on his belt, yet his face was still unfathomable to Bran. He tried talking to the figures, yet they could not understand each other, and Bran could feel their disappointment. Until he grabbed one of them, and the visions started.

So many of them, so indescribable, so ethereal and disjointing. Memories of battles from a bygone era, of First Men wearing the skin of their bonded animals, of castles rising over a swampy land and then collapsing from the passage of time. Figures of valorous men not only enduring against the tide of countless dark fiends and neither-dead-nor-alive creatures of yore but even pushing it back… before settling onto a lone warrior with dark hair and glowing green eyes, as he seemed to fight against both the heavens and the seas.

The visions ended as abruptly as they started, and Bran could only ask:

"What was that?!"

And surprisingly, he got an answer!

"Things that were, things that are, and things that might just become."

Bran had visited the Godswood less as those visions plagued his mind - whoever the ghost that spoke to him then had remained adamantly silent. The shades hiding in the Weirwood thankfully did not bother him in the castle or his sleep, even though he knew they were watching. He could feel them, yet strangely, Bran felt no fear or malice from them.

Summer did not either, and his Direwolf had even better senses as he stared unblinkingly at the fireplace where another ghost stared longingly over an ancient tapestry that must have been hundreds of years old.

It was then that Bran realized those were the ghosts of his ancestors… and that none of them understood his tongue, which meant they were far older than he could fathom. It also killed any hope in him to meet his father, though he got the feeling that without his bones interred in the crypts, Eddard Stark's soul would never find rest. Still, the ghosts helped protect him from other things he knew were also watching him.

He could feel the many eyes of countless beings that both exist, yet not truly. One seemed to be glaring from the heavens, another from the depths of the earth, yet it was a many-limbed one that Bran kept seeing its shadow near wells and ponds. It would disappear before he could get a good look at it, and Bran always found one of the ghosts in its place, sword in hand and blurry face scowling in the distance.

Always towards the south, they would stare. Sometimes, to the west, but usually to the south.

Still, Bran had not remained idle these past few weeks. His control in skinchanging improved; Soon, he could jump from a raven to an eagle mid-flight, even if Rickon always interrupted his flights. Bran rubbed his brow in embarrassment; he had the habit of wearing the skins of animals when duty called. He did not want to be stuck in a castle, stifled with endless responsibilities and listening to petitions and woes.

Bran wanted to be free! To be able to fly anytime he wanted, with no worries about the world and its unending problems. And yet, the reality was not so simple, for even if he ran away from his duty, it would still catch up to him.

His eyes glazed as he read through the letter again…

---

From Princess Sansa Stark of the Kingdom of the North to Prince Brandon Stark of Winterfell.

Dear Bran,

You cannot imagine how much it gladdened my heart when I heard about your recovery. I still recall that day like it was just yesterday, our Lord Father had gathered Arya and I in his office to let us know. It was one of the few times both of us had something to celebrate together in that cursed city.

Such beautiful days long past - how things have changed.

Father is dead,  murdered , by that vile monster Joffrey. Our people were slain in cold blood by the treacherous Lannisters and their dogs. Arya is gone without a trace, yet I refuse to believe she is dead. For many moons, I was forced to witness our Father's head rotting on a spike by our enemies. Not just Father, but even Septa Mordane, Steward Poole, and many more of our people. They did not even spare poor Jeyne Poole or any other children in Father's retinue.

It was the most horrible point in my life, so much so that I wished I had the bravery to end it. To just throw myself off the ramparts headfirst and deny our enemies a valuable hostage. Alas, I was too cowardly to do it, and the gods had other plans for me.

I am sure whispers and rumors of my escape from King's Landing have reached your ears. Not just that, but surely, you have heard of my arrival in White Harbor, for you have sent me my own personal retinue befitting of a princess. For that, you have my deepest gratitude.

Yet I have received the most disturbing news from Lord Manderly. He tells me tales of the Bastard of Bolton and how you prevented Ser Rodrik Cassel from mustering men to wipe him out of the Hornwood lands. I do not know what was on your mind then, little brother, yet I hope you understand that your inaction had caused many innocent lives to be lost.

I believe you met Lady Donella Hornwood during the harvest feast. Lord Manderly informs me that she had requested aid against the Bolton Bastard at the time, yet none was given aside from politicking to take advantage of a grieving widow. Now, she is dead, brutally murdered in her own home.

I realize now how unfair it was for our kingly brother to place such heavy burdens on your young shoulders. Believe me, little brother, I do not blame you in the slightest. No, the fault lies with our many enemies for taking advantage of our moment of weakness. Do not fear, however, you should not need to worry about such heavy matters any longer.

I am sure you have heard tales about my savior. Allow me to put those rumors to rest; I was saved from captivity by a brave warrior from the sea. Perseus Jackson is his name, and he brought me to White Harbor, where I was then wedded to him under the auspices of the Gods, old and new. You have a new brother now, Bran. I would love for you and Rickon to meet him. Using his mighty powers and our loyal bannermen, we shall purge our kingdom from all invaders, both within and without.

By the time you receive this letter, Percy, as my beloved prefers to be called, should have already retaken Moat Cailin. We shall deal with the Bolton Bastard next, and then we shall march to Winterfell to regroup before cleansing our shores from the Ironborn threat.

Finally, after over a year, I shall be home, little brother! No longer will you have to worry about matters of state and war that you are not yet ready for. I firmly believe that you will grow into that role, regardless of your injuries, but now, the North needs a strong hand to guide it.

I look forward to seeing you again, brother. Say hello to Rickon for me. And beyond all else, know that your sister loves you both dearly.

Sansa.

---

"My Prince?" Rodrik's voice awoke him from the stupor, and the young Stark was met with two expectant gazes. Oh, they were heavy–the weight that crushed your shoulders, not the mundane things you struggled to lift, "Have you made a decision?"

Bran tapped the desk again as he hummed in thought. It did not take a genius to understand what his sister planned; Sansa desired the power to rule. Perhaps she had the right of it, he was not raised for this. He never wanted to be a lord, responsible for thousands of people, resolve disputes, or even send men to fight–possibly to their deaths. Yet his dream of adventure was denied. A cripple could never join the white cloaks or the black brothers, a cripple could never climb the Wall the same way his Uncle said the wildlings oft did.

A large part of Bran wanted to simply follow Sansa's advice, to let her come here with her powerful husband, whom he was sure he had seen in the Weirwood a couple of days ago. Bran had been meditating as Jojen had instructed him when he felt a surge of something coming from the Heart Tree, and the moment he touched it, he found himself staring at a man with a powerful presence standing in a swampy godswood. To say he was shocked would be an understatement, but if that was truly Sansa's husband, then perhaps she had the right of it; allow his good-brother to be the sword the North needed.

Yet a tiny part of him rebelled at such a thought. Even if he could never walk again, he was still a son of Eddard Stark. So what if he was merely eleven years old? There had been kings and Lord Commanders younger than him. Bran may not be able to stand on his own feet, yet he could fly. And he knew exactly where the North was truly threatened from.

Enemies from the South or the Iron Isles have always existed, yet they do not matter. Bandits? Any old huntsmen could hunt those rogues down, but as the Stark of Winterfell, he had a far more important duty than any of those so-called threats.

"Maester Luwin, has the rider from the Night's Watch recovered enough to return to the Wall?"

"Aye, yet he requested another meeting with you, My Prince. He fears that the warnings in the letter to be defici–"

"I have decided."

The words had a finality to them, the sort he had heard his father speak and silenced all men in anticipation. Bran opened his mouth and closed it several times; doubt started clouding his mind. Was this the right choice? He had already been entertaining this course of action for a sennight, ever since the raven arrived from the Wall asking for aid and then the rider that followed two days ago with further details.

He bit his cheek and narrowed his eyes at Sansa's letter; this was not the time to be hesitant. Bran would show all those who doubted him that he too, was worthy of the Stark name.

"The Starks have always supported the Night's Watch in their greatest time of need. Lord Commander Mormont warns that a massive army of wildlings is barely a day away as the raven flies from the Bridge of Skulls. My brother Jon is doing his best to delay them, but it is only a matter of time before they invade the North en masse."

Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik nodded grimly, waiting for him to continue. "Winterfell's garrison stands at two thousand men, with seven hundred of them lancers. One thousand footmen shall march through the Northern Mountains, mustering the Clansmen along the way, to fortify the Bridge of Skulls. Then, they shall wait for the impending attack by the Wildlings and repel them."

"That would weaken Winterfell further when we are beset by enemies!"

"Do not worry, Ser Rodrik. Winterfell has never fallen; we would still have over a thousand men and all our lancers. You shall continue training more recruits, and I shall order Mikken and the other craftsmen to fashion more weapons and armor."

"Still, such a force would need craftsmen and other followers if they were to remain by the Bridge for a long time." Ser Rodrik warned, "Westwatch-by-the-Bridge had remained abandoned since before Raymun Redbeard sneaked into the North through the bridge. It would need to be rebuilt, and proper supply lines established with the closest Houses."

"The Clansmen would not muster for anyone other than a Stark," Luwin warned gently. "Only the Flints of Breakstone Hill have ravens, and they would obey a muster bearing the sigil of the Stark of Winterfell. Yet, for the other thirty-nine clans, something more tangible would be necessary."

"True, which is why I will send Rickon with the army." Bran couldn't help but chortle at the pair of old, stunned faces gaping like fishes. "He will be commander in name, but in truth, he shall foster with one of the clans. I have not yet decided whom. Walder shall go with him as his personal bodyguard. You have trained him well, and I hate to force him to remain here as a glorified steed. I will leave it up to you to assign the captains, lieutenants, and serjeants of the force, Ser Rodrik."

"Very well, My Prince. Should we also call for a general muster? The Mormonts, Glovers, and Ryswells have men to spare. Young Cley Cerwyn had taken it upon himself to harass the Ironborn besieging Barrowton, but his meager cavalry cannot hope to deal any true damage. We shall need as many men as possible to dislodge them."

"Do so. You are dismissed."

As his advisors excused themselves to do his bidding, Bran wondered if he was doing the right thing. He felt that sending Rickon to the clansmen was a good idea, and his brother would have free rein to run wild in the great valleys of the Northern Mountains. Sending nearly half of Winterfell's garrison, along with more camp followers, builders, masons, carpenters, and so on - his home would probably feel emptier over the next few weeks.

Bran shivered as a chill crawled up his spine, instinctively covering himself with his fur cloak and staring at the open window. It was sunny outside, and he did not feel any wind. Bran was sure his decision was astute, and he needed to make that decision; otherwise, he would prove everyone right. That he was but a cripple, no good for anything.

Yet the feeling of dread that sent shivers down his spine did not go away, no matter what.

.

.

.

Hundreds of miles away

Asha shoved her way through the crowd of gawking Ironmen, watching the body floating face down on the water. She had just returned from a hunt, looking for her brother to inform him that time was up, only to learn where he was.

Drowning himself. Again.

"How long has he been like this?"

Asha turned to the first captain she found, who she belatedly realized was the elderly Lord Dunstan Drumm; the notoriously volatile captain was for once shocked, standing silent as he stared at her brother with wonder in his eyes.

"Two hours–" Two? Asha had half a mind to go there and drag her no doubt dead brother from the water just to kill him again for wasting their entire plan over– "Since I arrived here. Some say the Prince had been at it since dawn, and yet he still breathes!"

The Kraken's daughter gawked as she stared at the sun; It was nearly dusk. Asha then turned to her brother, finding bubbles coming from where his head was dunked in the Saltspear. Before she could decide what to do, Theon Greyjoy raised his head abruptly with a guttural gasp that did not sound human at all.

Everyone on the beach was silent as her brother took deep breaths before he started chuckling loudly. Then, he turned to them, and Asha felt sweat forming on her brow as she saw his eyes; there were no whites; it was an all-consuming blackness. Theon stared at them all for a few heartbeats as if making sure he had everyone's attention before his smile grew impossibly wide.

"It is time!"

A*H*M

7th day of the 9th Moon, 299.

Dragonstone

The Red Witch

"Damn you to the Seven hells and beyond, you witless harlot!"

"Shut yer trap, Dontos."

One of the Queen's men, those few that remain loyal anyway, punched the lordling in the stomach before gagging him. It did nothing to hide the hatred directed at both her and Selyse, yet Melisandre had long learned to let such eyes of malice flow off her like water off a duck's back.

They would never understand that they were merely fulfilling their fated purpose. For even though they were disbelievers, R'hllor would still embrace their unworthy lives in the light of his flames. A worthy sacrifice to hatch the two beautiful dragon eggs nestled at the center of the pyre.

Melisandre remembered little from her childhood, apart from Melony of lot seven. Yet she still recalled seeing the Targaryen dragons flying in the skies. She had witnessed the Dread in his ancient glory, though she had never seen him fly. She was there when the dragons died, and she will be here when they return once more.

For surely R'hllor had sent this boon to her king. Despite his sudden change of heart, Melisandre still believed that Stannis Baratheon was Azor Ahai reborn. She did not understand what had happened in these sunset lands that had caused the false gods to awaken from their deep slumber, yet they had deceived the king. A paltry blade of lightning could hardly compare to the boons the Lord of the Light could provide.

Melisandre was ready to bless the king with more tangible powers, for she could feel her connection to R'hllor deepening even if his visions had become less clear. Unfortunately, King Stannis was stubborn and had summarily dismissed her. Only by the grace of her Lord did Queen Selyse remain loyal, and those dragon eggs were unveiled at the right time.

R'hllor's light truly shone even in the darkest moment, even for a wayward champion such as her. What use was a shining sword compared to dragons?

"Please, have mercy! You would burn a holy man?!"

"Holy? You are but a deceiver worshiping false idols." The Queen's uncle, Axell Florent, sneered at the septon, yet Melisandre barely acknowledged the false priest's pleas for mercy as he was tied next to the young lad from House Rambton. "To be fed to the flames of the one true god would be a great honor for the likes of you."

That was two sacrifices for the two eggs, but one more was needed to facilitate the awakening. Truthfully, if it were up to her, she would have burned all those too stubborn to obey their Lady, R'hllor knew Selyse dearly wanted to. Alas, all of her senses screamed in warning the moment Melisandre had even begun contemplating the thought–clearly a warning from the Lord of the Light.

"Bring the fool."

Her voice was sharper than a whip as the Queen's men dragged the infernal creature that had so tested her patience. The damned thing clutched its head as it was dragged through the yard, struggling so much it needed four people to handle it. It moaned and screamed in pain about nonsensical things.

"THE SEA! THE DEEP! DEEPER THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE! IT COMES! IT COMES!"

Melisandre had instantly detested the jester when she first laid eyes on it. The creature always gave her an uncomfortable feeling, but it was when it danced in front of her, laughed in her face, and called her by her name, she knew it was no simple fool.

"Melony Melony, nearly thirty by a hundred, yet won't see the big three-oh-oh. From ashes and death to fire and shadow, Melony Melony, lot seven wants its due!"

Utter nonsense, she was certain of it. "Tie him in the center - its spirit is tainted and must be cleansed by the flames. And gag his incessant rambling."

The men gleefully obliged, thankfully ignoring her break of character. Melisandre gazed around them; they were on an abandoned strip of beach near the Dragonmont, it was the only place they could guarantee privacy for their goals. She glanced at Selyse Baratheon's pallid face. It was a sad state of affairs that the Lady of Dragonstone was forced into such clandestine practices, but Melisandre knew they did not have the people's loyalty anymore.

As she stared dispassionately at the men binding the fool, Melisandre wondered what the stony doe saw in that thing.

Thinking about Shireen Baratheon, the Red Witch was irked at how she had seemingly taken control of the castle with none of them the wiser. Only two days prior, Melisandre realized the treachery that had caused her to hasten the ritual. She would have respected the decisiveness and alacrity of the girl had it not caused her so much grief. Shireen Baratheon was vital for Stannis Baratheon to grow into his role of Azor Ahai; Nissa Nissa needed to be strong and beloved by the hero before he claimed her life and soul to reforge the red sword of destiny.

At first, Melisandre had thought Selyse was Nissa Nissa, but the cold, utterly loveless marriage quickly disabused that notion. Yet even a hardy man like Stannis Baratheon loved his daughter dearly, even if he scarcely showed it. Perhaps… perhaps if the Lord of the Light had deemed fit to cure the girl's Greyscale, Stannis wouldn't have turned his back on the one true god.

Alas, the ways of R'hllor were unfathomable even to her at times, though this surely had to be a test.

Melisandre glanced at the midnight skies, where the Bleeding Star had been clear for all to see until that fateful day moons ago. It had seemingly disappeared as if sucked straight from the heavens towards the distant oceans of the south. None realized the importance of such a phenomenon, yet Melisandre feared that yet another ancient foe was stirring.

The Great Other to the North, and the Abyssal Demon of the Deep.

The sound of angry waves crashing on the rocks behind them grew ominous, yet the crackling of the torches in the leal men's grasp was as reassuring as ever. What chance did the terrors of the night stand against the fire that burned against the cold?

"We are ready, My Lady."

Her gaze slid over the Queen, the surrounding men, and the sacrifices before settling on the two identical eggs, glimmering like enormous amethysts in the ruddy torchlight. The shadows danced, making the black swirls amidst the scales look as if they were alive.

"Tonight, we have a quest to fulfill from our Lord," Melisandre began, channeling all of her charms into her words. "Azor Ahai has been misled by the false gods of stone and trees. It comes down to us to help our King find his path back to the Lord of Light's embrace."

"R'hllor!"

"The Red God!"

While the Queen's men were few, they were loyal, most importantly devout–and suitably loud, even if the situation called for subtlety. Melisandre could not help but smile at their cheers; even the captives' muffled groans did not ruin the moment.

There was no use for more words, and the Red Witch approached the pyre, forming flames in her bare hands that came as naturally as breathing. She could have set the pyre aflame from afar, yet she stopped right before the wretched creature whose bloodshot dark eyes stared at her own crimson. Melisandre wanted to see fear and terror in those dark pits that haunted her every waking moment, yet there were none. In fact, the fool had completely ceased his struggle as he stared at her with a gleam in his eye and an upturn of his gagged mouth.

Patchface the Terror was mocking her, even with one foot in the grave!

Melisandre barely registered the distant sounds of galloping horses approaching and the Queen's men grabbing their weapons before she set the pyre ablaze, consuming the three sacrifices and the eggs. The false priest and the rowdy noble screamed in agony through their bindings as her hotter-than-normal flames cooked them alive.

But not the Fool; the wretched creature shook as the fire consumed him, and Melisandre stared in shock as she realized he was laughing. Soon, his gag burned away, and she had a terrible feeling that she should not allow him to speak!

"Patchface!"

Turning at the sound of the Princess, Melisandre nearly cursed aloud at the sight of the approaching force. Shireen Baratheon was atop a palfrey, leading two dozen men-at-arms and five knights to their clearing.

"You damned girl, what are you doing here?" Selyse's furious roar made everyone pause–even her daughter. "What are you waiting for? Kill the traitors! We cannot allow the ritual to be interrupted."

"Subdue them, but do not harm my mother." As their men brandished their weapons, Shireen ordered her men to attack before leveling a furious gaze at her. "Kill the witch if she resists!"

Melisandre narrowed her eyes at the girl's audacity. She was so close to achieving her Lord's will! Forming a fireball in her hand she threw it at the approaching knights, but her aim was off, and it flew over their heads into the darkness of the sea. Yet even so, it was enough of a distraction for the Queen's outnumbered men to get a fighting chance against their foes; for now, each of their movements was wary as they all glanced at her hands.

Shireen jumped away from her panicked steed and marched angrily at them, two of her men on her side. She made a striking presence with her stony scowl and an ornate dirk held tightly in her hands.

"Out of my way, witch!" So entranced was Melisandre with the princess' sheer gall to so boldly come here that she was nearly too slow to dodge the knight's slash, yet she still lost her footing and fell at the edge of the pyre.

Normal flames would not have harmed her, but this was a sacrificial pyre; any who entered it would be consumed as an offering. Her hands desperately flailed to keep her balance but to no avail.

No, the worst wasn't Melisandre perishing–she was long prepared to give her life should the Lord of the Light demand it. But her presence–or any other, would disrupt the ritual in an unfathomable way.

Melisandre rasped in pain as she crawled away from the flames consuming her dress and roasting her flesh while fervently praying that the eggs would still hatch. She noticed Selyse screaming incoherently as the other knight tried to grab her, only for them to freeze at a sudden ominous cackle.

"Ah, I did not expect such a scene when I finally connected to the Deep One's apostle." The voice came from behind Melisandre, and she whipped around to find the wretched creature grinning wildly at them, even as his skin burned and his bones blackened. "Shame he could not control the mighty powers of the god, or perhaps he refused to accept the blessings? Either way, it appears I have chosen the worst time possible to finally possess his broken mind."

"Who are you, monster? And what have you done with my jester?!"

Shireen Baratheon's stormy blue eyes promised pain and retribution as she glared at the pyre. The sounds of the waves grew louder, and the sky seemed ominously dark, yet Melisandre could feel nothing but trepidation as she gazed at the young princess. There was something different about her, something that gave the ancient witch pause.

"Hehehe, I am the godliest man in the world; one who shall become God." The creature glanced down at the dragon eggs, "Ohhh, more drakes for me! Do take care of them for me… IF YOU SURVIVE MY PET! HAHAHAHA!"

The jester's insane laughter echoed on the beach, even as the men clamored and shouted something about a Kraken. Melisandre glanced behind her only to find a hideous-looking giant squid crawling out of the sea, grabbing several men with its many tentacles, and throwing them away. Suddenly, the Fool gurgled as his body melted before their eyes. The flames grew white-hot, and Melisandre's eyes widened as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and light sprang from the ground just as a pair of golden eyes appeared in the heavens followed by a loud roar.

She barely took a step away when the pyre exploded, and she knew no more.

.

.

.

Ser Clayton Blackberry stared at a scene that might as well have come from the seven hells. The entire island had awoken by the sudden storm, the crackle of thunder, and yet another partial eruption from the Dragonmont. Lightning seemed to rage in the heavens, and the Blackberry knight had dragged his brother Jate and a score of men-at-arms to where the smallfolk had seen flames and unholy screams coming from the nearby beach. It did not take long for him to realize that a large portion of the garrison was missing, along with the Queen, the Princess, and the Red Witch.

Upon arriving at the beach, they stared in awe at the terrible behemoth strewn on the beach, full of stab wounds and riddled with arrows and bolts. It looked like a giant squid, yet it was far more hideous and monstrous than those treats he liked to eat fried with butter. It must have been a battle for the tales as he stared at the many fallen men on the shore, dead and broken, though a few still lived, yet they were not unscathed.

"Quickly, tend to the wounded. And make sure that bloody thing is dead!"

As the men hurried to obey, Clayton recognized one of the knights still breathing; Ser Perkin Follard was one of the converts to the Red God but returned to the Seven following the King's return to the faith. Clayton knew he had become a close ally to the Princess, but who hadn't when the alternative was a woman who had lost her wits and a foreign witch. The man's sword arm was broken and his armor looked like it was hit by a battering ram.

"What happened here?"

Ser Perkin barely managed to open his tired eyes and coughed out blood. "The Witch and the Queen… They tried to hatch the dragon eggs and would burn people for it. The Princess… She discovered the plot. Rallied us here." Suddenly, the man's eyes widened. "The pyre. Find the Princess, now!"

Clayton nodded and looked around, and it was not difficult to find where the pyre used to be. The beach was blackened and turned to glass, and the Blackberry knight nearly gagged at the stench of roasted flesh mingling with the overwhelming stench of brimstone as he discovered several burned husks around the center. There was a large pile of ash and sand that nearly reached his midriff, and as he approached, Clayton stepped on something solid. Looking down, he found a familiar-looking red ruby that cracked and turned to dust even as he held it.

Movement from the pile of ash caused him and his men to jump in fright. They drew their swords, wondering if they would be of use against whatever monstrosity had been brought to this world. Never in Clayton's dreams would he have imagined what happened next, for an amethyst reptilian head poked its head out of the blackened sand, its eyes a brilliant electric blue, and its elegant head tilted inquisitively as it saw them. It had two black stubs on its head that Clayton vaguely recognized as tiny horns and a long neck with scales that gleamed like dark amethyst under the thick curtain of moonlight.

"D-Dragon!"

The Blackberry knight did not know who started the whisper, but within a few seconds, a hundred people had gathered around the hatchling. They stared at the wondrous creature, looking at them curiously before its eyes widened. It shook its body out of the ash, revealing small wings that still beat powerfully enough to disperse the mound of ash.

What laid beneath caused Clayton to wonder if he was dreaming. A pinch to his thigh told him that he was not and that his eyes were not deceiving him.

Shireen Baratheon was curled in the ash, naked as the day she was born, with the dragon nestled over her torso. Only, the scars of greyscale were gone, and a much more beautiful sight bloomed in their place. The entire left side of her face, neck, and arm were covered in the same brilliant amethyst scales as the dragon. Her dark hair seemed to pool around her like a gentle waterfall, as it had grown uncontrollably; its color seemed to have grown so dark that it even drank in the pale moonlight.

A moan and the princess opened her eyes and the right one was the familiar blue she inherited from her father, while the left one–surrounded by a coat of purple scales–was amethyst.

 

Notes:

Sansa unintentionally goads Bran into being proactive. Please remember that this is still an eleven-year-old who is trying his best to serve his home. This is not the annoying little shit from season eight.

Theon is finally on the move.

And finally, the most important development of the side-plots in the story. Introducing Shireen Baratheon; Westeros' first-ever Dragon Girl!

Poor Patches. Having to fight against a demonic god trying to control his mind for decades only to die to some pyromaniacs. At least his death won't be in vain. The Storm God/Warrior still watches over his champion and his heir.

Two guesses on who possessed Patchface in the end.

Chapter 20: Departed

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx

---

7th day of the 9th Moon, 299

New Castle

The Northern Princess

"I still think it unwise that you would join the men in a potential battle, Princess."

"I do not plan for this to descend into a battle," Sansa patiently explained to the fretful Merman Lord, hiding any displeasure from having to repeat herself so many times over the past week. "I shall meet with the so-called Castellan of the Dreadfort and hear what he has to say before judging him."

"Princess, I assure you that Ramsay Snow–"
"Trust me, Lord Manderly. I do believe you, yet my position does not allow me to make a judgement after listening to one side. What would you do if the situation was reversed and the accusations were thrown at you?"

Manderly's usually jovial face was stony, yet Sansa had reached her limit - she could tell the man meant well, yet questioning her decision over and over, especially today, the day before she was to set out, was becoming irksome.

They were having dinner on the terrace overlooking the grounds of the castle and the city of White Harbor. Sansa was surrounded by a gaggle of maidens and ladies, including Wylla Manderly, who, along with Myriam Locke and Branda Flint, would join her as ladies-in-waiting. Perhaps that was why the Merman Lord was so worried. His granddaughter would be in danger during the journey, yet he was the one who offered her in the first place after his good-daughter's less-than-pleasant display on her wedding night.

Thinking about her wedding night caused Sansa's heart to flutter. Oh what a wonderful night it was! Sansa had no experience at all with men or how to please them; the things her mother mentioned offhandedly conflicted with the lessons Septa Mordane had given, and she had simply forgotten them in favor of the courting itself. Percy was such an excellent lover, bringing her to pleasure over and over and over. He was obsessed with kissing her at every opportunity and never shied away from showing how much he loved her.

Her husband was also utterly enamored with her teats, especially now that they were growing even larger with her pregnancy.

Then there was the man himself; if someone had told her before she met him that Percy was divine, she would not have believed it, but now that she had seen his body in all its glory, it would be easy to admit he was a god in human flesh.

Such powerful arms, broad shoulders, a chiseled chest, a stomach and abdominal muscles that were rock hard yet soft to the touch, and finally, his member that had brought her a lot of trepidation when she first saw it. Sansa had no idea what the normal size for men's penises would be, yet Percy's just had to be on the larger side. It was nearly bigger and longer than her forearm!

Oh, how he took her and ravaged her with it, bringing her pleasures she never thought possible - how after she had tired, he would still be raring to go, yet had lovingly held her to sleep and did not force himself on her as Septa Mordane had warned men were wont to do.

After they awoke and had breakfast, she let him use her teats and was surprised it brought her pleasure as much as it brought him. Sansa had even tasted him out of curiosity, vaguely remembering tasting his blood before, and felt incredible energy coursing through her that had her on top of him and worked for her reward instead. She had made sure Percy poured every drop of his seed stored in those large gonads of his, deep inside her over and over again, making sure that it would not be a question of if it would quicken but rather when.

Even then, Sansa was the one to, what was it her husband called it? Ah, tap out and admitted defeat. Percy was utterly incorrigible, with seemingly endless stamina and an appetite that had her wondering if she could ever satisfy him alone.

Considering what the half-maester had told her a sennight ago, Sansa was confident that the life growing in her belly would be just as powerful as their father - if not more so now that the blood of the kings of winter would be flowing in their veins.

"Very well, Princess." Sansa nearly flinched as she remembered herself and gazed coolly at Lord Manderly - pretending she did not just daydream about fucking her husband while in polite company. "I shall pray for a swift journey and the success of your diplomatic efforts."

Gods, all that thinking nearly caused her to break her composure, yet she still managed a calm nod.

"Do not worry, My Lord; I would be a fool not to expect treachery from the likes of Bolton and his spawn. We have planned extensively for every contingency. My husband even cleared out the Bite from two more leviathans, allowing your navy to strike at the Bolton port and potentially the Dreadfort itself if he proved as treacherous as you claim."

Lord Manderly merely nodded before returning to his leviathan pie, which had quickly become a delicacy of the city that the corpulent lord loved almost as much as his lamprey pies.

The rest of the table seemed to have been holding their breath and finally relaxed at the sight of the lord of the castle returning to his dinner. Sansa glanced at Percy standing aside, speaking to the nobles who would join the army on the march. It had taken a lot to convince Percy that she was not a fragile wallflower when he learned of her pregnancy and even more work to allow her to join the campaign.

Twenty warships and thirty cogs would sail out of White Harbor in a show of strength to blockade Bolton's port on the Weeping Water, while five hundred lancers gathered from White Harbor and Old Castle were already halfway to the Broken Branch.

Five hundred was a small number compared to the estimated thousands more that the expansive Manderly lands should be capable of fielding, but that was on purpose. Much of Lord Manderly's army had already gathered in White Harbor, three thousand and more coming every day - yet the finest of the Lord's troops were with his son fighting for her brother in the south. Only Ramsgate and the Sheepshead Hills have retained their muster due to the Bolton Bastard's attacks. However, the majority of the army was protecting the masons and builders sent to Moat Cailin for the rebuilding efforts, along with the permanent garrison five hundred strong already there.

Sansa was adamant never to allow the gateway to the North ever fall into enemy hands again. She had already sent a letter to her brother Robb with all that had happened so far–not trusting a raven, and Percy had mentioned Meera's brother had vowed to deliver it no matter what. She could not imagine what Robb's reaction to her marriage would be like, but considering what they last heard of him taking a paramour and having her join him in his campaign, he hardly had any moral ground to stand on.

But when had kings and crowns cared about morals, fairness or justice? Sansa just hoped the crown had not changed her dear brother too much. But even if it had… even if she owed Robb loyalty as the head of House Stark, she was now accountable only to the whims of one man. Her husband.

'Things wouldn't be too bad,' she mused. With Moat Cailin back in their hands thanks to Percy, Sansa hoped that would be a first step in easing her family to accept her marriage to Percy. Otherwise, she would be forced to take drastic measures; Percy Jackson was hers, and she was his. They were joined in holy matrimony before the gods old and new, and no one would ever deny her this wonderful man, not even her family.

"I'm sure all will be well, my dear."

Sansa felt a pair of warm hands on her shoulders even though no one was behind her. She gently smiled as the Maiden assuaged her worries before returning to her thoughts regarding their upcoming campaign.

Ser Rodwell Long's eldest son, Ser Matrid Long, was already leading the five hundred lancers on land as they march to Ramsgate, while his father took command of the rest of the Manderly force here in the city as they await the results of the talks. Would they be forced to attack the Dreadfort? Or would they march north to Winterfell or west to Barrowton and break its siege?

There were many options, but Sansa had refused to give her plans, for it would not do to plan so far ahead and stumble on the first step. All that mattered now was dealing with the Hornwood problem, pressing the Bolton forces into their numbers, sending riders to Karstark and Umber to begin a second mustering (as they had ignored her ravens) before they decided on the next step. Manderly's fleet could be used to sail up the Last River and ferry those men from Karstark, Umber, and Bolton lands to White Harbor if need be.

Meanwhile, Sansa decided to join Percy as he sailed the Silver Lady to Ramsgate, using the Manderly fleet as an escort and giving them a huge boost to their speed, until they separated at the mouth of the Broken Branch. From there, it was a short way to the agreed upon meeting point for the talks with the Bolton Bastard, a river port near Castle Hornwood.

As she told the disgruntled Merman Lord, Sansa fully expected foul play from Ramsay Snow, his demands for talks were utterly ridiculous; to come alone with only twelve companions in a hostile territory? Was he such a lackwit? If ever there were a trap, then that would be it. That she agreed to meet him regardless had nearly given the elderly Lord Manderly a stroke until she explained Percy and her band of one hundred's role in the plan.

She placed her hand on her belly. Even with all the planning they had done, Sansa could not help but feel trepidation. Lord Manderly did have a point; she was with child now, even though she did not at all feel any of the ails an expecting mother should have. Donnis had been lost on why, but a chuckle from the Maiden in her mind told her all she needed to know. Then, there was the fact she would be dragging Myrcella, Rosamund, Meera, Wylla, Myriam, and Branda on a dangerous sea voyage that could still end in disaster.

The gods were whimsical; even when she had one on her side, Sansa would be a fool to believe that all would be well.

But it was not about trusting the gods this time; it was about placing her trust in her husband. If Percy declined her mad scheme or even hesitated for a second, she would have turned around and never spoken of it again. Yet he had agreed.

"A scheme worthy of the goddess of wisdom." He had declared, after thinking deeply on it.

As Sansa retired for the night, disrobed, and joined her naked husband in bed for another night of passion, She looked forward to leaving White Harbor and properly touring the North. Winterfell was her home, but she had rarely left it and knew little about how her fellow Northmen lived.

---

18th Day of the 9th Moon, near the Hornwood

Sansa gazed at the docks as Percy willed their fishing boat to stop in the middle of the lake leading to the village - nearly a thousand feet away, well out of range of the strongest warbow. The riverport was more of a fishing village without a dedicated shipyard. Every fisherman would build their own boats from wood supplied by the lumber mills of the Hornwood.

To the west were the Sheepshead Hills, where the headwaters of the Broken Branch, or at least the branch they were sailing up to, could be seen in the form of several picturesque waterfalls. To the north was the eponymous forest that gave name to House Hornwood, and Sansa could see the highest tower of Castle Hornwood a few miles away from their position.

They had left the Silver Lady a few miles back, where several of the river's branches met at a walled town called Branchford, known for its water mills and sawmills. They had waited for Matrid Long to arrive with his five hundred lancers and another five hundred footmen from Ramsgate and were given their orders - Sansa's remaining men were under the command of the first of Percy's captains, Kyle, who had their own task concurrent with Long's.

Then, they purchased a fishing boat and sailed the rest of the way here.

Just as Ramsay Snow demanded, Sansa only had twelve men with her: Percy, Mark, the second captain, and ten of their finest warriors.

A nudge in her mind had her look through Beauty's eyes, and Sansa sighed tiredly. "The village is teeming with people, yet not a single woman or child. I count a score of armed men waiting at the docks. At least two score more spread out in behind huts and cottages - all of them are armed with bows and crossbows."

"Perfect tools for assassinations," Percy grunted as he adjusted the cloak he was wearing. He had left his suit of armor back on the Silver Lady, too cumbersome and eye-catching for what they had in mind. He still had his magical spear and Aegis, the Valyrian Steel shield he recovered from the depths of the Bite - with Ice gone, Percy had used every opportunity exploring the capabilities of his new weapon. "I bet the jabroni is probably hiding in one of the houses too."

"My Lord, the woods are too quiet; I am certain men are waiting in ambush." Mark, the serjeant of her troop, whispered as he fingered the string of his bow. None of the men wore any obvious weapons or armor, even leaving behind their expensive crossbows to appear as weak and vulnerable as possible under their cloaks, yet they were not helpless. "What are your orders?"

"Sansa?"

Another look through Beauty confirmed what Sansa had already seen hours prior - it would have been foolish to come here without scouting ahead, yet things may change with time, and the forest that was empty half a day ago, was teeming with men. "Nearly a hundred men are watching us from the woods - those near the lake and the village at least, for the forest is vast. All of them are dressed lightly and armed with bows, axes, daggers, and… I believe they are on the Bolton's side; I see several men in flayed man livery among them."

"Woodsmen," Mark whispered. "They have to be Hornwood men. They would join forces with the man who slayed their lady?"

"They have no choice," Sansa whispered back. "There are no more Hornwoods; Halys and Daryn Hornwood perished in the south, the heir unmarried, and their closest relatives were the Tallharts and a bastard of Lord Halys living with the Glovers. None of them are in any position to press a claim at the moment. Ramsay Snow married Lady Donella, which, in the most obtuse of legal senses, makes him Lord Hornwood, even if Lady Donella did not have a claim to the land, only to live in the castle according to the Widow's law… Not that the simple huntsmen would know the difference."

The men nodded seriously though Sansa had the strongest feeling that they barely understood half of what she said and she did not blame them. Succession crisis and politics rarely made sense to most nobles, let alone small folk like her warriors.

"What are your orders, My Lord? Princess?" Mark looked to Percy and then to her, his dark eyes hard with determination. "Know that we are ready to fight regardless of the odds."

Sansa bit her lips as she gazed at the eleven men who had joined her in this endeavor. They were personally trained and handpicked by Percy for this mission, and she knew they were far more capable than some of the finest knights of the realm. Aside from Percy's training, he had confessed to tampering with their food and drink, infusing them with his blood, when she mentioned how his body fluids made her more powerful.

These men had been loyal to House Stark before she met them. Since Percy took them under his wing, they had become fanatically loyal to him as well. Sansa was concerned that they had been mind-controlled and had turned into thralls of some sort, but the Maiden alleviated her concerns.

"What your husband has done was simply bring out what was already there and remove any inhibitions that come with the strappings of loyalty. If one of them were a traitor, then you would be sure they would have done all they could to slay you instead of the loyalty you see."

Every one of them gazed at her with resolute eyes, ready and willing to fight to the death for her. That made her feel warmth and she swore she would never ask them to needlessly throw away their lives.

Sansa expected treachery here, yet she did not expect Hornwood men to join the Bastard. They could still turn back and sail south, yet that would ruin the other ruse that was already underway. In fact, the more Bolton troops that came here, the better the results would be of that ruse. In the end, only one man's opinion mattered in this situation, and her gaze fell to her husband, boldly standing on the bow with his hood down, showing his grin for all to see.

"What do you think, Percy? Can you take them on?"

"That's the wrong question, honey." Her husband's eyes seemed to shine with power as he gazed at the dock where a group of men were waiting. "The question is, when do you want them gone?"

Sansa giggled at the bravado. If it came from anyone else, she would have called them mad, yet this is Perseus Jackson, the father of her unborn child. It was inconceivable that he would allow her here if he were not confident in both protecting her and defeating her enemies at the same time.

"Let's give them the benefit of the doubt. For all we know, Ramsay could simply be showing off his men before he swears fealty to me." Though, judging by the men's looks not even one believed her snarky tone.

"Well, our welcoming party is already here." Percy's grin widened, "I say let's give them a greeting."

Her husband took a deep breath, "IN THE NAME OF SANSA OF HOUSE STARK, I COMMAND RAMSAY SNOW TO SHOW HIMSELF!"

The shout was loud and clear, for even the distant woods shook. Percy willed the boat to sail closer to the docks, well within shooting range yet that was an accepted hazard for that was also shouting range. A man wearing dark armor with a red helm and a pale pink cloak approached.

"I am Ramsay Bolton, Lord of the Hornwood and heir to the Dreadfort. Who speaks in the Princess's name, and where might she be?"

Sansa hid herself under her cloak as she closed her eyes and stared through the flying Beauty. The moon hawk had excellent vision and could see from miles away as well as a human could see from ten feet. Through her eyes, Sansa could see the so-called Lord of the Hornwood; he was certainly dressed in what Ramsay Snow was purported to wear: calfskin boots, velvet doublet, a silver-chased swordbelt, and a sable cloak. Not to mention the expensive armor and how the surrounding men seemed to defer to him, yet Sansa had learned everything she could about the Bastard of Bolton from Wyman Manderly.

The vengeful lord of White Harbor had studied everything there was to know about the Leech Lord and his son, from their favorite food and drink, which chamber pot they preferred to use, their most disgusting habits, and many others. But the most important had been a charcoal painting one of the Merman Lord's spies had managed to sketch of the brazen bastard who had taken to strolling in Hornwood lands as if he owned them.

And that was not Ramsay Snow. Now, the question was, where was the Bastard of Bolton?

"I am Perseus Jackson." The gust of wind that blew at the men on the dock was most likely unnecessary, yet it did bring the message; the sorcerer was here. "Are you the bastard of Roose Bolton?"

There! Just as Percy ignored the insolent claim of lordship and called Ramsay for what he was, a mere bastard, one of the men in the back scowled; he was an ugly young man holding a longbow, and his attire fit for a kennel man did not help. Big-boned and slope-shouldered, he had pink and blotchy skin, a broad nose, matted dark long hair, wide and meaty lips that reminded Sansa of worms, and finally, the most important feature that reminded Sansa of the one time she had ever seen the Leech Lord: Small, close-set, and pale eyes that reminded her of curdled milk.

There were also several hounds nearby, and Sansa recalled Wyman's words, "The bastard is known to hunt maidens like a sport and names his dogs after them."

"I am Ramsay BOLTON!" Whoever the man in the armor was, he was a good mummer, as he shouted angrily. "Where is the princess? She was the one who demanded I submit to her authority yet she refuses to show herself and sends some foreign charlatan instead?"

Percy glanced at her questioningly, his right hand resting on their opening gift, and Sansa shook her head. She stood up and let her hood down.

"Ah, there you are, Princess! Why don't you come ashore so we may discuss matters of us joining forces?"

"Ramsay Snow," Her voice was loud as she glared at the Bastard of Bolton - not the mummer in armor, but the one in the back who flinched. "Do you take me for a fool? I come in good faith, yet you play a mummer's game with me? You are accused of usurping the lands of Hornwood, forcibly marrying the Lady Donella Hornwood before murdering her. I gave you this chance to speak your piece, yet I have seen more than enough. I judge you guilty of treason against House Stark of Winterfell and sentence you to die."

"Treason?! I did nothing that constitutes treason, and none can claim otherwise!" The ugly young man sneered at her as he approached the dock, pushing aside his armored mummer. "I was merely being prudent when dealing with a sorcerer. Who knows what tricks they could come up with? Besides, no matter how much you try to pretend otherwise, you have no authority to give judgement in such matters, girl. Only the king, a highlord, or the regent can."

"You dared call yourself Bolton, Bastard." Ramsay's eyes grew wide and murderous. "Only the King of the North can legitimize noble bastards, and my brother did no such thing since his reign began. Your father does not even acknowledge you as a son, let alone a Snow; that was me being courteous, yet instead of thanking me, you spit in my face. As for my authority, you will have to suffer it regardless of your opinions on the matter."

Sansa gazed coldly at the dock and could not help but compare Ramsay Snow with the only bastard she had ever known; her half-brother. Septa Mordane's words of warning about bastards and their sinful ways echoed in her mind, yet Sansa was never one to take them at face value - Jon had always been kind to her, even when she treated him distantly. He was honorable, loyal, dutiful, and comely, and had all the qualities that a noble lord would look for in his son. Knowing what she learned of Ramsay Snow, it appeared the vile creature became as he was due to his upbringing, or lack of. While Jon Snow was raised among his trueborn brothers and sisters, ate and drank from the same table, learned the same lessons, learned to love them… Ramsay Snow had none of that.

Then, she recalled that her own husband was also a bastard, and Sansa's opinion on the whole matter solidified; Bastards were a result of their upbringing and the people around them, rather than any nonsense regarding sinful nature or the like.

As Sansa looked at the petulant creature gnashing his teeth and remembered all she had learned about him, she felt it incredibly insulting to even compare her brother and husband with that filth. Pity, perhaps, but still insulting. Not even the scum under her boots should be equated with him.

Her gaze passed to the other men on the dock before moving to the woods, where she knew several woodsmen were listening in.

"I offer you and your men one chance and one chance only: Lay down your arms and surrender. Only Ramsay Snow shall be given the choice of the block or the Wall. The rest of you may join my forces as we rid our homeland of reavers and barbarians. I shall give you until–"

Sansa had not even finished speaking when the Bolton bastard unslung his bow, nocked, drew, and loosed an arrow, all in the span of two heartbeats. It was truly an impressive display of marksmanship that would have slain anyone but Percy, who simply grabbed the arrow an inch from his throat. Clearly, Ramsay Snow did not expect that to happen as he gawked, allowing a second arrow to slip from his fingers.

"I guess that concludes negotiations." Percy crushed the shaft in his palm, his grin growing savage and his eyes narrowing dangerously. "I think he just signed his death warrant, wouldn't you agree, honey?"

Sansa sighed, staring sadly at the nearly sixty men in the village that could have joined her cause if not for the will of a madman. "Indeed, my beloved, not even the Wall would be an option now. Still, be swift about it, and they may yet lay down their arms."

"Swift? I know just the thing." Her men grabbed onto the rails, looking queasy as the wind picked up and Percy's grin widened.

"S-Shoot them, damn you! I don't care about the bitch anymore, just kill them all!"

Suddenly, the boat lurched backward at great speeds, traveling hundreds of feet just as a hail of arrows shot from the docks, striking at where they just were. The only reason she didn't lose her footing was Percy's strong arm pulling her to his chest. Sansa, ignoring the slight bout of nausea, glared at the men on the docks; all of them had crossbows, even those who came out from the houses, and all had just tried to kill her.

So much for offering them a chance at surrender.

Now that they were well out of bow range, Percy grabbed the opening gift, his dagger morphing into its spear form, "Time to see if the curse traveled here."

Curse?

Before she could ask, Percy stuck his tongue out as he aimed at his target, his thumb seemingly acting as an aiming focus, before in one fluid motion, sent his spear flying so fast it crossed the thousand-foot distance near instantaneously, cut through the water, caused waves to break and rocked the boat.

And unceremoniously impaled Ramsay Snow through his groin, utterly destroying his pelvis and piercing through his rear before nailing him into the ground. The anguished squeal of pain that came from the Bastard of Bolton's mouth reverberated across the lake, and all the men on the docks jumped in fright.

"Gods, My Lord, that was…" One of the men on the boat fumbled with what to say.

"Needlessly cruel." Mark finished as he gazed stoically as the Bolton Bastard screamed himself hoarse as he thrashed uselessly on the spear that was thrown with such power that all of its blade and a third of the shaft was underground - deep enough to hold his body up like a slaughtered pig on a roast. It was doubtful if any regular javelin or spear could have survived the impact intact, yet Percy's weapon was truly made from something unnatural.

Divine even.

Sansa and the men turned at the sound of Percy clicking his tongue, and she could not stifle her giggle as he grimaced heavily, "… I was aiming for the head."

"Clearly, you nailed it, though most likely not the right one."

"Aw, shut up, Mark."

"Is that an order, My Lord?"

"… Fuck you."

"If the Princess allows it, My Lord."

"W-What the fuck, man?! I don't swing that way! Besides, I thought you were married!"

Sansa snorted at the completely deadpan delivery before guffawing at Percy's splutter, even as the rest of the men hesitantly joined in - all of them had experienced her husband's tortur–training and knew how harsh of a taskmaster he could be. Mark was one of Percy's captains, so he had more leeway, but they knew their place.

Soon, the wails of pain receded, and Sansa checked the dock through Beauty's eyes; Ramsay Snow must have lost the strength to even whimper yet she could still see him twitching. "Percy, offer them another chance at surrender. They might have dared shoot at me, but the Wall is always in need of men. And tell the woodsmen to surrender as–"

Sansa did not get to finish before the sounds of bows twanging and men screaming came from the village. The Hornwood men rained death on the Bolton men in the village, and Sansa sighed once more. A glance through Beauty's eyes told her that even the scant few wearing Flayed Man livery along the woodsmen were quickly swarmed with hatchets before they could escape.

She supposed that solved the problem.

---

"Princess Sansa, we are yours to command!"

Sansa Stark gazed stoically at the spokesman of the band of woodsmen. There were two hundred of them in total who made a living in the Hornwood as woodcutters, huntsmen, and various other professions. She was certain some, most likely all of them, were also poachers during hard times - or when the land did not have a noble to bring law and order. They had heard her clearly during the farce of a parlay and the moment Ramsay Snow was slain, decided she was the better option to serve.

Naturally, she was distrustful of them, yet she had given her word, and they had certainly proven their worth. Bolton's men may or may not have surrendered, but that would not have been a problem. The biggest worry was they could have easily run away, retreated to the Dreadfort and warned the rest of the men-at-arms there, or turned into banditry. Percy was strong, but he could do nothing when over fifty men fled in several directions.

The woodsmen had done well in pinning them to the village until Percy and the men landed and slayed the survivors to a man, not allowing a single man to escape… or surrender - after the first man tried to gut one of her men when he feigned surrender, Percy and the rest had no more mercy. The hazards of the village being surrounded by the Hornwood; there was no escape route without going through the woods.

Sadly, as she gazed through Beauty, she found two riders that must have been waiting outside the forest galloping as fast as they could to the north. Most likely the Dreadfort would be forewarned of their coming.

Sansa turned to Percy, finding him cleaning his spear with a rag; despite her planning and presence here, he was the one experienced in the gritty details of war. "You shall join the rest of the army as irregulars. I see all of you are armed with longbows and hatchets. I have also seen your aim, and it's acceptable, yet you are an undisciplined lot who will need a lot of work until you can work as a single unit."

The leader of the woodsman looked confused over most of what Percy said but nodded regardless. It did not matter; knowing her husband, he would most likely turn this band of vagrants into a ranged force to rival the Raven's Teeth.

"What about the castle, Princess?" The leader asked hesitantly, "There are still Bolton men holding it, and the Hornwood serjeants and men-at-arms, those that are still alive anyway, were forced out."

"You need not worry about it," Sansa assured before turning at the sound of galloping horses and finding Kyle approaching with several other riders. "I believe we are about to find out."

"We have taken the walls and gatehouse, Princess, but many Bolton men have barricaded themselves in the keep."

Sansa nodded to Kyle, glad that she had sent him, Matrid Long, and the rest of the Manderly men ahead to take the castle in case the talks fail - it was as simple as sending Beauty over with a prepared message on her leg for them to begin the attack.

She gazed at a certain head planted on a spike; its body abandoned on the ground where the bastard's hounds were feasting on it - he must have been starving the poor dogs. It would have taken a long time for Ramsay Snow to die, yet Sansa obliged the wretch with a merciful death… about an hour after Percy had thrown his spear. It was not out of cruelty, but she honestly had forgotten about him in the chaos of the battle and the cleanup.

Even Percy forgot about his weapon as he used his fists and shield to devastating, and utterly lethal, effects. Saying something about a Captain and Vibranium not holding a candle to him.

"Take the bastard's head and show it to them. They have one chance to surrender. Black or the block, I have no use for treacherous scum. If they refuse, you may burn the keep."

"I'm sure Ben will love the idea of us testing the spitfires."

Kyle grinned, turned to Percy for anything else he may want to add, received nothing, grabbed the head, and left. Despite being near the Sheepshead Hills and its quarries, Castle Hornwood did not have a stone keep, although its walls were stone. Apparently, Donella Manderly's marriage to Halys Hornwood was part of a deal allowing the Hornwoods to use Manderly's quarries in the Hills to rebuild their wooden castle from stone. The late Lord Hornwood had decided to start with the walls and gatehouse before his keep, so burning it was no great loss.

Besides, with the lack of any Hornwoods, the castle, and its lands would revert to the Hornwoods' direct liege lord, House Stark, until they either found a claimant or rewarded the castle to another lord.

"Well, I guess that settles it. Mark!" Percy waved over his captain and the rest of their men. "We have fresh blood. Archers, all of them. You know what to do with them."

The stoic marksman did not smile, though Sansa could see his eyes gleaming as he gazed at the woodsmen like a butcher would gaze at a calf, deciding how best to harvest its meat in the quickest and most efficient way possible. The rest of the Stark men gave the meanest, most filled-with-anticipation chortles she had ever heard. Yet it couldn't be denied that Captain Mark was efficient.

Within a few minutes, the army of woodsmen was gone, and now it was just her and Percy as they awaited the Silver Lady after Sansa had sent them Beauty with another letter summoning them.

"I gotta admit," She turned to Percy as he took her in his arms, Sansa smiling as he kissed her forehead. "This was incredibly anti-climactic."

"Everything ended well for once. Peacefully even. That's good." A small part of her felt queasy at the death of a hundred men in a matter of minutes. But she knew the other outcome, she had heard what the Bolton bastard did with wayward maidens. Sansa decided this was definitely a peaceful end; the Hornwood lands and the Sheepshead Hills would certainly be peaceful. Peace had to be nourished with the blood of traitors and foes to flourish.

"Yeah, I totally agree, but I feel like we overestimated this Bolton dude way too much. We brought so many men, and even Manderly's fleet, along with all that planning and contingencies - our backup plans had back-up plans and more! You are even more of a meticulous planner than anyone I've met, and I knew someone who loved her plans. Yet, we didn't even get to use a single one of them! And no, we already expected the talks to be a farce, so a fight was the normal outcome."

"I'm sure you wanted to skip all those contingencies and go straight to the last resort; put the fear of you in their hearts, just like you did the Ironborn."

"Oh, don't remind me," Percy groaned as he visibly grimaced, "It must have been super cringe to hear about."

"I don't know what cringe is, but from what I've heard, those Ironborn are still obediently doing what you told them. Fear is a good tool to use, I'm told, as long as you use it against your enemies. It prevents you from devolving into meaningless slaughter as well."

"Hey, fear of me or you, it's both the same thing. You did pretty good cowing those lumberjacks to join us."

"… Lumberjacks?" Of all the terms that Percy comes up with, this was the strangest so far.

"Nevermind. So, what's the next step?"

What indeed… Sansa dearly wished she could head straight west for Winterfell. She missed Bran and Rickon and home. It's been far too long since she had been in the Heart of the North, yet there was more work to be done. Those Ironborn were still sieging Barrowton; for all she knew, they could have already taken it in the weeks since she left White Harbor. Then there were the worrying ravens that came from the Wall; a massive Wildling army about to attack, and she could not help but worry about Jon and Uncle Benjen. There was also word about giants, Others, and monsters awakening and being an all-around nuisance.

A few moons ago, Sansa would have dismissed such fantastical stories as tales by the smallfolk. Now that she was married to a man who would not be out of place in one of those tales, the Stark Princess was forced to take such warnings seriously.

Nevertheless, there was a far more concerning problem that she had to deal with as soon as possible. With the death of his son, Roose Bolton was now an unpredictable element, and the sooner they destroyed his power base, the better.

"Next, we consolidate before we join Ser Medrick Manderly at the Weeping Water. We have a castle to sack."

A*H*M

Same day

Maidenpool outskirts

"My Lord Lannister, Maidenpool is just ahead."

Kevan nodded to his outrider, stifling the urge to sigh in relief. His trip to Cracklaw Point was not as disastrous as he feared, yet it still ended up becoming a waste of time. The Clawmen were not hostile, though they were not friendly either. He was still provided with bread and salt when he arrived in Brownhollow as they explained why they could not join the war on any side owing to the vast majority of their troops already mustered and fighting their own war.

Against the land itself!

Kevan would have called Bennard Brune a liar if not for the strange creature he had shown him in his dungeons. It was a short and filthy creature with grey leathery skin, a wide mouth full of sharp teeth, floppy ears, small beady eyes, and two holes in its face in place of a nose. It was utterly rabid and screamed incoherently at them when they approached.

"I am unsure about the rest of Westeros, but the entire peninsula is infested with these strange beasts." Lord Brune explained as he scratched at his missing ear that he had lost to one of the… monsters. "They come out of the depths of the earth, from hollows and burrows long forgotten. Hundreds of them in the smallest swarm and thousands in the larger ones. They always hunt in large groups, usually at night, and are armed with primitive weapons yet are quite cunning. One man could easily defeat one or two of them. A man-at-arms can hold his own against three, but ten? Twenty? Their numbers are many, and they're learning from fighting us, as we discovered a recent group using slings, of all things! Mindless beasts aren't supposed to learn how to use tools in a matter of moons! They also seem to have an unhealthy appetite for flesh."

The last part was said almost in a whisper as the Knight of Brownhollow just deflated, his face grim.

"Human flesh?" Kevan asked in worry.

"If they manage to catch a fisherman or hunter unawares, perhaps. Yet, they would eat anything as long as it had flesh and blood. Many livestock were lost to them, and the rest of the clans were up in arms. We are mustering for war, aye, but not one between men, but against monsters and creatures of the night."

Kevan had received supplies from Lord Brune then but no troops. Accepting the situation, he continued to Dyre Den and the Whispers, receiving the same welcome and similar results: some supplies but no troops. Every House of the Crackclaw Point was suffering attacks from these… grumpkins or snarks; none knew what to call them, for the beasts talked only in grunts and screams.

In the end, he had to call off his procession when they had to fight off three attacks by the damned creatures, losing a few men in the process. Returning to Maidenpool with nothing to show for but the staple of the Clawmen's trade, bows and arrow and spear shafts, was disheartening, yet at least they had managed to recover Jaime, so that was still a victory in his heart, if not as significant as he hoped for.

"My Lord…"

He turned to the outrider, surprised he was still there, "Yes? Anything else to report?"

"Aye. The army is gone, My Lord."

"Gone?" For a moment, Kevan did not understand. "What do you mean it's gone?"

"There are no war camps outside the walls. Not even a single tent and our scouts can't spot the Lannister banners for miles. Maidenpool itself seemed emptier than usual. The harbor hardly had any ships either, from what I could see, but–"

Kevan had a terrible feeling in his heart that his nephew had done something foolish. He quickly called for the men to hasten, and within a couple of hours, he was standing in front of the cowardly Lord William Mooton.

"He did what?!"

"We received word of the fall of the Golden Tooth and a raven for you from Lord Tywin a-about three days ago. I-I swear I didn't open it, but Ser Jaime insisted on reading it. H-He had this angry look on his face before he took the army, even my men, and c-commandeered all the boats in the harbors before sailing away!"

Oh, Jaime. What have you done?

Notes:

Ramsay getting ganked was honestly a no-brainer. There was just no way he could ever prevail against Demigod Percy or Sansa "Touched by the Gods" Stark and her pet hawk.

I did plan for an utterly brutal fight with Percy going full Kratos with his super sharp shield, but ultimately, it was just overkill. You can assume that last bit with the mop-up after the woodsmen turned on the Boltons included some sick shield decapitations.

I've been teasing small creatures running in the woods for several chapters now. I'm sure some thought they were Children of the Forest, and while I will not deny there may be some clans of them in the South, there are more things awakening in the world.

Oh dear, what is Jaime up to now?

Chapter 21: The Lion and The Wolf

Change in update schedule due to my work. Lament of Snow and Magic and Hero for the Maiden to update on Saturdays instead of Fridays. A Piece of Divinity and The Arc Moon System will be updated on Wednesdays instead of Tuesdays.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

---

23rd day of the 9th Moon.

Outside Harrenhal

"Lord Bolton." A knight in Merman livery gazed at him, face unreadable, but Roose could feel the caution and distrust practically oozing from the man. "Your presence is a rare sight in the trenches. In fact, I don't think I've seen you visit here before."

Roose Bolton looked down from atop his horse at the knight, the evening sun barely enough to show him the extended siege lines. The Northern army had arrived a fortnight ago. Only a couple of days ago, they finished constructing catapults and trebuchets, uselessly battering the high walls and massive gatehouse.

"I find it prudent to make sure all is as it should be, Ser Wendel."

"Aye, and I find it reckless that you would ignore the large garrison and the two gates in favor of fully encircling the castle. Harrenhal is a massive fortress, and our lines are stretched thin." The Manderly knight's gaze turned even colder, "You have placed all of my men in front of the main gate, conveniently close to the mustering grounds and stables. The same is true for what remains of Hornwood and the Flints while you, My Lord, hold the less fortified eastern gate. Expecting a sally out?"

Roose's face was as placid as ever as he gazed at the lines. Harrenhal only had two gates; the main one faced west deeper into the Riverlands, while the eastern one faced the Crownlands. Harren Hoare had designed it in such a way so as to swiftly attack the Storm Kings or quell a rebellious Riverlord.

With the army of the North numbering at fifteen thousand, including two thousand Frey and another thousand from other Riverlords, it was possible to fully surround the castle, but as the Manderly knight stated, it was reckless and unneeded. Simply splitting the army into two to block both gates and having outriders patrolling the rest of the walls would have been the wise thing to do.

But Roose Bolton did not need wisdom for what he had in mind.

"You must expect anything to happen when at war, Ser. I am certain the castle has a hidden sally port or three that could be used to devastating effects. We may be stretched thin, but so is our enemy who needs to man the extensive walls."

"Is that also why we are not sapping the castle?" Ser Wendel Manderly scoffed, and Roose's patience was running thin - despite his best efforts, the Manderly forces and their allies were still the most numerous of the Northern army, and he could not afford to appear malicious with his plans. "None of the trebuchets could even reach the top of the walls unless we place them well within scorpion range."

"Lord Tully's orders were clear: do not storm the castle. Sapping it would require far more manpower than what we have. Encircling it and starving them out is far more appealing than throwing men at those high walls. Would you disobey a command from the royal uncle? Or would you like to have your men grab shovels and start digging?"

"… As you say, My Lord."

Roose turned away, leading the few horses he brought from the North. Whatever cavalry the army had was lost at the Green Fork and other engagements. His own lancers were lightly armored, suitable for scouting and as outriders, yet he needed them elsewhere; there needed to be a line of communication between himself and potential allies - ones that would cause him to lose his head if it were ever revealed.

Even if Roose truly wanted to preserve the Northern army and send outriders everywhere, they had none left - none of the other lords had any horse aside from the lord's personal retinue. All they could depend on was the Riverlords sending them word of enemy movement every few days - in fact, there ought to be a rider coming soon with the latest news.

The only hostile army within three hundred miles was Kevan Lannister's army at Maidenpool, and Roose had an understanding with the Lion of Lannister and his lesser brother.

He made his way to his pink tent, sending away his men so he could recover in peace. Pouring himself a cup of hippocras, the Flayed Lord sipped it leisurely and idly wondered if he should get himself a cupbearer - his last one had died to a stray arrow at Darry. 'There are always youths willing to accept the most menial of tasks,' Roose mused as he prepared his leeches.

His blood had been acting up a lot more lately, and Roose knew the consequences of neglecting his leeching. Draining the rest of his cup, he shrugged off his black ringmail and the rest of his clothing before administering the leeches on himself - he was not one to ever trust his body to others.

Once done, Roose laid on his bed and closed his eyes.

---

"Letters for you, My Lord."

Roose Bolton opened his eyes and gazed at his captain of the guards. Walton knew not to interrupt his leeching unless it was a dire matter. Judging by the sweat on his brow and slight shaking of his captain's nose, things that no one would notice unless they had known the dour man for a long time, it appeared that something dire did indeed happen.

"Leave it on my desk," Roose closed his eyes and returned to rest - he could not afford to stop his leeching now; the necessities of war and leading a military campaign had heavy demands on his time. Yet he was already feeling the cost of his negligence. His blood was boiling, and his temper turned volatile, especially after having to deal with Manderly and the other lords complaining.

Not hearing Walton's reply, Roose opened a single eye, causing the man to nod and leave a couple of scrolls on his desk, one with a pink seal and another with the blue twin bridges. There was also a letter with no seal. Most likely ravens from his wife and lackwit of a son, so those could wait. The letter, however…

Once Walton left the tent, Roose sighed and attempted to return to his leeching, focusing on pushing out the bad blood and leaving the good humors. It was the same exercise he had done for what felt like an eternity yet it had not been as effective as of late. Ever since Rickard's granddaughter escaped King's Landing, his blood had raged in an old, long-forgotten way. It was a nostalgic feeling, but not one he relished, for he had vowed to leave that existence behind.

A peaceful land, and a quiet people.

That was all he ever desired, no matter how much the call pestered him. If he had to lie and betray others, play the human game of politics, kill his unworthy children, and usurp more power just to make sure he enjoyed his peace, then so be it.

Perhaps he did feel a tinge of regret at the loss of Domeric. For once, Roose decided to do something different and allow his Ryswell wife to raise the child. He was unworthy anyway and would need to be culled in time, yet it was the first child to be born in some time and live past infancy. Bethany Ryswell had never allowed her child out of her sight, and Roose entertained her emotionally driven mind for a time. It did not matter how Domeric would grow to be, for his fate was already sealed the moment he opened his brown eyes.

Such a shame his trueborn son did not inherit the sign; to think Ramsay would be the one, it left him no choice but to remove the useless, no matter how brilliant they shined. Roose might not have done the deed himself, but he was the one to let slip to Domeric about his bastard brother, and he was the one who supplied Ramsay with the poison. Reminding Ramsay of his place was but a ruse for his bastard to do his dirty work.

None as accursed as the kinslayer… accursed by whom? Why would Roose ever fear the gods' reprisal when they would never catch his soul?

His habit of practicing the old ways of the first night was purely pragmatic; Roose was not arrogant to believe that his two wives dying in childbirth and all his stillborns were not the result of his blood. Everything changed the day Ramsay's mother brought that child to his castle, and he saw those same eyes he found each day in the mirror staring at him. Roose knew that he had found his heir.

It would have been far more convenient if it had been Domeric and the alliances he brought, but now he was stuck with a lackwit to use once the time came - an ugly human with ugly tendencies and without the cunning to hide his urges. Roose would have much work waiting for him after the switch.

Feeling too distracted to properly circulate his bad humors, Roose sighed and rose from the bed, carefully removing the leeches to reuse them later. After pulling on his pink doublet, Roose set his gaze on the letters waiting by his table.

The one from his wife was short and concise - Walda was with child. His tittering and squeaky wife at least proved herself fertile. It remained to be seen if his seed would prove healthy enough for the child to live to be born. He was about to throw it in the fire when he noticed more on its back, giving him pause. The Northmen recaptured Moat Cailin. There were no details, yet Roose expected another letter to come by the rider. Ultimately it did not matter to Roose; the Ironborn would need to be purged from the North regardless.

He set the scroll on fire using the reading candle before glancing at the next scroll. Roose ignored it in favor of the letter; he had no patience for his bastard at the moment.

Opening the letter, he found another intriguing offer from Tywin Lannister. His lips quivered upwards as he realized how desperate the Lion's cause really was; now that Jamie Lannister was free, Lord Lannister had abandoned all pretenses and urged him to betray Robb Stark. The Freys were seething when they learned the king had taken a paramour, yet for all the grumbling and threats they threw, not one Weasel dared make a complaint: Robb Stark had not called off the promised betrothal.

Perhaps if Tywin Lannister managed to defeat Stannis Baratheon, then Roose would entertain such a venture with the help of the Freys. In the meantime, aligning himself with the Lions was a fool's gambit, and his continued loyalty to House Stark was by far the most profitable choice.

He would need many allies aside from the Freys for such a situation as to decapitate the Northern nobility to succeed - even then, the Freys, his surprisingly closest allies so far, would need something momentous to turn their cloaks so suddenly. Tywin Lannister promised many things in his correspondence yet he had yet to deliver a single thing.

After setting the letter on fire, his eyes fell to the last scroll, and Roose could already feel trepidation. His instincts screamed at him, which never boded well. What mad scheme had his bastard done this time? Knowing Ramsay, his luck could have quite possibly ran out, which would be a pity. Securing Sansa Stark would be a strong hand for House Bolton, whether for a betrothal or even for the prestige as the ones known for saving the King's sister… if the fool did not kill her in one of his inane games.

Opening the scroll, he froze, closed his eyes, counted from one to ten, then back to one, and read the scroll again, before groaning as he reached for his decanter of hippocras and drank, not even bothering to search for his cup. Roose Bolton's cold eyes inspected the scroll one last time before throwing it into the fire and sighing tiredly.

Another road closed; it seemed he would be counting on Walda a lot sooner.

The death of his bastard was mighty inconvenient, yet in the grand scheme of things, it did not truly matter. Roose Bolton still had a long life ahead of him before he needed to switch, and his current position provided him with plenty of opportunities.

New plans would need to be made, especially against this unknown variable the princess had brought to their homeland and even wed. Grabbing his wine, Roose hesitated before bringing out a cup and pouring himself a generous portion. As he sipped leisurely and stared at the burning candle, he decided that, yes, Ramsay's death was no true loss. He had always entertained ridding himself of the lackwit, for even if he wore his skin once this vessel's time expired, there was a risk that whatever clouded Ramsay's mind may affect him as well.

Yes, this was for the best. If Walda Frey were half as fecund as her mother, and considering her father's fertility, then Roose would have a few decades to prepare himself a proper heir. Now, he needed to ensure this war ended in the most favorable way possible to House Bolton. A letter would need to be sent to his master-at-arms, now acting castellan; resisting the princess and her sorcerer would be foolish, so surrender would be optimal to keep his forces intact.

Once he proved himself to the King, he could demand reparations for the unjust damage the Princess recked on his men and bastard. In the morn, perhaps, for now, he needed rest.

Just as Roose disrobed to retire for the night, the sounds of shouting and clanging of steel echoed through the camp. With no time to put on his armor, and cursing his lack of page, let alone a squire, Roose grabbed his sword and dagger before rushing out of his tent to find Walton hurrying from the perimeter.

"What is it?"

"We're under attack, My Lord. From the north."

The north?

"Who, and how many?"

"There are hundreds of horsemen and thousands of foot. It's too dark to tell who."

"Very well, rouse the men and prepare for battle."

Before Walton could do more than a salute, the sound of galloping horses approached them, along with shouts and curses. Roose turned to the approaching threat and instantly felt ire as he recognized the lion of Lannister on a red banner leading the charge. The warrior at the front was covered in blood and had lost his helmet.

Although Roose had never met the man, it was simple to recognize him even with his short hair.

Why in the Seven Hells was Jaime Lannister attacking them here?

---

Jaime

"Move, move, MOVE!"

Jaime roared at his exhausted men, yet by leading from the front and with Bolton's garish pink tent within sight, he managed to cajole his horsemen into charging straight through the now panicked Northern camp while the rest of the foot followed.

In hindsight, it had been an utterly mad idea to ferry three thousand men, a thousand of them horse, up the Bay of Crabs and to Harroway. The rest of the army that his uncle brought, and supplemented by Mooton's troops, were marching from Maidenpool as fast as they could, though Jaime did not need them for this night attack.

The two days of sailing and hard rowing to reach the Trident, followed by another five days of forced march to arrive here, could crumble the spirits of most men. And it did. Jaime had promised the men enough gold and loot for them to drown in, and even then, he had to quell a couple of mutinies, especially from the Rivermen.

In the end, it was all worth it.

The Northern Army outnumbered them, yet it was as Jaime thought and hoped; Roose Bolton truly was a lackwit. Spreading his army so thinly allowed Jaime to attack any portion of it and retain the numbers advantage in each engagement. Of all the available targets to him, Bolton was the natural choice.

It may seem counterintuitive to what Jaime had been forced to learn when he so blindly charged after the Blackfish, but this was different. There was no chasing after glory here, but simply taking an opportunity to hopefully turn this war to their side while destroying the North's army in the Riverlands.

Most importantly, it would force Robb Stark to abandon his campaign in the Westerlands and return east to face him. Tywin Lannister might not care for the well-being of his bannermen or people, but Jaime did. He could see the writing on the wall despite being a thousand miles away; if a Lannister did not secure victory soon, especially against the Northmen, their bannermen would revolt.

There were advantages to surprise attacks, even though pulling off one was incredibly difficult. Putting on armor took time, doubly more so, finding your shield and all your arms, not even mentioning grouping up and forming battle lines. The cover of the dark made everything even harder and more confusing.

And now Jaime's gamble was paying off.

He slashed at a Bolton man-at-arms, cutting his undefended neck. The rest of his men threw torches at tents and cut a bloody swathe through the unprepared Flayed Men. Suddenly, Jaime's horse stumbled - after being forced on a boat for the first time in its life, the beast was still uneasy on its hooves. Before Jaime could recover, a Bolton man with a poleaxe slashed at him and would have taken his right leg clean off if he had not jumped.

Instead, he struck his horse, dropping it dead with a pained scream. Jaime jumped quickly to his feet; his helmet was lost in the tumble, but his sword and shield were ready to attack.

And he found his target barely dressed, surrounded by his men.

No words were spoken; speed was of the essence - the more seconds passed, the more the Northmen had time to take up arms and armor and form up and come to Bolton's defense. Jaime charged at the poleaxe-wielding warrior while the rest of the Bolton men attacked his knights. Surprisingly, Roose Bolton was also fighting instead of retreating; brave but foolish, for it made his goal far easier.

His opponent was solid on his feet yet attacked in the most standard stances taught in the yard. Jaime dodged the first strike and aimed a slice at the man's legs, yet the following clang and rebound told him the man was wearing solid steel greave. Sadly, no matter how much he wished otherwise, Jaime could not cut through armor with his regular castle-forged sword. Yet the force of his blow was still powerful enough to cause the man to stumble. Before Jaime could capitalize on his advantage, he found himself face to face with the unsettling eyes of the Leech Lord.

"You are not supposed to be here, Ser Jaime Lannister."

Jaime was far too busy gulping for air to bother with a witty reply, opting to cut at the half-naked man instead, yet Bolton was surprisingly agile, for a man in his forties who looked like he had not picked up a sword for years. Slippery as an eel, the man lunged with his dagger like a viper, and Jaime barely managed to jerk out of the way, earning himself a gash on the face. Half a heartbeat slower, and instead of slicing his cheek, Jaime would have lost an eye.

Yet it barely phased the Kingsguard. Despite the bone-deep weariness, he was still quick on his feet. The overhead strike by the poleaxe warrior was promptly dodged. Jaime bashed the warrior with his shield and followed up with a quick poke at his throat before he could recover. While the poleaxe-wielding man fell, gurgling, Jaime tried to twist out of the way of yet another blow coming from Bolton. He failed – the Flayed Man was too fast, and his blade smashed at his shoulder, eliciting a pained grunt. The armor had done its job admirably, but experience told Jaime it would doubtlessly leave a nasty bruise.

His own men managed to keep the rest of the Flayed Men at bay, earning Jaime precious seconds to face off against Bolton.

"You are foolish and reckless." The words were emotionless as Bolton paused to stare at him with a pair of unsettling, ghastly eyes, but Jaime could swear he heard a sliver of annoyance in his tone. "You have no chance of victory here. Surrender, Ser Jaime, and I shall ensure you are treated as befitting your station."

There was no way in the Seven Hells Jaime would ever allow himself into captivity again, but if Roose Bolton wanted to capture him instead of slaying him, that simply made this easier.

Before Jaime could lunge at his foe with a stab, horn blasts erupted from the castle, and the sound of horses galloping and men hollering for battle approached from the looming walls of Harrenhal.

"Looks like Lorch finally got off his arse." Jaime twitched sideways as a bearded axe came crashing into his shield, courtesy of yet another armored Bolton man, causing him to grimace when his shield cracked. "Your men sure do like their axes."

Jaime mule kicked the axe wielder and threw his shield at Roose, who scrambled out of the way of the jagged edges, before grabbing his rondel dagger and lunging at the armored axman, stabbing in the gap of the hastily–and poorly strapped gorget.

"That's enough of this farce, kill him!"

As Jaime clambered to his feet, he found the normally placid face of Roose Bolton contorted in rage, and were his pale eyes turning red? He swiftly dodged away from a sword strike, noticing that the rest of his foes were not heavily armed, with simple arming swords and spears at most.

"Protect Ser Jaime!"

Roars and heavy footsteps came from behind, and Jaime retreated to join his men. A glance around him showed that the entire Bolton camp was in flames; the men either dead or fled. Ser Robert Brax, one of the few knights of renown who joined him on this mad venture, grabbed his shoulder to steady him, and Jaime nodded gratefully. Then, as one, they advanced at the surprisingly steadfast Bolton men, though the hastily-made battle line quickly broke up once more as everything turned chaotic in the dark.

Roose Bolton must indeed command their loyalty or fear, for they fought like demons, including the man himself.

Jaime had never expected so much trouble from a half-naked man wielding nothing but a sword and dagger. The Leech Lord did not seem to tire. In fact, the more he fought and slayed his men, the quicker and more precise his strikes were, and Jaime could not help but shudder as he clashed with the man and stared at those eerie pale eyes gradually turning crimson.

The man's face was gaining harsh lines, and his lips were thinning. When Jaime punched him in the jaw, he could feel his sharp teeth through his mail mittens.

What kind of monster was he fighting?!

Eventually, Roose's lack of armor cost him dearly when one of his men aimed a crossbow at him, nailing him in the heart. The men gawked when the Leech Lord uttered a guttural screech yet continued fighting anyway, slaying three of his men and Jaime could have sworn he saw their blood flying unnaturally towards the Leech Lord. He swiftly jabbed at Bolton's thigh, causing him to stumble before Jaime retreated and shouted.

"Crossbows!"

The pause had given the other crossbowmen time to aim at Bolton, and they unceremoniously turned him into a pincushion, dozens of bolts sticking out of his torso. The shrill shriek turned so sharp and inhuman that Jaime's ears started ringing, yet Roose Bolton would not fall!

So Jaime lunged forth, his sword swinging. It was a practiced motion aimed at the exposed pale neck before him; he had swung the blade in his hand hundreds of thousands of times. The unholy wails abruptly stopped as the decapitated head rolled on the ground.

As he lifted the Lord of the Dreadfort's head by his long hair, Jaime nearly threw it in the burning tents when the eyes blinked at him, and the lips moved wordlessly, hatefully, at him.

Then, a cloud so dark it seemed to devour the ruddy light of the flames oozed out of both the head and its corpse, amalgamating into a hideous monstrous shape with familiar pale eyes, yet its entire body was crimson. Like blood.

Jaime staggered backward, even as the rest of his men bundled together and muttered curses and prayers.

The monster seemed skinless. Like it was flayed. Before they could do anything, it screeched and blasted off into the skies.

"Mother above."

"What kind of heathen monstrosities do the Northmen keep?"

"This is not the time for chatter," Jaime rebuked, pushing the terror down and trying to get his shaky knees back in control. "We must clear the rest of the camps and reinforce Lorch if we ever want to be rid of the Northmen in one fell swoop."

The men were still shaken yet hollered in agreement, and within the hour, Jaime was again fighting against desperate Northmen. With Lorch's seven thousand-strong garrison, it appeared victory was well within their grasp, especially as they approached the Main Gate where most of the Northmen were camped and found a knight in manticore livery leading a score of men and slaying a knight in merman livery. The men rejoiced, and Jaime felt ecstasy better than any night he shared with Cersei as he roared with them in victory.

Until an unholy howl roared back.

It was as if they were in a dream, and Jaime watched from a distance as the clouds blocking the full moon broke and a figure appeared on top of a hill. The roar came again, and he realized it was a howl–a wolf's howl– that was answered by many more until suddenly, a mass of dark shapes dashed out of the darkness and descended on their nearest target.

Lorch's army.

All the horses reared up in terror, and Jaime was glad he and his men were on foot as many men were thrown off from their steeds and ran like the very hounds of hell were after them. Looking at the sight, it may very well be true as a monstrous she-wolf led her pack to fall upon Lorch and his men, ripping them apart with claws that ripped chainmail as if it were paper and jaws that bit through heavy plate like it was chicken bones. The terrible sounds of armor getting ripped apart by the direwolf while her smaller cousins tore at the flesh made Jaime queasy. The screams of the dying did not help, nor did the fact the wolves did not target any of the Northmen who seemed to rally themselves.

"Ser Jaime! We need to do something before the Northmen rally and retaliate." Ser Robert Brax's voice did not quiver, yet Jaime could see the fear in his eyes as he turned to him. "We are still outnumbered, and the men will drop from exhaustion or surrender if forced to fight once more."

Jaime knew that was the truth, but what could they possibly do against such beastly foes? No horse would dare charge a pack of wolves, let alone one led by a wolf larger than most horses. Before Jaime could make a decision he would regret, one of his men grabbed his attention.

"Ser! There is a disturbance by the gate."

They were about two hundred yards from the main gate, yet the moon's shining light was strong enough to show dozens of men fighting whatever guards remained from the garrison before a stream of horsemen charged out. Jaime rubbed his eyes in disbelief, but he could have sworn he saw a slight figure with dark hair and grey eyes staring at him as they galloped away.

Was that?

Any suspicion on the identity of the figure evaporated as the wolves abandoned their prey and dashed towards the figures running from the castle.

Unexpectedly, the wolves did not attack but seemed to group up around their target. Like a shaggy honor guard. Jaime just stood there and watched as the pack escorted the figure out of the battlefield, the horse-sized direwolf holding the rear. Then the beast turned to face him, and Jaime found himself looking at the same grey eyes as the girl from earlier.

Challenging him.

"Ser? Your orders?"

"Leave them. The wolves are gone."

Even the Northmen seemed to prefer escaping than staying behind and facing the mauled remains of the garrison - as if the heavens were playing a jest on them, the clouds returned and blocked the moonlight, hiding how many of their men remained from the Northmen. "Round up any prisoners you find. The day is ours."

As the men tiredly cheered, many of them simply collapsed where they stood, and Jaime could not blame them, for even he had sat on a fallen log to catch his breath. For an entire sennight, he had driven them like a slavemaster would drive his slaves to make it all the way here while dodging or slaying patrols by the Riverlords. This entire mad venture was a huge gamble that ultimately paid off, though not as decisively as he had hoped.

Still a far better endeavor than a wild goose chase in the Crownlands searching for a widow to take hostage like his father desired.

Nevertheless, as morning arrived and the butcher's bill was taken, Jaime thought the effort was still worth it. Of his three thousand men, nearly a thousand perished to the Northmen while five hundred were wounded, half of those heavily so and would no longer be able to fight. Of Lorch's seven thousand, all one thousand horses were scattered, and they would need to spend days, if not weeks, rounding them up again. The men themselves did not suffer many losses, for the wolves did not linger after tearing their commanders apart; they had found Amory Lorch's mangled form surrounded by a score of similarly shredded corpses near the Manderly camp. Their armor did not protect them; the claw and bite marks on the remains of castle-forged steel had caused many men to shudder in fear.

Jaime had come across Robb Stark's direwolf twice, first when it was but a pup in Winterfell, then a year later in the Whispering Woods. It had grown from the size of a dog to a pony at that time. Nearly ten moons had passed since then, and Jaime shuddered to imagine how big and fearsome it had grown. Judging by the sight of the direwolf they faced last night, most likely larger than a fucking bear.

Of the Northmen, it was difficult to know their full numbers before the assault, yet they counted five thousand dead and took two thousand more prisoners, most of them Rivermen. One of the captains of the garrison claimed there were ten thousand total, yet another said it was near fifteen. That still meant thousands of Northmen had escaped and could be rallied in time.

Regardless, while Jaime would have loved to destroy the entire army, this was still a glorious victory that might very well turn the tide of the war. With the North's presence cut down in the Riverlands, it would only be a matter of time until they managed to sow discord into Edmure Tully's forces.

Still, to think that Arya bloody Stark had been right under their noses for so long, and no one had noticed. If Lorch wasn't already dead, Jaime would have killed him for incompetence. Perhaps it was the Seven having a laugh by having the pig-like bastard die to a little girl's pet.

Jaime yawned, dearly wishing for a soft, feathered bed. Or a bath… aye, a hot soak sounded heavenly, especially after facing the monstrous form of Roose Bolton that still gave him shivers as he thought about it - Jaime was sure that he and his men would be visited by night terrors for many nights that would feature a red monster with pale eyes.

Still, a bath… Alas, the pesky layers of armor that would require a quarter of an hour to remove prevented him from having either.

"Ser Jaime!" A squire ran to him as Jaime and his entourage combed through the camps for the war chest. "The castle!"

"What is it? Did it collapse?"

"No, Ser! The remaining men, cooks, smiths, and everyone else are running outside!"

Jaime was far too exhausted to deal with this shit, yet as he dragged his weary body to the path leading to the main gate, he found a lot of smallfolk rushing away from the castle. All of them were dressed in night clothes or hastily-pulled on cloaks, and the scullery maids were screaming in fear.

"What happened?" He grabbed a guard as he stumbled in fear. "Why are you abandoning your posts?"

"It's the curse! The castle has unleashed all of its rats and vermin and crows and ravens! They are tearing us apart!"

Jaime would have ordered the fool to be flogged for lying if he did not recall his fight with the demonic Roose Bolton. As he stared at the castle, he found a massive swarm of rats running up and down the walls like maggots on a rotting corpse. Murders of crows flew overhead, screaming and cawing at them with beady red eyes.

The eldest son of Tywin Lannister groaned tiredly, realizing that his dreams of a hot soak were running further and further away.

A*H*M

"Hurry, we must hurry. The Princess is ill."

Ser Wylis Manderly nodded at Donnel Locke's words as the heir to Old Castle held onto the slim form of Arya Stark in his saddle. Wylis could still see it in his mind when they escaped from the castle, how the Northern army was set upon so treacherously. He prayed for his fellow Northmen's safety; for his brother, Wendel, and many cousins serving in the army.

Yet there was nothing they could do aside from getting to safety. They had already encountered a few contingents of Glover troops led by an injured Robett Glover; the heir to Deepwood Motte did not know what happened to the rest of the Northmen as his camp was on the outskirts.

"Quickly now, we need to keep moving."

Donnel Locke urged the wounded Glover men as they traveled deeper into the Riverlands. Wylis' eyes fell again on the Princess; never in his wildest dreams would he have thought their savior would be Arya Stark, of all people, that she was as much a captive in that cursed castle as they were was a shock! For too long, they had been held in that castle, and with the arrival of more men who joined Tywin Lannister, Wylis had thought all hope was fading away.

Yet when he caught several rats sneaking into his room with messages on their paws, Wylis's hopes soared, even if he had no idea who the sender was. It took a lot of time to warn the rest of the prisoners and prepare them for a potential escape.

That the mastermind turned out to be Arya Stark had shocked all the Northmen to the core, especially when she showed unnatural but very welcome abilities. This brought them to their current situation, riding on stolen horses as fast as they could and their Princess incapacitated. Her direwolf loped with them, a bit of a distance away to give the horses space, though Wylis was certain every horse within a league should be screaming in terror when the wolf did the same trick that caused the Lannister horse to panic.

Regardless, the direwolf seemed calm, almost friendly, her silvery eyes unmoving from her unconscious master.

"We need to rest until the Princess wakes up," Donnel announced as they arrived at a clearing near a pond surrounded by woodlands.

There were hills nearby that shielded them from sight, and Wylis had to agree with the young lordling; they had been galloping like mad for two days with little to no rest at all, and the late afternoon sun was slowly turning to evening. Their horses also needed rest, or else they would risk injury, and without their steeds, they could not hope to outlast any pursuers.

"Very well, let's set our camp here."

Sighs of relief sounded out as the men dismounted, and the smallfolk that the Princess gathered began working on the odd jobs required from a camp: Gathering firewood, clearing bushes, setting up tents, and cooking fires. There were about a hundred escaped prisoners; nearly half were Northmen nobles and warriors, while the rest were cooks, smiths, daytalers, farriers, and so on from Harrenhal. Arya Stark had been very busy and sneaky indeed to have been capable of gathering so many supplies and loyal followers right under the Lannisters' noses.

The wolves had long run off during their escape, yet the direwolf waited until they had laid the Princess in a comfortable cot before slinking away, most likely to hunt or scout, Wylis did not know. The massive beast was unnerving, yet he was glad she was on their side.

"If I'm not mistaken, Arya Stark is in her wolf right now." Wylis stared at Harrion Karstark as if he had grown another head before he explained. "Our old kennel master was a warg, though none knew except for my father and the greybeards. I learned it the hard way during a hunt, and a wolf nearly killed me. Old Jack suddenly collapsed, and the wolf stopped, its yellow eyes changing to the same color as the kennel master's blue."

"By the Seven! Such…"

"Terrific powers?"

"I was going to say witchcraft, but sure. If our Stark Princess has such powers, then there's no way it is witchcraft." Wylis twitched his mustache as he bit into some hard tack, grimacing at the lack of taste - what he would do for some lampreys. "To say otherwise would be treason!"

Harrion chortled hoarsely, and the rest of the men joined them. All of them would have been honor-bound to protect Arya Stark at all costs simply because she was their Princess, but after what she did for them?

"So what is wrong with the Princess?" Robbet Glover asked as he slowly stitched his cut arm, but his worried gaze was set on Arya's still form, her eyes wide open and shining a strange white light - they would have thought her dead if not for her steady breathing. "You mentioned it's been a day since you broke out, and she was fine until you left the castle, right?"

"Aye, she mentioned something about leaving the Lannisters a final gift but then collapsed. If it were not for Ser Donnel's quick reflexes, she would have fallen off her horse."

They nodded to the Northern Knight, who suddenly stood up, his hand trailing to the dagger on his belt. The worrying act caused everyone to stand, and Wylis stared at the distant woods as the trees parted to show a man looking at them in surprise. He was not one of theirs, yet he looked like a Northman.

One of his knights from White Harbor, a cousin of his wife's named Ser Ondrew Woolfield, placed a spear near the man's neck. "Name yourself!"

"Are you Northmen? I'm Alyn, a household guard at Winterfell." The claim caused many to look strangely at him, "I was led here by a direwolf, one that I am sure was only the size of a pup the last I saw it."

"How do we know you tell the truth? All of Westeros knows about the Starks and their direwolves."

"It's fine, he speaks the truth." Wylis nearly cricked his neck as he turned to Arya Stark, who groaned as she held her head, yet she seemed healthy enough for a girl who spent the better part of a year in captivity - though her face was too pale, and he could see her rubbing away at blood from her nose. "Tell me, Alyn. Do you recognize me?"

"Arya Stark!" The man stepped closer, but Ondrew would not budge until Arya waved him away. Alyn approached yet kept a respectful distance as Wylis, Harrion, and the rest of the nobles stood around their Princess protectively. "I never imagined I would find you here."

"Aye, it seems you have also brought some friends as well."

Suddenly, many figures appeared from around the woods, some holding onto those who went for firewood, and Wylis found himself moving closer to their Princess as she stood up groggily, holding onto his offered arm in a tight grip - it worried him if the Princess was not as healthy as she pretended to be, yet after a few heartbeats, Arya Stark steadied herself, nodded her thanks and gazed at the surrounding clearing.

Just as it looked like they were surrounded, the massive form of Arya's direwolf burst out of the woods on the opposite side, causing many of those surrounding them to shout in fear, especially when dozens of smaller wolves appeared out of nowhere. Now, their potential enemies found themselves surrounded just as they attempted to surround them.

"Now," Arya's voice was raspy, and her slightly cloudy eyes gazed at the intruders coldly. "Why is a household guard of my father's with what appears to be a band of poachers and thieves?"

"We are no poachers or outlaws, My Lady." Another figure stepped through the woods, making Wylis grimace - the man looked to be half-dead with still open wounds that ought to have killed him yet miraculously still moved. "I am Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven, and I was ordered by your father, the Lord Hand, to hunt down the bandits plaguing these lands. Many things have happened since then, and now I find myself the leader of this Brotherhood without Banners, where we hunt all who commit evil in these lands - thus fulfilling Lord Stark's last command."

"Deserters, then." Wylis could not help but scoff as he glared at the fallen lord. "Instead of joining King Robb or any other claimant, you decided to act as glorified bandits."

Some of the men grimaced, but most seemed insulted, yet did not dare move with the wolves so close to them.

"Call us what you wish, but we had nowhere to go and no cause to follow aside from what, we believed, was best." A young voice chimed in as a comely lad with rosy tanned skin, pale hair, and blue eyes so dark it looked purple approached. Wylis would have mistaken him for a Targaryen if not for the purple cloak that had a sword and shooting star sewn on it - a Dayne, and judging by the massive two-handed sword slung over his back that the lad looked uncomfortable carrying, the future Sword of the Morning. "I am Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall. Perhaps we should discuss this in a more peaceful setting? We heard of a great battle near Harrenhal, yet we do not know much of what happened."

Harrion Karstark looked ready to say something before looking down at the Princess, waiting for her input. Wylis was surprised to find himself looking to Arya Stark, the same as nearly everyone in their camp, waiting for her decision. The Princess flinched at the many eyes looking at her for answer yet she straightened her back and looked resolutely at Edric Dayne.

"Fine."

Notes:

Jaime takes a huge gamble, and for once, it works! Yes, the bulk of his troops are dead or crippled, and those were mostly knights and men-at-arms rather than the untrained levies that Kevan had been collecting like unwanted strays.

The Northern army is decimated; nearly half is dead and the rest scattered to the winds. Roose Bolton, who was secretly a demonic entity that really liked pretending to be human, is released from his mortal coil. Suffice it to say, I do subscribe to the Bolt-On theory to an extent, but not that he is an Other.

How Robb would react to the destruction of his army remains to be seen, but the fact remains that Jaime succeeded in his goal; bloody the North and grab Robb's attention away from the Westerlands. Who knows how such an act would reverberate across Westeros.

Meanwhile, our second favorite She-Wolf makes a resurgence! Skinchanging into so many birds and vermin is not good for your health.

Chapter 22: The Roots of the World

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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Hollow Hill

Arya

Arya opened her eyes with a gasp. For a few heartbeats, she could only see the last vestiges of the night terror she had, the images flashing in her mind's eye hardly comparable to the sense of dwindling warmth and sudden darkness. She died. Multiple times. So many times that she nearly went insane as her feathery body was peppered with arrows and her furry little paws crushed under metal boots or stabbed with spears.

She nearly panicked, and the scream of terror was on her lips before noticing the powerful heartbeats of her companion, causing her to calm down. Arya dragged her weary body up from her cot, Nymeria occupying all of it while allowing her to sleep on her comfortable flank. Ever since she had been reunited with her direwolf, her companion had not left her side even for a heartbeat.

The first thing Arya did after they arrived in this massive cave was to commandeer an underground spring that the women and children were using. She did not mean to kick them out, but they ran away screaming in terror when they saw Nymeria, not giving her a chance to explain.

Arya only wanted to wash up and clean Nymeria. If she were to meet with her family soon, Arya wanted to be at her best. She no longer worried about being a lady or learning her courtesies; Arya had had her fill of wild adventures and fighting for her life. If that was the price to be back with her mother, Robb, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon, then so be it. Arya would be the most lady-like lady that ever existed!

For now, though, she was stuck in this hole underground as the rest of the Northmen deliberated with that strange band of men here.

After a very thorough scrubbing in the surprisingly hot water, she even cleaned Nymeria's fur properly too, Arya finally noticed several of the Northmen standing guard by the entrance, much to her chagrin.

Regardless, she was finally ready to meet the outlaws claiming they followed her father's last decree. A suspicious claim if she ever heard one, as if her father would allow anyone to turn to banditry!

At least that was her plan, but then exhaustion hit her like a sack of turnips, and she allowed the no-longer corpulent form of Wylis Manderly to handle that matter. He and the rest of the nobles; Harry Karstark? No, it was Harrion, but he said to call him Harry; Arya shrugged inwardly. No matter, the nobles had sworn their loyalty to her as the Princess of the North, the highest royal authority available around, and vowed to return her to her family, so it was fine with Arya.

She was far too busy fighting off those night terrors as they discussed those boring matters. Whatever Arya had done with the vermin and birds of Harrenhal had wrung her dry; more than just mentally and physically.

She doubted she would ever do anything like that again… just remembering the disjointed feeling of being in so many minds, jumping from one to the other as she tried to return to her body - desperately trying to flap wings that she did not have enough experience using and the damned birds would not cooperate. It was like she was a ghost… the Ghost of Harrenhal, Arya mused with a strained chuckle.

Wearing small animals' skin for information gathering was easy; they barely even noticed her presence as long as she did not drive them to do something they did not want. The sheer terror that Arya absorbed from the animals she possessed was illuminating to learn the downsides of skinchanging, especially when done into small and typically meek animals.

It was only thanks to Nymeria anchoring her that Arya managed to return to her body.

"Princess Arya? Are you awake?"

Arya turned to the sound of approaching steps and found that same boy from yesterday at the cave entrance. The underground complex was so vast that it had many smaller caves that acted as rooms and chambers. Some of them were large enough to be halls! Nevertheless, the most striking feature of Hollow Hill was the abundance of weirwood roots everywhere. Arya had never seen roots so large; they were as big as the trunk of Winterfell's heart tree!

Then again, Arya had never seen a weirwood's roots so deep underground. What was it that Old Nan said?

"The trees will live forever if undisturbed. The wood never rots, and its roots forever dig deep as they try to reach each other. It is said the oldest weirwood has roots that reach the center of the earth!"

Arya always liked listening to those tales; at least they offered her reprieve from the Septa's lessons. Sansa and Theon would tell her they were tall tales made to frighten children, yet so far, Arya had found all the stories Old Nan told come true. She was a skinchanger, she was a warg, and the roots around her certainly seemed to go on forever.

"Princess? I have someone here to help you dress if it pleases you, and we have brought breakfast."

She flinched as the pretty boy from yesterday - Dayne? - knocked on a wooden panel outside her cave and peeked inside. Nymeria did not seem bothered, and while Arya could very well dress and groom herself, her clothes were a tattered mess.

"You may come in."

The fair-haired boy gracefully entered, dressed in his tattered purple cloak and lugging that massive sword over his shoulder. It was so large compared to his frame that it dangled down to his knees, and the boy was not too short, yet he still carried himself with grace. A warm smile was on his face even as he gazed at Nymeria, indigo eyes bright with excitement as he beheld her form and withdrew a large bone that must have come from a horse or a donkey. He looked hesitantly at her, and a confused Arya simply nodded as he offered the bone to the direwolf.

The act seemed appealing to Nymeria, who huffed and arrogantly raised her head before accepting the bone, though judging by the way her tail wagged, she certainly liked the offering. It was a strange sight, as her wolf was usually far more suspicious of others, especially after Arya had driven her off the way she did.

Behind the Dayne boy were two older girls, one holding a tray of food and the other a bundle of clean clothes. Unlike him, they looked as if they wanted to turn tail and run away screaming, judging by the wary looks Nymeria was receiving.

"Good morn, Princess. This is Catelyn Rivers and Willow Heddle."

Arya perked up at the first girl's name, an older blonde-haired girl with blue eyes and a pleasant face marred by worried glances thrown towards Nymeria. Still, she was named after her mother and a Rivers? She barely managed to hold her snort before standing up to properly greet them.

"Arya Stark." She said simply before turning to the other girl. Willow was probably her age, or perhaps older by a year, with brown hair and eyes. She also looked scared of Nymeria, which was silly; her direwolf would not hurt anyone who did not wish to harm her. Besides, what's-his-name already showed that Nymeria was a good girl. "Thanks for the change of clothes."

She looked pointedly at the fair-haired boy, who tilted his head in confusion until Catelyn Rivers nudged him with her elbow. "She wants to change, you dolt."

"Ah, certainly." Dayne nodded seriously but did not move as he waited until a kick from the blonde girl to his knee caused him to flinch, his rosy skin gaining a flush. "Hey, what was that for?"

"You are not in Dorne anymore, My Lord." Catelyn pointedly looked at the cave exit until the boy finally got the hint.

"Ah, my apologies. Please don't hesitate to call me if you need any aid." Dayne bowed courteously to them, causing both girls to blush lightly, and smiled cheerfully at her before leaving the cave.

As she stared at the boy leaving, Arya had a weird feeling in her belly as she recalled his smile, yet she clenched her teeth as she remembered the countless beautiful faces of King's Landing. That freak, Joffrey, also looked handsome, but Arya had sniffed out the shit hidden inside long ago, unlike her sister.

Still, Arya did not get the same suspicious feeling that always followed her when she was in King's Landing, particularly in the presence of Joffrey. But Nymeria did not mind Dayne, the canine already curled in the corner, happily gnawing at the bone to extract the marrow.

Perhaps the young Dayne was not all bad? Still, Arya will keep a healthy distance from the Dornish boy. She was a princess now, no matter how much she did not care one whit about it other than returning to her family, and she did not trust some strangers she had just met, especially boys.

Instead, Arya decided to try to make friends with these girls. Hopefully, they would be better than Sansa's friends back home - which immediately sobered her as she remembered Jeyne Poole was also in King's Landing and silently prayed that she managed to escape with Sansa. "So, what's your story?"

"I'm the bastard daughter of Lord Lymond Lychester, begotten on a serving maid that he fancied." Catelyn Rivers spoke calmly as she helped brush her hair. She looked to be two or three years older than her, the same age as Dayne. "My Lord Father had not been well since the death of his sons, my half-brothers, in the rebellion. I am told my mother was the bright spot in his life and that he even hoped to wed her, regardless of how scandalous it was." Once done with the brushing, Catelyn began braiding her dark hair. Though Arya could not see her face, she could hear the somberness in her voice. "Yet my mother died from a cold that struck the land shortly after giving birth to me. Father never married despite the many offers, and now, the castellan and maester rule in all but name, while Lord Lychester speaks of nothing but some duel he had fifty years ago against a knight called Maynard."

Catelyn finished braiding her hair and grabbed the clothes held by Willow. Arya did not feel like giving the girl condolences or empty platitudes; her brother Jon never cared for any. "And what about you, Willow?"

"Me? Oh, well, my great-aunt Masha used to own the Crossroads Inn, but when Lady Catelyn, your mother, Princess," Willow added apologetically at her confusion. "When Lady Stark… apprehended the Imp in my aunt's inn, it doomed her. Tywin Lannister was ruthless as he had villages, inns, and any undefended towns burned, and the people butchered." The meek girl growled with hatred in her eyes, yet there was also a healthy amount of fear. "Masha Heddle was hanged like a common brigand for allowing the Imp to be taken, regardless of the fact there was nothing she could have done to stop it, and the inn was ransacked. My sister and I watched as the lion's men ravaged the place, but our parents managed to gather the survivors and rebuild what was left."

"I see," Arya allowed the girls to help dress her into a comfortable yet plain dress that she doubted Sansa would be caught dead wearing. "So, how did you end up here?"

"The war happened." Catelyn replied, "Although my father was hardly lucid, he still ordered me to be raised as his heir. I was taught how to read and write, numbers, heraldry, history, and how to run a household. The old Maester was kind enough to teach me and have me involved in running the castle, but the castellan was not at all a fan of that. He is a distant relative raised in his Frey mother's home, the Twins."

"The Freys?" Arya did not know much about them, but the little she knew was not kind. "There were plenty of Frey prisoners in Harrenhal, but they were quickly ransomed or released. Unlike the Northmen."

"Yes, the Freys have practically married into every house of note south of the Neck. I'm not surprised they manage to get preferential treatment from the Lions." Catelyn Rivers blithely explained with a tone not at all flattering to Arya's future kin - even she had heard the price of her brother crossing that bridge. "Once Maester Wallace passed away, the new Maester Roone had no influence to contend with the castellan, often spending most of his time tending to my father. Castellan Walder coveted the Lychester seat, and with the Freys joining the Northmen with a promise of a queen, they had grown bold and grasping. Realizing that I would most likely find myself killed in my sleep, I found myself a fugitive from my home and ended up here."

Catelyn chuckled sardonically as they finished dressing her before laying down on the ground for breakfast. Dayne took that as a sign that he could come back in and set down a short-legged round table with artistic motifs, a metal surface, and a spike of all things set in the center. The boy placed the plates of food on it, and they sat to eat the meager meal, salted fish, pickled vegetables, a bowl of onion soup, a large loaf of black bread, and one large pie.

It was delicious compared to the gruel Arya would scrounge in Harrenhal.

"I'm happy you managed to find a safe place," Arya comforted awkwardly. She did not know what courtesy dictated in such a situation. Looking to change the subject, she glanced at the other girl, "What about you, Willow?"

"Oh, my story is far less interesting. I was sent here by my family for my safety, along with a few girls. A wandering septon would come by and ask for supplies for the Brotherhood, you see." the shy girl fiddled with her thumbs. "My older sister, Jeyne, had married this young smith from King's Landing. Claimed to be the apprentice of some famous foreign master but was tired of the city and worked as a wandering smith. Eventually, Gendry met my sister and they fell in love - and it truly was a joy to watch him work metal like he was an embodiment of the Smith himself! It was a fortuitous meeting, for shortly afterward, some Lannister foragers discovered we rebuilt the inn and tried to raid it. Gendry did not like that. Did I mention he is seven feet tall, built like a bear, and a monster with a hammer?"

"Sounds like someone who could give the Mountain a good fight." Dayne shivered as he seemed to recall something unpleasant. "So he protects your inn?"

"Yes, Gendry had attracted the eyes of some Northern Lord who passed by with the army, claiming the lad must either be a Storm or a Waters," Willow looked confused, yet Arya shared a glance with Catelyn. "Especially with his dark hair and blue eyes, booming voice, and talent with a warhammer."

Arya might not have been as diligent in her studies as Sansa, yet she had always loved reading about the battles of the Rebellion, especially anything that had to do with Robert Baratheon. While the king turned out to be a disappointment when she saw him, she still met Lord Renly, and she could easily see the resemblance of the Demon of the Trident in Renly Baratheon if the latter ever discarded his silks for steel. This Gendry had to be a bastard of Robert, not that it truly mattered. The man might be offering protection from bandits, but if he caught the eye of the Lannisters, or they suspected his lineage, he would surely not survive a week.

Arya glanced at Dayne, "What did you say your name was again?"

"Why, Princess! You have already forgotten mine name?" The Dornish boy lamented with a dramatic gasp as he held his heart, his theatrics causing Willow to giggle. "You wound me, your grace, especially as we might be kin for all we know."

"Wait, what? I don't think many Starks married outside the North in the past hundred years, and those that did were in the Vale."

"True, but I was told your brother was my milk brother." The boy shrugged as he dipped a piece of bread in the bowl of soup before eating it with a piece of the pie. "Ah, my name is Edric Dayne, but everyone calls me Ned."

"Ned? Like my father."

"Aye, House Dayne owes a great debt to House Stark. As Lord of Starfall, though my sister acts as my regent, it is up to me to make sure we make amends."

Arya was tempted to ask what debt he spoke about, but she remembered the tale of her aunt. Lyanna Stark was spirited away by the Silver Prince, yet he was not alone. The Kingsguard were with him, one of them, the most famous of all: Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning and wielder of the legendary blade Dawn; which Arya realized with a start must be the same blade that Ned Dayne had laid on the ground beside him.

She had heard the story several times, though her father was loath to hear about it for some reason. How Eddard Stark and his six companions marched through the harsh desert and mountains of Dorne for weeks, dodging bandits, deserters, and Dornish outriders, how they arrived at the Tower of Joy, weary and exhausted, their armor abandoned to the smoldering heat.

Yet, the Northmen were undaunted when faced with the three fresh and heavily armored Kingsguard. It was a tale of valor and epic combat, for while the Northmen outnumbered the Kingsguard, the knights were better armed and rested. Many embellishments were made on how the fights went, for neither her father nor the elusive Howland Reed had provided any details, yet the end result was known to all. The Northmen triumphed, though only two of them survived. Her aunt Lyanna was found dead after enduring whatever horrors the mad prince had done to her. The Kingsguard served their king or prince, yet they were also knights, and by abetting the abduction of a noble lady, they were as much at fault as Rhaegar Targaryen - was the only thing her father had let slip about the entire affair.

Her father had every right to claim Dawn for House Stark, yet he instead brought it back to Starfall, a castle that was far away from wherever he was and forever gaining the respect of the Dornish house. Eddard Stark already had a splendid reputation in the war, from the little that Arya heard, especially near its conclusion when he denounced Tywin Lannister for the murder of Rhaegar's children and brokered peace with the Reachmen.

This move, however, solidified his legacy. To return such a legendary blade after he won it through fair combat, none would have begrudged him, yet her father was better. Besides, House Stark had Ice as an ancestral blade, which reminded Arya of her list and how Ilyn Payne needed to die most gruesomely when she recovered the blade.

"Hang on," Arya suddenly recalled what he said. "Milk brother?"

"Aye, Jon Snow is your half-brother, is he not? His mother was a servant in our castle called Wylla… at least that's what my sister told me, but to be honest, I do not believe that was true." Ned Dayne had a shrewd smile as he chewed his food thoughtfully, "Wylla was my nursemaid, and she never claimed to be Jon's mother, only that she also nursed him when he was a swaddling babe. After all, how would a servant of Starfall, who had never left the vicinity of the Torrentine all of her life, have captured the eyes of Eddard Stark?"

"So, is Jon truly Ashara Dayne's son?" Arya did not truly care who Jon's mother was. Jon was Jon, her brother, and they looked like their father the most among the six siblings.

"No, my aunt gave birth to a girl," Dayne's voice thickened with amusement as Arya sat there, blinking in confusion. "Cousin Dyanna is a few years older than me, born at the end of the rebellion… which does make me wonder if the rumors of Aunt Ashara getting it on with your uncle Brandon while he was imprisoned in the Red Keep have a grain of truth in it?"

Willow blushed as she stammered out a few sentences while Catelyn merely groaned at the Dornish boy's vulgar theories. Arya, however, did not care about any of that. "Are you saying I have a cousin in Starfall that I was never told about?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never been to Winterfell to know what your father decides to tell you, but he did see the girl and occasionally sent gifts over the years." Ned shrugged again as he finished the last of his plate. Arya and the rest finished at the same time. "Now, how about we head out and see if the older fogies are done with their discussions."

They stood up, Catelyn taking away the platter while Ned grabbing the table, fiddled with some hidden mechanism that caused its legs to fold, and Arya suddenly stared at a round buckler instead of a table. It was an interesting design where the legs were folded into its underside, allowing it to be carried easily. That, combined with the short curved sword she only now noticed on Ned's hip, told her his weapons of choice.

"Nifty little thing, isn't it? Starfall is famous for three things: the Sword of the Morning, cotton, and our craftsmen. I got this as a gift from Aunt Allyria when I won a squire tournament last year. She is betrothed to my knight, Lord Beric Dondarrion, you see. I may not yet be strong enough to wield Dawn," The young lord of Starfall grabbed the great sword and latched it over his shoulder, "yet Lord Beric tells me I'm pretty decent with sword and shield."

"'Decent,' he says," Catelyn huffed in amusement, "I saw you disembowel that knight a few weeks ago like he was a farmhand on his first battle."

"It was a difficult fight, but to save a young lady, I would fight much worse." Ned Dayne laughed lightly, causing Catelyn to blush prettily, though Arya could see both turned somber, giving the impression it was not a particularly happy memory.

Nymeria stood as she approached her; Needle was laid against the wall next to the wolf, and Arya remembered how difficult it was for her to recover Jon's gift. It had taken a lot of patience and copious use of her skinchanging powers to recover it from Amory Lorch's rooms. How it made its way there after they were waylaid by the Mountain's men so long ago, she did not know, most likely lost in a bet or won in a fight. Regardless, it was hers, and she vowed that no matter how lady-like she may need to act in the future, Arya would not let her Needle out of her grasp.

Secured on a belt over her dress, she nodded to the rest, "Let's go."

As they left the cave, a squad of Northmen approached. Arya recognized Alyn and Harwin from her father's retinue; the three others were Glover, Karstark, and Manderly men, each major house of the North vying to show their loyalty by providing her with sworn swords. She vaguely recalled Wylis Manderly mentioning it last night, yet she was too tired and opted to sleep. Apparently, they had been guarding the entrance to the cave leading to her room, though Arya wondered why they allowed Ned and the rest in without a fuss.

"You had your direwolf, Princess," Alyn explained as if it was the most obvious thing. "And we are all under guest rights. None would dare harm you lest the Gods smite them where they stood. Especially here."

They walked through the rocky tunnels, Nymeria following them like a towering guardian. Arya saw many people taking refuge in the vast cave system and was once again reminded of the many weirwood roots everywhere. If anywhere in Westeros could be a bastion of the Old Gods besides the Isle of Faces, it had to be this place.

"Where are we, exactly?"

"This is Hollow Hill," Ned explained. "Though it's not exactly a hill, but a massive cave system. These roots come from a weirwood grove above us called High Heart."

"High Heart?" The name sounded familiar; it had something to do with some Andal king killing the First Men and the Children of the Forest there.

"Aye, thirty-one weirwoods, the smallest of them would put even the ancient weirwood of Starfall to shame. All of them were cut down, leaving naught but the stumps, yet as we have discovered, they never stopped growing."

Judging by the vast labyrinthine roots of the trees, it really seemed like cutting a weirwood merely had it change where it grew instead of killing it. Arya could not help but laugh inwardly at the petulant Andals unable to kill the Old Gods.

"I'm surprised no one had claimed this place," Arya noted as she approached several clean water springs. "This cave must be larger than many a castle!"

"The land here is considered cursed." Willow shyly said. "There used to be an elderly lady that would tend to the grounds; she was a tiny thing, barely over three feet, with hair as white as the trunk of the trees she tended to and eyes as red as their leaves. Rumor has it she was responsible for keeping many an ambitious lord from claiming Hollow Hill, the hill below High Heart. She allowed the Brotherhood to take refuge here provided they helped her tend to the roots."

"A woods witch? What happened to her then?"

"She suddenly disappeared a few moons ago. One day, she was visiting like the ghost that people called her, asking for alms or food, but when she left, some ill wind came from the east, followed by unholy screeching. She was never seen again since that day."

Arya involuntarily shivered. An ill wind from the east a few moons ago? That couldn't be a coincidence.

Soon, they passed by numerous tunnels, crannies, and crevices, Catelyn and Willow greeting several girls heading into a room full of women working looms. Silently thanking the gods that she did not need to work on any stitches, Arya followed Ned until they finally made it to a large cave. Scores of men were seated on the ground around a large bonfire, its smoke coiling in the air as it seeped into several small vents leading outside.

Their entrance was missed, yet Arya had no intention of announcing herself, nudging Ned to lead them to an empty spot in the back. Soon, they were seated on the ground, the girls beside her, Ned in front, and her guards stood behind her. Then, they listened to the ongoing argument between the former captives of Harrenhal and the Forgotten Fellowship.

"You claim you follow Lord Stark's orders, yet refuse to join his son?" Wylis Manderly scoffed, his bearded face like a mask of granite. "How many moons have you hidden here instead of joining the liege lord of the Riverlands in his quest to rid it of the Lannisters and their brigands?"

"Robb Stark had declared himself King of the North, which makes him no better than the other pretenders." Lord Dondarrion coughed, causing one of his open wounds to bleed an ugly puss. "We follow the orders of His Grace Robert Baratheon, and Lord Stark was merely his voice as Hand of the King. Being the son of the Lord Hand does not mean we owe our fealty to Robb Stark, but only Robert Baratheon."

"Are you saying you would swear fealty to Joffrey the Ill-born?!" Robett Glover spat out in disgust.

"Never! No matter the charges or circumstances, he had Lord Stark, King Robert's chosen Hand, executed without a trial." Beric growled, "What has Robb Stark done for the Riverlands? Tywin Lannister might have spared most of the castles, yet he brazenly unleashed the Mountain and the Bloody Mummers on the smallfolk. Instead of cleansing the lands of the brigands, the Northern King went to the Westerlands and acted no better than those same brigands that his father ordered purged!"

"Yet following your logic, it would be your duty to follow the rightful heir to the Iron Throne," Harrion Karstark noted coolly. "If you believe Lord Stark's claims that Joffrey is a bastard and not from the King's blood, then Stannis Baratheon would be your rightful liege."

The heir to Karhold's words caused several of the men of the Brotherhood to shift uncomfortably. The first time the Brotherhood claimed they were following her father's orders, Nymeria had growled so deeply that one of them shat his pants, causing them to insist they were following King Robert's orders instead - though by proxy, her father's orders nonetheless. Arya was unsure of the specifics of her father's orders, but there was no way he would order men to raid and reave yet pretend to be his leal men who protected the smallfolk.

"While I would certainly prefer you to either disperse home or swear fealty to Lord Tully, as he is the lord of the lands you are hiding in," Donnel Locke added carefully. "I would not begrudge you from joining Stannis Baratheon. He is definitely the rightful heir to King Robert and the Iron Throne, and the Stormlands," Donnel added as he glanced at Beric, "is his by right with Renly's death. Why, then, are you here?"

"This has been going on for half the day now," Arya turned to Ned, who grimaced at the sight of his knight coughing again and a tall, gaunt man in flapping red robes and a shaggy mess of greying black hair tending to him. "It was why I came to wake up you, actually. I got bored out of my mind listening to this."

"Shouldn't you be on your lord's side of things?"

"I should, yet Lord Beric had already knighted me, and I am no longer beholden to him," Ned said the words, yet she could see the worry as he stared at his old master. "The men of the brotherhood are afraid. They know that what they are doing is not right. It is true that we help the smallfolk as best we can, yet sometimes, we act no better than the brigands we are supposed to hunt."

Arya hummed as she stared at the half-dead lord of Blackhaven. "So how is he even alive with such wounds?"

For a moment, Ned remained silent, and Arya turned to find him morose, "I don't think he is alive. I think… this is but a puppet being strung along through that foreign red god of Thoros'."

Arya felt her blood freeze as whispers of Old Nan warning of wights and Others sprang into her mind before she calmed herself. "Just what in the Seven Hells happened to him?"

Ned glanced around, noticing that her Northmen guards were also curious. Alyn and Harwin, who had immediately sworn themselves to her service as the only survivors of the Stark Guard that traveled south, looked queasy. Sighing, the Lord of Starfall explained the many deaths and miraculous recoveries of Beric Dondarrion.

"I still say that Thoros is simply a good healer." Harwin argued, "Even if the Red Priest claims he does not know how it happened. The dead rising again; such things have never happened since the Age of Heroes!"

"I have heard that magic may have waned to but an ember in Westeros since the death of the dragons, yet in Essos, such unnatural powers like sorcery are very much real." Ned warned ominously, "And I have seen Lord Beric's wounds. Four times, he had been slain, and four times, Thoros managed to bring him back. I was the one to recover him from the Mummer's Ford when he was gored by the Mountain's lance. He still has that hole in his torso."

The Northmen had nothing to say but merely cursed under their breaths. The Manderly man held onto a pendant made from weirwood in prayer as they focused back on the rest of the argument. Still, something was odd, and Arya turned to Alyn. "Who are the Bloody Mummers?"

"A band of thieves and murderers." The Stark guardsman scowled, "They are a sellsword company from Essos that Tywin Lannister hired at the onset of the war. How he managed to bring them to Westeros so early, we do not know. Most likely, the Lannisters have men in the Free Cities busy contracting more sellsword companies as we speak."

Arya listened, and a part of her worried if the Lannisters would bring even more swords to their cause. The Northern army was beaten outside Harrenhal, something that greatly worried her and the Northmen, which was one of the reasons Wylis Manderly and Harrion Karstark were so insistent on recruiting the Brotherhood without Banners. They knew the land better than anyone else, and the Northmen needed men on hand to rally the routed troops before they could be hunted down.

It had only been two or three days since they escaped the terrible castle. While Nymeria and her wolves had sent the few Lannister horses scattering, along with Arya's final gift of making the cursed castle truly live up to its name, it was only a matter of time until the Lannisters recovered and hunted down the broken army.

Nevertheless, there was something crucial she was missing. Something about the Bloody Mummers that niggled in Arya's mind. "The Bloody Mummers… Is that truly what they call themselves? Sounds stupid."

Harwin snorted, "Nay, the blighters arrogantly call themselves the Brave Companions. Nothing brave about them or their goat of a leader. They never attack in the open, always from ambushes and rarely against men-at-arms. Usually, they would pillage the unprotected villages, acting like bandits, and that's exactly how the Lion Lord had used them."

Finally, it clicked in Arya's mind why she realized this was important. She wiped some sweat from her brow at the sheer foolishness of the argument still ongoing with what she already knew. "Just to be clear. Does their leader ride some kind of strange striped donkey?"

Ned turned to her strangely, "Aye, a zorse from far to the east of Essos."

"Does he have some kind of goat as a sigil?"

By now, the rest of the Northmen and some of the men in the hall had turned to her, since Arya had not bothered lowering her voice. Ned nodded hesitantly, causing the princess to ask one final question, "Is his name Vargo Hoat? Slobbers a lot, terrible lisp, and wears a chain of coins?"

"Princess! How in the Seven Hells do you know such a man?" Wylis had approached aghast, along with many others. Lord Beric Dondarrion stared at her curiously, and Arya realized what needed to be done.

"Because the Bloody Mummers are dead." Arya stood and walked to the center of the gathering, attracting all eyes toward her - her short stature might not have been impressive, but the monstrous direwolf following her struck a fearsome sight. "They have been dead for moons, ambushed by Bracken Horsemen. Vargo Hoat had managed to escape, only for Nymeria here and her pack to hunt him and his men down. I remember, for I have seen it!"

Perhaps it was unwise to claim to have magical powers before these people, yet considering they were taking refuge in the realm of the Old Gods and they followed a man who was kept alive by foreign magic, Arya did not care.

"For many moons, you have done nothing but pretend to be keeping the peace. All the while, your target has long since been destroyed. If you truly follow my father's commands, then your remaining target lies elsewhere. The Mountain That Rides still lives, and I know he rides with Tywin Lannister in the Reach as they make their way to King's Landing."

It had been simple to read Lorch's correspondence using her powers and the simple fact that the wretched man had made her his cupbearer, not realizing who she was or even that she was a girl.

Arya stared at the men of the Brotherhood; all of them were deserters, broken men, some even from the Westerlands that had abandoned the Lannisters but did not wish to descend into banditry. "If you truly wish to help the Riverlands and have a place for you to call home, then you must know that only through swearing fealty to my brother would you manage this. Hiding in this hole for eternity until the war ends is stupid. The Lannisters had burned the Riverlands, yet it was my brother who kicked them out. Now they have returned, the Northern army scattered, and the Riverlands open again to predation. What will you do?"

The silence that ensued was broken by the Northmen hollering loudly, "STARK! STARK! STARK!"

The men of the Brotherhood shrank among themselves; Arya could see shame and, surprisingly, fear in their gazes.

Once the shouting stopped, one of the smallfolk that had joined the Brotherhood stood up, "I don't know about Robb Stark or the Northmen. For all I know, they might be even worse than the Lannisters," The Northmen shouted abuse at the man, a stocky and balding huntsman, yet he remained undaunted. "But I know Lord Edmure cares about us. He would visit us, hear our woes, and does his best to make our life easier. I'm willing to fight for Edmure Tully if nothing else."

"HEAR, HEAR!" Many of the smallfolk and even members of the Brotherhood shouted. "TULLY! TULLY! TULLY!"

Harrion Karstark approached Beric then, "What will it be, Lord Dondarrion? We will be leaving this place within a day, and we aim to rally the Northern army as best we can. Will you join us? Or will you remain hidden here until your skin falls off your bones?"

Beric Dondarrion grimaced before sighing tiredly. He glanced at the core members of his group: the archer Anguy, the bard Tom, and the priest Thoros. Finally, his eyes fell on his former squire, and Arya stared as Ned stood resolutely with the rest of the Northmen, his stance clear.

"We will join you."

---

The Frostfangs

In a deep cave under one of the many mountains of the Frostfangs, teams of men in tattered furs were busy digging holes and striking rocks with primitive rock and bronze tools. Women and children were busy boiling ice into hot water before pouring it on the rocks futilely attempting to soften them before the men struck. More often than not, the water would freeze a few heartbeats after being poured.

"Fucking cunt!" A grey man nearing his fifties swore as his pickaxe broke when he struck an especially tough rock. He stared at the broken tool before throwing it away with a curse and sat on a rock around a fireplace where other men and women were resting. "Until when will we keep digging like this? All we keep finding are worthless things, not even iron or copper!"

"Stop whining, Jax. We all agreed to dig for the fucking horn, and so we dig." Another man, busy sifting through the dust and grains of rocks, shot at the first man. "Besides, it's not like it's all useless. We've found enough gold and gems to adorn us better than any kneeler."

"Bah, what use are such soft, shiny trinkets against the Cold Ones? Maybe you enjoy collecting such meaningless baubles, Gavin, but if you can't make a proper axe out of gold, then it's bloody useless!" Jax grabbed a bowl of hot soup from his daughter, along with hard and gritty bread that he left in the soup to soften. "I don't believe a mere horn would be enough to bring down the Wall either. Mance must have been high on weirwood smoke when he boldly made those claims."

"Well, we did believe him, and I might have been drunk myself at the time." The other miner chuckled as he grabbed a golden nugget and threw it in a sack full of similar shiny metals. "And don't disregard these mere trinkets. The kneelers would trade their best steel for some of this gold. You may never know what may happen in the future."

"Trading with the kneelers? They would sooner kill us and let the Cold Ones take us."

"They are not easy to convince, I will admit, but some of them would be willing to trade sometimes. Even the crows." Gavin the Trader stood up and tied his sack before sitting with the rest of the men. "Besides, if you truly hate it here, you could always join the foragers and hunting parties and risk getting eaten by the White Huntsman."

A cold wind seemed to blow from the mouth of the cave, and everyone shivered uncomfortably. Jax slapped the trader's shoulder. "Don't jinx us, Gavin! They say that damned fiend could hear through walls and haunts your dreams."

"I heard Harma's entire warband was whittled down to nothing over the course of the last moon." One of the others spoke in a whisper. "The huntsman came out of nowhere, dressed in all white and leading an army of wolves, some say even direwolves! The word is, Harma had killed one of his wolves, and then misfortune seemed to follow her everywhere."

"Aye, I know a man who switched to the Bone Lord's group. He swears that he saw her demise with his own eyes." Another man spoke gravely, "The thing is, they were all present. Her closest warriors, her brother, and half of the warband were there. It was midday, with plenty of daylight, and Harma was sitting by a fire, not too dissimilar to what we all are doing now. One moment, she was laughing and eating, and the next, her head was torn off her body by a giant wolf, with fur as white as snow and evil red eyes."

"Come off it, and you expect me to believe the rest of her two thousand strong warband watched as a wolf feasted on her corpse?"

"They were too busy fighting off the packs of wolves that attacked following their leader's death. No matter how many you kill, more wolves came, sometimes even direwolves!"

"Aye, then the Huntsman appeared in his white fur cloak and gleaming hands as he struck down the survivors. Harma's brother, Halleck, was cut in half by a dark sword when he tried to rally the men. Some say he is actually an Other, yet there have been no tales of risen corpses, so perhaps that was a small mercy."

"I heard the White Huntsman had been seen near where Alfin Crowkiller's warband was." Despite being the one to complain about curses and jinxes, Jax couldn't help but join in the gossip. "That damned crow from the Shadow Tower, the Half-Hand, was seen ranging with a large force, tearing down any crossing along the Milk Water. The Rocky Bridge and the Oak Bridge are gone, and the nearest fords have suddenly flooded. The Crows are forcing us southward for some reason, and Alfin has sworn to hunt the bastard, yet we have not heard from him. Who knows where that Huntsman is and why he keeps attacking us."

"Isn't he a crow?"

"Can't be. When seen, he's always dressed in white. Crows be black, see?"

"I don't care about some ghost or shadow," A gaunt man growled as he gripped his empty bowl. "We've been digging for over a moon with nothing to show. There's hardly any game or roots or anything that can be eaten in these rocky hills!"

"Aye, Errok has it right." Jax grumbled as he gazed sadly at his too-thin daughter nursing her babe from her breasts. "Less and less game could be found, and with the Crows harassing us, we can't even hunt beyond the Milk Water. They don't even let us fish, the cruel bastards. If we don't find that damned horn within the next few days, we will all starve, and I don't know about you," Jax's gaze on his daughter was full of determination as he turned to the rest of the men. "But I would rather die with an axe in hand than with cold knives in my belly."

A solemn silence followed as the men nodded resolutely, and one after the other, they returned to their digging.

"You know," Gaving suddenly said as he struck a wall with his pickaxe. "If we're going to die anyway, might as well see if the Crows really are as merciless as others claim."

"What, you mean surrender to them?"

Gavin shrugged at Jax's ludicrous tone. "Nothing to lose, unless you want to try your luck with the White Huntsman."

Jax grumbled, though Gavin thought he had a thoughtful look on his face.

As the rhythmic beating of rocks and pickaxes continued through the night, deep in the depths of the Frostfangs, a rumbling noise could be heard as a massive figure shifted; a titanic, bear-sized silver eye blinked lethargically deep underneath the frost before returning to sleep.

Notes:

I have combined Hollow Hill with High Heart. It is not explicitly stated in the books, but considering the description of Hollow Hill, it stands to reason that there is a large weirwood grove about it.

Catelyn Rivers is an OC, while everyone else is canon. Alyn of Winterfell survived the Mummer's Ford yet died in a later unnamed battle in the books. Here, that unnamed battle never happened due to Tywin switching tracks.

Arya is an interesting character to write as her most important goal is to return to her family. Unlike Sansa, with her big dreams of power and ruling, Arya wants none of that, yet she would do it if it means returning to her family.

Gendry is older here, which means he was not an apprentice much longer and was eventually let loose by Tobho Motte. He's a happily married man who's smack dab in the middle of a warzone. Fun.

Jon is busy being the Wildlings' boogy man. Let's just hope he does not wake something from the deep.

Chapter 23: Of Salt and Blood

This Chapter was edited by Gladiusx

---

21st Day of the 9th Moon (Two days before the Battle outside Harrenhal)

A few miles from Torrhen's Square

Rodrik

"Ser Rodrik, are we certain of the Ironborn's strength?"

Rodrik Cassel closed his eyes and prayed to the Warrior for patience as the young lord of Castle Cerwyn asked the same question for the tenth time since they sallied out from Winterfell.

"Yes, Lord Cerwyn. Theon the Turncloak was seen with nearly two thousand men sieging Torrhen's Square. It matches the number of Ironborn we believe to have been raiding the Stony Shore."

"Yes, yes, but I still don't understand why we are rushing instead of waiting for Glover's troops and the rest of the houses of the Wolfswood?"

"Because we cannot afford to wait for them to meet us. They do not have any lancers and are all woodsmen from the forest clans. If we delay any longer, we run the risk of the Ironborn discovering us and having them retreat to their boats. This is our best chance to capture the Turncloak and secure our western shores once and for all."

Young Cley still did not look convinced, and Rodrik understood his hesitance. He had brought three hundred riders with him to join Rodrik's six hundred lancers as they rode hard for Torrhen's Square. The young lad had done well harassing Victarion Greyjoy's reavers when they raided close to their lands for supplies and was loath to leave his lands undefended. Unfortunately, needs must, and Rodrik was forced to take nearly all of Winterfell's garrison for this venture.

It had been an unpleasant surprise when they received a raven from Torrhen's Square seeking aid. That it singled out Theon Greyjoy and the number of his troops had galvanized Rodrik to convince Prince Bran to have him ride out and wipe the squids out. Unlike the massive army at Barrowton, which had still not managed to breach the walls even after a month of siege, the paltry numbers that Theon led would be easy to defeat. Young Bran had sent a thousand men-at-arms, all of them footmen, along with thrice that number in workers and camp followers to the Mountain Clans with Prince Rickon, where they were mustering the full force of the clansmen to support the Night's Watch against the impending Wildling attack. While the Glovers and Mormonts mustered in Deepwood Motte, they were not in a position to ride out for Torrhen's Square due to their lack of horses.

Thus, it was up to Rodrik and his heavy lancers to ride to their aid. Rodrik had taken all of the castle's lancers, leaving three hundred footmen as the last line of defense. It was still a significant garrison but hardly enough to cover the massive walls of Winterfell, but needs must.

Granted, they were outnumbered by over a thousand men, yet those were still Ironborn and on land. Torrhen's Square should have a garrison of five hundred led by Leobald Tallhart. His nephew, the foolhardy Benfred Tallhart, fancied himself a great knight with his Wild Hares that were no more than fifty riders. Even less than that, considering they had been the first to clash with the Ironborn near the Stony Shore when they aided Ryswell's Barrow Knights - Benfred had been wounded and was staying in the Ryswell Castle to recuperate, leaving his uncle to lead the defense as Castellan.

Presently, Rodrik was waiting for his outriders to return with a report on the situation in the Tallhart seat. The weather was gloomy, with heavy clouds looming overhead and threatening rain. A storm was coming, and Rodrik prayed to the Old Gods it would be to their fortune; if it rained, it would counter the Ironborn's archers, allowing his lancers to crash into their lines easily as few of his horses had full barding.

Not even Winterfell had the capability of fashioning so much steel in such a short period of time no matter how much gold Prince Bran threw at the problem. Lord–King Robb had taken the vast majority of the Stark heavy lancers with him, and to forge a full barding and plate armor simply required time; time that they did not have, and thus, Rodrik had prioritized his men for armor rather than the mounts.

The sound of horses galloping approached them, and Rodrik looked at the hill that hid their approach, finding his three riders returning with two more additions he did not recognize. "Jeor, what have you found?"

His serjeant, the elderly Edwyle Mollen's second son, opened his visor in a salute, "The squids have camped outside the main gate. They seem to be building rams and ladders, but there is a queer mist in the lake."

"What do you mean, queer?"

"It was like a wall of fog that reached higher than the castle's walls. I couldn't see the water, though I noticed none of the Ironborn approached it either." Jeor Mollen then motioned for the two other riders dressed in lesser armor than their own but still clearly men-at-arms. "These two are leal men of Torrhen's Square who were trapped outside the castle while on patrol. Tell them what you saw."

The Tallhart man removed his visor with a salute, "It was a queer sight, alright. We were returning from patrolling the lands towards the Twin Lakes, and the castle was within sight when that mist came out of nowhere. We didn't want to risk the horses, so we camped for the night, but the next morn, the castle was already under siege. How the squids managed to disembark their men in the mist, in the darkness of night, and then build their siege camp, I do not know. Witchcraft or some other devilry from their Drowned God."

Rodrik groaned inwardly; he was tired of all this talk of magic and sorcery he had to endure in Winterfell. While he would admit that young Rickon's visions were useful, Prince Bran's skinchanging was eerie and unnatural. If there's the possibility the Ironborn also had access to their brand of magic…

"And you were the only patrols around?"

"No Ser, Castellan Leobald had sent men to the Ryswell lands to join his nephew. There are still more near Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore." The man-at-arms frowned, "We knew the squids had attacked moons ago but had seemingly disappeared all of a sudden. The Castellan wanted them found and had sent most of his riders everywhere in search of them. Turns out, they were waiting for this moment."

"But where are their ships? The squids would not leave them far when they're on land, especially when sieging a castle." Cley asked from beside him, and Rodrik looked at the Tallhart man questioningly.

"I do not know. The damned mist had not dispersed once since the Ironborn began their attack over a sennight ago. I tell you, it's unnatural."

Rodrik was done with the talk of magic and whatnot. Their goal was right in front of them, whether there was magic at hand or not, the Ironborn were still flesh and blood and were waiting for them to crush them.

"How many did you count, Jeor?"

"More than 1500 but definitely less than 2000. While I could not get close to the lake to make sure, I'm certain the Ironmen had beached their ships before making their way to the castle."

"Very well. I have heard enough." Rodrik turned to his men; all nine hundred heavy lancers were eager for battle. "Men, our enemy is at Torrhen's Square. We shall mow down the Ironmen before they even have a chance to retreat to their boats."

The men cheered as everyone mounted their steeds and listened to his battle plan. Within moments, Rodrik was leading his army over the hill and to the steadily approaching castle where the Ironmen had spotted them and were hastily forming a shield wall.

Rodrik was intimately familiar with the lands surrounding the Tallhart seat. Torrhen's Square had a strong keep and thirty feet tall walls with square towers on each corner with a single gate facing east. Yet the castle was not built on the shore of Whitehart Lake but on a hill a short distance away. Despite access to a lake and river that led to the Saltspear, they did not have a town nor even a port owing to some ancient pact with the Dustins; politics in the North were messy, and the Dustins of Barrowton did not want competition as the only city on the western coast of the North.

Regardless, that meant the castle had many hamlets and villages in its hinterlands instead of towns, but that did not matter. For the Ironborn to attack, they would need to beach their boats to disembark, a terrible choice for if they needed to retreat after facing a surprise attack, such as now, it would take them too long to get on their boats and flee. As they rode at a steady trot to the distant castle, still too early for a canter, let alone a gallop, Rodrik could see what Jeor meant. The lake and its shore were wholly hidden by fog, though it was not rare for such a fog to form in colder moons.

Rodrik steadied his lance as he led his horse from the front, searching the crowd of Ironborn for the traitor he had taught since he was a lad, yet not finding him. Instead, his eyes landed on a certain reaver with a jaw nearly split in half, giving him four lips. Rodrik grinned under his visor, even as Dagmer Cleftjaw hid behind the shieldwall; he may not have found Theon, but the old reaver was as good as a leader of this motley band of pirates as any.

There were no words spoken nor shouts of battle as his horses galloped. The Ironmen may have good armor as they were not afraid of wearing heavy plate on their boats; the gods knew their islands were so full of coal and iron that the squids were known for it. Yet, none of them had spears, for no tree longer than a sapling could grow in those barren lands, only swords, maces, and axes. Curiously, however, none of the Ironborn forming a shieldwall were armored in anything better than boiled leather or the occasional chainmail. Were they suicidal or perhaps this band was the poorest of the lot?

Rodrik ignored such idle thoughts as his troops crashed into the hastily formed shield wall. His lance pierced through a reaver's shield to nail him through his leather armor and out through another reaver standing behind him, their victory was already decided.

"Fall back!"

The call came earlier than he expected. Rodrik had barely wheeled his troop around to allow their second line of lancers to crash into the shield wall and was preparing to follow their third line into one final charge that would surely shatter them when the reavers broke rank and fled towards the lake shore. He glanced at the castle and learned why, as he saw Leobald's garrison sallying out to join his army to wipe the squids out.

"Victory! Victory is ours! Run them down!"

The time for tactics and plans was over. The Ironmen were on the retreat, but they could not be allowed to reach their boats, or else they would escape and live to reave another day. A part of him was wary of leading his horsemen to the eerie mist where the Ironmen were retreating, yet he pushed it aside. They must maintain the initiative, if they allowed the reavers a chance to recover, they could very well prepare for their next charge.

"Let none escape!" Cley Cerwyn roared from nearby, and even if Rodrik wanted to stop, he could not.

As Rodrik charged after the retreating squids, his men followed him, and he cut down several of the fleeing reavers before the mist suddenly thickened even more. All of Rodrik's instincts screamed at him that something was very wrong.

"Halt! To me! To–"

Suddenly, Rodrik heard an ominous whistling sound and found himself toppling from his horse and crashing into the ground. Feeling like the entire world was spinning, Rodrik Cassel groaned as he struggled to stand, only to wince heavily as his leg buckled; It was not broken, thank the gods, yet it was definitely going to bruise. A miracle considering how many men had died from a similar fall. He looked to his horse only to sigh at the sheer bad luck he suffered; an arrow through the slit of the eye, a million in one shot considering Rodrik's horse was one of the few with full barding, and he felt a chill crawling up his back.

Luck… or sorcery.

The sound of men screaming and horses neighing was all around him, yet it was the endless whistling sound of arrows striking metal and flesh that caused him to force himself to stand despite the pain.

"Cley? Jeor? Leobald? Anyone hear me?!"

No answer came except for more screams and the constant hail of arrows, and Rodrik was forced to grab a fallen shield to hide behind when an arrow shattered on his plate. It was so foggy and misty that Rodrik did not even know which way was back and which way was forward. For what felt like hours but was most likely only minutes, the sound of constant arrows striking at him and his men continued until it finally stopped. No other sound came aside from the occasional groan of pain from one of his men, and Rodrik felt his heart sink.

He gritted his teeth as he grabbed his fallen sword, his entire body had arrows sticking out of his armor like a pincushion; he had led his men to a trap. No matter, if he were to die regardless, he would die with a sword in hand. Shadows roamed through the mist, and Rodrik roared as he sliced at them; the shadowy fucks had heads with tentacles coming out of their chins, yet they still died to his castle-forged steel easily enough. Suddenly, many such shadows were charging at him and fighting among themselves, and Rodrik wondered what kind of devilry had summoned these ghosts and what fool could not control them and allowed them to fight among themselves.

It did not matter to Rodrik as they continued to approach him, and he slayed them all, idly wondering if the Drowned God's devils were truly such weaklings. One final ghost approached him, and Rodrik stabbed it in the throat before pushing it to the ground and roaring at the fog.

"Enough of this mummery! Come out and fight you craven warlocks!"

Suddenly, the mist parted in front of him, and Rodrik could finally see the disaster he found himself in. All around him were corpses of his men! His jaw dropped as his eyes fell on young Cley Cerwyn, his neck pierced by a sword; his sword! The young lord of Cerwyn stared at him with eyes full of disbelief, and Rodrik stumbled back in horror.

What devilry was this?!

Men gasped and cursed, and Rodrik slowly turned around to find several of his men in a similar position to his own, slaying their friends and kin while they were in the wretched mist. Then, the sound of jeering came, and Rodrik turned around to face the Whitehart Lake… which was teaming with longships full of Ironborn. These were different from the previous shieldwall; they were all well armed and armored, the contrast even more evident as they hauled their fleeing brethren into the ships. Hundreds of them lined the decks of the ships, nearly all of them holding longbows.

One among them he could never mistake even through his lobstered armor for he had forgone a helmet; he had taught Theon Greyjoy how to wield the blade for nearly ten years, and the young man at the prow of the ship aiming his bow at him was unmistakable.

Rodrik did not have the chance to raise his shield before the Turncloak loosed his arrow, and the last thing he saw was it piercing through his left eye, and he knew no more.

---

Asha

"Quickly, gather the horses and strip the dead of their armor." Her brother demanded a lot from their men, yet none dared to question him after he had led them to victory. He turned to her when he noticed her presence. "Asha, have you secured the castle?"

"Aye, with the garrison lost in your mist and the castellan and his eldest dead, they surrendered once I guaranteed their safety."

"Safety?" Theon turned to her then, his now familiar dark eyes with barely any whites looked at her askance. "No matter, you can hold them for ransom or do whatever you wish. Have you already sent the raven to Winterfell?"

"Yes, but I still don't understand. What's the point of all this? Telling Winterfell that Rodrik Cassel won a great victory and will deliver you in chains? Why even bother gathering the horses and stripping the dead of their armor?"

"Why, my dear sister, naturally, because the valiant 'Ser Rodrik Cassel' will indeed lead me back to his home." Theon grinned widely as he pointed a thumb at the elderly Dagmer Cleftjaw, who was stripping the Winterfell master-at-arms of his armor and putting it on. "Uncle Dag has a passing resemblance to the late Rodrik. He needs only keep his helmet visor closed, and the Drowned God shall do the rest."

Asha dearly wanted to smack her brother; when he first suggested this mad scheme, he had assured her of a secret entrance to the ancient fortress. Something about gathering twenty of their best swimmers, then diving through an underground stream that ended in the Castle's Godswood. It was an utterly mad plan, yet no Ironborn feared drowning, and the risk was worth the rewards. But her brother had proven to be wily and willing to adapt when the cold moons arrived, and the men wondered if they would be able to swim in such cold.

Thus, this even madder scheme of baiting the Winterfell garrison, waiting for the Drowned God to tell him the best moment when they were at their weakest. Something that no one could have ever known unless they had spies inside the Heart of the North; Thereby, faking the attack on Torrhen's Square. The trick with the mist caused many of the men to shiver yet even more to firmly believe in Theon's powers as the Champion of the Drowned God. It was still a very risky plan, as it relied completely upon that none of the Stark men would survive, necessitating sacrificing a portion of their host. Of their four thousand men, nearly an eighth died in the shield wall, with another eighth wounded, yet it was worth it, for it encouraged the Northern host to fully commit, even dragging out Tallhart's garrison.

Thankfully, those on the shieldwall were all thralls or sons of thralls; the lowest caste in Ironborn society, eager to go through the seven hells themselves for a chance to rise in the ranks. They barely had an axe and shield to protect themselves against the devastating charge that would have broken even the hardiest Ironborn, let alone the ill-equipped thralls.

Taking Torrhen's Square was a major victory, as it would allow Asha a base of operations to attack the Wolfswood and their rich timber mills. She was already greatly satisfied with this, but if Theon still wanted more, he and the rest of their fleet were free to march on Winterfell. She had 1500 men at her disposal, and Theon had 2000, though Asha was confident she would be able to convince at least half of those to remain under her command, especially the thralls. Many of them were wounded, and there were only so many horses for Theon and his men.

The raven was already on the way; all that was needed for Asha was to keep a low profile until Theon arrived near Winterfell, and she could begin her attacks on the Wolfswood.

A*H*M

28th Day of the 9th Moon

A small grove near the God's Eye

"I will not ask again." Catelyn uttered coldly, ignoring the sound of men groaning in pain as they were dragged in front of her, yet her eyes were focused on the only knight among them. "Who sent you?"

"H-How?! How the fuck did you know we were coming? Ugh!" The tall man with a black kettle on his surcoat grunted as Hallis Mollen punched him, his mailed fist cutting open his cheek and knocking out a couple of teeth.

"Answer Lady Stark, or I promise you, your death will be slow and miserable." The muscular Captain of the Guards grinned sadistically as two of his men held the knight down by a Weirwood, his surviving men bound beside him. "I haven't seen a man given to the Old Gods since Ol' Rick ruled in Winterfell and I was but a wee lad, so don't tempt me."

Normally, Catelyn would never allow such a barbaric threat, but right now, she was all out of mercy, and the knight claiming to be Ser Osney Kettleblack did not seem to take them seriously. As the man refused to answer and Hallin turned to her questioningly, Catelyn signaled to another of her guards, Shadd. The Wintertown man nodded grimly as he approached one of their captives and sliced his throat with his dagger in one smooth motion, causing blood to flow freely on the ground. If it ended up flowing to the weirwood's roots, then so be it; Mother have mercy on her soul, but she would know that Catelyn Stark had lost any shred of mercy in the past few moons.

"A quick and clean death, far more than befits his station, considering he ought to have been hung like the brigand he was." Catelyn's blue eyes bored into the terrified brown of the knight as he stared at the bleeding corpse. "Now, will you answer my questions, or will you suffer?"

Catelyn's gaze roved over the four other survivors of the group of twelve that tried to sneak into their camp in the middle of the night. They were dressed in a messy assortment of armor; catspaws, and sellswords. Cowardly rogues who would never have the stomach for a fair fight. Each of them had two of her men pressing on their shoulders with their knees, forcing them to the ground; the rest of her guards finished off those too wounded, secured the camp, or stood like statues nearby awaiting orders.

"The same goes for all of you. Will you answer?"

As they hesitated and remained silent, Catelyn nodded to, Tom, who unhesitantly pulled out his knife and used the pommel to crush one of the men's fingers. A squeal of pain erupted from the man's mouth, only to turn into an unholy screech as another of her guards, Dick, did the same to his other hand.

"I would rather not waste time as dawn approaches, but I will get my answers." Catelyn gazed at the other captives as they shivered in fear as her men continued crushing their companion's fingers before moving onto his knuckles, then wrist, and just as they were bending his arm to rip his elbow off its socket, one of them finally broke.

"I-It w-was the L-Lannisters!" The young rogue blurted out, and Catelyn noted he was not even a man; he was barely her son's age. "Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell have placed a bounty on your head to be brought alive to them."

"Dirk, you fucking fool, shut–" Another punch from Hallis crushed Kettleblack's nose.

"A bounty, you say? Must be quite the prize to risk traveling through the wartorn Crownlands for me."

"A-Aye, half a hundred thousand Dragons!"

The campground went silent at the absurd amount of gold so easily thrown by Tywin Lannister to capture her. Such a bounty would have terrified anyone, but Catelyn felt nothing but relief as she smiled coldly. "My, my. I suppose the Lions truly have lost both of my daughters if they are in such desperate need of a hostage."

"Quite the large sum as well, My Lady. Did they not place a similar bounty on the Princess?" Ser Lucas Blackwood chortled as he stroked the feathers of one of his ravens - the second son of Tytos Blackwood was no knight, and disdained the practice, yet Catelyn still called him Ser in respect. The young man was better than most knights in conduct and competence, and many a Northerner followed the Old Gods and were still knights.

"On the contrary, my dear friend." Ser Robin Flint chuckled as he approached after finishing off the last of their assailants. "It is an insult that the Queen Dowager's bounty is less than the princess."

As the men chuckled, the boy who spoke, Dirk, looked at her imploringly from the ground, "That's all I know, I swear! We were never going to harm you, just capture you. Will you let me go now?"

"I'm sure you also sneaked into our camp with weapons drawn to join us for dinner. Do not take me for a fool, boy." The sellsword's eyes widened in horror as she approached and glared down at him. "Tywin Lannister has his own dogs to capture people like me, bounties be damned. Now, whom do you serve?"

"I-I don't know," Kettleblack tried to moan something, only for Hallis to place his knee over the back of his neck while the boy stuttered. "I don't remember what he looked like."

The boy shivered uncontrollably, not saying more, and Catelyn sighed inwardly, steeled her heart, and signaled to Shadd, who had gagged their victim once the boy started talking and ceased their torture. Understanding her without any need for her to speak, he unsheathed his dagger and gutted the bound man. Then the rest of the men tied a noose around his neck and hanged him on the weirwood's branch.

Catelyn ignored the queasy feeling in her belly as she watched the man struggle feebly for a few moments before expiring - she must not falter here; she had already hardened her heart. "Perhaps this will refresh your memory?"

"I-It was the Mockingbird!" Another of the men blurted out. "No one knows his name, but he's simply known as the Mockingbird in our circles. He wanted you brought alive and unharmed to him at any costs, even willing to outbid Tywin Lannister!"

Catelyn frowned as she tried to recall anyone with a mockingbird sigil, yet her mind faltered for once. No House in Westeros had a mockingbird for a coat of arms that she knew of, and she had long learned all the noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms by heart.

"How did you even know our location?"

"They say the Mockingbird has eyes and ears everywhere. Now, please, let us go, and we vow never to speak of this meeting or go after you again!"

"And trust that you did not already lead another group here? We already have men in your camp and they reported several of the horses are missing."

The scoundrel spluttered incoherently, and Catelyn sighed inwardly; she supposed that was expected from catspaws and sellswords. A bounty and a man known as the Mockingbird. Still, it tickled her memory; Catelyn felt like she should recognize the mockingbird, as if she had seen someone with such a sigil, or mark, yet like trying to catch smoke, it slipped from her mind.

Gurgled laughter came from the ground, and Catelyn turned to the restrained knight. She nodded at Hallis, who grabbed him by the hair and lifted his head enough to speak.

"You fools are already dead. Tywin Lannister will send his best to hunt for you, and he's not known for mercy. If you had allowed us to capture you, we would have taken you to our boss, but you stupid whore shall now suffer–"

Hallis Mollen stabbed his dagger into the man's temple, piercing through to the other side, turning his drivel into a bloody gurgle as the smell of shit permeated the air. The knight had soiled himself. Catelyn frowned, but her retinue's serjeant just smiled apologetically.

"Begging your pardon, My Lady, but no one dares question your honor and lives."

She sighed as the rest of her men echoed an aye before turning to Lucas Blackwood. "You know what to do."

The second son of Lord Tytos Blackwood nodded as he sat on a rock and closed his eyes. Ravens quickly flew from tree branches and scattered all around them.

"Lady Stark? What shall be done with them?"

"That will depend on Ser Lucas. If he discovers reinforcements, then their lives are forfeit. Tie them up and break the camp."

Her men hurried to obey her orders while she walked back to the campfire and sat on a log, Brienne sullenly joining her as they accepted a cup of tea from Shadd.

It felt like it had been years since that cursed day under the walls of Storm's End when Renly Baratheon was slain by a shade with Stannis Baratheon's face. Her retinue of twenty, along with their new companion Brienne, had managed to leave Renly's camp, yet they did not dare loiter in case Stannis or the Reachmen decided to take them captive.

For an entire moon, they had carefully dodged patrols and outriders from both camps, gathering information and supplies as they traveled through the Kingswood, hoping to follow the Gold Road to the Riverlands. They were forced to detour north to the Crownlands when they found the Stormlands army blocking their path, and it was then that strange things began to happen.

Catelyn could feel something was different in the land, from the water she drank and the food she ate to the very air that she breathed. Even her prayers to the Seven felt… different. She could almost feel something when she prayed to the Maiden to watch over her daughters, the Mother to give her strength to endure her hardships, and the Crone to give her wisdom on dealing with the madness that began to happen around them.

It started with Lucas Blackwood. Lord Tytos' second son had fallen ill one day, possibly at the worst time possible, as they desperately searched for a method to cross the Blackwater Rush. The Golden Crossing was too far and dangerous, with the roads teaming with Stormlanders and Reachmen. Then, Ser Lucas suddenly got better and led them to a ferryman willing to take them across for some silver.

"How did you know about him, Lucas?" Robin Flint had asked as they led their horses on the ferry.

"I didn't. I saw him hide the boat and pretend to be a simple fisherman." Lucas shrugged, and before any of them could ask how he had seen such a thing, a raven landed on his shoulder. "Father always said the Old Gods watch over us through the Weirwoods, but ravens were their heralds. I suppose my prayers were answered."

While Catelyn, Brienne, and Perwyn Frey, the only Seven worshipers in the retinue, had been apprehensive about the blatant use of magic, none of the Northmen blinked an eye, even giving a nod of respect at the Blackwood warrior. Then again, who was she to complain about a noble using the animal on his banner as a companion when her children did the same?

Still, traveling through the Crownlands had become dangerous. Bandits, outriders, foragers, sellswords, and even wild clansmen from the Vale have infested the lands, especially as they were forced to keep off the roads. Lucas' ability to scout ahead with his ravens had proven to be a superb boon; even Perwyn Frey had overcome his earlier fear of the sudden flock of ravens that seemed to be everywhere.

Yet Blackwood's powers were not omnipotent, as sometimes they were simply forced to fight. More than once, Catelyn had been forced to watch helplessly with her new companion while the men fought off any brigands.

Brienne the Blue had abandoned her battered plate and horse at Storm's End yet retained her sword and rainbow cloak. She had already proven herself capable as she fought off several assailants and claimed a horse and a messy assortment of armor from their foes.

For a few weeks, they thought they had managed to get away from most of the fighting as they steadily rode west and away from any patrols from King's Landing. Then, Tywin Lannister had blocked their path to the Riverlands just south of the God's Eye. Catelyn had decided to risk it then and sent Ser Lucas, accompanied by Ser Perwyn Frey and some of her men, to a nearby village owing allegiance to House Mallery to learn more. A few days later, the men returned with news of Tywin Lannister riding to Bitterbridge with his horse, leaving his foot behind.

Catelyn did not need to be a genius to learn that the Roses had laid in bed with the Lions.

Then, news trickled in from the many refugees and travelers on the road - those who were willing to talk or trade with them at least. News that Catelyn could barely hope to be true but after hearing the many tales, each more absurd than the next, yet all ending in the same result, she finally allowed herself to feel relief.

Sansa, her beautiful daughter, had managed to escape the Lannisters' clutches!

Catelyn was unsure which tale to believe, whether Renly Baratheon truly came back from the dead to save her daughter, which she seriously doubted as she had seen what the prancing stag was worth - no matter what protests Brienne made. Or perhaps it was the louder tale of a foreign sorcerer spiriting her away, slaying hundreds in his wake, calling a flood from the same river they had followed to this ancient lake, and causing the River Gate to explode somehow.

It did not matter which tale it was; all that mattered to Catelyn Stark was the safety of her daughter. While it was not known what happened to Sansa after she and her savior absconded from King's Landing aboard one of the Royal Fleet's ships, Catelyn could thank Cersei for giving her all the information she needed. The bounties that had been placed on their heads, as well as the prize for returning Myrcella Baratheon, gave her as good a hint as she could get.

To many, this Perseus might be a sorcerer, but to Catelyn, he must be a savior sent by the gods who finally answered her prayers. Sansa could even be in the North by now, for all she knew. Oh, how she longed to return to Riverrun, call for Robb to end this senseless war, and return home!

Only Arya remained unaccounted for, and Catelyn would not rest until she found her daughter alive or dead. If only they could learn more about what was happening in the land… sadly, most inns or villages they came upon in their travels were far too crowded to serve them, and no one trusted travelers. It was easy to find news spread by the authorities, but the smallfolk shared little with their group, as they were clearly nobles, no matter how much they tried to hide it.

Gone were their sigils, banners, and anything hinting at them being from the North - everything was packed away or discarded. The men kept their armor under a cloak at all times, and even Brienne was forced to stow away her rainbow cloak. For weeks, they had been forced to live off the land as they steadily traveled north, hugging the eastern shore of the God's Eye River while keeping close to the woods that seemed to have sprung overnight.

Whenever they came upon a gathering of men, they would be tempted to question them for news, yet the men's northern looks and brogue would immediately set off alarms, so they stopped after the third time - and Ser Perwyn refused to go alone after he was set upon by the hungry refugees aiming to steal his armor. The roads were full of refugees chased out of King's Landing by the dastardly Imp. Such broken and desperate men were dangerous, especially in numbers.

And so, Catelyn and her band of twenty-one toughened it out as they slowly but surely made their way north, hoping to reach the God's Eye Lake where Ser Lucas assured there was a walled town at the river's headwaters. They hoped to take a boat from there to the western shore of the lake, possibly even to Harrenhal if the Northern Army had managed to take it.

Until Ser Lucas had learned as he listened on the town's inhabitants through his ravens of a great battle near the horrid castle. Jaime Lannister escaping from Riverrun was an unpleasant surprise, yet him leading his uncle's army on a surprise attack that decimated the Northern army sieging Harrenhal had sent them reeling.

Catelyn's nerves were already frayed as it was, after moons of roughing it out with no opportunity for her to change her riding garments, tame her now wild waist-length hair, or even soak in a hot tub. To learn that their route was now blocked by a Lannister army to the north, another to the west, and the Tyrells to the south?

She could see it in the eyes of the men. Perwyn Frey had held himself well in their journey, yet he was still a son of the wily Lord Frey and could see the shift in the balance of power in the war. Such a defeat could easily tilt the still neutral houses to one side, especially those in the Vale. The less Catelyn thought about her deranged sister, the better, yet she highly doubted Lysa would join the Lannisters after claiming they murdered her husband!

Still, she couldn't help the worry forming in her stomach.

Her Northmen always grumbled about one thing or the other, yet it was when they were struck silent following the news that truly worried her. Even Shadd stopped whining about stiffness in his back and sullenly searched for nettles to make tea to keep himself busy.

Nonetheless, the men looked to her for direction then, and Catelyn had known all of them by heart. From Shadd, Tom, Dick, Harmond, Hugo, Jorah, Osric, and so on, and their families to the nobles; she listened to Robin Flint as he spoke of his sister and wondered whether his mother had given birth yet. Oft, she found herself assuaging the young Knight's worries about Lady Lyessa's health. She listened to Perwyn Frey as he wondered how his brother was doing as Robb's squire and how he looked forward to marrying a Vypren girl he was sweet on.

"We will continue," she had declared. "To the town of Godsmouth, where we will take a boat to the western coast."

It was still their only option, and the men nodded as they set up camp for the night, though not before meeting a traveling merchant who tried to sell them casks of ale. It was such a random meeting that Catelyn had forbidden the men from drinking when the merchant offered free mugs to taste it and hurried the grumbling men to this grove. Perhaps her paranoia was unfounded, but her instincts had warned her that accepting casks of ale from an unknown source in the middle of a war-torn land was a terrible idea. At least, they managed to learn an interesting bit of information; Stannis Baratheon was besieging King's Landing.

Thankfully, Lucas did not object when she asked him to keep watch with his Ravens. It was how he discovered those catspaws approaching.

"Will you truly kill them, My Lady?" Catelyn turned to the frowning Brienne. "There's little chance they don't have more groups of their kind nearby."

"You did not seem to have trouble killing them when they attacked."

"That was different! They are helpless now, and… your men tortured them!"

Catelyn gazed sadly at the young girl who, despite her martial prowess, was just that: a girl still in her teens. "I have lived for so long in the North that I had forgotten my father's teachings. Family Duty Honor. Those are House Tully's words. Was it honorable of me to treat them like that? Perhaps not, but I had a duty to the men following me and to my family to do what was necessary. My only regret is I am unable to do the deed myself, for I do not have your strength in arms."

Brienne still looked sullen, but as the rest of the men joined them, she refrained from speaking any longer. Catelyn gazed at the dancing flames and the dark smoke climbing to the slowly brightening sky. She lacked the strength the strongest knights could boast, yet Catelyn Stark still held far more power than many believed.

Clearly, Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell also understood the crux of the matter, if they wanted her captured so badly.

"We must leave." They turned to Lucas Blackwood as he jumped from his seat, his face wary. "A warband approaches from the south. Two of the catspaws are leading them here."

Catelyn immediately sprang to her feet as the men saddled the horses; they had already broken their camp. "How many, and how much time do we have?"

"Over a hundred but less than two hundred," The numbers caused Catelyn's mouth to go dry, "is the main party heading this way from the south, but they are part of a much larger group spread all along the God's Eye River. One of them is even patrolling near Godsmouth town, even larger than the one closest to us."

"How did they come so close without our knowledge?" Hallis groaned as he held the reins of her horse as Catelyn mounted it.

"I am unsure, but I reckon they sailed up the river from the Golden Crossing. It is possible if they split into several smaller forces to bypass Stannis' blockade." They were all mounted on their horses now, "But that is not what worries me so. Their banner… it's three running dogs set on a yellow field."

"So… Tywin sends his monster after me." Every noblewoman knew the fate of Princess Elia Martell, and she was no different. "This is not the man to send to capture someone alive. You know what this means."

Catelyn glared at the men bound to the weirwood, who heard everything that Lucas said.

"M-My Lady, ples–"

A stab to the throat from Ser Robin Flint's lance silenced Dirk while Ser Perwyn Frey did the same for the other catspaws - a quick and relatively clean deaths compared to what she threatened and they should be thankful. After finishing off their captives, Catelyn watched in morbid fascination as the tree immediately started drinking their blood. She shook her head before leading her horse into a canter out of the grove, the rest of her party following her wordlessly.

A few minutes later, they were clear of the small forest; Catelyn then urged her horse into a gallop. It irked her how she had been so close to returning home, only for that chance to be taken away from her. Now, they had no choice but to head in the only direction the Lannisters or their flowery allies didn't control.

"Lucas! Keep your ravens abreast, but I want you to scout to the east as far as you can go. Hallis, stay close to his horse in case he needs to rest."

"Yes, My Lady!"

As they galloped like the very hounds of hell were after them, Catelyn's mind built up scenarios of what would happen should they be captured by the Mountain That Rides. Immediately, her hand trailed to the long and thin dagger by her belt; there was no way she would allow herself to be captured even if it wasn't Gregor Clegane after her. She could not allow herself to become another hostage that would weaken her House further.

If needs must, then Catelyn Stark was prepared to do what was necessary.

Notes:

I was torn between having this chapter about Percy and Sansa, Catelyn dodging patrols and bandits, Jon whacking Wildlings, or Robb facepalming about the foolishness of his commanders (That's two of his major commanders dead since we last saw him).

In the end, I settled for something I frankly forgot about; Theon on his way to do his god's work.

Catelyn here had been hardened by months of hardship in the wild. I have no idea how she made it back to Riverrun in the books so quickly and safely, considering she had to cross three war-torn kingdoms. Here, it was much worse, as Tyrion had emptied King's Landing of anyone who could not afford to survive a siege (Basically, anyone who couldn't buy enough grain to live for a few years). That's about 200k vagrants roaming the Crownlands.

Now, when Tywin said he would send his best after Catelyn, you better believe he meant his best!

Chapter 24: The Mother of Wolves

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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2nd Day of the 10th Moon (two days later)

The Swann Knight

"Ser Swann!" Balon Swann was interrupted as he spoke to a group of riders preparing to leave.

He turned to one of the lookouts swiftly approaching with a scroll in his gloved hand. "Raven."

"What?"

Balon stared incomprehensibly; they were on the field sweeping the Crownlands for any enemy forces as King Stannis besieged King's Landing. Reports have arrived of multiple warbands sneaking past their blockade at the Gold Crossing, and the king did not want any surprises striking from the flank. Balon and his men were one of several other bands searching for those outriders.

"A raven scroll, Ser." The guard repeated, adjusting his grip on his bow. "It landed on my shoulder during my watch. I had Rory keep a lookout while I came to report."

Focused on martial pursuits he might be, but Ser Balon knew well enough that ravens were supposed to only be trained to fly to keeps. While many lords and commanders kept maesters or acolytes to send ravens from the field to a castle, the reverse was supposed to be impossible.

Apparently not, but the world had long gone mad anyway.

Balon nodded and accepted the scroll from the rider, finding it tied with a string. Stranger still, the message had a hasty scribble next to the string stating 'House Stark', lacking any form of legitimate heraldry.

But something in his mind told him it wasn't fake, an almost feminine whisper urged him to trust; Balon blinked as he hurriedly read the scroll.

Catelyn Stark and her retinue request your protection. We shall be by your camp by the hour of the crane. The Mountain Rides after us.

He blinked again before quickly looking at the sky; it was the hour of the hawk when the sun was at its highest. Three more hours, then. Suddenly, all the hairs on Balon's arms stood up as the dire words truly sank in.

There was no way Catelyn Stark would willingly come for the protection of an enemy of her son unless the alternative were far worse. A small voice in the back of his head said this could be a trick, but he instantly squashed it; who in their right mind would train a raven to send a message warning of an attack?

They had already clashed with a few bands of Reachmen and Lion's men, seemingly searching the Crownlands for something. Apparently, that was the answer, and to think it would be the Mountain of all people…

Balon took a deep breath to center himself, noticing more knights and men-at-arms approaching at the disturbance. He turned to the guard, still waiting patiently for orders.

'A good knight does not panic but prepares and faces whatever obstacles the Seven place before you,' Ser Arnold Caron, his knightly master, had taught him. Even now, a decade later, the words brought him much-needed calm.

"Spread the word around the camp of an impending attack. I want everyone up and armored within the hour." He then waved over the squad of scouts about to leave, "change of plans. Call back our foragers and any outriders. Two of you will continue and link with the other warbands' patrols and warn them as well. Everyone else, prepare for battle!"

"Yes, Ser!"

It was a testament to the discipline of the Marchermen that they did not even ask him who was attacking and why. Balon went to his tent to put on his armor, a half-plate as he preferred, with no gauntlets to allow him better use of his favored weapon: the longbow.

Strapping his morning star to his belt and grabbing his heater shield, he returned to the camp, finding all of his forces armed and ready. Riders trickled in now and then, while Balon took stock of his forces.

His brother had worked tirelessly to ensure his competency and loyalty to King Stannis, and Balon was given a considerable force of four hundred men as a sign of trust. Two hundred of them were the very best that Stonehelm had to offer in men-at-arms. His men could wield the bow as well as they could hold a shield wall. Armed with a long spear, a mace, a tower shield, and a long bow, the men of Stonehelm were accustomed to fighting the mounted raiders of Dorne and pirates from the Stepstones.

Their camp was situated on a slightly elevated hill, yet it was not a defensible position by any means. Still, sharpened stakes and a few ditches were positioned on the flanks while a stream covered their rear. The easiest entrance came from the north, yet Balon had no idea where their guests would come from.

"Ser Balon," He turned to his second in command, Ser Mark Mullendore, his ever-present monkey on his shoulder, and his lips quirked into a smirk. The Reach knight was chosen to represent the Reach contingent in his force, which included many heavy knights. A fair number were light lancers, and those were the ones scouting in the field and, even now, trickled back to camp.

"Ser Mark," Balon nodded and preemptively answered the question that he and the rest of his captains and serjeants had on their lips. "A force led by Gregor Clegane approaches, chasing a vital guest of King Stannis."

"Do you think they are the ones we have been searching for?" The Reachman lost his smirk as everyone straightened their backs.

"Most likely, we did not have the chance to scout the region properly, and the two bands we found so far were sellswords and manhunters. What they are doing in the Crownlands, so far away from their armies, is a mystery, but we know Tywin Lannister employs such free riders in his army."

"Aye, so who's our important guest?"

Before Balon could answer, a horn blast sounded out from the west, and the lookout yelled, "Riders!"

They quickly moved to the line of men locking shields as they faced the coming riders - they were early. Balon could see a score of them, galloping like the very hounds of hell were behind them. Their horses were foaming at the mouth, clearly on the brink of collapsing. There was another dust cloud behind them, which Balon realized was pursuers - the summer heat had caused the ground to crack and turn dusty in recent weeks.

The figure at the front took off her hood, allowing long red hair to flow, and Balon instantly shouted, "Lock shields and preset spears. Bowmen, notch arrows, and hold for my call." He turned to Ser Mark, who was holding his horse, and said, "These are our guests. Ride to them and direct them to the northern entrance."

Mark Mullendore nodded before closing his visor and riding out, his monkey jumping away to land on a tent's pole while a dozen other riders followed him. Balon would have ridden out himself, but he was not a particularly good rider; instead, as he grabbed his warbow and approached his troops of archers, he knew where his abilities lay.

"Steady men, wait for our riders to have them veer north," as he watched, Ser Mullendore approached Catelyn Stark's party and quickly directed them northwards. The Northmen did not even slow their horses as they urged them after their guide; less than a minute later, their pursuers also turned, yet they had been blinded by their quarry's dust cloud and did not see the rows of stakes and men behind them until they were already turning away. Farther than the range of a crossbow or a hunting bow, yet well within the range of the Marcher's warbows.

"Loose!"

The twang of one hundred bows sang as a hail of arrows fell on the thirty or forty riders - his arrow nailing the leading rider in the eye. Perhaps if they had been riding south and presenting them with their kite shields, they could have survived the first volley. Yet by forcing them to ride north, they provided the archers with their right flank, where most riders held their blades or lances instead of a shield.

Horses screamed, and men fell as barbed arrows pierced through flesh and boiled leather. Even chainmail would not have lasted long against such an onslaught; only proper plate armor could shrug those arrows off. Most knights could not afford those, and those that could, rarely had any coin left to protect their warhorse with full plate barding. Being a knight was an expensive endeavor, and only those born to lords or possessing great skill could afford to clad themselves in full steel. Those riders were neither knights, men-at-arms, nor even lancers; sellswords, freeriders, and, judging by the tabard of the three running dogs on a yellow field, raiders.

Balon did not need to call for another volley, as the first one was enough to shatter the riders, the survivors galloping away, leaving a score of dead men and horses. Instead, he had a serjeant lead a squad and finish any survivors while he turned as Ser Mullendore arrived with their guests. Balon found himself face to face with an utterly exhausted Catelyn Stark and her men.

"Lady Stark, I am Ser Balon Swann. I believe you sent us a message."

The woman's haggard eyes looked like they had not seen a wink of sleep in days, yet she still managed to get off her horse with the help of one of her men, a muscular Northman easily over six feet. In fact, every member of the party was tall, hairy, and exhausted - except for two Rivermen and a woman he recognized as the heiress of Tarth, who was the tallest of them all.

"I take it you offer your protection, Ser Swann?" Lady Stark gazed at him warily.

"As long as you surrender, you shall be given guest rights." Catelyn Stark closed her eyes, while the rest of her men grumbled - even exhausted, they still looked dangerous enough that his men instinctively surrounded them and fingered their weapons. No arms were drawn, yet Balon had to nip that in the bud immediately. "I will not ask you to surrender your weapons, at least not until we repelled your pursuers. There are more, I take it?"

"Aye, I counted nearly a thousand of the Mountain's men steadily closing in on us. All of them were mounted, yet they did not waste time looting or plundering." The words that came from the dark-haired young man chilled Balon's bones - they were outnumbered, heavily so that they could not hope to escape as only a third of their numbers had horses. "I am Lucas Blackwood. The Mountain had spread his men in search of Lady Stark, yet they were converging when they learned of our location."

"How many were following you here?" Balon did not understand how the Blackwood knight knew the exact numbers of the Mountain's men, yet this was not the time to wonder.

"There were four separate warbands within twenty miles of us at all times, each at least one hundred strong. I am certain they must have grouped again and should be here within a few hours." Lucas grimaced heavily then, "Unless they are smart and wait for the Mountain and the rest of his force to group up."

The men muttered among themselves, yet Balon had eyes only on Catelyn Stark, who leaned on Brienne of Tarth's arm for support. He had never met the Lady Stark before, but he had been told she was a great beauty. He could see the signs of that even through the exhaustion and worry marring her face, yet the woman's eyes were like two blocks of ice as her face steeled in determination. This was not a weak damsel but one who was prepared for the worst outcome.

"If we surrender, you shall guarantee all of our safeties?"

"Of course, by my honor."

"And you shall take us to Stannis Baratheon afterward?" Lady Stark's words were blithe, and Balon could see Brienne's face growing stormy. He had heard of the tales of Renly's death, yet he did not know any details other than the flight of the Northmen following his former liege lord's death.

"It would be my duty to deliver you to my king," Balon said simply, and Catelyn Stark sighed as if the very weight of the world rested on her shoulders.

"Very well. Better Stannis Baratheon than Tywin Lannister."

"Excellent. Ronald!" Balon barked to his squire, the bastard of Griffin's Roost. "Bring bread and salt."

The young lad hurried to obey; Ronald Storm had barely seen eleven name-days when his father, Ronnet Connington, who had begotten him when he was only thirteen, asked him to take as a squire. Still, he was a dutiful and intelligent lad as he brought a tray of bread and salt. Catelyn Stark partook in the rite as the leader of her group, while the rest of her men nearly collapsed as they were provided with food and water.

"Now, my Lady Stark. I apologize that I shall keep you from rest, but I need to learn more about your pursuers and what to expect when they arrive."

"Understood. Ser Lucas? I would have you join us." The Blackwood knight nodded tiredly, yet Balon raised an eyebrow as he found a large raven on the man's shoulder - it was not there earlier. "Hallis, rest your men and horses, but be ready for another fight. I'm sure Ser Balon shall provide you with a spot to camp?"

"Indeed, Roland? See that they are cared for." His squire nodded as he led Lady Stark's group further into the camp. "Ser Mark!" The Mullendore knight saluted, "Gather your fastest riders and screen everything within twenty miles for our pursuers."

"Yes, Ser!"

"Everyone else, you can be assured that the survivors shall warn the rest of our position. You may rest for food or water, yet do not take off your armor. We may yet see a proper fight soon."

His men hollered as he led Lady Stark and Lucas Blackwood to his tent, which was not nearly large enough for more than two people to stand, yet it would provide them a modicum of privacy. There, he hoped to learn more about what they would face.

A*H*M

A few hours later

"Here they come."

Catelyn swallowed her trepidation as she watched from atop the small hill with her guard as the Mountain's small army formed up like a wave of dark steel. The first of their foes had arrived two hours ago but were swiftly driven back by Ser Mullendore and his knights. Several other bands were seen, yet they proved wiser, merely scouting their camp and riding away before Ser Swann could order a charge.

Another two hours later, the bulk of the Mountain's army arrived. Looking at them now, Catelyn could tell that while mounted, very few of them were knights or lancers. Most were mounted footmen, using any kind of equine, even stots, drays, and donkeys, no doubt stolen from the many villages and towns dotting the land, to travel quickly but not expected to fight from horseback.

Ser Balon Swann had moved the bulk of the troops to face west, yet he ordered all wagons and carriages to be moved towards the north to block the entrance to the camp. A stream covered their southern flank, which also happened to be the closest flank to them, at barely a hundred feet away. The men had managed to fell a few trees in the short time they had and dragged them to the east to form a simple barrier.

It didn't look to be enough to stop anyone serious about passing through, but just enough to prevent a cavalry charge.

"How many do you think they are?" Catelyn asked Ser Lucas, who stood with all her retinue near her, his weirwood bow strung in his hands.

"Twelve hundred men, yet they are also exhausted, just like us." Lucas frowned before stifling a yawn - they had barely got a few hours of sleep. Yet, it was better than none, and their horses had been pushed to the brink and would need at least another day before they could be of any use. "I don't understand. Why are they forming ranks as if to assault? It would be more prudent to wait until they are more rested before attacking."

"They know there are other warbands like our own." Ser Balon Swann approached with his lieutenants, "They have placed the bulk of their forces to the west, but they still have riders to the north and east. My men reported that several of them had slipped through to rush to the main force. King Stannis had sent three groups like my own to hunt for those raiders, and the other two ought to be already on their way."

"How long until they arrive?"

"At the earliest? Tomorrow morn. Ser Lucas' ravens are a gift from the gods, but even then, they would need to break camp and travel through the night to reach us." The Swann knight shook his head, but his hardy gaze did not move from the foes forming into ranks to the west. "The Mountain clearly understands this and hopes to dislodge us before reinforcements arrive. If we hold on until morning, victory will be closer, but even then, we would still be in similar numbers."

"Not if we thin the Mountain's ranks now," Ser Mullendore replied. "My horse are ready, and the fools have left a paltry defense to the north, allowing us to wheel in for charges at any time."

"Aye, but the timing will need to be perfect. We must wait for them to fully commit to the western flank before you remove the barricades and ride through." Balon Swann turned to her, "My Lady, I would advise you to retire to your tent. The battle is not a place for a woman, and even then," He raised his voice as Brienne looked ready to argue, "This battle is happening too close for comfort. Any stray arrow could reach here, and if the enemy breaks through, they would be capable of reaching you."

"Even more reason for us to remain here." Hallis Mollen shook his head before adjusting his grip on a tower shield he had borrowed from the armory wagon. "The closer we are to your men, the safer we will be. We shall protect the Lady Stark with our lives, no matter what. The Mountain's men don't have many archers with them, but if they dare shoot in the open, they would be easy pickings for you."

Catelyn merely nodded at the Swann knight's inquisitive eyes as she tried to ignore the bone-deep wariness she and her men were suffering. Nevertheless, they were all awake, armed and armored, and ready for battle. Ser Balon sighed but nodded back just as the Mountain's men began their advance.

"Looks like they won't bother with a parley." Ser Perwyn Frey jested as Ser Swann moved to his men and barked orders for them to notch their arrows.

Ser Lucas bowed to her before joining the Swann knight with his archers, both of them drawing their bows alongside the men. Catelyn was not learned in matters of war, yet she couldn't help but watch in interest as the two hundred men-at-arms of Stonehelm formed two lines. They dropped their shields and spears, notched their bows with the arrows hanging on the quiver on their hips, and then drew at Ser Swann's orders.

"Loose!"

The twang of over two hundred bows resounded as a hail of arrows flew towards the advancing footmen, who were still three hundred yards out. The first volley was a surprise as the men did not expect such an effective range from war bows, and a score was felled before they quickly hid behind their kite shields.

"ADVANCE YOU COWARDS!"

The thundering bellow came from a giant of a man seated on a massive stallion, both of them decked in so much armor that Catelyn wondered how the horse could even move, let alone carry the Mountain. Yet move it did, and as if driven by fear, the footmen jogged with their shields held high. The archers had already fired another volley, but the enemy's large kite shields protected them. Many were still felled as arrows hit exposed body parts, yet with the Mountain and his core of horsemen egging them on, the footmen dared not stop. At around a hundred yards out, their enemy began to pick up the pace, while Ser Balon ordered half the archers to switch to spear and shield. The other half was far more accurate and devastating as they continuously fired at the advancing foot, while the Mountain shrugged off the arrows aiming for him, his massive shield protecting his horse.

Fifteen volleys were fired, and Catelyn counted nearly four hundred dead or wounded on the field, yet Gregor Clegane did not seem at all fazed by the loss of nearly a third of his troops. Finally, both sides clashed, and the archers had to stop their fire to join the rest of the spear wall. Ser Mullendore had already taken his hundred lancers and rode north, aiming to hit their flanks, yet there were still eight hundred of the Mountain's men against three hundred of Ser Balon's.

Catelyn was a mere hundred yards away from the fighting, and it was brutal. Her fingers would be trembling if her gloved hands weren't balled into fists. The screams of men as they were pierced by spears or struck by arrows reverberated to her. More of Swann's men trickled in from the other flanks to join the melee, yet the advantage was clearly on the Mountain's side, as some of his men were busy ripping out the stakes while a majority fought the spearmen.

Nevertheless, after a few minutes, it became apparent that the manic charge of the enemy was losing steam as their exhaustion set in, and Swann's men remained firm in their lines. Catelyn could hear the Mountain's booming voice shouting curses and abuse at his men to keep attacking and stretching the line to surround the Stormlanders. Clegane was close enough to be peppered with arrows, and she could see Ser Balon and Ser Lucas releasing arrow after arrow at the behemoth of a man, yet the brute hid behind his shield while his horse's barding protected even its legs.

A curse from beside her had Catelyn turn to Hallis, "Looks like Mullendore will be delayed."

She followed the Stark captain of the guard's gaze to find the Reachmen and his lancers fighting another band of horsemen hiding in the woods. There were not many, and she could tell Mullendore had the upper hand, but it was clear they did not aim to defeat him, only delay him. And she did not need to be a genius to realize what they were delaying for.

"Seven fucking hells, the Mountain is charging!"

Looking back to the lines, the Stormlanders were holding solidly against the mad assault of the Mountain's men, and they would have most likely beaten their assailants in time. Only for the Mountain and a dozen of his riders, all armed and armored to the teeth, to charge in once the foot removed enough of the stakes and create a gap in the spear wall. The brute trampled over his own men who were too slow to get out of the way before crashing into the line of spearmen, a massive sword swinging left and right, not so much cutting but bashing away any in its path.

For a moment, Catelyn prayed that a spear would find its mark in the horse's belly and drop the brute to the ground, but while several of his riders were felled, the Mountain continued his charge. Soon, the gap widened, and his riders filled in, followed by the rest of his men. The Queen Dowager of the North felt her mouth go dry as Tywin's monster set his sights on her.

Only for her retinue to step in front of her protectively.

"Men! Form a shield wall." Hallis Mollen's shout was answered by a roar as the rest of the men formed up. "Ser Robin, may the gods be with you."

Robin Flint and Perwyn Frey, both on fresh horses they borrowed from the Stormlanders, grunted from their positions behind a tent. Both horses were not suitable for combat but were powerful and clumsy beasts, more suitable for farm work or dragging heavy loads. The men had asked Catelyn and Brienne several times to hide in one of the tents, yet she insisted on being outside, knowing that for that mad plan the Flint knight had come up with on the fly to work, the Mountain needed a target of focus.

What better bait than herself?

The Mountain roared like an angry bull and swung his sword at a spearman who tried to stab at his horse's ankle so hard that he bisected his tower shield and the arm holding it before urging his horse forward.

Only for an arrow shaft to sprout out of the slit of his helmet, just as another arrow struck his horse in the eye as well, causing it and its rider to collapse. It was as if the shooters were waiting for just this moment when the Mountain was so close that there was no chance of missing, and he couldn't hide behind the enormous iron-studded chunk of wood that served as a shield.

The horse died instantly, but the Mountain's earth-shaking roar as he ripped the arrow from his helmet showed he still lived as he pushed the horse's corpse off his body and stood back from his fall. Catelyn gawked, looking to the side to find both Ser Lucas and Ser Balon firing their last arrows at the monster who hid behind his shield, dropping the arrow that still had his punctured eye to the ground before ignoring them and charging straight towards her. The gap he created was closed as the Stormlanders recovered and cut down the overextended footmen, yet more than thirty of them still made it through and followed their Captain toward them.

Three of them were mounted and as they veered away from the Mountain and headed towards the tents with torches, Catelyn heard Robin Flint cursing as he urged Perwyn Frey to follow him as they engaged with the riders.

"My Lady, I would love to say that now would be a good time to retreat but considering there is no real avenue of retreat, I suggest you remain behind us." Hallis chuckled wryly before banging his warhammer against his shield and roaring louder than a horn, "WINTERFELL!"

"WINTERFELL!" Came the shout from the rest of her men as they charged towards the steadily approaching Mountain and his men. Several of her men threw axes and javelins they requisitioned from Swann's supplies and managed to kill a handful of the Mountain's men before both sides clashed.

Gregor Clegane bull rushed into the advancing Northmen, his shield in front of him as he knocked away Hallin and two of his men to the ground before swinging his massive sword at two more Northmen who barely managed to dodge the deadly swing. The rest of his men engaged with the Northmen, yet the Mountain had not been idle as he stabbed his sword at the still recovering Jorah, piercing through his neck and severing the head.

Catelyn could do nothing but watch as her Household Guard fought and died for her. The Mountain alone kept seven of her men busy, yet the rest were losing ground against the score that made it through the gap. She could see Ser Balon rushing with half a dozen men to aid them, but he was still outnumbered.

Hallis had recovered and smashed his warhammer at the Mountain's knee, puncturing the plate with the spiked part before ripping the armor off, causing Tywin's monster to roar in rage. The captain of the guards didn't have a chance to steady himself before he got shield bashed so hard he flew a few feet and remained motionless on the ground. Before the Mountain could finish him, Ser Lucas appeared with a fresh quiver and started rapidly shooting arrows at the heavily armored knight, yet he could not find a weak point.

Two of her Northmen tried to blindside the Mountain, but he was far more agile than his size suggested and managed to swing his sword at them. Shadd managed to duck, but Osric tried to block it with his buckler, only for the shield and his arm to get crushed as the sword struck. Yet through his roar of agony, brave Osric quickly stabbed with his rondel dagger at the Mountain's mailed fist, puncturing through the wrist and managing to force him to drop his sword only to get mule kicked so hard, Catelyn could hear the sound of his ribs shattering.

The Mountain was disarmed, yet he still had his shield. He surveyed the battle, ignoring Ser Lucas' arrows and finding that he was cut off from the rest of his men.

Then, he turned to her.

Catelyn could almost imagine the beastly eye under the helmet deciding that this battle was lost, yet the man could still get away with the biggest prize.

"My Lady, stand back!"

Brienne moved forward just as Gregor Clegane sprinted for her, his massive shield bashing any in his way. The Tarth Maid tried to stop him, but even though she was taller and stronger than most of the men on the battlefield, the Mountain still pushed her aside like she was a child, her sword clanging uselessly against his armor, while the girl fell to the ground in a roll.

Catelyn idly noticed the sound of horses neighing, but she only had one thought in her mind as the Mountain That Rides continued his relentless charge at her.

Run!

She turned around and dashed as fast as her tired body could allow. Catelyn had no real destination in mind, only to escape from the monster and within a few heartbeats, she found herself at the stream near the camp. She could not afford to hesitate; Catelyn was a decent swimmer, and there was no way Gregor Clegane could swim in all that armor.

Just as she was about to jump into the water, something whistled in the air, and Catelyn instinctively dropped to the ground. The Mountain's massive shield flew just past where her back was and crashed into the stream with a massive splash. Catelyn had no chance to stand before she heard the brute breathing harshly behind her, and something dragged her by her long hair.

"Fucking bitch! You led me on this wild chase and cost me my army. Tywin won't care if I turn you into my whore as long as I deliver you alive!"

Catelyn could only groan in pain as the brute dragged her down the stream, clearly aiming to escape the battle. She could not allow herself to be captured, let alone defiled, by such a monster. Before she knew it, she found her dagger in her hand, but Catelyn hesitated.

It would be so easy. Just plunge the dagger in her throat or heart. Even if she didn't die instantly, she would bleed to death. Catelyn was prepared to end it all!

Yet, she hesitated. Even now, Catelyn Stark did not want to die. Her children… they needed her, just as she needed to see them one last time. The Mountain still dragged her by her hair, and she could barely think from the pain in her head, yet she still gave a prayer to all those who could hear her.

'Please, help me!'

A murmur in the wind, a splash in the water as a trout jumped, a chill in her back, and warmth bloomed in her belly. Catelyn Stark suddenly found the courage to do what was necessary, and before she could blink, she sliced through her hair, cutting it off in one swing. Her long hair which she took pride in, that Ned loved, was severed near the base.

The sudden loss of weight caused Gregor Clegane to lose his balance and slip on the muddy banks of the stream. Wasn't the ground dry earlier? Catelyn did not care as she scrambled to run back to camp, just as the Mountain That Rides lost his balance and fell with a thump. Riders were approaching, and Catelyn recognized Sers Robin and Perwyn in the front, bloodied but galloping towards her. In their hands were ropes tied into lassos.

"Lady Stark, get down!"

Robin Flint had not even finished his shout before Catelyn collapsed instinctively, just as Clegane's hand missed her head by inches - how he managed to recover so fast spoke of how monstrous he was. She scrambled away as the two riders arrived and threw their lassos at the Mountain. Perwyn's rope latched onto Clegane's outstretched hand while Robin's aim was far more deadly as it latched around his neck.

"Damn you!"

The Mountain pulled, and the riders nearly buckled, but they had quickly tied their ropes on their saddles. Pulling on their reins, Catelyn watched gobsmacked as Robin Flint and Perwyn Frey dragged the Mountain away from her. For a heartbeat, she watched in disbelief as Gregor Clegane managed to remain on his feet, roaring in rage as the noose around his gorget tightened and Robin urged his horse to heave one way. The Mountain's left hand was dragged the other way by Perwyn while his injured right hand clumsily tried to tear at the ropes binding him.

Then, rushing footsteps from behind her had Catelyn turn to find Brienne charging with a familiar warhammer in hand before slamming it with a roar at Clegane's knee, the same knee that Hallis had managed to rip part of the plating off. The Mountain's roar of agony was followed by him finally collapsing, and the two riders slapped their horses' rear, causing them to burst into a sudden gallop as they dragged the Monster away.

Catelyn's hold on her dagger tightened in trepidation. Surely, this was the end; Gregor Clegane was surely beaten… until she heard the sound of a rope snapping as the Mountain's gauntlet proved too tough for the cordage. She stared blankly as the Mountain was barely a few feet from her, groaning on the ground but still very much alive and dangerous. He raised his battered left arm as he tried to remove the noose around his gorget.

Something drove her, then. It was as if the world was swimming, and the part of Catelyn that was wroth at being helpless moved forth with certainty she never thought she possessed.

And used all her weight–something she had never done before but felt oddly right–to plunge all eight inches of her dagger into the narrow horizontal slit and through the brute's remaining eye. There was no doubt in her mind that she would strike true into the thin opening, and the dagger struck true with laughable ease. The Monster twitched, his arms moving to snap her neck even in his death throes, but Brienne was there to smack them away with her warhammer. Catelyn clenched her teeth as she growled, withdrew the dagger, and plunged it again and again and again until she was screaming incoherently and cursing the circumstances that brought her to this place.

The gods were cruel… yet they were also merciful, for they answered her prayers when she most needed it.

"My Lady…" Catelyn did not know when she finally calmed down, only that by the time she did, Clegane's face was a mangled mess and her dagger was badly bent. Her hands bled from something yet she could not care less; the sound of battle that had been in the background had faded away.

The Winterfell household guard protectively surrounded her, or at least what was left of them. She spied Ser Balon Swann, standing close by as she sat on Clegane's battered chest armor. The Swann knight was covered in blood and gore, his morning star still having bits of brain and an eyeball stuck in one of its spikes. "It's over now. The battle is won."

As if waiting for that declaration, the sun finally set, and the exhaustion of the past few moons seemingly caught up with Catelyn in one moment, and darkness consumed her.

---

Catelyn woke up to the sound of wheels moving on the road. The constant bumps told her it was a poor road, and a poorer carriage, clearly not a wheelhouse. She felt like her body was one massive bruise–everything hurt, her elbow on which she had fallen in the rocky stream most of all. She struggled to open her eyes, yet once she succeeded, the bright rays of the sun seared at her face, eliciting a pained hiss from her chapped lips.

"She's awake!" Brienne's voice came from near her, and Catelyn heard a horse snorting as it approached the cart. "My Lady, are you alright?"

After some more struggle, Catelyn managed to open her eyes to find the homely face of Brienne looming over her, her sapphire eyes full of worry and wonder. She looked around, finding she was laid on a cot in the middle of a cart, with several people seated around her. She found Hallis Mollen with a bloody bandage over his head, grinning at her. It was a gruesome sight; the man had lost three teeth, and his lip was busted - not even his thick brown beard could hide his injuries.

"Water…" Her throat was parched, and someone helped her sit up and hand her a water skin. Catelyn carefully wet her lips and tongue with the lukewarm water that tasted like the finest Arbor Gold. She thanked Shadd, who had his arm in a sling and gave him back the water skin. "Where are we?"

"We are on our way to King Stannis' camp," Came the reply from Balon Swann. The second son of Lord Gulian Swann was ahorse, his armor clean from the blood that caked it when she last saw him, yet battered from battle. "You have been asleep for nearly two days, My Lady. I have already sent riders ahead, and the King shall expect us."

"I see." Catelyn groaned as she tried to stand, only for her legs to give out on her. Thankfully, the humiliating fall was averted by Brienne's quick and steady hands. "Thank you, Brienne. You were very brave in battle."

"Not as much as you, My Lady." The Tarth maid grinned, and Catelyn realized she had never seen her smile before; it was a pretty smile despite her unfortunate features. "'Mountainfall', the men call you, for you slayed the Mountain That Rode."

Catelyn looked at the surrounding men; there were many of them, clearly, the entire force was marching alongside them - and nearly everyone of them was harmed in some way. Arms in slings, bloody bandages around heads and limbs; some were even missing their limbs or an eye.

Still, everyone stares at her with respect, yet her Household Guards looked shamed; she could guess what was on their mind; they blamed themselves for not defeating Clegane.

"What happened to the rest of the battle?"

"Mullendore came through with his lancers and crashed into their rear." Lucas Blackwood explained from atop his horse looking mostly unharmed compared to the rest of the men. "The Mountain's men were already on the brink, once we paraded their leader's massive head on a lance, they broke. After that was the cleanup, which did not take long as reinforcements arrived and took over hunting down those who fled."

Catelyn hummed as she followed the Blackwood Noble's gaze where a brutish tarred head was stuck on a lance attached to a corner of the carriage. She noted that the two horses driving the carriage were the same ones that Sers Robin and Perwyn used to hold the Mountain.

Catelyn shook her head and turned to her savior. Ser Balon Swann rode straight with his back, and his face was as readable as a block of stone. "How many men did we lose?"

"We?" The Swann knight smiled sardonically, "You lost half of your retinue, My Lady."

The blunt statement was delivered with the grace of a warhammer to the knee, and Catelyn felt a heavy weight on her shoulders. She turned to Hallis, who nodded sadly, which explained why she couldn't find all of her guards.

"What about your own, Ser?"

The Swann knight grimaced before shaking his head, "You needn't worry about that. Many died, but they held the line most admirably, not so different from your own men." Balon turned his gaze to her guards, "My father had told me tales of the Trident, how the Northmen were the bulk of the Rebel forces and held the line against the more numerous Targaryen forces. Yet, held they did, near fanatically so, especially the Stark men. I have seen the quality of your men, and believe me when I say it was an honor to fight alongside such warriors."

Her remaining household guard did not look pleased, however. Shadd spat sideways. "Fat load of good that did. The Lady still nearly died because we couldn't bring down that monster. Seven of us! Seven of us armed with warpicks and warhammers, rondels and daggers, yet we were brushed aside like tumbling weeds."

"Aye, at least Osric disarmed the fucker before dying." Hugo, one of the oldest of her retinue, grumbled. The man was nearly a greybeard, barely a few years younger than her uncle, yet he was still spry for his age. "To think the two Rivermen would be the ones to save the day."

Despite the harshness of his words, Hugo raised his arm in salute to Lucas and Perwyn, both River knights returning the gesture, while Robin Flint muttered, "What am I, chopped liver?"

The men laughed at the Flint heir's expense, though Catelyn knew it was all in jest. Moons traveling rough in the wilds had broken down any barriers between men-at-arms and the nobles.

"You buried our men, I'm sure." Catelyn looked to Hallis, who nodded solemnly. "Good. Their families will be taken care of, and tales of their bravery shall be retold to their children."

Her household guard stood straighter then, and she could spot the ghost of a smile dancing across their eyes. Catelyn wiped some sweat from her brow and froze as her hands brushed through her hair, or what remained of it.

"Here, My Lady." Brienne produced a silver mirror for her, and Catelyn inspected her now short auburn locks that barely reached her neck - it looked like a wild crow's nest with jagged, uneven edges. "I did not dare presume to fix it for you."

"Thank you, Brienne, but I care not about what my hair looks like. I would gladly shave myself bald for the rest of my days if it meant I would slay that monster."

The sound of galloping horses heralded Ser Mullendore, his monkey hanging over his shoulder, its small beady eyes curiously inspecting the Northmen and her. "We found a good spot to camp. A spring and a grove; we noticed signs of game as well."

Ser Balon looked to the skies, and Catelyn noticed it was late afternoon, "We could still travel for two or three more hours, but I doubt we will find a better place to stay the night. The lands have been queer lately, woodlands appearing when prior there were nothing, springs when there were dry wells." The words sent a strange shiver down her back but the Swann knight merely shrugged. "Alright, men, let's get to it. Ser Gawyn, go to-"

Two hours later, Catelyn found herself in the comfort of her own tent, the same one her brother Edmure had gifted her the day she left Riverrun for that ill-fated diplomatic mission to Renly. A copper tub was provided for her, full of hot water, and for the first time in moons, Catelyn finally managed to take a proper bath that did not include a dip in a spring.

"Brienne? It's your turn now." She shared the tent with the Tarth Maid, and as she put on her clothes, the tall girl hesitantly entered the covered section of the tent to clean herself, bringing two large buckets of boiling water with her.

"Thank you, Lady Stark."

Catelyn hummed as she grabbed a pair of scissors and began trimming her hair. "Brienne, I think we need to discuss what will happen once we arrive in Stannis' camp."

The blonde girl finished emptying the cool water of the tub before refilling it with hot water. "What is there to discuss? We surrendered to him and were given guest rights. I'm not sure if he would honor it considering…"

"Ser Balon Swann tells me that Stannis had forsaken the foreign faith of R'hllor and returned to the Seven." Brienne paused her scrubbing for a moment before carrying on. "There is a reason Ser Swann accepted Lucas' abilities so readily, and those tales of magic and sorcery are far more real than we imagined. Stannis Baratheon is apparently blessed by the Warrior, wielding a blade of lightning and carrying the Seven's favor."

"Yet, he killed his brother."

"None are as accursed as the kinsalyer," Catelyn agreed, "Yet would he have been so blessed if he truly was a kinslayer?"

"My Lady! You were there with me, and you saw that shadow with Stannis' face stabbing King Renly!"

Catelyn sighed at the tall woman's stubbornness. Ah, the folly of youth. "You are not wrong, I did see a shadow carrying Stannis' face, yet what could I possibly know of magic and sorcery? What if it was done on purpose to cause us to misjudge the elder Baratheon brother? There are so many things that we do not know, and it would not do for us to antagonize our captor when, so far, his men had treated us with honor."

"…Very well, My Lady. I understand."

Catelyn feared the young girl did not truly understand, yet she had said her piece. It was up to the Tarth Maid to embrace wisdom and not commit rash actions. Once her hair was fixed and brushed, Catelyn excused herself and stepped out to the campfire. Two of her household guards, Tom and Harmond, immediately stepped in behind her as an honor guard as she made her way to the campfire, where several nobles were seated.

She looked around the campfire, as well as the several others that sprang out along with cooking fires and a smith operating from a wagon. Finally, she found her target, for once, seated by his lonesome with a bowl of soup in his hands.

"Ser Balon."

"Lady Stark," He stood up and bowed, his fist touching his heart in salute. "How fares your stay?"

"Well, thank the Gods." Catelyn waited until Harmond unfolded a wooden chair for her to sit on before continuing. "So far, your Stormlanders have been the epitome of politeness and courtesy. Do not take this the wrong way, but I recall them being far more boisterous when I first met with Renly."

"We are Marchermen," Balon shrugged. "We are accustomed to war, and discipline is the only thing that differentiates us from the Dornish rogues. Besides, you are the Queen Dowager of the North, the widow of Eddard Stark, and the slayer of the Mountain. You bring a lot of prestige with your mere presence, My Lady."

Catelyn lightly smiled at the younger man's praise, but she felt hollow inside. "As good as it sounds, me and you both know it's merely empty flattery. I stood no chance against Tywin's dog and was merely lucky enough to land the final strike by the Grace of the Seven after everyone else battered him down."

"And yet it was that final strike that felled the Mountain, not knights and warriors of great renown with years of training," Ser Swann inclined his head.

"A widow has no use for vainglory," she sighed. "I was hoping to ask you about your time in King's Landing, Ser."

Balon's face suddenly fell, but he recovered as he drank from his bowl. "What would you like to know, Lady Stark?"

"Were you present during my daughter's escape?"

"Aye, but I was fighting for my life then. I only glimpsed her and her savior absconding with Sandor Clegane's horse before that sorcerer did the impossible and slashed away at a hail of arrows."

This was the first time Catelyn had heard a first-hand account of the events, and she listened intently as Balon Swann slowly recollected all he knew from that day. The more she listened, the more Catelyn was certain that if that savior of her daughter were faced against the Mountain, he would have beaten him with a single strike. Especially if Sansa allowed him to wield the Stark ancestral blade.

Worse, though, was how she listened to Balon's recounting of Sansa's treatment in King's Landing. It also confirmed once and for all that the Lannisters never had Arya in their grasp.

"… it was the most chaotic day in the capital since the day Lord Stark was betrayed by the gold cloaks in the throne room."

Catelyn broke from her musings as she focused on what the young knight was saying. "Were you present, Ser Balon? In the throne room, I mean."

"Who wasn't? Eddard Stark had chosen the best time to bring out King Robert's decree, right when all the lords and heirs were expected to swear fealty to Joffrey. I was merely a spectator, but I will not forget how Cersei Lannister tore apart the King's decree instating Lord Stark as regent, nor how Littlefinger held a dagger to the Lord Hand's throat as the gold cloaks–"

"Wait!" Suddenly, a terrible, terrible feeling formed in Catelyn's stomach. "Littlefinger?! Petyr Baelish, you mean? My foster brother? He betrayed my husband?!"

She did not realize she had stood until the rest of the camp went silent, but Catelyn did not care. All that was on her mind were her last words with her foster brother, and how he promised her he would help Ned in any way possible.

"I will not forget the help you gave me, Petyr… I have found a brother I'd thought lost."

"I am… sorry, My Lady. But all I said is the truth." Balon was saying, but it felt as if he was talking from a hundred miles away. "There were hundreds of noble witnesses in that throne room. Many of them have returned to their homes in the Reach and the Crownlands, and they would all attest to my claims: Petyr Baelish is a conniving snake who betrayed the Lord Hand when he declared Stannis Baratheon as the one true king. King Stannis has vowed never to rest until–"

Catelyn could not remember the rest of that night's discussion. Only that she had excused herself for bed, but even as she laid in her cot, only one thing stuck to her mind. That day, she met Petyr Baelish in that brothel; he wore a curious pin on his garment.

A mockingbird.

Catelyn Stark fell to sleep, vowing she would not rest until she had her dear foster brother's head on a silver platter. Or even better, have him squirm as she twisted a dagger in his eyes as the last vestiges of his life were snuffed out.

Notes:

My first proper battle, with no superpowers involved… if you ignore the Enormity that Rides lmao. Seriously, writing that guy is nuts!

Catelyn survived by the skin of her teeth and finally learns the truth of what happened in King's Landing.

Chapter 25: The Ghosts of Winterfell

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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Winterfell

The castle was lively as news of Ser Rodrik's victory arrived, despite how empty and abandoned it felt following the departure of most of the garrison and the masons and builders who followed Rickon north. Still, Bran only felt unease as the days passed, and they awaited the Castellan's return with the turncoat. Bran had tried to fly to the west and see for himself, yet no matter what raven he skinchanged into, it would struggle madly to release itself from his hold, barely a dozen miles from Winterfell. Trying to go the long way around, whether from the north through the Wolfswood or south through Barrowton, resulted in the same; mad ravens and severe pain in his head were the only fruit of Bran's efforts.

Something was hiding what happened in Torrhen's Square from him.

"Make sure the gates are closed when Ser Rodrik returns," Bran warned Luwin as the Maester deposited a couple of scrolls on the desk. "I want to be there before they allow anyone in."

"You suspect foul play?"

"I don't know, I just have a bad feeling." Bran did not know how to voice his concerns. Even if Maester Luwin had been enthusiastic about his magic, he only studied it as a curiosity, forging a single Valyrian steel link and did not understand much about it. "Ravens?"

"Aye, one from the Dreadfort and another from Riverrun."

Bran wondered why the Boltons would send him a raven, so he opened it first and chuckled. "Sansa and her husband had freed the Hornwood and had just taken the Dreadfort. They plan to continue to Karhold to muster their troops before deciding on a heading. Apparently, she was forced to burn the Hornwood keep, as the Bolton men holed up inside refused to surrender, which scattered all of their ravens. I wonder how Lord Bolton will react to that?" He opened the other scroll, and his eyebrows climbed to his forehead, "I suppose he shall not need to worry about that."

"What is it, Prince Bran?"

"The Northern army was defeated outside of Harrenhal. The Kingslayer slew Roose Bolton before routing the rest of the army."

"By the gods! That's terrible news."

"Uncle Edmure forwards a command from Robb, who has left half of his army in the Westerlands and is on his way back to Riverrun. We must ramp up recruitment efforts, but most importantly, he wants more warhorses." Bran stifled a yawn as he handed the scroll to the Maester; he had not been sleeping well lately. "Are we capable of purchasing more?"

"I will need to consult Joseth as the master of horse, but I do not have high hopes. It is not really a matter of wealth, but rather the simple availability of warhorses." The Maester fiddled with the chain on his neck before sighing. "King Robb had taken the finest horses in the Stark lands, and those that remained in the manors and estates were the foals, the mares, and the aging studs. If it wasn't for the war, we could have organized hunting expeditions to capture and tame the multitude of wild horses roaming the lands. Or perhaps called for a horse fair and invited horse breeders from all over the North, or even the other kingdoms, to introduce new stock, but…"

"The North has too many enemies, and such a fair would be difficult to plan, let alone protect with enemies plaguing the land." Bran rubbed his brows at the disaster his brother was now facing. "At least there's a silver lining; Our Bolton problem is now permanently resolved. I will pen a letter to Sansa to annex the Dreadfort and its lands with my blessings, and we can deal with who gets it later."

"Very good, My Prince. The raven is well rested and can depart for the Dreadfort before the sun sets."

"Good. What's the status of the garrison?"

The Maester grimaced, Luwin was incredibly helpful and loyal yet he simply was not knowledgeable in matters of war. Most of the links in his chain were gold for sums and money, silver for healing, or brass for engineering. He still forged at least one link in every subject, as was expected from a maester, yet the sole Iron link in his chain spoke of how little he cared for the art of warfare.

"We have less than three hundred men, nearly all of them half-trained with little to no experience in leading, let alone fighting."

"Three hundred men are barely enough to fully garrison a single gate and a small section of the walls around it." Bran sighed; his time ruling Winterfell had forced him to learn many things, the most important of which was how to defend a castle. "How many residents are left in Winterfell and Wintertown?"

"Wintertown is nearly deserted now that most residents moved north in support of the Watch. Between both the castle and town, there are less than two thousand souls living here."

"And there is no chance we could form a levy out of them?"

"Hardly. Most of those who remain are women and children. Perhaps some greybeards could take up a spear or a bow to defend their home from the safety of the walls, but I doubt they would be capable of any sort of training or fighting in the field."

Bran tapped the desk in thought, finding that there was little they could do to further strengthen House Stark in any meaningful way. What did his father say to Robb once?

"Even the most skilled of men cannot squeeze water from stone."

He was loath to admit it, but their best option was to wait for Ser Rodrik to return and then endure any potential attack from the Ironborn until Sansa and her husband arrived with the full muster of the east. It sounded simple, yet Bran could not help but worry about Ser Rodrik and how he could not get any ravens to fly to the west.

Worse, the Ghosts of Winterfell had been restless and appeared to be fighting… something. If only Bran could talk to them, yet they were not a true force to be relied on, as he had not seen them capable of affecting the physical world.

He was awoken from his thoughts by the Maester, "Prince Bran? Was there something else you wished to discuss?"

"No, that would be all, Maester. You are dismissed."

That was two days ago, and now, Bran was in the Godswood, relaxing under the Heart Tree's red canopy - the sun barely visible through the clouds and light fog that covered the castle. His two guards, Barth and Calon, who had replaced Walder's position, were a respectful distance away, holding Dancer's reins. The docile filly was feeding on a sack of oats, and Bran recalled how Luwin had warned that the Godswood was not a place for a horse, yet the intelligent mare was obedient and did not even defecate without permission.

He closed his eyes as he rested on the roots, easily slipping into the skin of a raven flying over the castle. The early morning fog hid the grounds outside the castle yet Bran could see the castle's residents going about their day. He frowned slightly when he found the two Frey wards, Big Walder and Small Walder, playing dice and drinking ale with some of the guards by the west gate.

Bran was tempted to cut the connection and have them reprimanded for distracting the guards, but decided otherwise. He would rather check on Rickon instead.

Turning the raven North, Bran flew for a few minutes until he felt another connection further away. Focusing on it, he jumped from the raven to another one he released earlier flying north to Coldwatch - Maester Luwin would most likely not be amused to find the only raven to the Norreys missing but Bran was certain he could have him return after his jaunt.

He still could not fly west, and the harder he tried, the greater the pain and the more terrible the visions that assaulted his mind. A massive demonic figure in a dark place seemed to laugh at him, and Bran nearly lost his mind if not for that same ghost of a powerful man wielding a hammer to bring him back. That was yestereve, and Bran dearly wished they could send any riders to the west to meet with Ser Rodrik, yet they had no more horses aside from drays or donkeys, not fit for riding.

Instead, he sent Summer to the Wolfswood in an attempt to circumvent whatever barrier was in place that blocked his vision. A nudge in his mind showed success as he could easily see through Summer's eyes!

Summer had gathered a following of wolves, however, and Bran had to remind his companion of his mission; having his own army of wolves was one thing, but Bran needed to know what was happening with Ser Rodrik. The direwolf felt bashful as he turned south and hurried through the woods to follow his command, his furry army following along.

Shaking his head in amusement, Bran returned to the raven and, within a few heartbeats, was flying over the Northern Mountains, enjoying the beautiful and picturesque land, from the snow-capped mountains, the glaciers, ravines, valleys, springs, streams, and so much more!

How he longed to run up the hills, climb the highest peaks, and ride through the valleys; Yet it was not meant to be. He continued flying north until he arrived at the seat of the Norreys, the northernmost house of the clans.

Their castle, Coldwatch, was built along the headwaters of the Last River, the northernmost castle of the North, though the Umbers of Last Hearth would argue that theirs was the one. It was a point of contention between the giants and the clansmen that usually started many arguments that his father would be forced to mediate, more likely than not by having champions between both sides fighting it out.

The castle was hardly a grand one, even smaller than Cerwyn castle, yet it was solidly built on a hill and surrounded by a large village. Bran smiled as he saw many Northmen working the fields in a valley as they plowed and planted for the warm months harvest - the cold months were here and already, summer snows were covering the land.

Men, women, and children fished in the streams and rivers, but, most importantly, preparing for war. The lands of the Norreys historically stretched even further north into the New Gift, yet with Alysanne's gift cutting their lands by half, many formed villages and towns around the main castle. Flying further north, Bran was surprised to find many more communities well inside the New Gift but still within the mountains, clearly not thinking much about the Good Queen's decree.

It was there that Bran finally found his brother in one of the villages that he realized was repurposed to be a war camp. Rickon was with an old short man, slight of build but sly-eyed and spry. He resembled an old fox clad in fur and iron, yet as he showed his brother how to swing an axe, he still retained strength that belied his age. Shaggydog was playfully chasing some dogs nearby, though judging by their wide eyes, they did not seem to enjoy it as much; Palla was chasing after the direwolf with a brush, cussing up a storm, and Bran looked around until he found Osha staring morosely at a large upturned wooden tub, soap bubbles and steam floating away.

Satisfied that his brother was in good hands and clearly having the time of his life, Bran continued flying further north, feeling the limitations of his control over the raven. Within an hour, he arrived at the Shadow Tower, gazing in wonder at the massive Wall, before veering west to Westwatch by the bridge, just south of the Bridge of Skulls, to find the castle brimming with life.

It wasn't much of a castle, for it had only a single curtain wall with one gate facing the bridge and two towers at each end of the wall that overlooked the narrow bridge and the gorge. It was clear that it had seen far better days; Hardly any of the crenelations remained, yet the masons were busy rebuilding what they could, and even now, the gate was being reinforced with a proper iron portcullis - one donated from Winterfell's stocks. Bran spied a few rusted poles abandoned nearby that must have been the old portcullis.

A team of builders was busy rebuilding what could be recovered from the abandoned buildings. Another was constructing a wooden palisade around the castle while a last one oversaw the construction of two wooden towers attached to the walls.

There were barely a hundred Black Brothers in the castle, most of them working with the builders, yet Bran recognized many of the Stark men he sent and many more Clansmen. There must have been nearly three thousand fighting men and even more in workers and laborers in the castle and its vicinity. Many long houses and halls had sprung up to house all the men. Flying to the west, Bran also saw a new fishing village with several boats out in the Bay of Ice sailing back with the day's catch.

Something whispered his name, and Bran looked around but found nothing. Shaking his head, Bran ignored it and turned north towards the gorge.

He tried to get beyond it, but his head nearly exploded in pain the closer to the Wall he got, which confused him as he did not think the Wall's protections extended so far west. Nevertheless, he was satisfied with the defensive measures the Northmen were taking against the coming threat. Bran flew towards a wooden hall that had many banners and pennants placed outside to find several men speaking around a table.

"… Scouts report a large force led by the Weeper approaches. We believe he is the vanguard to an even larger force." A Black Brother reported. "The Lord Commander's plan is working, and the wildlings have failed to cross the Milkwater. Unfortunately, that means we must expect to face the full might of their army to come here, the only feasible way south unless they risk scaling the Wall."

"And the savages will do it." A man with an enormous beer belly scowled, "There are too many abandoned castles on the Wall to cover every section of it, and Jeor has far too few men to fully cover every single crossing. If Mance Rayder had any wits, he would swing back and storm the remaining crossings, no matter the losses. They will scale the Walls and try to bugger us from behind, you have my word on that."

Several murmurs of assent came from the rest of the table, and Bran recognized Walder towering next to the commander of the Stark contingent, Gareth Mollen, the third and youngest son of Edwyle Mollen, who, like Donnis Poole, was also trained as an acolyte by Maester Luwin. A good archer and horseman, though barely a year older than Robb, Gareth brought far more useful skills than simple martial prowess, as he was also an engineer. He was responsible for the walls and towers, and Bran wagered that once they were completed, they would have scorpions or mangonels built on top courtesy of the man.

There were many other notable figures, all of them Clansmen. Still, he only recognized Brandon Norrey, the Younger, from when he visited Winterfell years ago with many of the Clansmen to resolve a dispute.

"… Need more supplies for the Shadow Tower and the ranging." Bran focused back on the Black Brother speaking. "Qhorin Halfhand has less than a hundred men against the hordes of wildlings. Some volunteers to join the ranging could be planned and make sure as many of the savages remain west of the Milkwater as possible to…"

Bran's head pounded as someone kept calling his name urgently, but he did not want to answer. He was having so much fun flying and inspecting the results of his decision.

Still, the pain was harsh as he could barely focus on what the men were saying.

"… Heard The Ned's son is wreaking havoc on the savages from further north."

"… Wait, Wynch? You're a squid?!"

"Calm it, Buckets. Aladale is a brother of the Night's Watch before anything else."

"Aye, true that. Apologies, lad, you serve the Watch with honor."

Exhaustion hit Bran like a charging bull, even though whoever was calling him sounded hysterical. Was it a ghost? Or maybe it was the Three-Eyed Crow? He did mention that he was beyond the wall. Why bother calling for him now? Still, as the pounding in his head reached a crescendo, Bran decided it was time for him to leave, even if he wished to learn more about what Jon was doing beyond the wall.

Right before he cut the connection, a horn blast came from the south, and a sentry entered the hall. Bran barely managed to keep focusing on learning what happened.

"My Lords, the Umbers have arrived."

"About damn time!" Norrey grumbled though he was also grinning. "How many?"

"A thousand, but they bring more in supplies."

As the men cheered and moved to greet the Umbers, Bran decided the Wall was in good hands and cut the connection, sighing in relief.

Only to hear screaming, steel clashing against steel, and realize he was being carried by one of the guards as they hurried across the courtyard towards the great keep, the other guard leading Dancer.

"What's happening?"

"We're under attack! The Ironborn have managed to get through the curtain walls." Barth replied, the worry clear in his voice. "We must get you to the keep, My Pri–"

Pain erupted as an arrow sprouted from Barth's throat, and it's barbed edge continued until it pierced his chest. Bran collapsed just as Calon shouted his name, and Dancer neighed.

And yet, Bran did not at all feel any sort of worry, despite the pain in his elbows from the fall and the barbed arrowhead stuck in his chest as the shaft broke; all he felt was detached curiosity as the world seemed to slow down around him and he instinctively skinchanged into a flying raven and inspected the situation.

There were many people running around like headless chickens inside Winterfell's inner castle. A lot of them were noncombatants, who hurried inside the keep or guest house or any other building, yet Bran spied about a hundred of his guards trying to close the gate as they fought against the invaders. There was no question it was the Ironborn; how they made it inside the castle did not matter, but considering they were garbed in Stark colors, he could hazard a guess.

Gazing at the Hunter's Gate to the west, he lamented the sight of many dead Stark guards littering the outer courtyard and the drawbridges. Some of them had been pushed into the moat below, their young faces frozen in horror - Bran recognized one of the Frey wards with his skull split. His orders to close the gates were not heeded, whether out of malice or incompetence; it did not matter. There were many reavers inside the castle, spreading out wildly into the outer courtyards as they killed any man they saw. Thankfully, the Battlements Gates leading to the different sections of the castle were sealed, though the Ironborn could cross it if they gained access to the walls.

The biggest worry came from the inner castle's gate, where many reavers had already made it past the portcullis, two large beams of wood were placed to keep it raised. Bran spied the savage, snarling face of Theon Greyjoy leading the assault, his form frozen as he balanced on another Ironborn's shoulder to get a height advantage; a bow was in his hand as he grinned manically at his fallen form.

It was then that Bran realized he could not move the raven, for time truly had stopped. The situation looked dire, as the few defenders fighting at the gate were about to be overwhelmed, yet he did not know what to do. They did not have enough men, and they lost their only advantage, the safety of the walls. There must have been a thousand Ironmen already inside Winterfell!

Slowly, panic began to set in Bran's mind; was this how Winterfell would fall? Through the foolish actions of its acting lord? If only they had more men… men who were now preparing for war against the wildlings.

"Call for us, Son of Winterfell."

Bran froze at the sound and found himself facing the same ghost he was sure was an important ancestor. There were many more appearing behind him, and more importantly, many of them had direwolves floating next to them.

For once, Bran could see them far clearer than at any other time. "You can talk?"

"We could always talk, yet it took time for me to acclimate to the new tongue of my descendants as well as for our voices to reach you." The hammer-wielding warrior uttered, his lips quirking in amusement. "You can thank your goodbrother for claiming all those Weirwoods. It had allowed us to better interact with the mortal world, once again."

To say Bran was confused was an understatement, Sansa's husband did what? It did not matter, not when Winterfell was falling around him. "Who are you?"

"I am the one who witnessed the fall of Winter and built a castle to stand the test of time in its place. I erected the great barrier and many more, yet those do not matter now. Winterfell is about to fall. I and many of my descendants would rather that not happen."

Brandon the Builder! He focused on the rest of the ghosts and confirmed what he had always suspected: many of them had crowns, yet a few did not. An elderly ghost resembling a tapestry of Cregan Stark, a gaunt man with a grin more manic than Theon's and eyes filled with even more hatred as he glared bloody murder at the reavers than Bran thought possible, a morose man whose crown seemed to be fading. There was even a sad girl standing in the back next to two men who looked suspiciously similar to his father and Uncle Benjen.

"Why aren't you helping, then? You could help, right? Smite the Ironborn and rid Winterfell and the North of the scum!"

"If only it were that simple. We lack the power to manifest in the world, even if magic has steadily grown stronger. A time will come when spirits and gods will directly interact with the mortal world, yet it is still too early for that."

"Then… is there no hope for us? I was the one who foolishly sent away most of the garrison. Ser Rodrik is dead, and most likely the rest of his army." Bran felt despair clutching his heart as tears formed in his eyes. He raised a hand to wipe them away, only to find them ethereal and white - like a ghost. "Am I already dead? What's the point of any of this, then?"

"You are not dead. The arrow missed your lung and barely scrapped your ribs. You will recover after some rest… however, it seems time is running out."

Bran flinched as the sound of battle returned. Shouts of his name caught his attention, and Calon moved Barth's body away from him before carrying him. Dancer, that smart and loyal horse, stubbornly remained beside him as another arrow nearly hit Calon but struck the saddle instead. The fighting at the gate was brutal, and the Ironborn were steadily gaining ground, even as the defenders threw rocks and boiling water at them from above. It was as if the Ironmen did not feel any pain as they all roared and screamed in agonized ecstasy before they continued to fight.

"You can save us. You wouldn't be so cruel as to keep me here while my home falls. You can save us!"

"We can. But a price must be paid, young greenseer."

There was power in those words, and Bran felt trepidation before he gritted his teeth. "Name it. I will do anything to save my home. To save Winterfell and my people!"

The Builder smiled warmly, "Spoken like a true Son of Winterfell. First, you must believe, then you must pray."

A*H*M

Hundreds of miles to the east

"Fuck!"

Percy grabbed his head in pain as he nearly fell off Blackjack. The stallion neighed loudly, grabbing the attention of the rest of the column as the pounding in Percy's head reached a crescendo. Just a minute ago, he was talking to Sansa and her friends in their fancy carriage while he rode next to them, a thousand more warriors escorting them to Karhold, but the sudden onslaught of screams of pain and despair echoed in his mind.

"Percy! What's wrong?"

He could hear his wife's worried tone from a hundred miles away, but Blackjack neighed again before turning and galloping away from the column. Percy could barely hold on to the reins as the thousands of voices in his head spoke all at once.

"Dad! What's happening?"

"Someone is praying to you." His father explained simply. "It appears our pact with the Builder is coming to fruition sooner than we expected."

"Fuck, I thought we would have more time!"

The reason why they had so easily managed to claim so much of the Weirwoods of the North without any struggle from the many spirits or gods that dwelled in the land had to do with their patron. Brandon the Builder, also posing as the Smith, held considerable influence in the land. By claiming the Weirwoods, Percy would be more capable of using his powers without any backlash, along with many other effects that affected Poseidon more than him.

Yet it was not a freebie; The Builder had extracted a promise from him and Poseidon to protect the North in perpetuity.

Considering Percy had already planned to do that once he married Sansa, it was a no-brainer. Yet, it was not simply defending the land from invaders but also from hostile gods.

"Apparently, something unexpected happened. Quickly, place your hand on the weirwood. It's not a Heart Tree, but it would have to do."

Before he knew it, Blackjack stopped by a Weirwood grove, and Percy barely got off the horse before collapsing on the roots and closing his eyes. Instantly, the pounding in his head ceased, and he found himself floating over a massive castle. Percy cursed loudly at finding himself so high off the ground, yet he was quickly distracted by the sound of battle beneath him.

"Thank you for arriving so promptly, Perseus."

He turned at the voice and found himself faced with the progenitor of the Starks, Brandon the Builder. There were dozens of other ghosts surrounding him, each one of them clearly a king or a lord, yet they kept a polite distance as the Builder approached, followed by a familiar boy.

"What's going on? Where am I?"

"You are in Winterfell. There is no time to waste. Bran here has agreed to do what is necessary. You will soon have the power to affect the world and protect your wife's home."

Percy gawked at the ghost/god/ancestral spirit, honestly, he still did not understand how the whole thing worked, but all his demigod instincts screamed at him to act. This was Sansa's home, and that rowdy bunch did not look like they were here for a sales pitch.

"What do you need?"

The spirits seemed to sigh in relief at his quick agreement, and the young boy who had dragged him into the Weirwood when he was at the Moat stepped forward, though they were all still floating in the air.

"The Ironborn are inside the castle. If left to their devices, they will slaughter or enslave all the inhabitants and burn my home!" Sansa's brother was young, too young to worry about such matters, yet his eyes were full of resolve as he glared down. "I must awaken and do what I must, but I will need you to banish them outside the castle afterward."

'What I must?' For some reason, he felt dread at those words, yet a scream from below showed that the invaders had broken through, led by a guy with pitch-black eyes; Percy could feel the sheer wrongness with the man, and he was willing to bet his new shield that this was no man, but some kind of demon possession. "How am I supposed to do that? I'm still hundreds of miles away, and I can barely feel the sea!"

"There's plenty of water around." The Builder shrugged, and Percy realized it was true. He could feel the presence of water, hot water, throughout the castle, not to mention the moat, yet he could no more control it than he could move his body. "Get ready."

Percy braced but realized the man was talking to the younger Bran, who closed his eyes. Suddenly, loud wolf howls came from outside the walls. It wasn't one or two, but a scary cacophony of dozens, no hundreds of wolves howling in unison. The Ironborn froze for a moment, but Percy had eyes only on Sansa's brother as he woke up and had one of the guards lift him on a horse just as the invaders continued to attack, but the brief pause had allowed the few defenders to rally and form a line; Percy was shocked to find it was mostly old men, most of the young had either already died or were sent away into the keep. Bran galloped away through another gate leading to the Godswood, stopped his horse in front of the Heart Tree, and threw himself on the roots. Percy's eyes widened when he pulled out a dagger and stared at it sadly.

"No, wait–"

Too late, Brandon Stark tore away at his clothes and stabbed himself in the heart. With the last vestige of strength he had, he pulled the blade out, allowing his blood to flow freely to the roots, and placed his bloody hands on the Heart Tree's face, smearing his blood on it before quickly losing strength and collapsing.

Many things happened at the same time.

As one, the Ghosts of Winterfell and their large wolves disappeared, but suddenly, the remaining few defenders let out unholy roars of rage as if any previous sign of weakness and defeat was gone. There were only twenty of them, yet as they charged at the attacking Ironmen, they might have been two hundred, given how utterly savage and mad their charge was. Wisps of white could be seen clinging to them, showing who was truly controlling the defenders.

Percy felt an unbridled rage coursing through his veins, yet it was not his own. He was too busy feeling horror at the boy, who could not have been older than ten or eleven, willingly sacrificing himself in the hopes that someone like him would save his home. Bran did not know him, yet he still trusted him to do what was necessary. As the defenders fought back against the invaders, their foes began raining arrows at them, yet they did not care and as they crashed into their lines, it was clear that they were not human anymore.

Just vessels for the Ghosts of Winterfell.

Yet they were still too few to truly defeat the Ironmen; no matter how many they slayed, more seemed to come; nearly a third of the Ironmen lay dead or dying, broken to pieces by the defender's axes or their bare hands or even teeth, unconcerned with any injury they may suffer.

Percy felt the connection between him and the land solidify. If the earlier connection to the water was like a string, now, it was like a Celestial Bronze chain and with a thought, boiling hot water exploded out of the ground, and crashed into the Ironborn, just as a particularly ugly man with a split lip slew the last defender.

He was the first to be cooked alive by the boiling water.

The screams of pain sent many of them careening back from the inner castle. It was almost as if they had woken up from their bloodlust and realized that they were not facing mortal men anymore.

Percy did not care. Especially when a few of them began muttering those hateful words. "What is dead shall remain fucking dead!"

The boiling water continued to rush forth and, like a raging current, smashed through everything in its path and seeped through the gaps of everything it could not. The few survivors rushed back out of the castle just as the waters of the moat rose to block their path. Percy felt satisfaction as he saw their leader, that young man with a demon possessing him, freezing in horror before both hot and cold water crashed into them.

"Thank you for the aid, Perseus."

Percy breathed heavily; he had no idea how he could feel exhaustion while in an incorporeal form, yet it must be real; he could already feel the connection to the water fading.

None of that mattered to him as he glared at the Builder, "You… Son of a bitch! You drove that kid to kill himself! And for what?"

"To protect his home, such is his duty as The Stark in Winterfell. Do not dare besmirch his resolve, boy." The Builder growled, just as the rest of the ghosts floated back from the corpses of those they possessed. "None of us would have been capable of so much as whisper to the men of Winterfell if not for his sacrifice. Those greybeards that fought to the bitter end? They willingly sacrificed themselves so their children could live and fight another day. If they so much as hesitated to accept our offer of aid, we would have failed to help them."

"But… He was also a child. What would drive a child to willingly take his own life like this?!"

His roar did not even make the stoic ghost flinch; all of them met his gaze without hesitation, without doubt, even the morose girl who looked no older than Sansa, though he thought he saw guilt and pity in her gaze.

"We Starks have protected the North since time immemorial," one of the older-looking ghosts said. This one looked more dangerous a warrior than almost all the others, but he lacked a crown atop his head, yet somehow reeked of blood. "We enjoy a great deal of benefits as we accept the supplicants and their tributes, yet when the time comes, no matter how young or old or infirm we are, a Stark must do what he must to ensure the protection of his home. Of the North."

Percy still felt hesitant, and he wondered if he was barking up the wrong tree. These were different people. They had different customs. Yet, he married a Stark, and by all rights, he was already half of one. Would there come a time when he would expect his child to seek death for the sake of his home? His people? His siblings? Was death and sacrifice such an easy answer to any time of trouble?

He did not know, but a much more simple answer came to his mind. Percy simply needed to prevent such a situation from ever happening in the first place. To become powerful enough to protect his family. To make sure his children were well-trained and powerful enough to protect themselves and their own loved ones.

By now, the residents of Winterfell had come out of hiding. A few of the surviving guards were pulled to the Godswood by Bran's horse only to find the corpse of their prince and wailed in anguish, yet Percy was distracted by a groaning noise from where the dead Ironborn were. He felt shocked as he realized one had survived before it morphed into a rage as a black gas seemed to be seeping from the leader of the Ironmen as he rose unnaturally to his feet. It solidified into some sort of demon with sickly yellow eyes and many tentacles that seemed to act as strings to control the half-melted Ironborn; his bones were visible from beneath his sludge-like muscles and skin.

Before Percy could raise his hands to finish him off, the Builder spoke.

"Wait. Let him finish Greyjoy off. He has the right after all he suffered and his sacrifice."

Percy was confused before another howl erupted from the gates. He watched as a massive wolf ran with a hundred smaller, yet no less vicious, wolves with pale light in their eyes, crossed the drawbridge, and crashed into Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy, as Percy recalled Sansa's lessons. The traitor who grew up in the same home as the Starks yet so gleefully tried to murder one of them. He did not know if he did it willingly or not, but most possessions usually required the victim to at least be receptive to the idea - same with the ghosts possessing the greybeards.

Nevertheless, Percy felt satisfaction as the direwolf tore him to shreds and even bit into the dark apparition controlling him. It let loose an agonizing scream and flew away in defeat, leaving behind all of its tentacles and half of its body for the wolves to feast on.

Outside the castle, more howls could be heard as well as screams of pain and Percy realized there were more Ironmen out of the castle. Or there were, before the wolves got to them.

"What was that?"

"The lieutenant of the Abyssal Spawn. Most call him the Drowned God these days, yet I remember his pathetic existence when he was but a human, just like I was." The Builder shook his head before gazing at the direwolf. "Young Bran is now living his second life."

The direwolf looked up from its meal and stared right at them. Percy realized then that this was not some mindless beast, for those intelligent eyes were too human - one yellow and one a familiar blue, both primal yet intelligent.

"Tell his sister if she wishes to see him, then she must hurry with her tour and return to Winterfell - there are more reavers that need slaying. I am grateful for your aid, Perseus, but I believe it is time for you to go."

At the mention of Sansa, Percy realized his body was fading. It was time for him to go, and he turned one last time at the Builder. He was not sure if he agreed with his methods or those of the Starks in general; too cold and pragmatic, too dutiful and loyal to their people, at the expense of their loved ones.

With a heavy heart, Percy allowed himself to fade back to his body, finding the worried eyes of his wife staring at him. How was he supposed to tell her that she lost her brother?

Notes:

Bran goes down like an utter Chad. I always wondered what the whole thing with being The Stark in Winterfell was about, and this is the answer I arrived at. To be ready to do what is necessary at any cost.

We get a glimpse at the preparations in Westwatch.

Percy takes the meaning of protector of the North to a whole other level.

Chapter 26: Waking Giants

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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Winterfell

"Hurry! Get the wounded into the Great Hall. Careful, you fools! Be gentle."

Luwin could hear Farlen barking at the survivors of the battle from where he and his final acolyte, Edric, a tanner's son from Wintertown, tended to the wounded. Anyone who could move was helping as well, and many of the castle's residents were capable of tending minor wounds or keeping the more seriously injured comfortable until he arrived. The cooks, scullery maids, Barth the Brewer, and even Old Nan were doing what they could.

A constant stream of wounded flowed in and were carefully deposited on cots prepared where the tables had been. There were many wounded, yet thankfully, none of them seemed to have been harmed by the flood. Some even swore the boiling water of the springs felt soothing as it flowed around them as if it had a mind of its own, only burning the invaders but not the castle's residents.

It had even retrieved those who fell in the moat!

The maester had been in his tower when the attack began and barely managed to make it to the keep as he searched for the young prince. There was nothing at all that he could have done once the Ironborn broke through the inner gate, and he could only stare in despair as Prince Bran rode off into the Godswood. For one treacherous moment, Luwin had thought the prince was abandoning them, yet he quickly squashed that thought; what could a crippled boy of eleven do against a horde of barbarians?

But who would flee towards their death? On the high table lay the prince laid in eternal rest, covered with a white sheet, like many others who had lost their lives, such as the Frey wards and other innocent souls; it turned out to be quite a lot. Luwin and all the Winterfell household had a clear view of when the specters possessed the last defenders of the castle, those who were too old to even work and the infirm, and fought back against the invaders like demons.

'It must have been magic,' was the only thought in Luwin's mind as he stared at one of the ghosts. He had raised his hands and sent a flood from the hot springs below the castle crashing into the invaders. Their flesh melted, and bones were broken, leaving naught but their arms and armor. Several ghosts even landed on the ground but did not speak; Old Nan nearly collapsed when she cried out, "Rick!" and the man who looked so similar to the late Lord Eddard Stark nodded.

"The Stark in Winterfell has done his duty." The ghost, whom many realized was Rickard Stark, dissipated, and so did many other ghosts. Such magic! If it had been any other time, Luwin would have been gushing to learn how it worked if it had not been for the circumstances.

Communicating with the dead!

Not just that, Prince Bran must have done something to cause the Lords and Kings of Winterfell to rise from their eternal rest to protect their home. Not just them, Luwin could have sworn he saw a maiden amongst them!

Luwin finished suturing the stab wound on the young man's stomach that barely missed his vitals before moving to the next patient, took one glance at his young pale face and bleeding guts, and shook his head sadly.

"Give him wine and milk of the poppy to ease the pain. There's nothing more I can do."

One of the maids hurried to do as told while the young lad's mother wailed in anguish. If he were a stronger man, he would have given the lad the mercy of death, but his heart was too soft to take a life. Luwin quickly moved to the next patient, for he could not afford to delay. No matter how much it pained him, he could not do more.

Several maids followed him with clean fabric as they bandaged the wounds on those with minor injuries until he or Edric arrived to treat those grievously wounded. His eyes passed by a pile of discarded arms and armor near the prince; one, in particular, had a ruby hilt and dark smoky blade that seemed to drink in all the light adorned with swirls of crimson. Red Rain, the legendary blade of House Reyne, which had been stolen by the Drumms ninety years ago during Dagon Greyjoy's wars.

A great prize… that Luwin would like nothing more than to melt down and chuck in the sea if it meant bringing back the prince. The old maester stifled a sob as he moved towards the next wounded. At least the prince's direwolf was alive as he helped Joseth herd the horses the Ironborn had brought into Wintertown. Stark horses, stolen from Rodrik's army, and most of them were used to the smell of the direwolf. Thinking about Summer, Luwin could not help but feel that the direwolf had also changed with the death of its master; it had howled mournfully along with the hundreds of wolves that had followed it before Farlen managed to calm them.

Luwin's mind went to some treatises he had read regarding skinchangers and wargs; many of them were written by maesters serving on the Wall. They mentioned a phenomenon where a warg could live a second life in his bonded animal, yet Luwin did not dare hope. Even when one of Summer's eyes had permanently turned a very familiar shade of blue, he dared not hope!

As Luwin sutured another wound, this one a near-fatal one to the neck, he lamented the loss of so many good men and commanders of the castle. There were practically no more garrison in Winterfell, let alone any captain or commander to lead or protect them. Luwin had already sent riders and ravens to the nearest holdfasts sworn to Winterfell, hoping they would still have spare troops to garrison the mighty castle.

It was nearly sunset when all the wounded were tended to, and the last rays of the sun peeked in from the windows. Luwin groaned as his knees felt stiff from kneeling for so long, yet as he turned to the prince's corpse, and the many other dead, there was still a lot of work to be done. The living were tended to, time for the dead to get their due.

.

.

.

It was two days later when Winterfell finally returned to a semblance of normalcy. The dead were buried in the lichyard, while Prince Bran's body was cleaned and entombed in the crypts in the area that Eddard Stark designated for his family. None would have thought it would be used so early, especially when Lord Stark's bones were still in the South. Once the prince's burial was done, Old Nan insisted they have a statue of him sculpted.

"He was a Stark of Winterfell! He deserves to be buried like one."

A sculptor was already preparing a block of granite while Luwin was called to the Hunter's Gate at the sight of troops approaching. Having learned their lesson, all of the gates were shut, and none could enter without his permission. With the death of the prince and the castellan, the Maester was the highest remaining authority in the castle. It was a burden that Luwin never wished to hold, yet it was his duty to serve the castle and its lord, even if King Robb was a thousand miles away.

It was times like these that Luwin lamented the lack of Starks, even any distant relatives. Sadly, the closest living relatives not from the mainline were the Royces in the Vale and Amberly in the Stormlands - neither of them was at all in a position to help them. Even the Karstarks were so far away from the mainline that one would need to go over a hundred years to trace the closest marriage. There could be more Luwin did not know of, yet they have never shown themselves - aside from two baker girls working in the kitchens the maester suspected were the fruits of Brandon Stark's fostering in the Barrowlands.

Luwin could have sworn there was a Stark branch in Barrowton, though perhaps like the one in White Harbor, they had perished or faded to obscurity.

Luwin shook his head before shivering as he adjusted his furs. The cold winds of the cold season approached, and it had already started snowing last night. He passed by the crowded stables; they had managed to recover nearly five hundred warhorses. It was a tight fit, but they managed to build some lean-to to accommodate all of them until they cleaned out some of the older barns and stables spread around the castle.

All of Wintertown had elected to move inside the castle when he offered, even if the Ironborn did not get the chance to torch or raid the town, so eager they were to take the greater prize. Still, nearly two hundred of them were found mauled by the wolves as they waited outside the castle and watched over the horses. Sadly, there was hardly anyone who could ride them into battle, yet it was still a boon to recover them regardless.

As he approached the closed portcullis of the outer gate, flanked by two men-at-arms, Luwin found himself faced by a large crowd of warriors - possibly five hundred with about fifty of them mounted on garrons and rounceys. Horses that were not normally used in the Stark forces that preferred chargers, coursers, or even the occasional destrier. He recognized the banners of Houses Woods, Branch, Forrester, and Bole, yet the largest and most prominent banner was that of the Glovers.

A group of five approached, one representing each house, though the young lad wearing the inverted colors of House Hornwood had Luwin raise an eyebrow before his attention was grabbed by their speaker.

"I am Benjicot Branch," a lean and wiry man in his thirties with harsh, flinty eyes spoke. "Who are you? Why are you barring the gates? Where is Prince Bran?"

"I'm the castle's maester, Luwin. May I ask why you are here?"

"We were sent by Lady Sybelle Glover to join with Ser Rodrik Cassel in his attack against the Ironborn. We were too late for the battle, and the Squids now control Tallhart's castle. We decided to chase a band of Ironborn heading this way while Steward Wayn prepared for their main force to eventually attack the Wolfswood." Benjicot Branch glanced around him in confusion, ignoring Luwin's wide eyes at learning there was yet another larger Ironborn force occupying Torrhen's Square. "We could have sworn we were a couple of days behind them, but they were mounted while we barely had any horses."

Luwin sighed in frustration, "If only you were here two days ago. The castle was attacked, and the Ironborn made it all the way to the Great Keep before being repelled. Prince Bran fell in battle, but the rest of the Ironborn are now feasts to the wolves." Several of the men cursed and muttered angry vows of vengeance, yet a distant howl caused them to look around warily. "Those wolves, in fact."

From the south, closer to the now deserted Wintertown, the prince's direwolf approached, followed by a score of wolves acting as an honor guard. The men cursed, and some of them hurried to string their bows before Luwin shouted, "Calm yourself. It's the prince's direwolf."

Summer approached the small army, utterly unconcerned with how anxious they were, especially the horses. He sniffed at some of them before turning to the Maester; Luwin could see intelligence in those mismatched eyes, yet he dared not hope that the prince still lived within.

"I thank you for your prompt arrival, nevertheless. Winterfell welcomes you." With a signal, the portcullis was opened, and more introductions were formalized. Ethan Forrester brought the most men and all the horse, yet he was too young to lead properly and allowed the more experienced Benjicot to command. Ned Woods and Torren Bole led scouts and woodsmen, while Larence Snow led the Glover contingent of men-at-arms. A great honor to the bastard of Halys Hornwood and the late Jocelyn Glover, sister to Galbart Glover.

Once bread and salt were given, the men were housed, and the once empty castle was suddenly lively again - the Wolfswood men paid their respects to the fallen prince and took over the defense of the castle. Luwin would have been glad to allow some of the more martial-minded forest clansmen or even the young Larence Snow to act as castellan of the castle, allowing him to continue his duties as maester. Sadly, it was not that simple, as with the absence of a Stark in Winterfell, the Maester retained nearly all authority - it helped that he was the most knowledgeable on all matters pertaining to the castle.

Luwin had written scrolls for Riverrun, White Harbor, the Dreadfort, and Karhold. It did not matter whether it was King Robb or Princess Sansa, Winterfell needed a Stark, and it needed one yesterday. He would have sent one to the Norreys, yet he could not find their only raven - a niggling thought in his mind told him Prince Bran had pranked him one last time before his death.

It was two days later that a raven arrived from Deepwood Motte. Luwin had opened it with the forest clansmen in attendance, all of them dreading another attack from the Ironborn, only to wonder if Lady Glover had lost her wits.

A winged behemoth hewn from frost and ice had been sighted, roosting under a hill overlooking the water in Sea Dragon Point.

A*H*M

Jon Snow, Somewhere in the Frostfangs.

"White Huntsman. We are at your mercy."

It was ironic to see the wildlings, who were supposed to hate kneelers and kneeling… kneeling before him. But then again, perhaps it was all words in the wind, merely empty bravado and boasting that the savages were so infamous for. That and raiding, murdering, and stealing.

Jon could feel the impatience of his vast pack of wolves fanned out around him. They were hungry and had no qualms about partaking in human flesh, and the only thing stopping them was his will. He could exert his mind over them, but the more a deed or behavior went against their nature and instinct, the more strenuous it was to force the beast to obey him.

Jon sat on a rock with his blade held horizontally on his knees as he emptied his mind of all distractions as Brynden had taught him. The wildlings had come to him as he scouted the hills, a clan of nearly a thousand, including women and children. Only three hundred of them could fight, yet all of them had been left inside the mountains as they dug for whatever it was that Mance Rayder desired so much. Yet, he had already learned that Mance had moved his wildling army south to attack the Bridge of Skulls.

The fact that they were kneeling showed how desperate they were to come to him.

"Rise." None dared move, causing him to frown, "I thought you who call yourself the Freefolk hated acts of weakness or submitting to others, yet here you are, kneeling to a steward of the Night's Watch."

Jon had learned enough about the wildlings from Bloodraven to know the eccentricities of their ways. They could hardly be called a people united; wildlings were what they were called South of the Wall. Here, they were a loose group of clans, tribes, families, and warbands, squabbling with each other, many speaking their own nearly incomprehensible mixture of Common and Old Tongue. And they were not as unyielding as they liked to portray themselves; beat them down enough, kill those who stubbornly resist, and the rest would fall in line. That's how Bloodraven had managed many of the more troublesome wildlings during his tenure as Lord Commander. The difference here was that Jon did not get to beat any of them; they simply came to him as he passed by a certain mountain with a large cave entrance.

One of them raised his head, an older man, nearly a greybeard. "We are not afraid of dying in battle or on a hunt. Yet we have nothing left. No more food or supplies, and that cunt Mance had abandoned us!"

"Abandoned you?" Jon echoed, the response stirring his curiosity.

"Aye, we followed him because he promised us freedom and a way south from the madness that hunts us in the coldest of nights." Another man answered; this one seemed more… civilized. No, that was a generous term for a wildling, yet he had a felt hat, a doublet, a linen tunic, seal skin boots, and adorned his heavy furs with silver and polished malachite - far better clothed than any wildling Jon had seen. "He had us dig in the mountains for some horn that could bring down the Wall, yet we found nothing, and the Cold Shadows started attacking, and he turned south to force a crossing. He abandoned us here. We only learned of the army leaving when Little Dan saw them with his hawk."

The man pointed at a young boy, his dark eyes peeking cautiously from underneath a tangled knot of light-brown hair. He had latched onto an older woman with similar features. Most likely his mother. Jon glanced to the skies, finding a rough-legged hawk flying overhead in colors of white and brown.

"That explains how you found me," Jon muttered before glancing at the raven on his shoulder. He did not seem to have much talent when it came to skinchanging into birds; he could do it, but it always left him disoriented and gave him a sense of unease. Bloodraven usually scouted for him whenever he visited, yet Jon ended up relying heavily on his wolves.

It had been moons since he had left the Fist of the First Men and crossed into the Frostfangs. His dark clothes were discarded in favor of white garbs that would hide him better in the snow. Contrary to what he expected, the Black Brothers were not so foolish or inflexible to remain wearing dark clothes for an extended ranging beyond the wall. Lord Commander Mormont lent him a pair of white trousers and a tunic, which alone would not be enough to withstand the cold, yet Jon did not mind it. A white-dyed cloak finished his new uniform before he set out to harass the wildlings.

It sounded like a mission one would not return alive from alone, yet Jon did not find himself struggling on the brink of death. No, he found himself thriving. The thin veil of snow seemed like a pleasant blanket that kept his mind clear from distraction, and his days and nights were spent polishing his new skills. And a skinchanger was never alone. His many wolves acted as mobile shock troops against the lightly armored wildlings, and with their natural ability to scout, Jon had managed to succeed where a warband would have failed. In the first moon, he and his wolves must have slain thousands of the wildlings, most of them taken by the cold as they blindly fled in terror. Yet things had slowly shifted, and he found fewer and fewer foes.

In the last sennight, Jon had struggled to find a single wildling. Not even the Halfhand's group fared any better, though he had not heard from them and the squad of Earth Singers that joined them in some time.

There was only one reason Jon could think of. The wildlings had nowhere to retreat, so Mance Rayder must have finally decided to abandon his folly and attack the Bridge of Skulls.

"What do you think, Brynden?" It still irked him that the ancient greenseer had refused to tell him who his mother was, insisting that the time was not right - that he was not yet ready. Nevertheless, Jon had a feeling that Brynden Rivers would use that knowledge as bait so he could do his bidding. So far, both of their goals were aligned: beat the Freefolk into submission, then beat the Others back. Haste makes Waste, Jon had learned the virtue of patience long ago.

"Up to you, lad. I would not trust a wildling unless I had overwhelming leverage over them. They will bend and heed your words as long as you remain strong, but once you are weak, they will betray you."

It would be prudent to listen to the wise old greenseer, yet Jon remembered another wise man's words reverberating in his mind: "Oaths of fealty and promises of friendship can be given easily, yet, more often than not, words are wind. It is in the heat of battle that true friends are made."

His father – Eddard Stark's lessons, still served him well despite having the ability to draw on the wisdom of history through Bloodraven's connection to the deep roots of the Weirwoods. Even if the Wall seemed to keep him barred to only those who had fallen on this side of the Wall.

The thoughts of his family, thousands of miles away, caused Jon's heart to ache. He longed to return to them, to make sure they were safe, to save his sisters and fight his brother's enemies. If only Jon had waited a few moons, nay, a few weeks to leave Winterfell. The Wall had stood for eight thousand years, yet Jon had rushed to become a Black Brother out of stubbornness more than anything else.

Yet a Brother of the Night's Watch he had become, and there was no point crying over spilled mead. The Watch took no part in the affair of the Realms.

Sighing inwardly, Jon focused on the wizened greybeard who first spoke to him.

"Say I accept your fealty, what do you expect from me? But first, I would have your names."

"I'm Jax. I suppose you can say I'm the chief of this tribe. We ask you to lead us, and protect us from the Others and other men who would force us to do their bidding. We have had our fill of these frozen and gods forsaken lands."

"Fealty goes both ways. What would you offer for me that I would risk the laws of men to take you under my protection?"

"We will fight your battles and pay you homage, of course!" It was the well-dressed wildling who spoke, a knowing grin on his face. "You can even take your pick of our women. I know you're from south of the wall, clearly the blood of one of your kneeler chieftains or lords. Provide us a home away from here, and we will be your men…and women." The man added as a spearwife elbowed him in the ribs.

Jax helpfully supplied, "This is Gavin. We call him the Trader."

"Is that so," Jon scrutinized the so-called Trader, whose grin widened. "I seem to recall some of the Brothers of the Watch mentioning you."

"Indeed, I sometimes traded gold and furs for good steel, linen, and mead. I once got lucky and traded a few nuggets of white gold for a whole flask of Arbor Gold! I think your learned men love those bits of little silver." Gavin the Trader stood, his smile remained fixed - it reminded Jon of a badger for some reason. "I even know how to read and write! My ma was a woman from south of the Wall, you see. A clanswoman, if I'm not mistaken. Named me after her pa."

Having someone capable of reading and writing as a minion would certainly be convenient. Gavin even seemed open to dealing with the Night's Watch, and it helps that none of them had lied to him so far - thanks to Ghost's instincts and senses, Jon could tell a lie from a mile away.

And yet, accepting these people's fealty was not a simple matter. Fealty went both ways; just as Jon would expect them to follow his commands, they would expect him to protect them and mediate for them. It would be especially awkward once he rejoined the Night's Watch.

While his vows did not forbid recruiting followers, taking the fealty of wildlings was dangerously close to everything the Night's Watch stood against–and Jon could imagine neither Lord Commander Mormont, nor the other veterans would be happy with him.

Suddenly, one of his wolves scouting in the distance nudged his mind hurriedly. At the same time, the young skinchanger yelled, "It's them! The dead are coming!"

It seemed the gods decided to take the decision out of his hands.

"To arms!" Jon suddenly stood, and with a thought, Ghost appeared out of nowhere. His fur merged seamlessly with the surrounding snow, and he looked like an eerie red-eyed specter, garnering a few shrieks of fear as many of the wildlings gripped their spears harder as they warily glanced at the direwolf. "If you wish to join my side, show me your mettle, Gavin the Trader and company. We will hold out against them at the caves. Survive, impress me, and you may yet find a future for yourselves."

He clicked his tongue at his garron, an aging yet intelligent mare with gray and white fur - it was the only one among the troop that was calm around the wolves, and Jon had easily formed a bond with it. The horse immediately moved towards him as he led everyone back towards the cave; the wildlings were fretting, yet his confident demeanor had them follow with only some grumbling. As he walked, Jon slipped into his scout's skin a few miles away to find three Ice Dolls riding spiders and leading a small army of shambling corpses. Many of them were humans, yet a significant number were dead animals as well: elks, moose, wolves (which formed a knot in his stomach), deer, bears, boars, and even squirrels.

Yet it was the presence of someone further back that had him pause. Just like the Ice Dolls, he was armed in frost armor, similar to the bracer he wore over his left forearm, yet there was no doubt that it was different. Jon could tell that it was not human yet it was very similar to the Ice Dolls, except far more beautiful and ethereal. Far more real and dangerous!

"Looks like they are finally coming out of hiding."

The Others… this particular mountain range was the furthest to the west than any other mountain in the Frostfangs. Jon had seen the vast empty expanse of the Lands of Always Winter, and yet even he had felt a strange cold wind blowing from it. It was a risk for him to range so far west, yet he needed to be sure no more wildling clans were left in the region.

A part of him also hoped to find his Uncle Benjen, his Earth Singer companion had left him a few days ago after they arrived in this region. Crown, named after his hair that looked like a tree's canopy, had taught him a lot about his tongue and had been enthused when Jon would converse with him in the true tongue instead of relying on Bloodraven, a truly magical language that Jon was certain he would not have been capable of uttering a few moons ago - even now, he would not dare call himself fluent in it. In return, Jon did his best to teach the common tongue to Crown.

Nevertheless, Crown had suddenly declared he needed to travel west. That his brothers and sisters were close.

Leaf and her group had disappeared some time ago, and the rest of the Earth Singers were worried due to the lack of any Weirwoods in that direction - Bloodraven could not reach them either. Jon did not wish to think of the worst, so he allowed his new friend to depart.

That a true Other, an Ice Singer, had appeared leading a small army worried Jon greatly. He did not know what they were doing here, perhaps foraging for materials or maybe hunting for humans. It did not matter; Jon could tell they knew where they were, and the nearly thousand-corpse-strong army was on their way here.

At least there were no giants or mammoths this time.

Soon, the whole tribe was back inside the caves, and Jon realized there were more women and children inside, protected by two scores of warriors. They would have freaked out if Jax had not rushed beside him to calm them.

Jon removed a saddlebag from his horse, "I have enough knapped dragonglass to make a hundred spear tips. Tie them to your shafts quickly. Those without dragonglass, set alight your torches. Nothing works against them but fire and obsidian. I want anything flammable to be piled outside the cave."

"Huntsman, there is hardly any dried wood here," Gavin replied even as he helped start a fire while another wildling was preparing a crude pot of frozen tree sap - the women were busy fashioning torches and fire arrows of moss, tallow, lichen and shrubs, while the rest of the men grabbed the dragonglass, strung their bows or prepared for battle.

"Use all you have. Don't waste the dragonglass on the wights and…"

Jon briefly explained how best to fight the Others and their thralls. Once done, he noted the awed looks the wildlings were giving them; if earlier they would follow him for his strength, now they were impressed by his knowledge.

"They're here!" Little Dan cried out, "So many of them."

"Form a line. Anyone with a bow, remember what I said: make every arrow count." Jon stood beside the warriors at the front, holding his Weirwood bow and placing several obsidian arrows on a nearby rock. With a thought, he found Ghost and the rest of the wolves hidden in the snow. Waiting for the right time to strike.

Jon idly fingered the horn on his hip; the waiting was the hardest part of a battle, yet they did not need to wait long. Soon, the first wight appeared from behind a bend, stumbling on the unsteady ground. More followed it, and within a minute, a hundred of them slowly made their way up the wide path to the cave.

"Steady now–don't waste any arrows," Jon warned when he noticed some of the archers nocking and drawing their bowstrings. "Wait until their masters are here."

An uneasy murmur sounded, but it eventually turned into agreement. Many more corpses shambled onto the path, and Jon frowned; they were within range of his war bow, a gift from Crown that Jon had seen the Singer make…by singing to a Weirwood.

Unlike normal weirwood bows Jon had used, this one was unmistakably alive. He could feel the sap still running through it like blood, and it almost whispered in his mind, eager to be used. When not in use, the bow simply coiled like vines around his arm, hugging the icy bracer Jon wore on his left forearm. The string, made from simple elk guts, was tied into several loops around one corner of it, but with a thought and a flick of his wrist, the bow would uncoil into a medium-sized recurve, offering the same power as a composite war bow yet without the weakness to dampness or the bulkiness of a longbow.

Truly a kingly gift unseen in all of Westeros!

Regardless, it would be a waste to shoot at any of the corpses; his target would come out at any moment now.

"Little Dan," He abruptly called out as he grabbed an arrow and notched it.

"Y-Yes?"

"Have your hawk watch over that bend. Let me know when the Cold Ones turn. They are the ones riding giant spiders."

"U-Understood."

The surrounding men shifted as more wights approached. Just as the one in the lead was a hundred feet away, Little Dan shouted. "There!"

Jon could barely see the spider's front legs as it turned the bend, yet his target should have been a few more feet above. Trusting the lad, he tensed his whole body to complete the heavy draw; the string thrummed under his fingers, launching an obsidian-tipped arrow in a single motion. As the arrow flew, the spider finished its turn, and the dragonglass tip sank into its rider's neck, shattering it to pieces.

"He's a marksman…"

"A master marksman! That must have been over five hundred feet!"

The men hollering with reverence were silenced by a high-pitched shriek that made all of his hair stand up, followed by a melodic yet commanding voice saying something that sounded like the whistling of a blizzard. All the wights froze…and then did something entirely unexpected.

They charged forward, and he swore out loud!

"Fire arrows, loose!" Jon did not waste a moment before he drew and loosed another arrow at the Ice Singer, who turned the bend, riding on a bloody unicorn, only to raise a shield of crystal that easily blocked the arrow.

The archers behind peppered the approaching wights as quickly as they could, dropping and burning several of them, but the damned things were far more fast and agile than usual. Even as living beings, humans were not supposed to be able to leap so high!

Jon cursed as the arrow he was about to notch, willed his bow to coil around his arm, and dashed down to meet them, swinging Longclaw to decapitate the first wight. The rest of the wildlings followed suit with a roar, and soon, obsidian spears pinned down the shambling corpses while crude axes and blades dismembered them. All others would be set alight by torches and fire arrows. Jon had lost count of how many corpses he cut to pieces before finding himself beset by the two remaining Dolls.

A glance around him showed the men were struggling, yet the fires were spreading. It would not last long in the cold weather, yet it would give Jon enough time. With a thought, Jon urged Ghost and his wolves to attack the flanks while he leaped and stamped on the spider's head before lunging with Longclaw at the first Ice Doll. The creature's ice blade sang shrilly as he struck it, causing it to buckle. The slash turned into a stab that his foe barely managed to avoid but struck the spider's back instead.

Within a few heartbeats, Jon already had it on the back foot, slaying its spider and nearly killing it if not for the other Doll joining it, its spider having been torn apart by the wolves. Two against one, Jon still felt confident, for the Ice Dolls were too inflexible, lacking any skills while relying on brute force and swiftness.

At least, that was how the Ice Dolls fought in the past. Jon frowned as the dolls fought far more skillfully, both of them in excellent coordination and showing great teamwork. First, the enhanced speed and strength of the wights, now the dolls fighting in tandem? Something was wrong.

A fire arrow struck one of the dolls, causing it to flinch, and Jon used that chance to kick it away as he deflected the other doll's sword. It still gave him a chance to take stock of the battle; the wildlings were struggling against the dead as the fires steadily flickered out. Thankfully, Ghost and his wolves had already torn away at the flanks, managing to thin a significant number by themselves. His wolfpack had at least fifty direwolves and ten times that number of regular wolves the last time he checked, yet Ghost continuously gathered more and more wolves into his pack.

Pushing away the doll, Jon finally realized why things were different.

The Ice Singer!

He was astride his unicorn, far in the safety of the rear of his horde, yet Jon could see him with his hands in the air, moving like a master seamstress would move a loom–or a bard playing the harp. A gust of cold wind came from the west, snuffing out the last of the torches, and the men were quickly being swarmed by the dead. A cracking sound came from above, and a massive chunk of ice broke off the mountain, crashing down into the battleground right on the flank where his wolves fought.

Jon nearly roared in rage at the thought of Ghost being hurt, yet the direwolf had smartly led his pack away as soon as the sound came. Nevertheless, they were now blocked and would need to rejoin the battle through another path. Jon did not have a chance to think more as the Ice Dolls reengaged with renewed effort. They were still stiff, and Jon knew he would eventually beat them, for he was simply more skilled, more powerful, more agile.

Yet the wildlings would most likely perish by then. He did not know why he cared, but Jon simply did; those men, women, and children came to him and promised him their loyalty in return for protection. He might be a brother of the Night's Watch, yet Jon simply could not refuse such a sincere offer, not when they were fighting tooth and nail on his side.

"Use the Horn!"

"What?!" Jon shouted at Bloodraven, not bothering to whisper.

"The Horn! Use it! Smear it in your blood and blow into it like you're trying to shake the very foundations of the World!"

Jon kicked away one of the Dolls, its blade and armor a ruin. Just a bit more, and it would be defeated! Yet, by then, Jon would still have to deal with the Ice Singer. Cursing out loud, he parried a strike from the other one and stepped back, earning himself a moment of reprieve. But it was enough to bite his lips harshly, causing them to bleed, before bringing the horn that Ghost found on the Fist of the First Men to his lips.

Then he took a deep breath and blew!

It was as if something hot twisted inside his gut, pulling and writhing as if a fiery snake wriggled in his belly.

A long, mournful blast echoed across the valley, steadily increasing in strength until it turned into a deep and resonant boom! He was quickly running out of breath, but the sound was still cascading into a powerful rumble as the world shook, and Jon could feel something being consumed inside him to fuel the horn…which was now glowing a white so bright he could barely bear to look at it. Strange runes slowly appeared on the horn, which seemed similar to those Jon learned as a child alongside Robb when their father had them join the Mountain Clansmen when they wintered in Wintertown.

For a very long minute, the rumble that now echoed across the mountain slope seemed to sink into the ground, dull and distant. Yet, the sounds of battle ceased around him until he ran out of breath and withdrew it - the lights on the horn froze before slowly dimming. Looking around, the wights seemed frozen in place before a whinny had him turn to the Ice Singer, finding the unicorn rearing up. For a heartbeat, Jon almost thought he felt a tremor below him, but then the unicorn steadied, and the Ice Singer glared murderously at him, a stream of purple liquid running down from his ears.

"AGAIN!"

Bloodraven roared in his mind, and Jon did not need any urging before he blew into the horn once more.

The pull in his navel almost had him lurch, the feeling of heat magnified and clashed with the chill in the air, and it was as if his blood itself had become a river of wildfire, as steam began to rise in ribbons from his skin. The runes shone brighter than earlier, and the deep and resonant hum turned into a loud and commanding blast. High-pitched screaming could be heard from the Ice Dolls as they froze in their attempts to attack him, and Jon felt weakness consume him… yet a stubborn and defiant part of his mind urged him to continue sounding his wrath, desperation, and displeasure for all the world to hear.

Something clicked in his mind, then, and the clash of ice and fire inside his body halted as if the two forces had reached an understanding, and the world shook again. All of a sudden, he felt as if he was thrown into a tiny, cramped hole, and something annoying was trying to grind him into meatpaste from above. But the fleeting feeling disappeared as it came.

The blast turned into a primal roar, and the Ice Dolls shattered into a thousand pieces, dropping most of their armor and both their swords in their place–intact. Just as Jon was again running out of breath…a terrible rumble came from below, and another roar seemed to answer him.

"Huntsman! We need to get out of here!" Jax's shout could be heard just as Jon withdrew the horn; the Ice Singer was shouting incoherently, and his wights ambled in confusion around him. Jon tiredly followed the old chieftain into the caves when one of the surrounding mountains exploded!

Screams of women and children, curses, and oaths were thrown by the men as the skies rained rock and ice at everyone. They were barely protected inside the cave, and Jon nearly laughed in relief when he found Ghost and his pack already inside - yet all were silenced once the rocky rain ended, and a guttural roar erupted.

A roar that Jon could not help but feel drawn to.

Making his way back outside, Jon idly noticed the Ice Singer galloping away on his unicorn, all his thralls abandoned. Jon did not care, for he had eyes only on the monstrous head that had blown a hole out of the mountain's side.

"…Dragon." A large ice-blue head shook itself from the rocks and ice clinging to its glistening scales. Steam and quickly cooling lava leaked from the mountain's vents. A pair of silver eyes seemed to be squinting at the light of the sun, as if it found it irritating. The dragon's head was so large it could have swallowed an aurochs whole in one gulp!

Seemingly annoyed with what he was seeing, the dragon roared again, a sound similar to a thousand avalanches and rock slides. Yet, Jon gawked as the creature breathed deeply before blowing out a storm of ice and wind that covered the overcast skies and plunged the world into darkness.

"…An Ice Dragon?" Jon should have felt fear at the sight of the massive creature shaking off the mountaintop as if it was a shadowcat shrugging off a few hours of snowfall after a day of sleep as it forced its way out of the mountain before spreading a pair of wings that seemed to encompass the whole valley. Yet he felt only wonder, especially when the dragon finally seemed to notice him and gazed at him curiously.

Instinctively, Jon reached out to the creature, even as he dimly heard Bloodraven shouting 'NO' in his mind. The dragon's slitted eyes widened as they bore down on him, and for a moment, they just stared at each other, and Jon could almost imagine looking back at himself from the dragon's eyes and–

Then, Ghost trotted beside him and joined in the staredown, and the dragon shook its head as if it was clearing the last vestiges of drowsiness. A feeling almost like disappointment or resignation hit Jon like a rock before the dragon took off from the mountain.

And flew off towards the south.

"…Well, that was anticlimactic."

Jon flinched as he watched the dragon fly away and snarled inwardly. "You knew! You knew a dragon hid under the mountain, and you had me call it?! What if it turned out to be hostile?"

"I knew nothing of the sort! The only thing I knew was that the horn was magical. For a moment, I thought it truly was the Horn of Winter, and if there was a chance it could do something to get you out of this dilemma you got yourself into, then so be it."

The Horn of Winter was supposed to wake the giants from stone…and this did fit the story in Jon's mind. The mountain was definitely made of stone, and the dragon–it was easily bigger than any giant he had seen.

Instead, irritated at Bloodraven's foolish nonchalance, Jon bit back, "I had things under control."

"Sure you did. If you had not bothered to play the lordling and insisted on protecting those savages, then yes, you could have eventually won or retreated."

"They came to me for protection! I would not send them away, especially not now that we have fought side by side and won."

Bloodraven remained silent as the rest of the wildlings came out of their cave, battered but not beaten. Jon merely stared at them and was not surprised when they knelt again.

"We asked for your protection, and you gave it to us, Huntsman," Jax spoke once more, a wicked gash marred his arm. "We pledge our lives to you."

The rest of the wildlings muttered the same oath, and Jon could only sigh inwardly. While he was pleased that he managed to gain the loyalty of the tribe, he wondered how he would explain himself to the Lord Commander.

At least they won't have food troubles now. Jon glanced at the abandoned wights that looked fresh enough that it would probably be safe for them to consume them.

"By the way, you would probably want to know why you nearly bonded with the dragon." Jon perked up at Bloodraven's amused whisper. "Your mother is Lyanna Stark. Make of that what you will."

But House Stark had no dragonblood, and his father would never lay with his sister–and suddenly, the world seemed to come crashing down on Jon.

Notes:

The first true appearance of the Others. Notice their powers? Keep an eye on them.

It would not be an ASOIAF with magic if Jon Snow does not meet a dragon of some sorts, lol.

Bloodraven is such a mad troll.

Chapter 27: Family Planning

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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On the road to Karhold

A particularly big hole in the dirt road woke Myrcella up from her nap, bumping her head on Rosamund's shoulder. Her friend quickly steadied her as the last vestiges of drowsiness melted away; she stifled a yawn and noticed the wheelhouse had stopped.

"Did you have a good nap, Cella?"

"It was good until that bump." Myrcella fought back another yawn; the specially designed wheelhouse looked luxurious on the outside and was doubly so on the inside, now that they didn't feel every rock or hole on the road…unless it was a big one.

"That is good to hear, you have not been sleeping well lately."

Myrcella nodded absentmindedly; that was not exactly true; she had been napping a lot during the day and losing sleep at night. Her dreams have always been interesting lately, even if she could barely remember them. She was certain she had met with the Maiden and Percy's father a few times in them, but whenever she tried to recall what they talked about, her memory would fail her. Strangely, Cella had the impression that once she got back to sleep, her memories would return as she dreamt.

"So why are we stopping? Where's Sansa?"

It had been a few days since that incident with Percy, and the Princess somehow learned of the death of her brother. Myrcella had wept for her; she recalled poor Brandon Stark from her visit to Winterfell. So energetic and so full of life, yet it was all tragically ripped away from him through that terrible fall. It was later in the Red Keep when Myrcella learned that he had survived yet would never be able to walk again. That he would still fight to defend his home from the barbaric Ironborn even when crippled spoke a lot about his character.

She could not imagine how it would feel if she lost Tommen. 'Not Joffrey, she wouldn't miss him at all,' a ruthless part of her mind whispered. He could slip and fall down the stairs and break his neck, and Myrcella did not think she would mourn him.

"Something has caught her attention, and she left to investigate with Percy and Meera," Wylla answered.

The wheelhouse was spacious enough for a dozen people to sit comfortably with a table between them, yet there were only five of them acting as Sansa's ladies in waiting. The table could be removed and pillows slotted overhead would be placed in its place when it was time for them to sleep. There was even a small furnace under the wheelhouse that warmed them when the weather got too cold, like now. All the ladies were dressed lightly due to how warm the wheelhouse was, but Cella and Rosa still opted for furs as they were unused to the cold nights of the North.

Summer snows–they had been a constant as they traveled in the North. While Cella and Rosa had been ecstatic the first day the snow fell, soon, the novelty wore off when the cold seeped into their bones so much that they were loathe to leave the wheelhouse. To think this was only summer…Myrcella dreaded to imagine what winter was like.

Sansa had them on a fast pace since leaving the Dreadfort, and they barely stopped for camp; being able to sleep and keep warm during the nights helped greatly. The wheelhouse was a gift from Lord Manderly to Sansa, and despite Myrcella having used her mother's monstrous wheelhouse that needed forty horses to drive, this one was far more comfortable and hardly broke down, thanks to Percy's designs. Some sort of metal springs kept the wheelhouse stable, while the wheels were more metal surrounded with cowhide rather than wood.

Percy claimed that if he had gotten his hands on some material called rubber, he could have made the wheelhouse even more efficient. Considering they had been able to travel over two hundred miles from the Dreadfort almost to Karhold in a sennight, on a road that was more of an animal trail than even a dirt road, Myrcella could not fathom how much more efficient it could be.

It's been a sennight since they left that dreadful castle; even Myrcella could tell there was something inherently wrong about it. Sansa did not want to stay too long in it, just long enough for Percy and the rest of the men to round up all the Bolton men-at-arms from the surrounding lands and give them a choice.

Swear fealty to the Starks or the Black.

Normally, such an extreme and ruthless method would be heavily frowned upon, but the Maester of the castle, who had convinced the master at arms to surrender without a fight, had brought them ill news from the south. The Northern army was defeated outside of Harrenhal, and Roose Bolton was slain by her Uncle Jaime.

Myrcella would not deny feeling ecstatic that her uncle had escaped captivity, and a part of her cheered her family on finally securing a victory. Yet, while it was certainly terrible news for King Robb, it was the best news for Sansa as she had declared that with the death of the Bolton line, the Dreadfort and all its vassals, lands, and titles were now folded under the control of House Stark.

Within a fortnight, the Stark lands had nearly doubled in size after the occupation of the Hornwood lands and now the annexation of the Bolton lands. Myrcella knew that it was only a temporary measure due to the war, a way to encourage warriors and nobles to garner achievements so that after the war, the Starks would dole out lands, lordships, and castles as rewards. Thinking about Castle Hornwood had Myrcella nearly giggle; the keep was completely torched after the stubborn Bolton men refused to surrender, and it was only luck that the maester's tower was built away from it and that the Hornwoods' treasury was underground.

It didn't stop the ravens from flying away from the castle in a panic. It might be mean, but Myrcella found the sight of the Hornwood Maester trying to catch them incredibly funny. Not so much the screams of those foolish men who burned to death, Myrcella could not stand the smell of roasted meat for days after that.

Regardless, whoever the new owner would have his work cut out for him, it still forced Sansa to leave some of the men who accompanied her to rebuild as much as possible. The two hundred Hornwood archers also remained along with some of Sansa's personal guard, both to train them and recruit more men and send them to White Harbor, where the rest of Sansa's army was gathering.

It was similar in the lands surrounding the Weeping Water. With no lord to follow, the Bolton vassals were eager to swear fealty to House Stark, especially when the alternative was taking the Black. After securing the loyalty of nearly fifteen hundred Bolton men, five hundred of them horsemen, Sansa sent all the foot back to White Harbor on the fleet. Myrcella heard Percy note that it was too easy to round up the Bolton men because they had already been mustered - more proof that the late Lord Bolton had been scheming.

Now, a thousand horsemen, a mix of Bolton (now Stark men), Sansa's personal Stark guard, Manderly, and Locke men, accompanied them to the last house on the eastern coast of the North–The Karstarks of Karhold.

They had received word that the Umbers had opted to reinforce the Wall rather than join them. Myrcella had been present in the Dreadfort when Sansa received news that her late brother Bran had sent most of the Stark men, Mountain Clansmen, and the Umbers to the Wall to fight against a Wilding army.

After what amounted to fond exasperation at her brother, Sansa eventually approved and opted against visiting Last Hearth to recruit more men. Considering the latest news from the Shadow Tower, which had the wilding army at nearly a hundred thousand, it was clearly a prudent if costly choice, even if it eventually resulted in a weakened Winterfell and contributed to Bran's death.

Myrcella sighed sadly; men plan while the gods laugh.

Another bump on the road reminded her of their destination. The Karstarks were distant kin to the Starks of Winterfell. A score of ships from the fleet would continue to Skagos and attempt to recruit the Skagosi, and if all goes well, by the time Myrcella and the army arrive at Karhold, the fleet would have returned from Skagos and docked at the port near the castle.

They had just crossed the Last River and were a few days away from Karhold when Percy had his incident.

"Do you think the Princess will be alright?"

Myrcella turned to Wylla, her formerly green hair now a bright blue. The bodacious lady was clearly appealing to Percy, not even being subtle in flirting with him - though the demigod seemed reticent in reciprocating. Surprisingly, Cella noticed that Sansa did not mind and could have sworn she saw Wylla whispering urgently with the Princess after Percy waved her away after another failed attempt.

Myrcella wondered what was happening in their princess' head and if her pregnancy was causing her to act irrationally. It couldn't be. Sansa had been meticulous throughout their tour and too level-headed for her to suddenly trip.

"I believe she is much stronger than we think." Cella finally replied, "She grieves for Bran, yet she understands she cannot afford to dally."

"Yes, the Ironborn are still a threat. I still can't believe they nearly captured the Heart of the North." Myriame Locke, a willowy and lively girl a couple of years older than them with tawny hair and brown eyes, chimed in. "My brother told me that House Dustin was equal to the Manderlys in power and should be capable of fielding nearly five thousand men. I recall Grandfather Ondrew mentioning that Lady Barbrey Dustin only sent the minimum of troops south with King Robb, yet Donnel later sent news that Ser Damon Dustin had disobeyed her orders and took five hundred of the best Barrow Knights south."

"That should still leave them with four thousand men," Branda Flint, a reserved girl with dark hair and blue eyes, hummed in thought. "I confess not to know a lot about martial affairs, but my brother Robin once mentioned that when it comes to sieges, the attackers must have at least three times the number of defenders to prevail. How many of the Ironborn are there again?"

"From what Grandfather mentioned, somewhere between fifteen and twenty thousand outside Barrowton alone, but that was before they started their siege," Wylla muttered hesitantly, causing the mood to drop. "They should be fine, Barrowton is still a city of about twenty thousand and had plenty of warning to call their banners to garrison the city. If the reavers failed to take it after two moons, I doubt they would be able to take it now."

Myrcella was beginning to find it surreal that noble ladies were so seriously discussing matters of war instead of whatever insipid things she was more used to hearing in the Red Keep. She knew the North was harsher, putting greater emphasis on martial matters and planning, and even heard about the women of Bear Island taking up arms and fighting with the men, yet Cella did not expect her fellow handmaidens to so eagerly discuss warfare.

"Lady Dustin must be quite the character to be able to defend a siege against such daunting foes," Myrcella commented, trying to insert herself into the discussion.

"Hah! You would think so, but my grandfather knows for a fact that she fled to her maiden house at first sight of Ironborn sails and is unlikely to return until they're gone." Wylla scoffed, looking at her pitifully, causing Cella to scowl - the Manderly maiden giggled as she pinched her cheek. "Ah, you are so adorable when you pout, Myrcella."

The other ladies tittered, and even Rosamund, that traitor, chortled, yet Myrcella was not amused. "I was not pouting!"

"Sure, sure." The minx grinned at her, and Myrcella scowled even harder, causing the older girl to burst into unladylike laughter. "Oh, you are so precious!"

Before Myrcella could give her a piece of her mind, Myriame chimed in. "So, if Lady Dustin is not in Barrowton, who is leading the defense?"

"I'm not certain. If Ser Damon had not gone south, he would have been the ideal man to lead the defense. Without him, I'm not sure, but whoever is in charge must be highly respected and competent to keep the reavers at bay for so long."

More martial discussions. Couldn't they change the subject to something Myrcella was more knowledgeable about? Maybe about marine life, ships, navigation, sea monsters, or weather patterns. Wait…since when did she know about such matters?

"Didn't Lord Manderly send some forces to harass them?" Rosa asked, bringing Myrcella out of her thoughts. "Surely, the squids would not have any real cavalry to threaten the lancers of White Harbor?"

"Yes, Grandfather did send hundreds of lancers, but they lack numbers to make a difference. Still, their presence ensures the reavers could not threaten the many smaller castles and holdfasts along the Kings Road." Wylla smiled at Rosa at the subtle compliment of the Manderly forces. Myrcella shook her head inwardly; even Rosamund joined in on the discussion! "Barrowton should not fall easily, especially as the Ryswells would not leave their investment to fall. They have to send troops there, or else all their work would be for naught, though, considering Barbrey Dustin has no children, the Ryswells don't stand to gain much from the city anymore."

"So they would refuse to muster in defense of the North?" Branda narrowed her eyes, "greater houses have been attainted for less."

"They did send a significant amount of their horses south with the King, though it is true they have far more men to call upon than what they showed so far." Wylla smirked as she flicked a strand of her blue hair behind her neck. "With the fall of Torrhen's Square and the Tallhart heir in their company, perhaps they would profit more if they helped him to regain his castle instead. I recall they had a few nubile daughters to throw at Benfred in exchange for their full support–and Barbrey did travel for a wedding, supposedly."

The girls muttered and tittered about the Ryswells once more grasping through their daughters to gain more power and allies. Myrcella had heard about how Barbrey Ryswell supposedly was planned to be betrothed to Brandon Stark, only for it to fall through when the Tullys came calling. She sighed inwardly; such was the fate of all noble ladies, to be traded away by their families for connections and alliances. At times, she wondered what Sansa had planned for her, but the princess had been surprisingly tight-lipped about any discussion of marriages.

"You need not worry about it, Cella. There is no need to rush."

Myrcella frowned at the Maiden's cryptic assurance followed by her customary giggle. Sometimes, she felt like the Maiden was in on some jest that Myrcella had no way of knowing.

"In the end," Myrcella coughed, grabbing the girls' attention. "We can only pray for swift winds for the fleet to take the troops faster and return north and for the Karstarks to not delay the Princess' demands for troops."

"Well said, Myrcella," The door to the wheelhouse opened, and Sansa Stark was helped in by Percy; her belly had swelled as her pregnancy progressed, yet the princess did not show any sign of weakness that was usual with expecting mothers. Only grim determination, especially after the death of her brother. "Yet, it appears that fools shall always grasp higher than their station when left to their own devices."

Percy nodded to them solemnly before closing the door and returning to his steed. Soon, they were all moving again, but Myrcella could not help but note that the princess' consort had been melancholic since he had somehow witnessed Brandon Stark's death.

Turning to Sansa, she asked what was on the rest of the girls' minds. "What happened, Princess?"

Sansa stared out of the window for a heartbeat before closing the shutters and lounging on several pillows. Wylla was instantly by her side and rubbing her shoulders.

"We intercepted a raven heading south from Karhold," Sansa provided, humming thoughtfully. "The castellan is communicating with the Lannisters, and what I found in the scroll is enough to accuse him of treason. It appears Lord Rickard Karstark had perished in the Westerlands, and with the death of two of his sons and the incarceration of his heir, lordship to Karhold came into question. The Lannisters have begun courting him."

Myrcella wondered how they could have intercepted a raven, but a shadow from the open window had her note of the Princess' beautiful moon hawk gliding next to the wheelhouse before landing on the saddle of Meera Reed's horse. Cella could have sworn it blinked at her before she found Meera smirking. The Crannogwoman had an open invitation to join them as she, too, was a lady in waiting, yet the adventurous girl opted to ride with the men. She took her duty as Sansa's shadow far too seriously, though considering even Percy respected her abilities, Myrcella had no right to judge her for it.

"How could they possibly hope to get away with such treachery?" Branda asked in wonder. "Their troops are in the south, and such perfidity would never be forgiven by the rest of the Northmen."

"They would not need to directly act against House Stark or the North. All they need to do is to call back their troops, citing wildling incursions or a similar excuse." Myriame shrugged, "All Old Arnolf needs is for Harrion Karstark to mysteriously die in captivity, and one of his sons can claim the lordship."

"How dare they?!" Wylla growled indignantly, yet her hands did not pause as she worked on Sansa's neck, causing the Princess to close her eyes in bliss for a moment. "Even if they somehow manage to get Harrion killed, Alys would be the Lady of Karhold, not that gold-gorged old goat or his get!"

"It would be a simple matter to force Alys to marry one of his many descendants. The man has great-grandsons if I recall correctly." Myriame shrugged again. Myrcella glanced at Rosamund in confusion; they did not know enough about the internal politics of the North despite their studies. Judging by Sansa's unamused look, she did not look like she was willing to entertain such fools.

"Do you know about the situation in Karhold, Wylla? I confess I'm not very knowledgeable about the extended family of the Karstarks, though I did meet Alys Karstark a few years ago." Sansa glanced at the Manderly maiden, who nodded enthusiastically, her hands continuing to press and rub the Princess's shoulders. Myrcella was beginning to feel jealous and wondered if she could have Rosa give her a rubbing as well.

"I certainly do. Grandfather had Wyn, and I learn all we could about every House of note in the North and even some in the Vale and the Riverlands." Wylla sent a sly smile at Sansa as she edged her face closer to her and almost purred, "What do you have in mind, Princess?"

For the first time since the death of her brother, Sansa Stark smiled, but Myrcella only shivered; it was not a pleasant smile.

A*H*M

A few days later

Karhold

"Princess Sansa, welcome to Karhold." A grey-eyed, dark-haired girl greeted them warmly, though she was dressed in a gown of plain black wool–the color of mourning. "You honor us with your presence."

"Thank you, Alys. It is good to see you again and in good health."

"I have just received word from Winterfell." Sansa's face turned wooden as Alys smiled sadly. "You have my deepest condolences for your brother's passing. Brandon died a warrior's death and shall be fondly remembered by all."

"Thank you for your kind words…"

As his wife went through the motions of noble courtesies that Percy found far too stiff and irksome to follow, almost reminding him of how the gods demanded to be treated back home, he inspected the crowded grounds of the castle. It was teeming with soldiers and the castle's residents; several lines of troops stood at attention, showing much better discipline than the many levies that had joined their army. Their equipment was also decent, matched only by their grim faces; it reminded Percy of the Bolton men he had convinced to join their army.

Percy's gaze swept past them before falling on the men flanking the lady of Karhold. There was a very old man who looked like he would collapse with the next breeze though Percy instantly felt distaste for his smarmy smile and shifting eyes. Another looked very similar, except he was fat and soft, reminding Percy of people back home who visited McDonald's way too much; even the morbidly obese Wyman Manderly looked tougher than this dude.

There were a few other men, boys really, standing in a line behind them–the traditional place for cousins and lesser relatives of Alys Karstark, according to what Sansa taught him. Nothing about them caught Percy's interest, though their gazes lingered on Sansa's chest longer than he liked; an older man caught him glaring at them and subtly elbowed the younger ones, who quickly averted their eyes.

Percy gazed at the man. He was a strong and fierce-looking dude, probably in his forties or fifties, with salt and pepper hair and a thick beard of the same color. Tall, powerfully built, heavily armed, and armored, and giving him a cautious glance, this was clearly a well-trained warrior, most likely the master-at-arms. Percy glanced at the old fart from earlier and noticed similarities between all of them, so this must be the treacherous castellan–no wonder he gave him sleazy car salesman vibes, almost as bad as Gabe.

Percy grimaced, nah, nobody could be as bad as Gabe.

"May I introduce my consort, Lord Perseus Jackson, Protector of the North until my eldest brother returns," Sansa waved at him then, and Percy gave a polite nod at the pretty girl inspecting him from head to toe–she must have found something she liked for she nodded back with a demure smile. "He shall be leading the army in my name to repel the invaders."

The master-at-arms jerked, a vein forming on his neck as he opened his mouth to no doubt protest, only to catch Percy smirking at him.

"As my wife said, I am Perseus. Some call me a sorcerer, but I prefer Percy. I'll be your commander moving forward, and I expect discipline and obedience from all of you. Anyone who has a problem can come and talk to me about their grievances, but fair warning." Percy raised his hand, causing a loud rumbling to fill the castle as people screamed in terror at the sight of the castle's moat emptying and a giant wall of water forming over the castle–the soldiers muttered curses and oaths as they unsheathed their weapons. "I am a little tired and have no patience for scheming and horseshit."

The Karstark's eyes all widened, and the sleazy guy's jaw dropped as his legs shivered and he held on to his walking cane tightly. One of the younger boys kept looking up at the wall of water until he fell on his ass. The warrior from earlier recovered from the shock well enough to glance at the lady of the castle. Alys scrutinized both him and Sansa for a moment before nodding to the master-at-arms, who waved his soldiers down and turned back to Sansa.

"We have all heard legendary tales of your sorcerer husband, Princess Sansa. Suffice it to say, you have proved that those tales could not hold a candle to the real thing." Alys beckoned a terrified servant who miraculously did not drop the plate of bread and salt he held. "I offer you bread and salt and hope guest rights would assure you of our good intentions to join your cause."

Honestly, Percy did not like such a heavy-handed method to display his power, but Sansa convinced him that it was necessary. It's the reality of feudal society; while oaths of fealty guaranteed their loyalty, sometimes it was necessary to remind the vassals who held the power. It was also a show of force to assuage anyone's worries about suborning themselves to a young foreigner like him.

But there was also another reason, which had to do with their little spy issue. Once they had partook in bread and salt, Sansa gestured for him to relax, and Percy gently lowered the water back into the moat.

"Thank you, Alys. I must ask you to forgive such heavy-handedness, but we are at war, and I cannot afford to waste time." Sansa beckoned to the rest of the girls standing by the carriage. "Please provide rooms for my ladies in waiting, but I need to discuss a matter of great importance with you posthaste. Perhaps in the lord's solar?"

If Alys Karstark was insulted by Sansa promptly cutting the traditional ceremonial greetings and other courtesies, she did not show it, merely smiling in amusement as she gestured for a matronly woman to approach. "Certainly. Alarra shall show them to their rooms and see to their needs. Come, let us go. Uncle Arnolf and Uncle Cregan shall join us."

Alys led them through the castle, the crotchety old man and the heavily armed warrior following them at a respectable distance. Percy glanced at the calm lady of the castle; the girl was cute, not exactly a sensual beauty like Sansa or Wylla, but she was tall and slender. She also had a very good head on her shoulders as Percy truly expected her to at least scream in terror at his display of magic.

"You must have had an exhausting sennight on the road. Last we heard, you were at the Hornwood. Imagine our surprise when our scouts saw a large army marching towards us a few days away." Alys broke the slightly awkward silence that had settled as they left the yard. "And congratulations on your marriage. I see its fruits are already blooming."

Sansa's cold mask melted into a demure smile as she practically glued herself to Percy's arm. "Yes, Percy is an excellent husband. The finest one can ever ask for. Strong and energetic, he leads the men well, and even the horses seem to love him, pushing themselves harder on the road."

"Aw shucks, Sans. You're gonna make me blush." Percy gave her a lopsided grin. "You know I always have plenty of energy for anything you ask."

Sansa giggled, even as Alys' face reddened, and she coughed to hide her embarrassment. "We have received your raven from White Harbor, and while my castellan strongly advised me against mustering another force, I recognized the dire situation we are in. We sent a raven to White Harbor to properly coordinate with you, but we never got a reply; it's why our troops are camped outside the castle. Uncle Arnolf had been pressuring me to disband them, for they have been eating through our food stores, and I was just about to do so until you arrived."

"I see. Your raven must have gotten lost." His wife subtly glanced at the two men following them before tugging on the hem of his sleeve–Percy nodded as he trailed slightly backward to cover them with his body while also keeping an eye on the two men for any sign of treachery. "Nevertheless, I appreciate your act of loyalty, Alys, and you will be greatly rewarded–Oh, pardon me." Sansa pretended to trip and held onto Alys' shoulder, and the girl quickly grabbed her elbow to steady her. His wife thanked her before whispering something urgent in her ear, causing Alys' breathing to hitch slightly before she nodded seriously.

Soon, they approached a large oak door, and the Lady of Karhold led them inside, where the Maester was waiting for them with a bundle of scrolls and reports. Alys dismissed the guards outside the door and bid them in. Once the door was closed, with Arnolf and Cregan standing respectfully beside him, Sansa withdrew a scroll of paper and gave it to Alys.

.

.

.

The next day

"Well, this was easier than expected."

Percy smiled at his wife as they stood on a balcony from the lord's quarters of the Karstark castle. Karhold was a strong castle built on two hills, split into two keeps, and connected by two drawbridges. The smaller keep acted as the lord's residence and had the Maester's tower, while the larger keep was a series of barracks and other things one could expect to find in a castle. There was a small godswood inside the castle, but Percy later learned it was a new one as the original godswood was outside the castle, in the middle of the small port town built on the bay to the south.

Naturally, he had claimed both.

"Yes, we have been lucky with first the Dreadfort and then this." Sansa joined him after they had finished discussing the mustering of the Karstark troops with Cregan and Alys Karstark - they had been given the lord's quarters for their brief stay. "With this, we can finally take the fight to the Ironborn and cleanse the North of invaders."

Contrary to their expectations, their arrival in Karhold had gone relatively smoothly. They had feared the castellan had already subverted the castle, but Percy and Sansa realized that Arnolf Karstark's treachery had not yet taken hold.

Even after Sansa revealed the raven scroll and accused the old castellan of treachery, the expected defiance and trouble did not happen.

Percy's mere presence was enough to deter any potential violence, especially after his earlier display of power, yet thankfully, everything went peacefully enough. Predictably, Arnolf denied any wrongdoing, but the Maester's testimony that his only raven to Maidenpool was missing and confirming the scroll's handwriting to be Arnolf's was proof enough for Sansa. While his wife could remove the castellan, it would not be a good sign at all if she was seen meddling in the affairs of her brother's vassals–it was bad enough they practically took the castle hostage with Percy's stunt, but apparently, shows of force was one thing but forcefully interfering was another entirely.

Feudal societies were weird. Or was it Westeros that was weird? Nah, probably just the North.

Thankfully, Alys also recognized the handwriting, and as the acting lady of the castle, her words held even more weight than Sansa's. It helped that Cregan Karstark did not try to defend his father, and Percy could tell the older man had no clue of his father's treachery. Or if he did, he hid it very well.

Nevertheless, Arnolf Karstark was a wily old goat and knew where the winds were blowing from. He insisted that none of his family knew of his treachery and that it was the only correspondence he had with Kevan Lannister. Despite being nearly seventy and long past his fighting days, he declared he should join the Watch for his moment of weakness before Sansa could declare a fitting punishment. It would seem petty and unseemly if Sansa insisted on executing him, as was her original plan. In the end, she accepted the outcome, and the man was taken to one of the docked Night's Watch cogs, which were returning with supplies to the Wall.

"Lucky? I beg to differ. You heard what Alys said. They sent a raven to White Harbor to confirm your orders." Percy shook his head in dismay, "We know it never arrived, probably got lost or shot by a hungry peasant, but still…this long detour could have been avoided."

"I know, my love. I know," Sansa hugged his arm as they watched the war camp outside the walls; Karstark had gathered nearly two thousand men, the entirety of all their remaining forces, and had been busy training them since their raven arrived. "But it is the will of the gods. Look at the bright side–we managed to uncover a dastardly plot by a greedy old man, and the Skagosi had answered our call."

"Yes, another point to my argument. Unlucky is an understatement."

Percy chuckled ruefully as he gazed out of the balcony at the port town, the setting sun casting a long shadow from the high cliffs to the west. Their fleet was anchored in the wide natural harbor, supplemented by the smaller and rougher boats of the Skagosi. Lord Manderly had long sent a fast boat to the volcanic island shortly after their arrival in White Harbor with Sansa's orders for them to muster. The boat had never returned, and they assumed the worst, but thankfully, there was no foul play. The boat had run aground on the rocky shores of Skagos, but the envoys were still able to fulfill their mission. None of the houses on Skagos had Maesters, so no raven was sent in reply. When the fleet arrived, the Skags were eager to join in the war, though Percy was certain they expected a lot of loot and good pay.

"So, what do you think of our chances in dislodging the Ironborn?" Sansa leaned her head on his shoulder as he glanced at the Karstark troops being trained in the war camp. "The Bolton and Karstark men seem well-trained and armed, but I know the majority of the men are still levies and not really experienced, but–"

"They are greener than a vegan's breakfast shake." Percy shook his head, ignoring Sansa's confusion. "Hardly any of them are soldiers, and it doesn't help that even after scraping the barrel, we will still be outnumbered. Those Ironborn are supposed to be the best of the best that the Iron Isles have to offer. They have the numbers, the experience, and from what I hear, are also better armed."

Sansa smiled lightly as she gripped his arm tightly, "Yet they don't have you."

"I appreciate the flattery, baby, but I'm still just one man."

"And you are the one man who shall make all the difference in the world." Sansa's words were full of conviction as her blue eyes stared deeply into his green–her grief over her brother's death had turned into an insatiable hunger for vengeance. "I have complete faith in you, husband." A pleasant shiver crawled up Percy's back, "I trust no one else to lead my armies to battle and liberate my home from all invaders."

"Not your brother's armies?"

"After all the trouble I've been through to gather them? No, I think not. Robb will have to suffice with me returning Ice to him." Sansa giggled as her hands pawed into his light tunic as she groped his pectorals–Percy had not bothered to dress for the cold; the more weirwoods he claimed, the less the elements bothered him. Almost as if the North itself was welcoming him as a part of the land. "But forget about my brother. Tell me, what is it that has you wary of fighting near Barrowton?"

"Not so much as wary, but I don't think my water powers will work well there." Percy's hands unconsciously found his wife's gravid belly before climbing to her heavy tits. "It might have to do with that demon god infesting the Sunset Sea."

"I see," Sansa raised her head and kissed him, and Percy responded passionately. "Nevertheless, I still have complete faith in you. Now, come, husband. You have neglected your marital duties for too long."

Percy chuckled as he lifted her in his arms and they made their way to the spacious lord's quarters, all the while kissing his wife hungrily as they pawed their clothes off each other. Within a few heartbeats, Sansa was splayed on the large bed, naked as the day she was born, her red hair spread everywhere. That alone would have been enough to cause his cock to straighten to attention, yet her large belly somehow made her even sexier, and he had to use all his resolve to stop himself from ravishing her.

"Sorry, my love, but Donnis says I should avoid any coupling for a few more weeks." Sansa spread her arms as Percy stripped and joined her in bed, his hands groping her plump teats and his mouth latching on her perky pink nipples as they started leaking milk. "My, you are such a baby, going straight for my milk like that."

Percy hummed in delight as he nursed from his wife's tits, he never thought he would be so into it, yet she tasted exquisite! Sansa stroked his hair, and he hungrily fed from her, almost as if he was her babe, yet his rock-hard cock protested the neglect as it splayed out on his wife's pregnant belly, covering her belly button and the tip almost at her other side. Sansa giggled as she began stroking him, and soon, he found himself seated on the bedboard while his wife had his cock between her tits.

It did not take him long before he erupted and held Sansa's head as she greedily sucked from his tip. Rope after rope of his seed went down her gullet, and knowing the effect he had on her, Percy could only hum in contentment as he made sure his wife got her protein shake.

Gods that sounded so corny in his mind. Glancing down at the way his wife lovingly gulped every drop with pleasurable moans and a look of pure delight, told Percy that he might be understating things.

Soon, he finally finished, and Sansa withdrew from him, still licking the tip to catch any remaining seed. "As always, I find it ridiculous how that did nothing to your hardness."

True enough, his cock was still rock hard, and Percy grinned. "What can I say? Having such a sexy wife makes it hard to be satisfied with just once. Or twice."

"Or seven times." Sansa giggled before laying beside him and pointing his cock between her thighs. "I can't risk the child, so you will just have to be satisfied with my thighs."

Percy chuckled as he rocked his hips back and forth, sawing his dick between her thighs and over her puffy lips. "Might as well return the favor. Incidentally, is that why you've been sending Wylla my way?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Sansa's breathing hitched before he slapped her bubbly butt, causing her to yelp. "W-What was that for?!"

"Don't play coy with me, wife. Wylla might pretend to know what she's doing, but she's just a virgin girl who has never truly flirted with a man before."

Sansa tried to deny it once more, only for him to slap her ass again, earning himself a throaty moan. Percy paused; perhaps this was not working out as a punishment if she was enjoying it. "Oh, fine! I gave her leave to become your paramour if you desire. I even have her grandfather's blessing."

Percy would have been shocked at such a confession, but it spoke of how much he had gotten used to this world, and that chuckle was all the reaction he gave. "And what made you think I would approve of such a thing?"

"Oh? I thought you mentioned you liked Wylla. Would you rather be with one of the other girls? I saw you checking Alys out, and her betrothed died in the south, so she could be amiable to it–she also seemed interested in you. Branda, however, is a bit of a prude, but Myriame–"

"Not that silly!" Percy slapped her ass again, causing her to moan harder, her cheeks were red, and her breathing got harsher–was he that obvious in checking their host? He chuckled as he realized his wife was adopting his lingo and also checking other women for him. "What made you think I would want any other woman aside from you?"

"Oh, my sweet Percy. You have no idea what effect your words are having on meeee!" Sansa suddenly froze as he slapped her ass one last time just as he was midstroke. She moaned deeply, before kissing him hungrily as he felt his cock grow wet from her climax. "But believe me when I say that it is my sole decision for us to have another lover in bed. I approve of Wylla, and I would rather be the one to choose a paramour for you than someone sneaking into your bed."

"Okay, but why?" Percy still felt confused about the whole matter, even if a primal part of him was facepalming at refusing a willing woman to his bed, especially with his wife's approval–it did not help that he could not feel Poseidon in his mind, so he could not even blame his father for such thoughts. "Do you think I would not be able to keep my dick in my pants and go after the first hot chick when we are apart?"

"Well…" Sansa bit her lips, "You have to understand, Percy. It's in men's nature to desire more women, especially powerful men like you, doubly so during wartime. I won't be able to join you against the Ironborn. I would not risk my child joining you in battle even if I will be a distance away. Even my father had a secret paramour during the Rebellion and…"

"And?"

"You are special," Sansa said simply as she smiled brightly at him. "You already know about my meetings with the Maiden." Percy nodded hesitantly. "You are not human, Percy. Our children won't be either. They would be far more and we must think of their future–we cannot treat them like normal humans and children of nobility, especially our daughters. We cannot allow our blood to easily spread out to other houses. If we are lucky, we would have a daughter whom we could betroth to Robb's son this way the Starks shall endure, stronger than ever, but what about our own future House?"

"What about it?"

"It would be fine if a noble lady marries into our house; gods know we Starks collected magical blood like a girl would collect dolls, but our daughters? It would be the height of folly to allow them to marry into potentially rival houses. Especially if they inherit even a fraction of your powers."

"So your solution to that is… me having bastards?"

"Well, I'm sure I can work something out with Robb, and they can take your name while our trueborn keeps our new House name, which I'm still working on."

"Alright, let's assume your brother allows that. I still don't get the reasoning behind having me take another lover." Percy narrowed his eyes at his wife, "Because that is what will happen, Sansa. There is no way I would simply get some girl preggers, take the babe away, and send her on her way. I love you, Sansa, but you cannot ask me to do that."

Sansa beamed, "And that's why I love you, Percy. Not because of your power or what you bring to our children but because of your loyalty. I would never ask you to do such a thing, which is why I allowed Wylla to approach you."

"And then what? She will have my kids and…" Percy's eyes widened as he finally understood his wife's reasoning. "Oh, come on, Sansa! That would be incest!"

"Not as bad as the Targaryens," Sansa muttered, averting her gaze for a heartbeat. "Besides, as long as they are not full siblings, it should be fine. I think. Even then, I am looking at it long-term. Noble boys can marry into our family instead of the other way around, this way, our daughters remain close and their children can be betrothed to our other descendants. It would be smart if our grandchildren would have compatible blood for them to marry."

"They would still be cousins."

"And?" Sansa looked confused. "Incestuous relations are only between siblings, or parents and their children."

Percy gawked before recalling that the Starks had married their cousins and even a couple of uncles and nieces to combine claims–all those hours being forced to learn how to read had given him plenty of useless trivia about his new home. In fact, cousin marriage was common in Westeros, so perhaps their idea of incest is different from home.

"Don't forget, those Dragonlords never had any issues with marrying their siblings." Poseidon chose this moment to chime in. "Nothing genetic, at least, though I would argue their mad kings were a result of nurture rather than nature. Must be something in the air or the water, or maybe magic helps protect from any deformities."

"When did you pop in?"

"A little birdie told me you two were having a very fascinating talk." His Father chuckled in his mind. "But my, you are blessed with such an open-minded wife. A truly devious mind as well, for despite how much love and adoration I can sense from her, Sansa still does not allow that to affect her plans for both of your futures."

"I get it, but to encourage me to fuck other women and basically treat me like a breeding stud? I'm not sure if I should be flattered or annoyed."

"Do you believe she is abusing your trust and love? That she has an ulterior motive to her desire for you to have more women and children? That she would somehow endeavor to use your loyalty to chain you to her while preventing you from raising your children?"

"Absolutely not!" If there was one thing Percy was undoubtedly confident about, it was how mutual his feelings of love with Sansa were. He could not explain it, but the more he claimed the weirwoods of the North, the more he could tell what people around him felt or thought. Sansa's feelings of love towards him were bordering obsession, and if he focused a little bit, he could tell that if he refused her idea of him having paramours, she would understand and never bring it up again.

"So, why aren't you telling her no?" Poseidon asked in amusement. "Unless the idea appeals to you."

And that was the crux of the matter. Percy never imagined he would ever entertain cheating on his wife, but–

"My dear boy, it is not cheating when your wife and the other woman are fully onboard with the matter!" Poseidon sighed in exasperation. "Unlike me, who had to spend centuries convincing Amphitrite that the domains I embody sometimes control my nature, Sansa already understands that with you. Besides, I can tell that your lust and sexual appetite are only growing stronger. As you cannot fuck your wife silly every session, especially when she's pregnant, it's practically ingrained in the male psyche to spread your seed far and wide. Your wife has given her blessings and even has good political and rational reasoning behind her madness. Don't disparage the deep thoughts she invested in this."

"So you admit it's madness?"

"The good kind of madness, I assure you." Percy could practically hear the smug amusement in his father's tone. "After all, to maximize the diversity of the gene pool, Sansa would not stop at just one woman for you to breed. You really are lucky to have a woman like her."

"...I still think this is too complicated and will somehow fail anyway."

"If it's too complicated then leave it to your wife." Poseidon shrugged. "Just learn to enjoy it and don't question it too much."

"Percy? Are you alright?" Sansa asked worriedly, "I didn't scare you with all this talk, did I?"

"Of course not." Percy kissed her deeply before rocking his hips again, causing her to moan. "Just thinking about it."

And he would admit, as he fought the urge to plunge his cock deep into his wife's pussy, his Dad was right. Percy's urges have been steadily increasing. He never imagined he would face such a problem, but the more he fucked, the more he wanted more. It would be unfair to sate his lust on his wife alone, not when it could be harmful. Apparently, there was such a thing as 'too much fucking', though his body did not seem to get the memo.

"So, what do you think?" Sansa brought him out of his thoughts. "Lord Manderly has given his blessings, and Wylla is completely willing."

"How did you even convince Wyman of this?"

"Simple." Sansa snickered, "He had seen your powers firsthand, and a hint about allowing Wylla's child with you to foster in New Castle as a reward for all his help had him easily agreeing."

Percy was not too familiar with the politics behind fostering and such, but he filed it for later. "So, Wylla would basically be like a second wife?"

"Well, no. Westerosi law does not acknowledge polygyny, not since Maegor the Cruel and his madness. She would be our paramour, and we would care for any of her children with you like they are our own."

Percy nodded before slapping Sansa's ass once more, causing her to yelp and pout sexily at him. "Our Paramour?"

"W-Well, I will admit we've been getting close lately." Sansa averted her eyes shyly, causing Percy to smirk. "She's fun to have around and very talented when it comes to rubbing any sore muscles."

"Alright, alright. I won't give any promises, as I honestly don't know a lot about her yet. Let's wait until we are settled somewhere and properly get to know each other before we decide." Percy sped up his thrusts before feeling his balls contract as his climax approached; not wishing to dirty the bed, he let go of his wife. "Now, stop teasing me and tell me where you want it."

Sansa giggled as she latched onto his cock, and Percy groaned in satisfaction as he shot his load down her throat. About a minute later, he finally felt his cock soften slightly and slowly retracted it, leaving the tip in his wife's mouth as she sucked it one last time before releasing it with a loud pop and Sansa's content sigh. She shivered in delight as her cheeks heated up before laying on the bed with another sigh.

Percy plopped down beside her and hugged her closely, his shaft hardening once more, but he ignored it in favor of enjoying his wife's warmth as they slowly drifted to sleep.

Suddenly, a thought came to him. "What if our children disagree?" At Sansa's questioning hum, he elaborated. "What if we have a really wild daughter who would not accept any husband we choose for her? Didn't you say your sister was a wild hellion who would most likely kill her husband in his sleep during their first wedding night?"

Sansa froze before groaning in annoyance, "I didn't think about that, but I suppose we will cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Actually, I'm not really stoked to force my kids into marriages they don't like." Percy hummed, "But I suppose we will work together to properly raise our children and teach them to choose right. No way will I let some maid or maester raise our kids in our place."

"I never even thought of doing that, my love." Sansa yawned as she hugged him closer, "Now, enough talk and let us sleep."

Percy chuckled as he lifted the furs with his feet and covered them both. Worrying about the future was an exercise in futility, especially as they had a war to win before anything else.

Still, as Percy tried to adjust his still rock-hard cock, he began to seriously consider his wife's proposal.

Notes:

In the Sea of Monsters book, we discover that Percy is a competent craftsman as he works with Annabeth to construct a chariot, not just any random chariot, but a magical one (kinda, sorta, if you squint hard enough.) For him to develop some quality-of-life inventions, such as suspension springs for carriages, is quite minor compared to other things I plan to show off later in the story.

Arnolf Karstark's schemes would not have happened in the spur of the moment, nor would he have dared to actually go through with them unless Robb is dead or there's no Stark in Winterfell. He just got unlucky that the raven he sent bumped into Beauty.

Sansa is starting an Eugenics program, and she does not want to share it with the rest of Westeros. Time to have Percy breed a whole new race of super warriors lmao.

Chapter 28: Bold as Brass

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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The Vale

Runestone

"My Lord, a raven from the Eyrie."

Samwell Stone halted his swing, and Yohn Royce turned to the elderly Maester Helliweg, still spry and quickfooted for a man approaching his sixties. His hands were tucked inside his voluminous grey sleeves, and a placid smile adorned his face.

"Alright, men, back to training! Andrew, we will practice formations today. Eddard, with me, you can't just slack off just because your Lord Grandfather won't get to train you."

The Lord of Runestone nodded to his master-at-arms as his serjeants began their relentless drilling of the men, and Ser Samwell trained his grandson. They were in the middle of their morning spar, a ritual that Yohn had followed faithfully for over forty years, ever since he was a lad who held his first blade. He never missed his training; if he could help it, especially now with the kingdoms at war, he had a duty to maintain his martial ability despite already celebrating his fiftieth nameday last week.

His gaze paused on his grandson as the lad, barely six namedays old, struggled to keep his wooden sword steady and practiced his swings. Eddard was in good hands, but for now, duties of the realm called. Yohn followed the Maester to his solar, stopping to greet his good-daughter, daughters, and grandchildren in the lady's parlor. Henrietta Melcolm married his son Andar a decade ago, securing an alliance with House Melcolm, and has blessed him with three granddaughters and two grandsons, securing the Royce line for yet another generation.

His youngest grandson, Jon, who was only born a few moons ago, was strapped around his mother's chest, his older sisters fawning over him. Yohn couldn't help but laugh boisterously as his grandchildren ran to him in greeting when they saw him, with Henrietta curtsying politely in the back. His own daughters, Ysilla, Jeyne, Ursula, and Arwen, smiled gently before pulling away their goodsister for some discussion.

His granddaughters brightened Yohn's mood greatly, but duty called, and he made his way to the solar.

"So, what does Lady Lysa wish of me this time?" Yohn poured himself a cup of Arbor Gold from a decanter and sipped leisurely as the Maester produced the sealed scroll from within his sleeves. "Another demand that I cease my trade with Stannis Baratheon? Or perhaps to present my grandson to be fostered with Robert Arryn?"

"Neither, My Lord. She has called the banners and demands all lords to bring their forces to the Eyrie."

Yohn halted for a moment before continuing to sip from his cup; his previous good mood melted into scorn and irritation. "Did she explain whose side we are joining?"

"No, My Lord."

"Tell me, Helliweg. You have known how I longed to join the war, to help my good friend's son and my liege lord's uncle. How I raged against our dear Lady Arryn when she decreed the Lords of the Vale to become fence-sitters. Tell me, why do I not feel joy?"

Maester Helliweg sighed; they had known each since they were youths, ever since he was an acolyte sponsored by Yohn's grandfather in the Citadel. In public, the Maester knew how to conduct himself courteously, but in private, Yohn counted him as one of his closest and most trusted friends.

Helliweg produced two more scrolls that did not have any seals. "It may have to do with what you suspected, Yohn. Petyr Baelish was sighted in the Eyrie, and the next day, Lady Arryn sent the ravens."

Yohn strode towards the open windows overlooking the Rune Gulf and gazed at the open sea. He could see the outline of the island that hosted Old Anchor, and he was reminded it was Lord Melcolm who notified him Petyr Baelish had landed in his lands onboard one of his trade ships. Jason Melcolm was an honorable man, yet he was also pragmatic; the lowly Lord of the Finger had made many enemies in the Vale, purchasing debts and ensnaring their fellow lords. The copper counter thought himself smarter than everyone else, that they were blind to his plots and how close he was to his foster sister. While Yohn and the rest of his allies underestimated him and discovered his schemes too late to properly counter them, he was not the first, nor would he be the last, upstart to scheme against the Lords of the Vale.

Only his friendship with Lady Lysa and the trust Jon Arryn placed in Littlefinger had stayed their hands. And yet, Yohn wondered if he should not have accepted Jason's suggestion of quietly disposing of the Braavosi on his way to the Eyrie. It was dishonorable, since, for all his plots and schemes, Petyr Baelish was still a lord of the realm, and disposing of one of their own was not to be done lightly, even if he was an upstart dabbling in flesh trade.

"This comes from our contact in the Eyrie?" Helliweg nodded. "And Nestor? What does he say?"

His relationship with the cadet branch of House Royce was not particularly cordial; envy and jealousy turned even the most honorable man into a rogue. Nestor Royce had ruled the Vale for nearly two decades while Jon Arryn was serving as Hand of the King, yet his gormless cousin failed to profit from it. His attempt to seize unclaimed lands from the Mountain Clans failed miserably, nor was he capable of securing a good marriage to his son, while his daughter's marriage prospects were even worse. Nevertheless, despite all of this, Nestor was loyal to the Arryns, and he was not blind to Lysa Tully's erratic behavior. Robert Arryn was already eight namedays and should have started his martial training more than two years prior, yet his mother was loath to place him in any perceived danger.

If Yohn was to wager a guess, the spineless woman thought her own son to be a danger for himself, unable to even swing a sword properly. And they were supposed to follow such a liege who never experienced a single moment of adversity?

Preposterous.

"Following the crushing defeat of the Northern army outside Harrenhal, Lady Lysa decided to join the winning side, especially as the Lannisters had allied with the Tyrells. Whether she would attack Robb Stark or Stannis Baratheon remains to be seen, but Nestor firmly believes that while the orders came from her mouth, it was Petyr Baelish speaking. And Petyr Baelish is Joffrey's master of coin still."

Yohn gripped his cup tightly, causing it to crack. He drained it before angrily throwing it into the sea. He watched it as it flew a long distance before crashing in the waves. Bronze Yohn seethed as he tried to control his rage. There could only be one reason why Lady Arryn did not explain whose side they were joining. If Yohn and his allies falsely believed they were joining Robb Stark or even Stannis Baratheon, they would have mustered their full forces, only to be confronted with treason if they refused to march or send a portion of it after their true target was revealed. It was an insidious scheme, truly worthy of that honorless cur, Baelish. Perhaps Yohn should have killed him publicly over some backhanded insult and dealt with the repercussions later; it was far more agreeable to kill a lord over a matter of honor than have him assassinated.

Yet the dice was cast, and there was nothing to be done.

When the war broke out, he and his allies had called their banners, fully expecting Lysa Tully to march to the aid of her brother and sister, only to be shocked when she commanded them to stand down. It was inconceivable, utter madness, for the Vale to declare their neutrality in a war that was partially started by Lysa Arryn accusing the Lannisters of murdering her husband. Jon Arryn was well-liked by all in the Vale, Eddard Stark just as much, if not more. For their kin to abandon them so coldly had many of the lords questioning Lady Arryn's sanity.

Nevertheless, honor and duty dictated he followed his liege's commands, and Yohn Royce bid his time. He watched as the Riverlands were run roughshod by Tywin Lannister, then rejoiced when Robb Stark came down like a hammer from the North to smash Jaime Lannister's host. His fellow lords had ridden to the Eyrie then and loudly called for Lady Lysa to join the war on her nephew's side, only for her to callously refuse and order them back to their holdings or be declared traitors.

Honor and duty dictated they comply, regardless of how unwilling Yohn and his allies were. As the war raged on, he kept his ears out for any information; his son Robar had kept him up to date with Renly's side, while his goodson, Lord Jason Melcolm's ships fed him information from Gulltown, Driftmark, and Dragonstone in their trade runs.

Until Yohn learned of his son's death. Oh, he felt grief and sadness at the loss of yet another of his sons, for the Night's Watch had notified him of how Waymar died, despite how ludicrous the claims of the Others returning were, but the world had long gone mad. Yet his grief did not last long, for it quickly transformed into a black rage that nearly consumed him. How dare that flowery cunt murder his son in cold blood?! His own sworn brother?! For those wretched upstart stewards to brush Robar's murder aside like he was some peasant? They did not even return his bones or armor; they merely buried him in a ditch as a traitor!

Then came even more dire news from the North of the Ironborn invading and laying waste to all they touched. They even took Moat Cailin, and since then, there had been silence from the North. Until, curiously, Manderly ships arrived, purchasing all sorts of supplies from steel and copper to tar and ropes. Yohn had managed to learn from them about Sansa Stark's escape and her wedding to some foreign sorcerer.

Even more madness!

Though perhaps not as mad as Stannis Baratheon being seduced by a woman of great beauty into abandoning the Seven for some heathen god, then reverting back to the Seven and declaring himself the chosen of the Warrior. By the gods, old and new, Yohn was far too old and confused to follow along with all the madness, so he sent Andar to Dragonstone along with one of their trade ships in order to ascertain the truth. Stannis' massive fleet needed plenty of supplies that Yohn and many of the lords along the coast were eager to trade. He paid more than the fair price for all produce, Even if most payments were in promissory notes. When Lysa Arryn demanded they cease the trades, Yohn could not very well control the merchants and craftsmen of his lands like he could a train dog.

Needless to say, if Lysa Arryn wanted to enforce her embargo against Stannis, she required a fleet…and if she thought she could order the Graftons to take on Stannis' fleet, then her wits were truly scrambled.

"My Lord? How should we reply?"

"Send ravens to all our allies and vassals." Despite being sorely tempted to rise in rebellion, seize the young Lord Arryn, declare himself regent, and join Robb Stark, he was simply not powerful enough. "We shall follow Lady Arryn's command but notify them that they are to keep their finest in reserve should pirates attack from the Narrow Sea."

Helliweg smiled, "No pirate or slaver had dared attack Westeros since Stannis Baratheon was made Master of Ships."

"Why, my dear maester, have you not heard?" Yohn grinned. "Stannis is busy in the Crownlands, and corsairs and pirates from the Stepstones have used this opportunity to raid our shores!"

The Maester chortled as he nodded and excused himself to send the ravens. While Yohn had learned of plenty of activity in Essos, particularly from Tyrosh and Myr, none had dared attack them yet, with Stannis still ruling supreme in the Narrow Sea. Yet Lysa Arryn had no way of confirming the truth, and even if that rat Baelish used his own connections in Essos to confront them, it would be his word against their own. Yohn would dearly enjoy breaking the bastard with his bare hands as such an accusation would be the best excuse for him to demand an honor duel.

It was two days later when Yohn waved farewell to Ser Robert Shett, the young recently knighted third son of Lord Damon Shett, commanding one hundred men from Runestone, Gull Tower, and Grey Glen as they sailed west to take the river to Iron Oaks then march to the Eyrie. Just as their ship disappeared behind the horizon, and Yohn was busy dealing with another trade ship from the North, another ship sailed into the harbor, one he recognized as his son's.

"Andar, you have returned." Yohn hugged his heir as he disembarked; Andar Royce was just as tall as Yohn, tawny-haired and grey-eyed, talented with the blade, and loved the sea. Sadly, while he could ride well enough, he was simply not blessed with the lance and rarely participated in tourneys. "What news from Dragonstone? I expected a raven, at least."

"It is good to see you again, Father." Andar looked around warily at the busy docks of Runestone's harbor, and Yohn realized something was wrong. All the men on the boat were solemn, and Andar's knights and men at arms gripped their weapons tightly — some of them were bloodied and their armor battered, even the ship had a few rails missing, and there were holes in the sails. "We need to talk away from prying eyes and ears."

"In the solar, then," Yohn nodded and had his castellan take over, dealing with the Northmen trying to sell parts of some kind of sea monster that had begun plaguing their shores. Yohn scoffed at the tales — as if some warrior could truly breathe underwater and fight a hundred-foot-long sea dragon. The scales and massive fangs they sell could have easily come from whales or sharks, though Yohn would admit to never being a fan of boats and the sea as it made him too dizzy. Nevertheless, Yohn allowed them to trade, and if his people were willing to trade their goods for some trinkets, then, as long as they were satisfied, so be it.

In less than an hour, Yohn was in his solar with his son, receiving the greatest shock in his life.

"Dragons!"

"Just the one dragon, but Princess Shireen might as well be another dragon herself." Andar drank deeply from the offered cup of Arbor Gold before withdrawing a beautiful amethyst from his pocket. "I swear by the gods, old and new, that the girl's greyscale had transformed into the most beautiful scales of purple. She shed a piece of it as a gift and hoped we would continue to support her father in the war."

Yohn accepted the stone and was surprised to find it warm to the touch. It was a pleasant warmth that reminded him of the hearth during the coldest days of winter. "Tell me everything that happened there."

Andar then proceeded to enlighten him about the situation in Dragonstone: the discovery of the dragon eggs, the horrors of the Red Witch and her zealots, and how she and Selyse Baratheon died in some heathen ritual the former attempted that resulted in a dead kraken and Shireen Baratheon's rebirth.

"What should we do with this information, Father?" Andar asked as Yohn remained silent for several minutes, trying to come to terms with the fact that magic and madness had become the norm in this world.

"Who else knows about this?"

"Everyone who visits Dragonstone meets with the Princess who had taken control of the island. She seemed far healthier and more decisive than the little girl I met a few years ago in King's Landing."

"This changes things greatly." Yohn paced around his solar before realizing something. "Your ship. It looked like it suffered an attack."

"Aye, pirates and slavers. Tyroshi, judging by their colorful beards, yet they sailed without a flag."

Yohn groaned as he realized the Essosi scum had finally grown restless enough to start raiding. He did not expect his excuse to turn out to be truthful so fast, even if he was confident they would attack sooner or later. The more Stannis Baratheon was invested in the siege of King's Landing, the less he could focus on defending Westeros' coasts.

"I'm glad you are well, son." Yohn gazed out of the window, his thoughts rushing in his mind. "Things have also changed here."

He brought his heir up to speed with Baelish in the Eyrie and the banners being called. Andar frowned, "The lords will not attack the Northmen or the Rivermen. Too many of them married from the Riverlands, and there is no enmity between us. Even Lysa Arryn is not mad enough to order her lords to attack them, especially as Robb Stark is not by any means defeated."

"True, the battle at Harrenhal, while a severe blow to the Northmen, does not cripple Robb Stark's capability to wage war. However, many believe the young king will abandon the Rivermen to return home and beat back the Ironborn, especially after news arrived of his brother's demise when Winterfell nearly fell." Yohn was still in shock as he received the news just this morning — how young Brandon Stark, a cripple, had still held his ground and beat back the invading reavers yet died from his wounds. Truly, a tale of valor worthy of the greatest knights in history. "The Valemen will depart from the Bloody Gate in a moon and are under the impression the Rivermen will flock to their banners without their king protecting them."

"You don't believe that will happen?"

"Certainly not," Yohn scoffed. "News from the North tell that Princess Sansa had mustered an army of her own and had placed her husband in command. While I have heard far too many fanciful tales about the man, this Perseus character must be a formidable warrior for the Northmen to follow him. Regardless, Robb Stark is by no means beaten, and the Rivermen are still beholden to him and his uncle, Ser Edmure Tully."

"I still cannot comprehend how Baelish managed to convince Lysa Arryn to lay in bed with those she accused of murdering her husband. Tywin Lannister is not one to forgive such insults, but I can see him swallowing his pride in return for ten thousand of the finest knights in the realm. He's too pragmatic, from what you've told me about him."

"Tywin hasn't the power to complain, considering he was on the brink of losing control of his bannermen if not for Jaime Lannister beating the Northmen. Now, with Jaime controlling nearly twenty thousand men, along with Tywin's own twenty thousand, the Lannisters are, once more, a formidable power. As for why Lysa joined the Lannisters…I honestly could not tell you, but I truly suspect she had long gone mad."

An uncomfortable silence fell upon them. There was nothing more terrible than a mad liege. Honor and duty demanded they follow their liege, at least unless the oaths of fealty were broken. Despite Lysa Arryn's senseless demands, she had not broken her oath to her subjects. Yet, should they wait the same way the realm waited until Aerys Targaryen had the bright idea of burning the heirs of the Eyrie, Winterfell, and many other nobles and expecting no retaliation? How many times would tragedy have to repeat itself before they learned that bitter lesson?

"Father? What course should we take?"

"The war is far from over, with no clear victor in sight. What are your thoughts?"

Before Andar could respond, a knock on the door, and Yohn frowned. He had warned the guards not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency, yet he trusted their competence enough to reply. "Enter."

Maester Helliweg rushed in hurriedly as he gripped a scroll and handed it to him. Yohn read the short letter, only a single sentence, yet the contents were enough for his bushy eyebrows to rise so high they nearly reached his balding head.

"What is it, Father?"

"Catelyn Stark had somehow slayed Gregor Clegane and was later seen in Stannis Baratheon's camp."

Andar gawked, and Yohn gave him the letter before turning to the maester. "This just arrived?"

"Yes, My Lord. From Hayford, which had surrendered to Stannis Baratheon earlier last moon."

If Yohn remembered right, House Hayford was practically extinct when their lord died in a tourney accident last year, leaving a babe as his heir. Yet her widowed mother was a Waxley, the sister of the current lord who, in turn, married a Coldwater, one of Yohn's vassals and, thus, one of the few contacts Yohn Royce had in the Crownlands.

Still, this was not enough. With a dragon and his healthy daughter, as well as his formidable navy, Stannis Baratheon suddenly became one of the most powerful claimants to the throne. Especially as he now has the Queen Dowager of the North as his guest. Yohn needed more eyes there.

"Andar, I'm sorry to send you off after you had just returned, but I need you in the Crownlands again."

His heir did not blink as he stood straight and placed his fist on his mailed chest, he did not even have the chance to change out of his armor. "I'm at your command, My Lord Father."

"Gather a hundred of your best men and sail to Stannis' camp. I need you there as my representative."

"This might place me in direct conflict with our Valemen when they arrive."

"And it would also place you close when the damned Reachmen arrive."

Andar's eyes narrowed dangerously before he grinned wickedly. "A chance to avenge my brother?"

"Aye, if you get the chance, I want that flowery bastard's head on a spike." Yohn's anger was mirrored in his son's eyes, and he smiled as Andar nodded resolutely. "None will fault a man for seeking justice for his dead brother, regardless of what your own father ordered. Now, here is what I need you to do once you arrive there…"

Andar listened as they discussed what to plan for when he arrived in Stannis' camp. What their priorities would be like, contingencies, and acceptable compromises, yet Andar's presence would first and foremost be that of a neutral observer…for now.

Three days later, Yohn watched as his son sailed away, commanding several warships in case pirates attacked. One hundred knights, with their squires and manservants, as befitting of a high lord of the Vale, accompanied him, along with gifts for King Stannis. The future was still foggy, yet Yohn would be ready wherever the winds of war shifted.

A*H*M

A fortnight ago

A few miles away from Stannis' camp.

"How are you doing, Brienne?"

They had been traveling for nearly a fortnight to cross a distance of less than a hundred miles. There were too many injured in Ser Balon's army and he could not risk rushing the men and what little horse he had. Catelyn was riding her horse, the same filly she had taken from Winterfell to White Harbor, then joined her by boat to King's Landing. It's been so long the filly has grown into an impressive mare worthy of the Stark stock she came from. Catelyn patted the horse's neck affectionately before turning to the Tarth Maid as she awkwardly rode her horse; the tall and lumbering girl was not the finest rider, but that perhaps had more to do with her horse being a skinny rouncey she commandeered from a bandit moons ago.

"Fine." The Tarth Maid muttered as they steadily rode down the road towards King's Landing. Catelyn raised an eyebrow at the girl's short response, and the female knight looked away awkwardly. "Really, Lady Stark, I'm well."

"You are still worried about the king accusing you of murdering his brother?"

Brienne gripped her reins tightly, "It is what is being said."

True enough, the Tyrells had spread the word everywhere that Renly Baratheon's killers were Brienne and Catelyn herself. Apparently, news of the Mountain's demise had spread all over the lands, and Mace Tyrell hurried to distance himself from Tywin Lannister's hunt, yet he still appeased his ally by blaming her for Renly's death. Catelyn could see the twisted logic as she and Brienne were the last to see Renly alive, yet she could only huff in amusement at the Rose Lord's desperation; claiming they were responsible for Kingslaying, yet allowing her to leave their camp made even the biggest lackwit aware there was foul play.

"Has the king not sent a runner back to us, assuring our safety?"

"Yes, but kings tend to change their minds when it suits them best."

"Oh? Have you known too many kings, my dear?" Brienne turned to her with a glare, only to bow her head sheepishly at her smile. "You are too nervous. Your father serves the king, and Stannis would not alienate your house on the word of his enemies. Especially since the Island of Tarth is a major supply port for his fleets."

"Perhaps so," Brienne still looked torn and hesitantly glanced at Ser Balon conversing with one of his knights before riders approached from the vanguard.

"Ser Balon. We are approaching the encamped army."

"Very good." Balon Swann turned to the column and directed commands to his captains and serjeants. "We will rest here for a few moments. I want us all to be presentable and fit to be in the presence of the King. Hoist the banners and…"

As the knight barked out several orders, the entire column came alive. Men quickly formed into lines, horses in the rear, infantry in the center, while the nobles, including her retinue, led from the front. Normally, marching behind horses was a dirty affair, yet for this short strip, the men were willing to endure as Ser Balon urged her to follow along. The rest of her men joined her on their steeds, and only those who were too injured remained in the rear. Meanwhile, Catelyn did her best to comb her short hair that barely reached her ears and ensured her cloak with the Stark direwolf sewn on was present. Hallis Mollen approached her and unfurled a large Stark banner he carried as he rode close by, sending a clear message; they might be guests, yet they still had their pride.

Finally, after twenty minutes, they were marching once more past fields, homesteads, farms, and ranches. Surprisingly, there were farmers working the fields, harvesting wheat, barley, rye, and many other crops. Freshly dug irrigation canals lined the road and fed the fertile grounds while she spied teams of men digging for wells. Sheep and cattle grazed over the lush grasslands as if the war had not come to the Crownlands. Catelyn watched in disbelief as they waved at the troops, many peasant girls rushing with vegetable baskets as they tried to sell their wares or flirt with the soldiers, who reciprocated easily until one of the serjeants barked for order. The peasant girls giggled at the redfaced serjeant yet still frolicked away back to their fields and milk cows, while Catelyn turned to Ser Balon, who must have seen the confusion on her face.

"When the king landed with his fleet, he was tempted to assault the city from the already destroyed River Gate, yet the Imp had already blocked the wall completely. So much rubble and debris; there was no longer a gate, no way to enter or leave, and the small strip of land between the walls and the river had been turned into a veritable killing field of traps and pits. It did not help that Tyrion Lannister, or rather the Alchemist Guild, had somehow managed to find a way to stabilize Wildfire enough that it could be used as ammunition for the catapults — only exploding early half the time instead of constantly."

They paused for a moment as they climbed a short hill. Something reminiscent of a hammer striking stone sounded out, and Catelyn gawked once they crested over and beheld the scene before her, while Ser Balon continued.

"Realizing that he could not take the city by storm when the men refused to charge the wildfire-filled pits and catapults throwing their load at them, King Stannis settled in for a long siege. His Grace was saddened by the thousands of refugees who were kicked out of the city and roamed the lands blindly, so he ordered them all rounded up and settled temporarily near the siege camps."

Catelyn could barely hear Balon Swann's prideful commentary over Stannis' greatness as she stared at the city–no, at two cities! King's Landing looked more like a large, sprawling graveyard from their vantage point in the distance, about a dozen miles to the south and east. Many of the buildings inside the city were reduced to rubble, green fire blazed underneath its walls, and the entire city was surrounded by a moat that she did not recall the last time she visited nearly a year ago. Thirty monstrous trebuchets bombarded the city's walls relentlessly while teams of miners and sappers dug underground — the remains of two burned husks showed that a sortie must have destroyed the siege engines at some point. Catelyn noticed just as many war camps all along the city's walls, each of them holding at least five hundred men, yet her gaze did not linger, for something else had caught her attention.

Another city had seemingly sprung up from nothing a few miles to the north of King's Landing, close to where an abandoned holdfast should have been if Catelyn recalled correctly. Long wooden walls surrounded many buildings and even a large harbor with docks and piers where Catelyn could see the full might of the Royal Fleet sprawled across the Blackwater Bay as far as her eyes could see. In the center was a tall stone tower that doubled as a lighthouse yet had a large banner of the Crowned Stag with a sword of lightning under its hooves.

What surprised her the most was how busy and lively the wooden city was. There were countless people, smallfolk, traders, craftsmen, and guards working and eating and simply living! Outside the wooden ramparts, more farmers tended to fields and thrashed the harvest, millers ground grain to flour, and herders took care of the cattle.

"By the gods!" Hallis gawked at the sight before him. "Did Stannis Baratheon truly build a city instead of storming King's Landing?"

"King Stannis cares about his people. It was both generous and strategically prudent of him to accept them all under his protection. Soon, King's Landing shall fall, yet what kind of king would abandon his people? A king's city that is devoid of people is worthless," Ser Balon insisted as they continued marching towards the wooden city, Catelyn gazing at the utterly massive trebuchets bombarded King's Landing with rocks that had to be collected or cut from the cliffs. "Now, in addition to his experienced army and navy, he has more than a hundred thousand citizens in manpower who eagerly worked the fields, built walls, dug mines and tunnels. All the while, his soldiers could fully focus on war and the siege."

"How could he feed so many people? I understand the necessity of farming the lands and collecting the harvest, but surely when he first gathered the people, he needed to offer something of value at first."

"Indeed, most of the grain came from the Stormlands and trading with neutral houses of the Vale. Some even from Pentos and its minor cities. While the king lacks in coin, his word is worth gold. It helps to have such a versatile fleet, don't you think?"

"Clearly. It has barely been two or three moons since the siege began, yet in the time when siege lines would be drawn, your king managed to build a city instead!"

Before Balon could reply with a witty remark, riders approached them, led by a red-haired knight she recognized as Ser Ronnet Connington. "Ser Balon! I am glad to see you are well."

"Ser Ronnet, has the king been notified?" The knight of Griffin's Roost did not reply immediately, his gaze falling on her and the Stark banner before inspecting the rest of the troop. His eyes settled on Brienne for a moment before dismissing her and continued to search until he smiled widely as he found Ser Balon's squire. "Ser Ronnet? You may speak to your son later, but for now, I need to meet with King Stannis urgently."

Red Ronnet blinked before nodding seriously. "Aye, he awaits you in King's Haven, though I suggest being on your best behavior. The king is in a foul mood."

"Did something happen?" Ser Balon urged them all to move, and Ser Connington joined them as he talked in a low voice.

"Aye, terrible news from Dragonstone. None are aware of the details, but the Red Witch and Queen Selyse perished in dubious circumstances. The princess is in good health," He hurried to add as they looked at him in shock, "better than fine, in fact. The rumors are wild, yet the King refuses to acknowledge any of them until he sees them in person. Since he cannot leave the siege, King Stannis simply grieved for the loss of his wife yet allowed his daughter to rule Dragonstone in his name."

"What do the rumors say, Ser Connington?"

The red knight looked around warily before muttering lowly, "Hearsay is getting wilder by the day, Ser Balon. But they all agree that the witch had prepared some sort of heathen ritual with human sacrifices. The queen was present but it is unknown if it was willingly or not, yet what is certain is that Princess Shireen had gathered the knights and disrupted the vile ritual. Boats on patrol reported a massive lightning strike and one of the captains swears on his mother's grave he saw the corpse of a giant kraken on the shore when he arrived to offer aid."

"But what about the princess?" Balon asked in worry. "Is she truly safe?"

"Aye, she is, yet she is changed. Did you know that the miners unearthed two dragon eggs from the Dragonmont, but the queen kept it a secret?" Catelyn felt her veins chilling as many oaths and curses sounded around them. "Aye, such a thing, as if we need dragons at a time like this. Yet, it appears that the gods disagree."

"What do you mean, Ser Ronnet?"

"I mean that one of the eggs hatched, and the drake had bonded with the Princess, Lady Stark."

Silence as everyone processed what the knight had said, yet by the time any of them recovered and demanded more answers, they arrived in the city that the refugees called King's Haven. Ser Ronnet dismounted, urging them all to do the same before leading them to the town's square. Within moments, Lucas Blackwood and Robin Flint stood beside her while the rest of her retinue surrounded her as honor guards. Now that she was inside the walls, Catelyn could see that there weren't as many buildings as she thought; while many were under construction, the vast majority of the residents lived in tents. Those same residents watched them in interest as they traveled down roads to reach the square surrounded by both troops and smallfolk and stopped before a massive pavilion.

Even the king slept in a tent, it seemed, though she could now see Stannis Baratheon standing in the middle of the square, surrounded by his knights and lords. A sheathed sword was held in his hands, tip down, as he watched them like a hawk as they approached.

"King Stannis!"

Ser Balon saluted as he marched forward and knelt in front of his king; all of his men did the same, but not Catelyn, nor did any of her retinue. Stannis might be a king, but she owed him no loyalty. That did not mean he deserved respect, and thus, she lowered her head with a curtsy when his gaze found hers; the rest of her men followed her lead and lowered their heads.

"Rise, Ser Balon. I have received your report, and judging by the enormous tarred head on that spike, I see that you truly have brought the Mountain down."

People rejoiced and cheered loudly, throwing insults at the Lannisters and the Roses.

"Thank you, Your Grace, but it was not I who killed that monster." Balon Swann raised his head and looked straight at her, causing Catelyn to curse inwardly at the overly noble knight. "It was Lady Catelyn Stark who finished off Gregor Clegane."

The words echoed, abruptly halting the cheer as she felt thousands of gazes upon her. Catelyn easily endured the eyes of thousands of men, women, and children, yet it was Stannis Baratheon's shocked gaze that quickly morphed into calculative that caused her to shiver.

Nevertheless, she approached, Hallis on her heels, proudly waving the Stark banner.

"King Stannis, I must commend you on your leal and valorous knight. If not for Ser Balon and his men, I would surely be dragged in humiliation to Tywin Lannister."

"Indeed, and now you are here, under my mercy."

"That is true. Your mercy." Catelyn nodded as she stood straight and stared at the Baratheon king. "Will you not give me and my men bread and salt?"

Several mutters and jeers sounded from the crowd, some accusing her of insulting the king, but were quickly silenced once the king spoke.

"I will give you guest rights, My Lady, and you shall remain here as my guest. But not your companions, though they will have my mercy and generosity. They will be allowed three days of rest, given supplies, placed on a ship, and returned to your son with a message." Stannis' hard eyes turned even hardier, if possible, reminding her of when Renly insulted him with his peach. "Surrender to the one true king, or suffer the consequences."

Catelyn glared at the stubborn man yet accepted the offered bread and salt. The king has already spoken, declaring her fate so openly did not allow her any chance to negotiate in private. She did not know if it was a cunning move from him or if he was just that blunt. Knowing him, Stannis was more stubborn than a mule, and arguing with him now would only put her men in danger.

Just as she finished eating, Stannis nodded to her but frowned as one of his lords whispered urgently in his ear. Catelyn recognized Lord Selwyn Tarth, and King Stannis finally nodded before turning to a figure standing in the back.

"Brienne of Tarth, come forth." Brienne lumbered past the men, her mismatched armor jingling like a cow's bell until she stood across from the king. "The Tyrells claim you are responsible for the death of my brother Renly. The words of the Rose Lord mean nothing to me, yet I must still ask: what say you to these accusations?"

Judging by the relaxed smile on Selwyn Tarth, Catelyn could tell that he had already reached an agreement with the king about pardoning his daughter of any perceived crime. Catelyn turned to whisper urgently to Hallis, plans forming in her mind on what to tell Robb and how to deal with the war–

"I call the Tyrells and the Lannisters liars, for I know who slew King Renly, the one true king!" Catelyn froze and turned her head so fast she nearly cricked her neck as the foolish girl unsheathed her sword and pointed it at Stannis Baratheon. "It was you who slayed King Renly. Stannis Baratheon, I challenge you to a trial by battle, and with the Seven as my witness, the truth shall be revealed!"

Silence. The entire square seemed to fall as silent as the grave from the sheer audacity of the Tarth Maid. Selwyn Tarth's face paled considerably, and Catelyn groaned as she rubbed her brow in frustration. That damned foolish girl! Catelyn Stark turned to Stannis Baratheon, ready to plead innocence from whatever madness possessed the girl, only to freeze.

Surprisingly, the king looked, if anything, amused. He simply unsheathed his sword…which immediately ignited into a blade of lightning! Arcs of power licked the ground, digging holes as the king, only dressed in a simple doublet, stepped forward and brandished his blade.

"So be it. Only the gods can judge over such a matter. On your guard, Brienne Tarth!"

 

Notes:

We get an update on the Vale and Stannis…you guys seriously did not expect Brienne to be able to hold her tongue, did you?

The Vale has joined the Lannisters. How the hell did that happen? Baelish magic, that's how.

Yet, for all his smarts, Baelish is incredibly arrogant and believes himself to be smarter than all the lords of the realm.

Chapter 29: Bonds of Brotherhood

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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Barrowton

The Old Shipwright

"Father, you must wake up! They're coming!"

Brandon Stark flinched awake at his daughter's urgent voice. He had learned to trust Berena's words like they were divine mandates, and considering her recently discovered powers, they might as well be.

It felt like only minutes ago when he laid down to sleep, yet he forced his exhausted body to climb from the cot and groggily steadied himself with his daughter's help — sleeping in full armor was tiring yet well worth it when the men needed to fight at a moment's notice. At first, the men grumbled, yet when his prudence proved vital to beat back the reavers time and again, they finally relented. Within a few heartbeats, he was awake and quickly roused the rest of the men sleeping in the castle's great hall. Hungry-looking men met his gaze before stoically marching out of the hall; it had been some time since they ate meat — the last horses had been cooked half a moon prior, and rats were too scarce to feed a garrison.

When Barbrey the Widow ran off at the first sign of the Ironborn invasion, chaos reigned in the ancient town. Damon Dustin, the next in line to the Dustin lands, had feuded with Barbrey Ryswell for a long time; the childless widow had tried to marry his widower father to solidify their claim, yet Errold Dustin refused. Why would he marry again when it would threaten his son Damon's inheritance?

Undaunted, the ambitious woman tried to set the young Damon with another Ryswell maiden, a close cousin, yet once more, she had been rebuffed. Brandon glanced at his daughter and the rest of the women helping the men secure their arms and armor; he could not help but chuckle inwardly at his daughter's choice of lover. Who would have thought that the troublemaker who nearly set fire to his shipyard and had his hide tanned by first him, then his father, would grow to be such a dreamer to choose a shipwright's daughter over a noblewoman?

Brandon might be a Stark in name and blood–the son of Artos the Implacable–yet he held no lands and bore no titles. Even Berena's mother was but the daughter of a shipwright, the same one he apprenticed to and eventually inherited his shipyard after marrying Serena.

Damon was the hope of the Barrow Knights. When he declared his intentions to ride south to join the newly declared King Robb in defiance of Barbrey's commands, thousands of volunteers flocked to him, yet he only picked the finest warriors before riding off. At first, they were all happy for him and wished him good fortune, and as the moons went by with word coming of victories and endless loot from the Westerlands, more men sold their plows and valuables to buy arms and horses and rode south to fight for king, glory, and wealth.

But then the Ironborn attacked, and the chaos that followed Barbrey Dustin's departure nearly tore the city apart as the invading army marched to their gates. Countless smallfolk flocked from the hinterlands carrying what little belongings they could grab and bringing word of the Ironborn atrocities upon their homes and those who failed to escape.

Within a single moon, the city's population swelled from twenty thousand to over double that, far more than its food supplies could provide. Despite Barrowton's importance as a refuge for many during winter, it was still more crowded than any time Brandon remembered. Still, hardly a tenth of its residents were fighting men; many of the vaunted Barrow Knights were either with Damon or stuck in their holdfasts and estates, with no commander in Barrowton to rally them for war.

Barrowton needed a leader, and against his wishes, the men of Barrowton nominated him for the daunting and equally thankless position. Brandon might have no lands or titles, yet he was still a Stark born and raised in Winterfell. He was trained by the finest warriors, by his father, who served as a master-at-arms in Winterfell, taught by a maester, and for a few years, was even the heir to Winterfell. Edwyle Stark had spent years childless and took him and his twin brother Benjen under his wing for a time and taught them how to rule and lead men until Rickard Stark was born. Like all second, third, and fourth sons of the North, his future would either be the Night's Watch or selling his sword in Essos.

Brandon did not mind joining the Black Brothers, yet his uncle Rodrik convinced him and his brother to join him in Essos as sellswords, along with other noble sons of the North, such as his friend Errold Dustin. It was there that Brandon gained a love for sailing and shipbuilding, while Benjen fell more in line with the merchants, scholars, and traders. When they returned to the North following the Nine Penny Kings war, he desired nothing more than a peaceful life, even feuding with his brother over his lack of ambition.

"We would be unmatched, brother! With my connections and your expertise in ships and sailing, we could rival the Sea Snake and redo his voyages, earning riches beyond words!" Benjen had promised him the world, yet Brandon would not have it; he did not want the world. Essos had jaded him too much, and he wanted to be as far away from that land filled with savages, slave-peddlers, and greedy magisters as possible.

Barrowton promised him the peace he desired, his friend Errold helping in securing that. For many years, he enjoyed peace, even when Brandon the younger was fostered here, Brandon, now called the elder, had built a rapport with the heir of Winterfell.

While his wife struggled to give him a child for a long time, she eventually gave him his dear Berena. Sadly, his wife Serena perished to a sudden chill that struck the city a couple of years ago, along with many notables in the city, such as his old friend Errold Dustin, men who could have taken command and fought against the invaders. It was a miracle that Brandon, now in his seventies, had survived the sickness that struck the city, yet many people much younger than him perished. Now, he who loathed war, death, and killing was forced to partake in such matters again because of his skill.

The gods loved their ironies, and now, Brandon found himself commanding a force of four thousand ill-trained and ill-equipped militia, barely a fifth of them knights or men-at-arms. Four thousand against five times as many reavers, all determined and better equipped.

Nevertheless, Bran knew his duty, and he would not allow the reaving scum to harm his home or his daughter. He had warned the men that they would grow to hate him as he used those couple of moons until the Ironborn arrived to turn this peasant militia into a proper fighting force. Thankfully, many of them were hunters and woodsmen, and the old Dustin lords had continued a tradition of training with the bow and spear for centuries; every peasant was required to attend weekly archery and formation training sessions with a constable as part of their tax. That left him to figure out a method to overcome the Ironborn's heavy armor.

As he left Barrow Hall, he glanced at the dark skies above them — it was still at least another hour until dawn, yet the clouds blocked any light from the stars or the moon. He could not see anything in the Barrow River leading to the city and emptying into the nearby lake.

"Berena, who's attacking? Is it that damned squid Greyjoy again?"

Barrow Hall was built on the Great Barrow, the only hill within thirty miles, giving him a great vantage point over the windswept plains of the Barrow Lands and the nearby lake and its river. He could see the lights of Goldgrass, the Stout castle in the distance, taken by Victarion Greyjoy and used as his base — the foolish Stout Lord had refused his suggestion to relocate to the city. He and his meager men still bloodied the Reavers enough that when Victarion arrived two moons ago, he could not attack for a sennight until his men stormed the modest keep and put everyone to the sword.

Brandon saw no activity beyond the walls, meaning the Ironborn were not trying a night assault. After the third time they were repulsed, the reavers finally gave up on attacking at night. Fighting in the dark was always risky, and while Barrowton was almost entirely built from wood, including the castle, its walls were still strong. Yet wooden walls were still weak to fire and blades, and they could not be too tall either, but Barrowton did not need high stone walls to weather the countless sieges it endured throughout history.

The city's deep and wide moat turned it into an island that protected it from any invasion. Most of the preparations for the siege involved expanding the moat and connecting it to the river; while the city did not have many warriors, thousands of people were still ready and willing to help in any way they could—digging was a simple matter even a child could contribute to.

Time and again, the Ironborn tried to cross it on pontoons carrying ladders and grappling hooks, yet every time, they were repulsed by a hail of rocks and arrows. If it had not been for the dwindling supplies inside the town, Brandon would have claimed they could weather the siege indefinitely, but it was not easy feeding fifty thousand mouths when the city was not prepared for a siege. Worse, the Ironborn had prevented the farmers from gathering their harvests, which had now fallen to the enemy's hands. Several times, the reavers had taunted them with fresh loaves of bread and roasted meat stolen from the ranches and granaries of the smallfolk, while the residents of the city were forced to ration as much as they could as they began eating mice and rodents. Even the cats and dogs looked hungry, and Brandon knew that if the siege was not lifted soon, they would soon end up in the cooking pots.

There was only so much fish one could catch from the river, and even then, the bounty from the Barrow River was dwindling by the day. It was a miracle the Ironborn did not have any siege engineers with them, though perhaps it had more to do with the lack of forests for a hundred miles. The vast plains around Barrowton provided excellent pastures but were scarce in woodlands and farmlands.

"Berena?" Bran found his daughter with her eyes closed, standing upright as if in a trance, before opening them with a gasp.

"The river! They will attack by boats."

"Understood, stay safe inside the castle. Men, with me!" Brandon did not hesitate as he strung his bow, shouldered his quiver, and used his spiked club as a walking stick as he led the men down the Great Barrow, all the while grabbing any defender and sending others to wake the rest.

"To arms! To arms! We are under attack by the river!"

Within a few minutes, the one hundred men who followed him from the castle swelled to a thousand, and it wasn't long until they were on the walls overlooking the harbor, yet there were no enemies in sight.

"Stark! Have you finally gone mad at your age? There's no one here!"

Bran glanced at the speaker, Cregard, master of the smithing guild in Barrowton and the castle's smith. Before the siege, they hardly interacted with each other, but after fighting side by side for the past few moons and the contribution the man made when he introduced that new weapon, Bran considered him a capable, if obstinate, leader.

"Keep your eyes peeled, men! The gods have warned us that an attack shall come from the river."

Several men gripped their spiked clubs tightly, muttering prayers to the gods of the river and the land. Others whispered about the Stark Witch, yet none questioned him once he invoked the gods. It still felt queer to hear the men calling his daughter a witch with such reverence, and it was stranger still for her to be called a Stark.

"How will they overcome the river chains?"

A long and massive chain blocked the Barrow River at its narrowest point, nearly a dozen miles south of the city. Bran had sent two hundred men to garrison the two holdfasts where the chains were connected. They did not receive any warnings from them, but it was not like they had any ravens; the foolish widow had distrusted Maesters so much that the raven flock had not been cared for properly, and many of them had gone feral. If Barrowton needed a maester's service, they would go to Goldgrass. But with the castle's fall, Barrowton was completely in the dark.

"I don't know, but we must assume the worst. My daughter has yet to prove us wrong. Douse your flames, douse all light, and keep quiet! I want the squids to fumble their way into the docks, but prepare fire arrows and covered braziers."

The men hurried to follow his command and within a few heartbeats, the southern part of the city was plunged into darkness. The fletchers of Barrowton had been busy fashioning special arrows with basket-like tips that could hold tarred tinder or other flammables. Soon, the men had arrows notched, waiting for the enemy to appear before lighting them.

It was sudden. Brandon would not have noticed the shift in the water if he was not looking for something queer, but when splashing came from the shore and an inhuman growling sound followed, he knew that something was wrong. The darkness in the harbor now worked against them, but several more splashes could be heard, causing the men to mutter and shift uncomfortably. Then, the clouds covering the full moon swept past, bringing moonlight down on the town and the river.

And a scene straight from the Seven Hells!

For a moment, everyone was stunned; even Brandon gawked at the scaly monstrosities that walked upright and froze at the sudden light. They came in different colors, but most were either a garish green or a pallid grey. The creatures had a fish-like head adorned by two large eyes, rows of sharp teeth, two holes for a nose, frills instead of hair, gills on the sides of their necks, webbed hands that clutched rusted spears, and clawed feet. For a few heartbeats, the men on the wall stared in shock just as the sea demons stared back, as if not comprehending they could see them. Suddenly, one of the men shouted, and loosed an arrow which promptly sank into a scaly neck as a fishman-beast dropped dead.

"Loose! Kill the monstrosities!"

Brandon drew his own bow just as the monsters screeched in an unholy tongue and sprinted towards the wall. His arrow flew true, and he dropped one before notching and drawing at another; all along the wall, the men did the same, but there were a lot of them, hundreds at least!

At about fifty feet from the walls, the monsters did something unexpected; they threw their spears.

Men screamed as the javelins struck true, dropping several archers, but Bran had eyes only for the monsters that went down on all fours, rushed to the walls…and scaled them with their sharp claws!

"Spears! Spears! Bring the fuckers down!"

Exchanging his bow for the spiked club that Cregard crafted, Brandon bashed one of the monsters on the head, cracking it like an egg; a terrible stench came from the demons, yet Brandon had smelled far worse in the gutters of Volantis. He stabbed another with the spiked part, easily overcoming the scales protecting its heart. The monster still thrashed angrily, showing great vitality. Yet another of his men bashed it over the head using the metal base of the spike, dropping it back down like a sack of turnips.

The weapon was made from a club that widened near the tip, where a metal spike akin to a boar spear was inserted by a tang. They did not yet have a name for it, but Bran could see the potential of such a weapon in a spearwall against heavily armored cavalry; against the Ironborn, it had proven precise and deadly, capable of finding the weak points of their armor.

All along the wall, men fought and grappled with the monsters, using whatever weapons at hand once the clubs proved unwieldy in close quarters; daggers, hatchets, and warpicks killed just as well as the finest Valyrian Steel.

Yet it appeared the sea demons' mad charge had exhausted them, for once they scaled the walls, they proved to be much weaker than humans. Tough as nails, as Bran discovered when he stabbed one through its eye only to struggle mightily until another soldier brought it down, yet with no skill or teamwork to speak of. After a few minutes of fighting, Brandon found a reprieve as he breathed heavily while the men finished off the last of the monsters; he was too old for this.

None of the men cheered as they recovered their breath, busy gawking at the strange monsters they slayed; the sea demons were savage, and their sharp claws had slayed at least a hundred of his men.

"There's more movement on the river!"

Brandon glanced at the sudden shout, causing his eyes to widen and his heart to drop to his stomach. All exhaustion disappeared as his blood roared to act.

Sails, Ironborn sails approached, which meant the chain was lost. He counted thirty ships approaching the harbor, and he wondered if the reaving scum had somehow colluded with the demons. Bran gritted his teeth for what he was about to order. This was no time to falter.

"Wait for the squids to land! Let them come to us and fill out the harbor."

Cregard looked at him then, bloodied and tired, yet silently asking him if he was sure. Brandon nodded. They had no choice. They had discussed the inevitability of an attack by river and had prepared accordingly. The livelihood of many of the residents of Barrowton relied on the harbor, shipyards, docks, and boats strewn all along the river.

Yet needs must.

Thousands of reavers roared in glee as they dashed past the empty warehouses and docks, carrying ladders and scaling ropes. Brandon noted that they were barely armored compared to the typical reaver under the Iron Captain's command, most likely sons of thralls given the chance to prove themselves by being the first over the walls. Armed with a shield in one hand and a spear or axe or sword in the other; more than a third were clad with half-helms and chainshirts, yet the rest were garbed in simple linen or leather. He lamented the need to use such a drastic method against the scum of the Ironborn, not even proper soldiers, yet as he glanced at the ships, a sardonic grin bloomed on his bearded face. Their real foe was there, lined on the decks of their longboats, their lobstered armors glinting in the moonlight. It would be a stretch, yet if the gods were with them, the wind would blow towards them, bringing fire and death upon them.

"Fire arrows." The men lit their basket-tipped arrows. "Notch." A thousand lit arrows sprang to life all along the wall, causing the Ironborn to falter before sprinting the last few feet to the walls. "Draw, then loose at will!"

The skies lit up for a few heartbeats; the squids stared in fear that morphed into confusion as the arrows flew well over them before raining down on the harbor and buildings packed with straw, tar, and other flammables. At first, the arrows did naught but light the roofs on fire, and the reavers laughed as they missed them, but then, the wind picked up, and the flames seemed to gain a life of their own as a conflagration suddenly consumed the harbor.

The screams of men being roasted alive were almost as haunting as the sight of their figures struggling inside the inferno, with the men on the walls muttering prayers at the sudden smell of roasted meat. The flames spread all along the harbor, the wind buffeting it towards the river where it consumed the ships docked on the piers, causing many reavers to jump overboard and drown in the river from their heavy armor. Brandon watched coldly as the screams of the dying continued for a few more minutes before abruptly stopping, yet the flames continued to burn well into the morning. When the first lights of dawn came and illuminated the extent of the damage, he felt grief as his gaze fell on the burning husk of his shipyard; they may have wiped out the invaders, and the husks of their ships shall act as barriers for any future assaults, yet at what cost?

It was a miracle the wind was on their side and the flames did not turn against the town, yet that was only a matter of time. Then, something wet splattered against his helmet. Drops of water fell on him, and Brandon looked up at the heavens as a sudden downpour arrived. The gods were surely on their side, for within the hour, the flames were completely snuffed out, leaving behind nothing but death and destruction.

"Oi, Stark." He glanced at Cregard's grinning face, holding the severed arm of one of the monsters, "Do you think they taste like fish?"

Unbidden, Brandon barked in laughter, even as horn blasts came from the Ironborn's camp, clearly preparing another attack.

"They came from the sea, and my ma always said anything from the sea is edible."

The men chuckled as they tore apart the sea demons and roasted them on open flames while the rest of the garrison prepared for yet another assault from land. As Brandon bit hungrily into the roasted leg of the sea demon, he prayed that reinforcements would arrive soon. Even with the loss of three thousand men, Victarion Greyjoy vastly outnumbered them, and Barrowton's food supplies would not last a fortnight.

He grimaced as he swallowed the meat; it tasted like shit.

A*H*M

Riverrun

"King Robb, Riverrun is yours." His Uncle Edmure, along with his Lefford wife and the castle's residents, knelt.

Robb gazed at the scores of men and women kneeling for him on the cobbled grounds of Riverrun. It was late morning, yet the skies were overcast. He dismounted from his destrier and moved to the wheelhouse behind him to help Elaena out. The Blackfish and several of his lords and commanders followed behind. His pregnant lover had joined him when he rushed to the Riverlands when word of the disaster at Harrenhal reached him. It had taken him longer than he wished as he had to ride all the way from scouting Feastfires, yet after stopping in Ashemark to collect Elaena, he was finally back at his uncle's home.

"You may rise." Edmure stood, followed by the rest of the men; one, in particular, grabbed Robb's attention, for he looked more boy than man, yet something about him niggled Robb's senses. "This is my paramour, Lady Elaena of House Marbrand. She will be treated with the courtesy befitting of her station."

Many muttered at the borderline scandalous proclamation, yet Edmure did not even blink. "Of course, I shall have my wife escort her to the quarters across from yours." His uncle kissed Elaena's hand, "It is a pleasure to meet you again, Lady Marbrand."

"The pleasure is all mine, Lord Tully." Elaena replied happily before gasping, "I-I mean, my apologies, Lord Edmure, I did not think–"

Edmure grimaced heavily and Robb sighed inwardly, his lover was incredibly perceptive and intelligent, not to mention knowledgeable about many matters of magic and witchcraft — something that he never would have thought he would accept so easily, but the world had already gone mad and if Robb did not follow suit, he would risk falling behind. Yet sometimes, Elaena would unintentionally blurt out matters that she ought not to know or be simply discourteous to mention.

Such as eluding that Hoster Tully was already dead.

"I see that you still tend to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, Elaena." Alysanne Lefford chuckled as she embraced her fellow Westerlander Lady. "Come, let us get you settled, and let the men discuss their matters of war."

After waving away Elaena, Robb turned to his uncle. "I want to see my grandfather."

Edmure nodded and sent away the rest of the castle's denizens before leading them into the castle.

"How did Hoster pass?" Brynden Tully asked as they climbed the steps to the lord's quarters.

"In his sleep last night. We discovered his body this morning, and it's being prepared for the funeral." Edmure's voice was emotionless, yet Robb sensed grief and sadness hiding behind the veneer. His connection with Grey Wind had strengthened as the moons passed, and his instincts and ability to sense people's emotions had become more precise with time. "I am surprised you have already learned about it."

"I dreamt about it." Robb shrugged, not deigning to explain himself — his uncle nodded and let the matter drop. Within a few minutes, they were in the lord's quarters, where the maester, several acolytes, and silent sisters were cleaning Hoster Tully's body. Robb stared sadly at his grandfather's peaceful face, yet did not linger; he had a war to manage.

After paying their respects and learning the funeral would be at sunset, Robb led the way to the lord's solar where the young man he saw earlier waited with the rest of his lords. Many of the Northmen greeted the young man eagerly, though Robb felt confusion until he noticed the livery–a black lizard lion on a green field. The young Reed laid a large covered package on the ground as he bowed in greeting.
"King Robb, I am Jojen Reed. I am here on behalf of my Lord Father, Howland Reed, and your sister, the Princess Sansa."

Robb swallowed his surprise and schooled his face to observe dispassionately as Edmure directed the servants into setting up a war council; a long table was cleared with maps and reports spread on it while refreshments were ordered from the kitchens. "Jojen Reed had arrived last evening accompanied by a hundred of his father's men. He brings word from the North as well as the Twins."

He hid a grimace as his thoughts traveled to his surviving family. A sennight ago, in the Golden Tooth, he learned of the attack on Winterfell and his brother's death. Robb had raged against Theon's treachery and grieved for Bran's death, and it was only thanks to Elaena's soothing presence that he recovered swiftly. He had known that something was wrong when Grey Wind and his new pack began howling endlessly for hours on end. He tried to connect with the direwolf to see what was wrong, yet only felt grief and sadness; It was Elaena who explained to him after the Golden Tooth.

"Wolves are pack animals. If a member of the pack is slain, they will howl their grief to the heavens until another of their pack howled back, assuring them that the pack survives."

How Elaena would know about that, he did not know, and neither did she; all she knew was from dreams and combing over ancient tomes in High Valyrian. Nevertheless, Robb could not afford to grieve for Bran forever; at least Theon died a most gruesome death from what he heard.

"I am honored to have you here, Lord Jojen. What news do you bring from the North? How is my sister and her…husband?"

Many of his lords clamored angrily as they stood around a long table, some cursing the foreign sorcerer for dishonoring their princess — the Greatjon, in particular, looked quite miffed, as he no doubt had hopes of betrothing Sansa to his heir. Disregarding that the man had taken the young Westerling girl for a wife and already got her pregnant, thus making his heir's future more complicated, Robb himself was not at all amused by his sister's decision to wed her savior. He was grateful to this Perseus, yet Sansa should have known better than to allow some flight of fancy to overcome her wits. Rewarding the man with land, gold, and titles would have been far more agreeable, yet to wed him to a princess? One of only two that the Starks had?

It was only the fact the North was so far away and little news came due to Ironborn attacks that stopped him from marching back to give his sister a piece of his mind. At least, that was until Jojen smiled knowingly before going on a fantastical tale about the many achievements his new good-brother had accomplished. Robb had already learned of the liberation of Moat Cailin, yet he did not know the specifics. Jojen was all too eager to elucidate them on mad tales that came straight from the Age of Heroes. Calling a storm that broke the Ironmen's spirits, slaying sea monsters that plagued the Bite and Shivering Sea, discovering a plot by the Bolton Bastard and eliminating him, along with many other things.

Some of them Jojen should not have known since he left the North shortly after the liberation of Moat Cailin, yet Robb corroborated everything he said with scrolls and reports that Edmure provided. The last thing they heard from Sansa was her pregnancy, which gladdened Robb, and then left Karhold for Winterfell after mustering the eastern houses. The siege at Barrowton needed to be lifted, and the confirmation of Barbrey Dustin's flight from the city had affirmed his decision to declare her unfit to rule. With the unexpected death of Rickard Karstark, his troops were folded under the command of Damon Dustin, to whom Robb had entrusted the campaign in the Westerlands. Last he heard, they had besieged Kayce, the last major castle to be taken in the northern half of the Westerlands aside from the Rock, Feastfires, and Lannisport.

Jaime Lannister might have succeeded in drawing him away from the Westerlands, yet he was a fool if he believed that would stop him from plundering the kingdom from anything not nailed down — even then, some of the men had taken to looting even that. The Rock and Lannisport might be tough nuts to crack, yet time was on his side, and the lack of support from the hinterlands would soon affect them even if there were no active siege lines.

"King Robb. Princess Sansa had also entrusted me with delivering an important heirloom." Jojen untied the elongated fur wrap, showing everyone the great sword hidden underneath; Robb felt his heart thunder with excitement as he recognized Ice's hilt. Jojen kneeled before him and presented the blade, "Perseus had retrieved the blade from the Lannisters and used it under the auspiciousness of the Princess. Yet it is still the blade of the Starks, and now, it has returned to its rightful owner."

Robb's fingers clasped around the leather-wrapped hilt as an electric jolt ran down his spine.

Ice, the ancestral greatsword of House Stark, wielded only by the Kings of Winter and the Lords of Winterfell. And now it was his, further solidifying his status.

With a slight tug, the sword eagerly left its sheath, revealing dark dragonsteel with the faintest tint of blue, clashing with the dark smoky ripple in an eternal battle along its length. It looked just the same as his Father had used it. And now it belonged to Robb.

Yet, Robb now faced a dilemma; how could he complain about his sister's decision to marry some unknown foreign sorcerer when they had done so much for his kingdom? Such an obvious gift was meant to make denouncing or criticizing Sansa's choices so much harder. It was a cunning move from his sister, something he did not expect from the sweet girl whom he played Come to my Castle with a few years ago. He still did not know Sansa's motives and what she desired from the North; marrying a landless foreigner made it difficult to predict what ambitions drove her. A large part of him wanted to believe that his sweet Sansa was the same as he last saw her nearly two years ago, yet the South changed people.

He could not afford to return North, especially when the war shifted against him. The disaster at Harrenhal had crippled his army, and so far, they had only been able to rally two thousand of his troops, with the rest missing. There had been no word from his aunt in the Vale, and any raven sent returned without a reply. Uncle Edmure had sent more letters to other houses in the Vale, hoping for any information, but had received no replies yet.

Most importantly, they had no idea the whereabouts of his mother.

Robb had left five thousand lancers in the Westerlands supported by the same number of footmen from the Riverlands. Two thousand lancers accompanied him here, where he was met with the rest of the Stark foot, numbering three thousand men, joining the Riverlands army of fifteen thousand mustered by Riverrun, over a third of which was cavalry. There were still more troops garrisoned in the castles by the borders, yet Robb would not count on them in battle.

Twenty thousand men…it was not an insignificant number, yet Jaime Lannister alone commanded similar numbers at Harrenhal, though he completely lacked horses from what the reports said. Then, there was the combined Lannister and Reach army marching to King's Landing, thrice that many, and who knew how many men Stannis Baratheon truly had. The reports conflicted, ranging from a mere twenty thousand to an insane a hundred thousand men that would be impossible to feed. Robb needed more information, yet he could not ignore the plight of the North. Even if Sansa and her husband managed to dislodge the Ironborn, ruling the North was not a simple matter. Sansa was trained to manage a household but not a kingdom; Eddard Stark only trained Robb and–

An idea coalesced in his mind. Something that was unprecedented, yet Robb was a king. And royal orders were difficult to deny.

He sheathed Ice and handed it to Olyvar Frey to carry. The axe that Damon gifted him was now redundant, and just as he was growing to enjoy using it. He would need to train for the great sword to use Ice properly in battle; as for the axe, it would be strange if he returned it to Damon, an insult even. Perhaps he could save it as a gift. If all else fails, he could give it to Rickon, considering the last reports had Bran sending him to foster with the Norreys, who held a strong tradition in war-axes.

"You mentioned news from the Twins?"

"Aye, I passed by them on the way here, though I was not invited into the castle. Things seemed grim after the death of Stevron Frey." Jojen lowered his head apologetically to Olyvar. "Old Lord Walder had secluded himself in his quarters with his young wife and left the matters of who would be heir to the younger generation to decide. Many Freys were captured by the Lannisters outside Harrenhal, yet Lord Frey ransomed them swiftly along with their men, and they all returned to the Twins. Finally, the death of the wards in Winterfell had soured relations with Jammos and Merrett Frey; both demand recompense."

Robb sighed inwardly. It was a black day when he was forced to cross that thrice-damned bridge and got himself entangled with the Freys. Even his Uncle Edmure found himself at odds with Lame Lothar when the man demanded a share of the Golden Tooth for his children since he was married to a Lefford. That she was a cousin of the late Leo Lefford did not matter to him; their greed was unquenchable. Thankfully, Alysanne Lefford herself rebuked his demands, claiming the castle as her own by right of being her father's sole heir. Edmure's support to his wife was enough to quell any disgruntlement, for now, yet Robb was certain that if the balance of power shifted against the Starks, more trouble would arise from the Freys.

That would not do, especially when the Twins was the fastest way to the North from Riverrun, and most of the loot heading there passed through it. The Freys demanded picks of any loot passing through their bridge, which greatly soured relations with the other houses of the North; any who had entertained the idea of marrying one of their many shrews suddenly lost interest, even when they promised no tolls for those who married a Frey. Then, there was the slight issue of the late Roose Bolton's widow being pregnant, for her child would be the rightful heir to the Dreadfort. Sansa and Bran had annexed it in the name of the Starks, yet they did not know about Bolton's unborn heir; Robb wanted to tear at his hair as he tried to figure out a solution to this dilemma.

"My own brother perished protecting them, even though he was a cripple. If they wish for recompense, they are welcome to claim it from the Ironborn." To say that Robb was tired of anything Frey would be an understatement. So far, only his squire was tolerable, and he suspected that it had more to do with his position than anything. "Now, Lord Edmure. How fare Ser Forely Prestor and the rest of the prisoners?"

Edmure looked confused before rubbing a scar over his forearm, "Better than most prisoners. As you ordered, we treated them well enough."

Ser Forely Prestor had given his uncle that scar on the battlements of the Golden Tooth. There were hundreds of prisoners taken from the many battles they faced; those that could be ransomed were already freed with an oath not to take up arms against them again, though it did not matter to Robb if they went against their vow — he would just have them killed or captured and ransomed once more. Yet there were many men-at-arms who were abandoned by their lieges and refused to pay ransom for them. Normally, the fate of such men would be execution, yet Robb had a better idea.

"Did the Prestors accept our demands for ransom for their knight?"

"No, they did not respond. I questioned Ser Forely and he seemed resigned. It appears he is not too popular with his House."

Robb felt pity for the knight; he had fought well on the Golden Tooth and yielded with grace when Edmure disarmed him. To be abandoned by his House so easily…

"Offer him the Black. If he accepts, he shall join as many of the prisoners abandoned by their lords and lead them to the Wall. They shall be led by a contingent of my personal troops…along with a message for the Lord Commander."

Robb grinned inwardly at the many confused faces that stared at him; sending common soldiers to the Wall was too expensive, yet they had all the gold they would need. Strangely, Jojen's eyes widened before he knowingly smirked as if he was privy to a jest.

"My King, may I ask what the message to Lord Commander Mormont would be about?" Lord Tytos Blackwood asked.

"An offer to exchange my brother, who had willingly joined the Watch for men and support. My brother Jon was trained in how to rule by my father as much as I did. I need someone I trust in the North."

More mutters, some of them confused, while a few of the Riverlords looked outraged. Marq Piper blurted out, just as Karyl Vance tried to silence him. "Isn't he a Snow?"

Robb stared coldly at the man until he lowered his eyes. "For now," he allowed, filling the hall with whispers. "Yet that is not relevant. I trust my brother with my life."

"Still, the vows of the Night Watch are for life." The Greatjon gently reminded, "I understand your trust in the lad, My King. I remember him from the last harvest feast — he looked the spitting image of your father with twice the broodiness. I believe you when you say he is as good as you claim, yet it does not change the fact he is a brother of the Night's Watch."

"Aye, vows were made, and they will be unmade by my decree," Robb declared, his voice full of steel. "Make no mistake, I want my brother back, and I will have him at any cost. Of course, I will not shortchange the Watch for naught. I am offering Lord Mormont hundreds of battle-hardened men. Gold, silver, armor, supplies…no cost is too high. By the end, Lord Commander Mormont will send off my brother personally, even if he was kicking and screaming."

His voice was firm and even though many of the lords were still reticent, they would still follow his command. Robb understood their hesitance; it was simply never done before, but so what? If he had to set such precedents then so be it, he needed Jon, and he needed him a year ago.

"Anything else I need to know? If not, then let's end this meeting and–"

A hurried knock and an acolyte peeked his head in, holding a raven scroll in his hand. Robb dearly wished he could have something to eat before going to sleep, yet as the saying went: Dark wings, Dark words.

"Begging your pardon, My King. A raven from Runestone."

Why would House Royce send a raven to them? Edmure accepted the scroll and read it, everyone in the room watched silently in anticipation. At first, he seemed shocked, but then he shook his head in denial, then sheer, unbridled rage caused his face to contort grotesquely as he clenched the small scroll tightly. Finally, he took a deep breath to calm himself, yet Robb could tell a cold fury had taken hold of him.

"What is it?"

"My sister, in all her wisdom, had declared for the Lannisters. She seeks to bring war to Stannis Baratheon in some inane belief that he plans to kidnap her son or other such madness."

"Madness!" Lord Blackwood echoed, face twisted with outrage. "Was she not the one who first accused the Lannisters of murdering Jon Arryn?! What foolish mummery is this?!"

"I suspect others are whispering in her ear." Edmure shook his head sadly. "Lord Royce writes of Petyr Baelish's arrival in the Eyrie. A day later, Lysa called the banners."

"And the Vale Lords? Are they so blindingly going to follow her commands?"

Edmure had no answer, and Robb felt a severe migraine forming. Things have suddenly become far more complicated. But this only steeled his resolve. He needed someone he could trust unconditionally that would back him no matter what. It would have to be an offer that even a belligerent, stubborn man like Jeor Mormont or any of the old greybeards manning the Wall could never refuse. If it were Jon, he would quickly prove himself, justifying any honors and duties Robb gave his brother.

At least there was a silver lining to the host of ill news that plagued Robb since returning to Riverrun. Two days after the council meeting, a small force led by an injured Robett Glover arrived, bringing word of the survival of the Northern army. Sure enough, over the following days, more and more Northmen arrived, battered and missing many of their arms and armor, but not broken.

However, it was a different matter that interested Robb more than anything.

"And you left my sister in the wilderness on a wild goose chase to rally my dispersed army?!" Robb growled at the bedridden Robbet Glover. The maester was busy fussing over his wounded arm — the wound was infected, and it seemed the only chance to save the man was to sever it. Yet Robb needed to learn about Arya before anything else.

"My deepest a-apologies, My King. But I had n-no choice." Robbet breathed harshly as an acolyte tied his left arm under the elbow, another prepared cup of milk of the poppy. "The Princess, she would not agree no matter what. We could not force her, she was our Princess! Not to mention her d-direwolf and the pack that followed her. If we dared force her, they would tear us apart."

Robb had already learned about his sister's exploits and how she survived for so long. Not to mention rescuing so many from Harrenhal; miraculous would be an understatement. Yet, judging by their newly awakened powers of skinchanging, Robb could tell how his sister did it.

He left Robbet Glover to the maester, the sound of pained groans coming from the room as he walked away. The man did well retreating with his forces in an orderly manner and would need to be rewarded. A thousand swords he brought back from Harrenhal, far better than Robb expected.

Still, he prayed for his sister's soul. Robb shuddered to think what he would do if Arya was hurt in any way, especially not after the hope that was consuming him after learning of her survival. He fought the urge to gather his lancers and ride out and drag her here regardless, and instead, he returned to his quarters.

Elaena waited for him there, and he always felt soothed by her pleasant touch and soft words.

A*H*M

A few miles outside of Winterfell

"There it is, Percy. My home."

Sansa felt indescribable joy as their retinue climbed a hill, and Winterfell greeted them in all its glory. They had stopped the wheelhouse on the side of the road for her to gaze upon her beautiful home, and the rest of her friends joined her. Percy dismounted Blackjack to join her as the rest of their small army continued towards the ancient castle.

After finishing in Karhold, they loaded their army on the fleet, and Percy used his powers to soar through the Shivering Sea with an impossible speed. Normally, from Karhold to White Harbor, a ship would need a fortnight at the very least, yet Percy managed to lead the fleet of nearly a hundred ships to the Manderly city in only five days. It would take two days for the army to disembark and join the rest of the forces waiting outside Moat Cailin and march north and west to Barrowton, but they did not wait for them to finish. Their flagship, The Silver Lady, continued sailing up the White Knife with a dozen other ships all the way to Castle Cerwyn. Sailing against the current should have been impossible unless they had the wind on their side and teams of oarsmen.

Yet that hardly mattered to the Demigod of the Sea, and in only two days, their small fleet was docked in several river ports near Cerwyn and Winterfell all along the Wolf's Fang river that joined the White Knife. Then, they marched to Winterfell, and two thousand men joined them as her personal retinue. It was too much, or as Percy called it, overkill, yet after what the people of Winterfell and its lands had suffered, they needed to see a Stark in Winterfell. Having a few thousand swords at hand also sent a message that all would be well.

"It's beautiful. Pretty large, too." Percy hugged her sideways just as the rest of the girls joined her, including her new addition, Alys Karstark. "Of course, I already saw it before, but I will admit that seeing it in person gives a different vibe to it."

Sansa tittered at yet another strange word, though she could guess its meaning. "Alright then, let's hurry onto the castle and set our affairs. Poor Maester Luwin is anxiously waiting for someone to take command."

An hour later, they rode past the abandoned Wintertown, through the double gates, the inner gate, before finally stopping outside the Great Keep. People cheered at the sight of the Stark banner all along the way, yet Sansa could sense a subdued air about them. Once the wheelhouse stopped in the courtyard and she exited, she found several men kneeling before her. She only recognized Luwin, looking older and thinner than she remembered, and held onto Percy's hand tightly.

"Princess Sansa, Winterfell is yours."

"Rise," The men stood, and she noted the livery on some of their tabards: Forest Clansmen. "May I present my Lord Husband, Perseus."

Luwin stared unblinkingly at Percy for a long moment, causing him to shift awkwardly before the maester's eyes widened.

"It is you! You were the ghost that protected us!"

Percy grimaced. "Not a ghost, my good man. It was a bit too late to save the little lord, though. I'm sure you did a great job keeping the castle together all those weeks."

Nevertheless, Percy's acknowledgment of Luwin's claims had the residents kneel even lower in the courtyard as they looked in awe at their savior.

"Thank you, My Lord. But I did not do anything — it was all Prince Bran."

"Indeed, Bran did his duty as the Stark in Winterfell, and I shall do mine." Sansa chimed in. "Henceforth, I shall remain here with two thousand leal men to protect the castle and our lands from raiders or reavers."

The courtyard erupted into cheers and applause, and the relief of the household and the refugees was plain to see on the gaunt faces of the crowd. Sansa, however, had only one thought in her mind as she turned to the direwolf coming from the Godswood, one eye blue and the other yellow.

"Bran!"

Notes:

Brandon "The Elder" Stark is a canon character but GRRM never mentioned what happened to him. I hinted his existence in Sansa's pov when she mentioned visiting his brother Benjen before his death in White Harbor (Chapter 11 if you would like a refresher).

The Spiked Club is the mighty Goedendag that became famous after the Battle of the Golden Spurs.

Sea demons from the Sunset Sea? They can swim in fresh water?! Oh my!

We got the much-awaited Robb POV, but I did not finish all I wanted to write for him. Another POV is in the works for him which will finish everything (I hope) on his side.

I appreciate all your support and feedback!

Chapter 30: Echoes of the Past

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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Winterfell

"Bran…you are in there, aren't you?"

"Bran, I'm so sorry, Bran. I should have come straight here after Hornwood."

"Stop trying to excuse my actions, little brother. I failed you and Winterfell. How could I meet our father? What will I say to Mother when she learns of your death?"

Percy watched as Sansa hugged the massive wolf that now housed her brother's soul. It's been an hour since they arrived in the castle, and Sansa's first act was to go to the Godswood, where she simply hugged and talked to the beast. Or, well, her brother, but Percy wasn't sure there was much of a difference anymore. It was the first time he had seen a wolf so large, as large as a horse! Direwolves, they called them, though they were not the same as the direwolves from Earth that Artemis kept in her hunt. While he had seen far larger dogs before, there was something different about being face to face with such a large predator that did not give monster vibes or didn't look like a hellhound.

At first, Percy thought his wife had gone mad with grief, but then the direwolf reciprocated everything she said. He licked her face when she cried, gave light barks and huffs when she asked a question, and acted far more intelligent than any wolf or dog he had ever seen. Then, there was Sansa herself, who seemed to actively converse with him; it was as if they both understood each other and could communicate.

"Perhaps they are." Wylla shrugged when he voiced his thoughts as they sat on a boulder by the cool pool beside the massive Heart Tree; Alys Karstark had taken over Sansa's duties over her ladies and worked to set them up in their quarters as she was the only one who was familiar with the castle. It was only him, Wylla, and Sansa here; the blue-haired girl had been standing close to Sansa when she saw the direwolf, and his wife gripped her tightly as she made her way to the Godswood, Percy following them later after he made sure the troops were settled. "Did you not mention you could talk to horses? That their voices reach your mind and they understand whatever you say?"

"Could be. Sansa does have a connection with Beauty and could have formed another with Summer. Or should we call him Bran?"

"I think Summer would be better." The blue-haired girl giggled, her laugh clear as a bell, and stroked Beauty's feathers as the moonhawk leaned into her fingers, probably liking the warmth more than the foreign gesture. "No matter how the magic of skinchanging works, it would still be queer to call him otherwise. Now, Percy, shouldn't you claim this Heart Tree as well?"

Percy was surprised when Wylla dyed her hair blue, but he wasn't dense enough to miss why she would do it. And it wasn't the boring neon blue he had seen back home, but a vibrant color that looked almost alive on her. This was especially odd since Percy was certain she only dyed it once; he could sense when dye and other liquid cosmetics were being used.

"I suppose I should."

Percy stood and walked to the pale trunk. It was not a secret that he stopped at every weirwood he found and fed it his blood; nearly all of White Harbor had seen him do so, and many of the trees in the city had bloomed stronger than ever thanks to his blood. None of his friends understood why he did so, but his attempts at explaining only confused them more than anything. Still, after claiming every weirwood he found on the eastern coast of the North, his connection to the land had gotten far stronger than when he first arrived.

He could have claimed a single weirwood and called it a day since they were all connected through their roots, and his influence would eventually spread to all of Westeros. Yet such a process would have taken decades, if not centuries. By claiming each individual tree he found, it became much easier and faster, especially when he decided to spread his influence north of the Wall or south of the Neck; both regions had different deities in the land, and although the Builder had some influence in the South in his position as the Smith, he had none beyond the Wall that still survived.

The main reason Percy started this whole process was to allow Poseidon a base of power. Even now, his father had managed to manifest in the depths of the Bite and had taken residence in the Merlin King's former palace. Attacks by those massive sea snakes had lessened, yet they were still a menace, as his father's influence did not reach the Shivering Sea and other coastal regions of the North, not yet at least. It was quite convenient that the position of Sea God in this part of the world had been vacant for so long, with no one willing to ascend out of fear of other sea deities. Yet, even though Poseidon was weakened, he had far more experience ruling as a sea god than any other being.

Aside from perhaps that douchebag. Or his Demonic Fugliness and his Many Tentacles. Or his elusive overlord, who undoubtedly was even uglier.

Gods, the bad guys here were so lame!

As for Percy himself, he did not expect to gain much from the ritual; unlike his father, who could affect the world even though he had little personal power, Percy's divine power was centered in his body, giving him all those superhuman abilities and the power to match gods and demons in their own domains.

Yet, he still unexpectedly benefited from it, and even now, as Percy placed his bloody palm on the Heart Tree's face, he could connect to any other Weirwood along the eastern coast. Poseidon hinted that with time, Percy could also gain a proper domain of his own, a rule of the world that he controlled — whatever that meant. Percy had already experienced what it felt like to be prayed to and was not a fan of it. Judging by his father's words, he would need to get used to it, as with his connection to the North, he could hear all the prayers and vows said before a Weirwood.

Heart Trees were far easier to hear and connect compared to ordinary weirwoods. Percy suspected that any carvings into the bone-like bark would have a similar effect, but the Children and First Men of yore had a creepy sense of taste and went for faces. This particular Heart Tree was very special, and Percy gasped as power coursed through his body and circulated his very being before it returned to the tree. All of a sudden, the surge of information slammed into his mind, and he could feel his influence all over the Heart of the North. The only reason he wasn't overwhelmed was because he had some experience with it. Everything within a hundred miles of him could be felt, and many weirwoods in the region shook as they welcomed him like an old friend. Spirits that had slept for countless eons stirred; some of them awoke and vanished from his senses, yet most of them returned to their slumber.

Percy hoped those who awoke wouldn't be up to too much mischief. Then again, if they were anything like the nymphs of his world, he did not have his hopes up.

He shook his head and focused back on the Heart Tree. Percy had discovered he could exercise his power and influence through the Weirwood Network, such as now when he looked through the Heart Tree of Moat Cailin and found a liongator (heh) about to take a bite from a warhorse. The horse could not see it, but a whisper from Percy had it turn its head in curiosity, saw the monster behind it, and reared back in shock before galloping away with its rider, some portly fellow with a broad face wearing a blue livery with twin bridges.

Percy grimaced. The horse was saved, but the rider did not have a good grip on the reins, so he fell from the horse, broke his neck on an inconveniently placed piece of ballast, and was promptly dragged away by the liongator to the marshes, much to his friends' shock and the Northmen blocking their way by the gates.

"Shit, I hope this guy wasn't important."

"What guy?"

"Never you mind," Percy turned to Wylla, finding her staring at him expectantly.

He knew what she wanted, and a glance at Sansa showed she had overcome her grief. She simply lay on Summer's flank as she stared at them both. His wife pointedly looked at her friend before raising her arm for Beauty to land on before standing.

"Are you better now?"

"Yes, Bran is still here and loves how he can walk and run again." His wife patted the wolf's massive head as he closed his eyes in pleasure. "Something about him being a greenseer allows him to keep better control of his primal instincts."

"That's good. Does that mean he will always remain cognizant?"

"I'm not sure."

Percy stared at the wolf's mismatched eyes as he gazed back at him. "Brandon? You can hear me, right?" The wolf nodded. "You were there when I spoke to the older Bran." Another nod. "Can you still connect to the Weirwood Network?"

The direwolf tilted his head curiously before moving to the tree's roots and placing a large paw on them. Then, he looked at him expectantly, and Percy placed his palm on the tree.

He found himself staring at the ghost of the young boy, smiling at him. "It's good to finally meet you in person, Percy."

They were still in the godswood, yet the world had turned monochrome. Several ghosts wandered around them, giving them space and privacy, but Percy could not tell where Sansa and Wylla were.

"Good to meet you, too."

"I can't speak for long — I have to fight every urge to return to Summer just to speak like this. But there's something important I need to tell you."

"What is it?"

"I could tell that something about you was strange when I first saw you, but now that I'm a, well, not too restricted by my mortal limits, I could see it clearly now. I worry for Sansa and your children, but theirs is a matter of the far future. Your soul is becoming stronger and clearer. I think you're turning immortal and–Oh, I gotta go now."

Percy's eyes widened in shock as Bran disappeared and sighed in utter exasperation.

"Why am I not surprised? Any reason why you didn't bother telling me this, Brandon?"

Percy turned away to glare at the Builder, who sat on the same boulder he was on earlier.

"I didn't think it mattered. You can still be killed as a mortal, and it would all be for naught if you became arrogant." He shrugged, "You did not expect I would ask you to protect the North and not offer anything in return? Claiming all those Weirwoods have already made you closer than ever to the land, and the North recognizes its own. What's wrong? You don't seem enthused to immortality and godhood."

Immortality…Percy never truly thought about it before. He was only sixteen, not even fully grown yet, judging by the couple of inches he gained since arriving in this world. Why would he ever worry about old age when his greatest concern had always been surviving whatever fight he was in?

At least those were his thoughts before coming to Westeros. Now that he was married with a child on the way and all the duties and obligations that came with marrying Sansa, things were different.

"Did you have a wife, Brandon?"

The Builder looked at him strangely, "I had dozens of wives and concubines, and hundreds of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I loved every single one of them and cherished every memory, even those I did not see eye to eye."

"Are they also immortal?"

"In a sense, but most of them have moved on into the cycle."

"Don't you miss them?"

"Ah, that's what has you worried." Brandon nodded sagely. "Sure, I miss them, but time heals all wounds. Death comes to all, and accepting it is what makes life worth cherishing."

"Yet you are immortal."

"Do you think I planned to be immortal? It simply happened. I buried many loved ones and lived a long and fruitful life. Do I have regrets? Certainly, I regret not having any of my lovers to share this immortal life with, even if I spent most of it sleeping or observing."

"Sounds boring."

"You have no idea." The Builder's somber words lingered in the air, and they silently gazed at the other ghosts. "If you are so worried about your wife and other loved ones, you can always try to share your immortality with them."

"Is that possible?!"

"I'm not certain but I heard rumors from far to the east of the immortals in the Golden Empire. They would hunt people with unique physiques like yourself, refine them into medicinal pills, then consume them for power."

Percy grimaced heavily and nearly gagged. "Sounds like cannibalism with extra steps."

"I wouldn't know. Regardless, you are far more powerful than I was when I was mortal, so maybe you can do what I failed."

Percy's earlier disgust melted into excitement, but he controlled himself. He couldn't take Brandon's words at face value, and he would need to discuss this with his father.

"Alright. I suppose I won't need to worry about this for a long time." He scratched the back of his head as an awkward thought struck him. "So, multiple wives? Concubines? I thought…"

"That this was a monogamous society? Hah, you can thank the Andals for bringing this silly custom." Brandon's face seemed conflicted; Percy sensed both disdain and grudging respect for the Andals. "If you have the power, then why would you ever refrain from spreading your bloodline as far as possible? The Direwolf cares not for the lesser wolves as it took the bitches and sired the next pack leader from his loins; the she-wolves would naturally gravitate to the powerful who could offer them safety and strong children. Especially tangible power, not ones reliant on the law of men or customs. This is something that has been ingrained in every Stark's mindset: to introduce new, strong, and magical blood into our bloodline. If it meant we had to war with all of our neighbors and take their daughters as wives, then so be it: survival of the strongest and all that."

Percy was pretty sure the phrase was a bit off but didn't think much of it. Brandon's words…sounded logical in a primal way. He never would have considered such a mindset to be anything but barbaric and savage back on Earth, yet here? Now that he had no one to control or stifle him with such awe-inspiring power at his disposal? What would stop Percy from doing the same as the Starks of old?

A part of him still felt…disgusted at the idea. His mother had taught him better than this. Yet no matter how much he wanted to dismiss the whole thing and forget about it, his mind kept returning to the topic. He understood that Brandon the Builder came from an era where men could do what they wanted, so long as they had the power to back their ambitions. Then again, Poseidon told him that even in their old world, the strong did what they wanted while the weak endured. A strange idea came to Percy at that moment: an image of him and Sansa ruling as king and queen, as many of their descendants stood near them through multiple generations. There were even other women besides Percy and Sansa there, even a familiar face with blue curls framing a heart-shaped face, and the worst part was — his wife wouldn't mind.

It would be easy to bury the idea, to stomp down on the temptation if Sansa wasn't the one egging him on.

Percy shook his head; it was no use getting ahead of himself. They were still technically homeless aside from their ship, but would it be too bad to have such a place as a home? Or was he expected to steal someone else's home like what seemed to be the norm here?

"I'm sure you're proud of Sansa then. After all, I am quite a special specimen. What stops me from taking over from you and doing the same? Collect all those bloodlines and introduce my own into them, take over the North from you Starks, and rule as king from Winterfell?"

"Aye, my descendant has it right. It would be a crime against nature not to propagate blood like yours. Who knows, a thousand years from now, your descendants will prosper and thrive all over the world, not just the North. I would be glad to see your blood joined with our own. As for you supplanting the Starks? Heh, what is a name's worth if it is constantly forgotten? Do you really think I called myself Stark and wasn't later generations who gave me the name? It's the blood and the traditions that matter more than anything. You are already married to Sansa and on your way to taking more women for yourself, yet it is to Sansa that you will retain your loyalty. That, I am certain of."

"What makes you so confident in my character?"

"I've already taken stock of you and your father, Perseus. Ambition is good, yet for some reason, you believe otherwise; thankfully, Sansa shall provide you with plenty of ambition. You are loyal to her, and as long as she does not have designs over Winterfell, you won't usurp her power."

Naturally, he did not even think of such an action. They stared in silence for a few minutes, ancient spirit and demigod sizing each other until Percy sighed and rubbed his brow.

"I need to go. Any advice on taking down the Ironborn?"

"The reavers are fanatical zealots who abhor an honest living. Their god promises them an eternity of hedonism, and all they have to do in exchange is to spread fear and terror wherever they go. To defeat them, you must break the foundations of their beliefs." Brandon waved him off. "We should be capable of communicating easily through any Weirwoods, but the ghosts of Winterfell can't leave the castle. Take care of your wife and loved ones, and make sure the castle is secured this time."

The ghostly image of the godswood faded, only for Percy to find himself back in the waking world. Summer stood beside Sansa and Wylla as they talked to a couple of ghosts. One of the ghosts was that sad-looking girl, and as he focused on them, they dissipated, leaving an utterly shocked Sansa behind.

"Sansa? Everything alright?" Wylla asked worryingly, and Percy realized she had not been capable of talking to those ghosts.

His wife suddenly burst out in hysterical laughter. "N-Nothing to worry about. Just a jest by my father that no one has ever realized. Oh father, you utterly cunning man…"

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Absolutely! I need to check on Alys and the rest. There's much to do in Winterfell and we have little time as it is. Meet me in my fath–the Lord's solar when you're done." Sansa's grin faltered for a moment before walking away. "Come on, Bran. Let's give them space."

The direwolf followed her out of the godswood, his head twitched by a tree, and Meera dropped from a branch, throwing a wink at Percy and Wylla before following them out. Understanding what Sansa wanted, Percy grabbed the blue-haired girl's hand and led her back to the boulder, boldly seating her on his lap, causing her to giggle as she faced him.

"So, Wylla, I'm guessing you and Sansa had a long and deep conversation about…you know."

The girl chortled, "About me wanting to jump your bones?"

"Damn girl, you're a thirsty one, aren't you?"

"You don't think I'm being too forward?" Wylla shyly asked, her blue eyes not meeting his own. "Sansa told me what to expect if I am to join this relationship, but I don't want you to think I'm some harlot who offers her body to the first man who catches her fancy."

"Nothing of the sort." Percy hugged her waist as she placed her arms around his neck. "I like your forward and playful attitude, and I can tell you have no experience speaking to boys."

"H-Hey, I most definitely do…though they're usually much younger than I am," Wylla whispered the last part and pouted when he laughed. "Regardless, Sansa and I have talked about it, and I know what I'm getting into and am definitely all for it."

"I still can't believe you are willing to play second fiddle to another woman."

"I was raised to believe there was a high chance I would marry Robb Stark and be Lady of Winterfell." Wylla shrugged, "I would have been a sister to Sansa then. It's not too different this time, except we will end up closer than I expected."

"Oh? I know Sansa joked about you becoming her paramour as well as mine, but I didn't think you would be swinging for the other team." Percy smirked. "Gotta say, that's probably the hottest thing I've heard since coming here."

"Swinging for…" Wylla tilted her head in confusion before her eyes widened in shock, and her face reddened like a tomato. "What?! It's nothing like that, you–ugh, we're not Dornish, you incorrigible man. We would be like sisters! Sisters!"

Percy chortled as the girl denied all accusations until she realized he was teasing her and harrumphed with a pout.

"Hey now, I'm only joking. Did I mention how much I love your hair?" Percy teased the girl and played with some of the blue locks until she started smiling again and soon had her laughing. "How did you get it so vibrant and real? It's almost as if–"

"As if it really has turned blue? Believe me, I was just as shocked when weeks passed, and I anxiously looked at my reflection, waiting for my blonde roots to sprout, but no. My hair and eyebrows have completely turned blue, and I have no idea how it happened."

Percy really wanted to wake his Father and ask him what he had done to the girl because he could not think of anyone else who could do something like that. Still, he threaded her silky hair through his fingers and could not help but smile and smell it deeply — not a hint of dye, just natural scents from her soap.

He smirked, "All of your hair? Even down there?"

Wylla blushed, buried her face in his neck, and whispered a tiny "yes" that sent a jolt down his spine and heat in his groin. If that blue hair somehow became genetic…Percy coughed, deciding to address something that had been on his mind since Sansa first broached the topic of courting Wylla.

"So what had you so interested in me enough to abandon the potential to properly marry and rule as Lady? It can't be just my devilish good looks."

"That was certainly a bonus, but would you believe me if I said it was love at first sight?"

"Ah-Hah! So it was my devilish good looks." Percy raised his nose in the air and grinned as she giggled. A moment later, she sighed and rested her head on his neck. He gulped as he could feel her voluptuous chest on his own; while not nearly as large as Sansa's, Wylla's tits were quite impressive–her ass, doubly so.

"When you first arrived in White Harbor and dropped that massive sea monster's corpse on the pier, you just looked so heroic! I knew then that this man would be an excellent husband, either for me or even a consort for Wynafryd when she rules as Lady of White Harbor."

As expected, there would always be a political angle to any noble's thought process. Percy sighed inwardly, yet he had learned to accept this about the people of Westeros.

Wylla continued. "Naturally, I would not be so foolish to fall for some pretty face without knowing more about you. Over that moon you stayed in New Castle, I watched you closely and learned all I could."

"So, what did you learn about me?"

"Plenty. I will admit your power is an enticing prospect. What woman would not want a powerful man to love and protect her? But that's hardly a…what did you call it? A high bar to reach. Men with power are plenty all over the world but what good is power when its wielder is missing the most crucial thing to back it up."

"And what is it I have that sets me apart from others?" Percy asked in curiosity; he had been told many things about his character by both gods and mortals. Loyal, reckless, dutiful…he wondered what it was that this girl whom he hardly knew saw in him.

"You're a good man," Wylla said simply. "I can tell you're not the type to use your lover for ambitions. You would not simply use me as a broodmare and satiate your lust, then toss me aside for the next woman."

"I would never!" Percy growled before shaking his head. "Sorry, but I've met too many men with too much power who never understood that no means no."

"And that is why I do not see any shame in becoming the lover of a married man. My lot in life was to be married off to some knight or noble lord, live in some dreary, cold castle if I was lucky, and a dilapidated holdfast if I was not. And, of course, to keep popping kids until I either die from a birthing fever or grow old and grey. With you, things will be different. Sansa will definitely have a special place in your heart, but if I get to share a part of it, then I would be happy."

A comfortable silence fell upon them as Percy processed Wylla's words and reasoning. A part of him protested against the girl's mindset; it insisted that women could rise high in the world with their wits and brains without needing to depend on a man for anything. Yet that small part was crushed as a naive and soft side that was too influenced by his old world.

Why was he conflicted about taking more lovers in the first place? Polygamy was hardly a new thing. Didn't the Persians and some of the Greek kings practice it? He could have sworn Alexander had three wives, or was it seven? No, that was his father, Philip. Greek, Macedonian, Persian…at some point, they were all under the banner of Olympus, so it didn't matter.

Percy was not the most knowledgeable, but he thought it had something to do with Christianity — or was it the Romans? Ugh, he should have listened more to Annabeth whenever she went on one of her trivia spiels. Chiron had once mentioned that God existed somehow along with the Greek gods, or was He above them? Either way, even he had heard about Solomon and his seventy-two wives. Didn't the Christians believe in that? Why did they insist on one wife, then?

He was so fucking confused and wished Poseidon was not sleeping after a hard day renovating his new palace. Percy sighed inwardly before coming to an important decision; he needed to let go of any hesitations.

"Do I desire women?"

Yes. It was that simple. Why does he desire women, though? A primal part of his being roared the obvious: Women were wonderful, hot women even more so. This savage world had plenty of them, and none could deny him what he wanted or else suffer his wrath!

No, Percy shook his head. There was another, simpler reason why he desired women.

Was it the sex?

Hell yeah! Sansa was awesome and would always be his greatest love. Especially after all the sex they had. She was his wife and the mother of his future children. Children…by all rights, both of them were still children, yet the idea of having kids of his own sent heat to his groin and made him impossibly hard. He wanted to have sex, to take the blue-haired girl that stared longingly at him even now, bend her over a rock and breed her to his heart's content until she popped out blue-haired kids of her own.

But was it truly just his primal thoughts that wanted to spread his genes like a stud would take any mare he fancied? Percy thought deeply on it and realized why he so readily agreed with Sansa's suggestion of taking more women and siring children with them.

An epiphany struck him like one of Zeus' thunderbolts.

He was lonely.

This foreign world…no matter how many weirwoods he claimed or connections he formed, Percy would forever feel alone in this world without the people he grew up with. The demigods he had met and loved. He missed his mother and wondered if she had married Paul by now. He missed Grover, Annabeth, Rachel, Nico, and all the other halfbloods from camp. He missed Thalia and her merry band of misandrist girl-scouts. He missed the sea and its denizens, the mermaids and mermen, the tree nymphs, and even the damned harpies!

Then there was Olympus and the gods. Percy had a strange relationship with them; aside from his father and perhaps Hestia, none of them truly supported him, and more than one of them would gleefully watch him die a most gruesome death. Yet, they were still his kin, and their absence could be felt in this chaotic world. Damn it, he missed them too, even his uncles, who could act like total assholes.

Why did he desire women and children?

Because if no one was like him in this world, he would simply make them!

Sansa was already carrying the next generation of demigods, and something deep inside him assured him that his progeny would not be mere legacies but demigods in their own right. Percy did not inherit even a fraction of his father's powers, yet Poseidon's domains were locked in his genome or his blood or whatever it was that governed divine heritage since the gods supposedly didn't have DNA. He did not know if prophecy was part of his bloodline, but Percy simply knew that the more children he had, the higher a chance some of them would awaken a domain from the other Olympians.

A new divine family…even if this one came from his loins.

Percy took a deep breath, taking the scent of the woman in his arms as he hugged her tighter and moved his hand up and down her back. "You understand that I will still want to have children with you? That you will end up popping out children regardless."

"Naturally, I also want children of my own, you know." Wylla breathed heavily. Her sky-blue eyes contrasted beautifully with her hair as she raised her head, and their lips met. Percy did not know how long they kissed, only that he enjoyed her taste greatly as he sucked on her lips, thrust his tongue to explore her mouth. She really did not have any experience, and he ended up dominating their first kiss.

He so dearly wanted to strip her blue dress, suck on her nipples, hike up her skirt and plunge his dick deep into her pussy and ravage her for hours on end as he erupted inside her again and again until her belly was gravid with his children. Yet Percy barely managed to control himself as he hugged the shorter girl close to his body as she caught her breath; this was still the Godswood. Even if he did not care for the sanctity of the place, which he did, there were countless voyeurs in the network.

"Let's get to the castle." Wylla nodded absentmindedly as he stood, carrying her in his arms. "Can you stand?"

"Y-Yes, but that was…breathtaking!"

Percy chuckled before setting her back on her feet and helped her fix her hair and dress, making sure nothing untoward appeared on her. He and Sansa may have agreed on bringing more women to their bed, and the woman in question and her Lord Grandfather were on board with the relationship, but there was no need to have tongues flapping so early. Sansa had already planned it out with him; he needed unequivocal status among the Northman before they could do what they wanted, regardless of what others thought. The easiest way to do so was to defeat the Ironborn.

As they left the Godswood, Percy escorted Wylla as a gentleman would be expected to do; many of the castle's residents bowed politely to him. Percy nodded to them, talked to Kyle and Donnis on the way to the Great Keep, who assured him the men were settled with no issues, waved at Marq and his company of archers, made sure Benny and his spitfires had all they required for the battle, before hurrying to the Lord's Solar.

They knocked on the door and waited for Sansa to allow them in. Percy raised an eyebrow as he found her sitting behind a large desk, her long beautiful hair loose and fell like a fiery waterfall down her grey gown, reaching her waist. She laid back with one hand on her stomach and another frowning at a scroll like it just insulted her ancestors. She glanced at them, her frown melting into a bright smile as she could somehow tell their sudden closeness before waving at someone in the corner.

"You may go now, Maester. Unless there's anything else that needs my attention?"

The old maester shook his head, "Nothing I have not already brought up. I will beg my leave now, Princess. Lady Wylla. Lord Perseus."

Percy and Wylla made way for the elderly man as he nodded to them in greeting and left the solar. Sansa motioned for him to shut the door before beckoning them over, Percy noticing that Summer was sleeping by the fireplace.

"So, have you sorted your issues out?"

"We never had any issues." Percy protested.

"Could have fooled me. Let me warn you now, Wylla." Sansa had a serious look as she gazed at the blue-haired girl with such intensity she audibly gulped. The tension broke when his wife chortled. "This man is a beast in human flesh. Utterly insatiable. I sometimes thank the gods I am pregnant, or else he would have buried his bullcock inside me every night to rearrange my insides. Not to mention how he sucks my teats dry every night; I worry the babes won't have any milk left for them. I expect you to take over my marital duties from now on until I pop these troublemakers out and work on making more."

With every word spoken, Percy grimaced harder while Wylla's face turned redder and redder, though he could hear her breathing growing harsher. "Wait, babes? You're having twins?"

"Maester Luwin is perhaps the greatest healer I know, and he confirmed it to me. Triplets–a boy and two girls. No wonder my belly has swelled visibly despite not reaching my third moon."

Percy had barely accepted that he was becoming a father, but now he was being told that he would not have one child but three?! He thought he would feel worry or shock but he could only grin widely, "I can't wait to hold them, then help you make more."

"Of course, you would be more than willing to give a helping hand." Sansa snickered before waving them to the two seats in front of her desk. "I have ill news from around the realm."

Percy nodded and listened as Sansa explained what they had missed over the past few weeks. Torrhen's Square was lost and a Ryswell host aiming to secure it for Benfred Tallhart, who had married the aging Lord Rodrik Ryswell's granddaughter, was beaten back at the shores of White Hart Lake. They managed to retreat yet the fact remained they were beaten with their tails between their legs.

He sighed at the waste of good troops. From the little that Sansa had learned, they planned to attack the castle with two thousand barrow knights and lancers and five hundred Tallhart men that Benfred managed to rally from his lands. Yet the reavers ambushed them before they were even in sight of the castle, losing a thousand men and who knew how many horses the enemy now had gained.

Sansa's youngest brother, Rickon, was thriving in the mountains, but no one had told him of his brother's death yet. Reports from the Norreys about his wellbeing brought a loving smile to Sansa's face as she idly stroked her large belly.

To everyone's surprise, Barrowton was still under siege, having beaten back attack after attack from the Ironborn, and Sansa had prepared a letter for Cregan Karstark, the commander of their army near Moat Cailin, to begin marching for the city. It had held admirably for so long, even when abandoned by their liege lady; Sansa wanted the city firmly under Stark control for when Damon Dustin returned from the south. He would surely owe them a great debt.

The Wildlings had attacked the Bridge of Skulls but had been repelled. The commander of the Stark contingent, Gareth Mollen, reported it was merely a probing attack and expected a more serious attack soon. Another letter from the Wall came: Lord Commander Mormont sent word that he had been forced to abandon all holdings north of the wall when thousands upon thousands of Wildlings forced a crossing with the help of giants.

"Why am I not surprised?" Percy groaned. "Fucking Canada and its giants! They better not be fireproof!"

Wylla looked confused, but Sansa merely laughed and explained things to her. "Percy's homeland has a northern neighbor similar to the lands Beyond the Wall. Apparently, their natives, Canadians, are all giants that are immune to fire."

Wylla oohed in understanding before chiming in. "So, what does Lord Commander Mormont expect us to do regarding the Wildlings? I'm surprised they managed to hold them back when they barely had two or three hundred men."

Sansa scowled. "That foolish old man had somehow convinced my c-brother to accept a suicide mission to single-handedly delay the wildling's massive army. Considering they had been stalled in place for moons, Jon must have done a miracle and succeeded, yet if they are moving now…Jeor Mormont had better pray to the gods that Jon is safe, or he will regret ever becoming Lord Commander."

Percy nodded along; his wife had told him all about her family members, and Sansa's greatest regret was how she believed to have mistreated her half-brother. As an older brother, Percy felt a certain kinship with this Jon Snow; there's no way he would ever fault his baby sister for being a silly little girl. Percy had lost count of how many times Tyson had driven him nuts, yet he would still proudly claim him as his baby bro.

"Alright, that's a lot of stuff going on in the North, but we need to set up our priorities as we clean house step by step. Unless there's some invasion from the east that I don't know about?"

"Hopefully not," Sansa huffed before tossing the scroll she held towards them. "But there's definitely something queer going on by the Western coast."

Percy accepted the scroll and squinted; he might have learned how to read and write Westeros' Not-English, but his dyslexia still made it hard for him to tell the words apart. Growling in frustration, he handed it to Wylla, who had a cheshire grin; the girl already knew his issue with reading and gladly read over it…and then her face promptly fell as she stared in shock at Sansa as if asking her if this was real.

"Very real, unfortunately."

"What is?"

"Well, Percy, you were worried about an invasion from the east." Wylla's lips twitched as if she did not know whether to laugh or cry. "Turns out there is one from the west."

"Huh? But we already know about the Ironborn."

"Well, I suppose they are a different kind of squid." Sansa snickered as she reached for a plate of lemon cakes; she was far too relaxed, considering they were being invaded again. "Some kind of deep sea monstrosities have been sighted along the western coast, raiding villages for tools and metals and kidnapping the smallfolk before retreating to the sea. I've sent Beauty to learn more, but there's nothing to do about them yet."

"It's not just that," Wylla insisted as she waved the scroll in his face. "A dragon! There's a bloody dragon at Sea Dragon Point! And not just any dragon but an ice dragon — those were supposed to be old wives' tales!"

Sansa shrugged, "It's been roosting there for a fortnight and has not bothered anyone so far."

Wylla gawked, "How are you so relaxed about this?!"

"Calm down, Wylla. Have a cake." Sansa pushed the plate to the blue-haired girl, who stared at it for a moment before grabbing a slice and munching on it in worry. "The dragon is large enough to cause a serious threat, yet for now, it is content to sleep in some cove overlooking the Bay of Ice. Alysanne Mormont reports they had seen it flying over Bear Island earlier, but it had not attacked anyone. A fisherman swore he saw it fly to the Sunset Sea and catch whales and leviathans. If it ignored all the game in the Wolfswood for seafood, then it clearly has specific tastes. I, for one, am all for it acting like a guardian of the western coast. As long as we don't bother it, we should be fine."

"And if some reckless fool fancies himself a dragonrider does bother it?"

"Then Percy will have to deal with it." Sansa gave him a blinding smile. "What do you know about dragons, Percy?"

"Quite a few things, actually. There are many kinds of dragons back home, from the many headed to the super venomous sea serpents to the wingless drakes and giant fire-breathing monstrosities." Sansa nodded and urged him to explain more. "I helped raise one back home. Peleus was such a cute little doggy when we brought him. We raised him to protect a magical tree that protected our home. Within a couple of years, and after the special diet and care we provided, he grew to be large enough to curl around a tree as large as the Heart Tree here."

"My gods! You're not jesting, are you?" Wylla turned at both of them in wonder before laughing sardonically. "What have I got myself into."

"Tut-tut, too late for backtracking, my dear. You are in bed with us now and must deal with our brand of insanity." Sansa tittered all too sweetly, Percy chuckling along as he patted Wylla in sympathy. Was he imagining things, or had his wife been acting more brazen lately? "How smart are dragons, Percy? The last Targaryen dragons died over a hundred and fifty years ago. According to Maester Luwin, the Citadel arrogantly wrote treatises and books about them, but none were dragon riders and knew little about the creatures themselves. And House Targaryen jealously guarded any information about the Dragonkeepers."

"Dragons are usually intelligent enough to understand human speech," he offered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It does not matter what language you speak, for they can hear the intent and meaning of your words. Perhaps your dragons are different, but considering this particular dragon has not attacked any humans yet, it is probably smart enough not to provoke us."

"Perhaps it had dealt with humans in the past and learned we are not worth picking a fight with?" Wylla offered, and Percy nodded along. "My father once mentioned that it was important for humans to hunt wolves and bears in woodlands, just enough for them to understand to fear and avoid men. A dragon, though, is an entirely different matter; no matter what, I can't fathom it learning caution, let alone fearing humans."

"Smart." Sansa beamed at Wylla before turning back to him. "Thoughts, Percy? I would rather not send you to deal with the Ironborn only for that dragon to decide we would make for a good snack after all."

Percy shrugged, "There's really nothing else I can add. Just ensure no one bothers it until I have time to check what it wants. It's not like I can fly over there and back in a few hours."

Sansa hummed before she shrugged, stood and stretched, and walked to Summer. "Fair enough. You will leave in two days for Barrowton with a thousand men and the five hundred that the Glovers sent. Use this chance to get acquainted with the Forest Clans in the castle. I suspect that Larence Snow, with help from his Glover relatives, will push his claim for the Hornwood lands. While that is his right, he must still prove himself. Take him as a squire and give him a chance to show his mettle in martial and lordly matters."

"Aye, aye, Princess." Percy snickered at his wife's confident commands. There was simply something utterly sexy in a woman in command who knew what she was doing and had complete trust in him.

"In the meantime, I have had the cooks look into that tree you mentioned. Maple? Apparently, the smallfolk made syrup out of it, but it was considered lesser honey by the cooks. They have a jar or two in stock, however."

Percy's eyes widened. "Sweet! I'll go take a look."

Before he could leave the room, Sansa called out. "Oh, and Wylla? You will be joining Percy in this campaign."

"What?!" Percy turned back to her in shock, but Sansa had eyes only for the blue-haired girl, whose eyes were wide for a brief moment before she nodded resolutely with her fists clenched in determination. "But what about the whole propriety and people talking about us things you are worried about?"

"Do I look like I care about people's opinions? I am Lady of Winterfell and the Dreadfort now, at least until Robb decides otherwise." Sansa snorted. "I expect you two to do the deed and hopefully bring good news when you return."

"Don't worry, Sansa. I will not let him bring some random harlot to bed." Wylla shyly smiled at him. "Don't worry, Percy. I will do my best to satisfy your desires as much as possible and ensure you always have a warm bed."

At her heartfelt promise, Percy could only sigh in exasperation and glare at his wife, who grinned toothily before burying her face in the direwolf's neck. He suddenly realized that her brother must have heard all they said, and Percy shivered.

He would have to be careful and make sure the direwolf was far away from him whenever he was having a good time with his wife. Good thing Summer was staying with her and not joining them for war, or else Percy doubted he would be able to so much as hold Wylla with him watching on.

Notes:

Damn, this chapter was supposed to have three different PoVs, yet it somehow ended up all about Percy and his goal of breeding a new pantheon.

Percy is confused and trying to justify himself for desiring women by assuring himself there is precedent in Ancient Greece…not realizing he only has shallow knowledge and is forgetting the most important thing. He can set his own precedent!

Sansa is growing into quite a devious girl. I enjoy writing her the most as I explore how she matures and how her mindset is evolving.

Wylla is now a bonafide Bluenette, The first of her kind. Did Poseidon, with the help of a certain bored goddess, have something to do about it? Maybe~

Wanna read a chapter ahead? Join me on Discord for one advanced chapter! Discord code is vN7sTYhEp6.

Chapter 31: A Wolf's Lament

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

Shorter chapter than usual. Read the Author's Notes to learn why.

---

The Inn of the Kneeling Man

Arya

"A toast for the return of the King." Harrion Karstark raised his mug, causing several loud ayes to reverberate in the taproom before everyone downed their barley beer. Harry slammed his mug on the table and pushed a different one towards her; this one was steaming and had an aroma that tickled her nose in a good way. "And another for our Princess! Without her, we would not have succeeded in our great escape from Harrenhal!"

Louder cheers erupted, and ale, wine, and mead flowed like rivers in the thirsty throats of knights, squires, and soldiers. Being infected by the cheer, Arya hesitantly raised the mug to her lips, enjoyed the sweet and tarty smell that had her unconsciously smiling, despite the annoyance that still yapped in her ear, and took a deep gulp. A pleasant heat engulfed her as the apple cider flowed to her belly; while weaker than the watered-down beer the inn's occupants had, Arya could already feel a light buzz. It had been a long time since she drank anything that wasn't cheap ale or water, and she savored the delicious drink, which allowed her extra time to ignore the nuisance beside her.

"Once things settle down, we will have the grandest wedding in all the Riverlands!" The loudmouth sitting across from her was Wendel Frey, the nineteenth son of Lord Walder Frey, and apparently, her husband-to-be and new betrothed, one she had to fight the urge not to stab with a fork. "And the North, if what my uncle tells me of how large yet barren your old home is. Never fear – the Frey lands are rich and fertile, and our wedding will be the envy of all. Naturally, it shall be in the Twins, where my Lord Father has guaranteed an entire wing dedicated solely for our pleasure."

Arya ignored the loudmouth and his bragging; she did not know the details of the agreement between Robb and the Freys and certainly did not look forward to a life away from her family. She stabbed her fork at the slice of pie served to her and angrily chewed in silence.

Wendel Frey took her silence as a sign to continue his rambling, "After all, the Seven have seen fit that a valiant warrior like myself wed to a princess instead of my less fortunate brother. What do you think, Jenny?"

A freckled scullery maid with frazzled brown hair, a pug nose, and large yet saggy teats laughed shrilly from her seat on her betrothed's lap. "Wasn't your brother that lackwit who died to an arrow when you were at Darry? I know a seamstress from there. She claimed to have plucked some little boy with twin towers on his garment and missed him after the castle was taken."

Arya already knew all about said brother. Elmar Frey, her original betrothed, had suffered an unfortunate accident at Darry in his duties as squire to Roose Bolton. Something about a loose arrow hitting him in the neck? Ser Wylis Manderly, after having his men ask around about that particular incident, noted it was queer that a squire who stood safe in the backlines would be killed by an arrow that pierced him from behind.

Willow Heddle and Catelyn Rivers did their own investigations with the camp followers who survived the battle at Harrenhal and told her similar tales and more: how the Freys were more likely to sell their own mothers for the slightest advantage. They even heard a rumor that Elmar and Wendel were not the fruit of Lord Walder Frey but another Walder Frey; there were so many of them that Arya simply did not care. One Frey or the other, the whole lot of them did not impress her.

At least, she managed to have Willow and Catelyn, who were sitting beside her and glaring murderously at her betrothed, join her as handmaidens, despite the protests of several of the men. The Northmen were upset they did not have any daughters or sisters to join her. Still, they seemed amiable enough to the two girls — the few Rivermen, however, were scandalized that she took a bastard and an upstart peasant as her handmaidens.

Arya had merely told Lord Jonos Bracken when they stopped at Stonehedge that she would not mind befriending a few of his daughters as long as they joined her. Lord Bracken was eager to show off his many daughters, yet the Horse Lord changed his tune when he realized she had no plans to return to Riverrun until the rest of the Northern army was rallied. It was only misfortune that she came across her betrothed and had to endure his constant bragging — the more she interacted with him, the easier it was for her to believe he was somehow responsible for the death of his younger brother.

To say that Arya lamented the act of kinslaying to claim her hand would be a lie; she cared not one whit about the entire line of Frey. Only that she was sold to them so cheaply grated on her nerves. The only reason the stupid Frey across from her wasn't strung up by the furious Northmen or become Nymeria's next meal was due to Arya's promise to herself: She would do what was necessary for her family. If it meant marrying into that clan of weasels in return for their thousands of swords and eternal use of their bridge, then so be it.

His blatant disrespect wore on her heavily, and while she swallowed the insult, Ned Dayne nearly killed the fool when he caught him in bed with a whore.

"You have the patience of the Crone herself, Arya." The young Dayne Lord sighed after she urged him not to murder the weasel. "Even in Dorne, no lord would ever dishonor his betrothed like so, lest they desired snake venom in their morning soup."

If even a Dornishman like Ned thought so, Arya wondered if she truly was taking her own vow too seriously. Then again, Robb was also betrothed to a Frey, yet he still took a lover.

It certainly did not soothe her rage when Wendel Frey had the gall to defend his right to whore around, "King Robb has yet to honor his own betrothal and even took a paramour for himself. Not just that, but to invite her to Riverrun, put a sprog in her, and proclaim her as his Royal Paramour?"

And thus, ever since they met Wendel Frey a sennight ago, not a moment passed without Arya finding a whore in his arms or a taunt on his smirking face. The fool thought because Robb delayed the wedding and had a paramour, he could do the same, yet whoring so blatantly was different from having a lover. Arya would not have cared if Wendel had a lover or two as long as he left her alone. All she needed was a horse and wide expanses of land to go riding with Nymeria and be rid of the fool to do what he wished, yet Wendel Frey stood to inherit nothing from his father. He was neither a conqueror like her brother nor did he possess any martial skill to win some respect from the lords; he did not stand to inherit any lands or titles either. All he could offer was whatever pittance his father felt generous enough to provide: a tiny room where Arya would be confined while they constantly had her pump more weasel-faced brats.

That's another thing she discovered through Willow and Cat: Women who marry into the Twins rarely lived pleasantly and almost always died before forty.

"Wouldn't surprise me if little Elmar wanted to sample some women before it was too late." The Frey boy replied to the whore on his lap. "It was truly unfortunate how he met his demise, but perhaps it was the will of the Seven for the weak to make way for the strong. My valor is proven, after all, and–"

Arya tuned him out, knowing the fool was a craven who ran away from the battle of Harrenhal. Separated from the majority of the Frey forces, whom she later learned were captured and then ransomed for horses of all things, Arya had the misfortune to be in attendance when they rallied a contingent of troops that had Wendel Frey among them. Once he realized who she was, he had latched onto her like a leech, constantly reminding her and the rest of the Northmen that Robb promised her hand to House Frey — and her brother's infidelity.

As the only Frey nearby, aside from a hundred or so men-at-arms he managed to coerce to join him among the fleeing troops, he did hold considerable influence in the region, especially after many of the prisoners she freed from Harrenhal rode out to rally the Northern army with help from the Brotherhood Without Banners. Manderly and Karstark had urged her to join Robett Glover as he rode for Riverrun, but she refused; Arya was far more useful on the field, as she proved when she managed to track over a thousand men in just the first sennight thanks to Nymeria and her pack.

After they had learned of Robb's return to Riverrun, Arya agreed to finally return to her family. They were a small group, barely two hundred strong, and had stopped at the Inn of the Kneeling Man after sweeping the lands between Harrenhal and the Red Fork for any stragglers. The group had patrolled the area, even fighting off several outriders from Harrenhal, though Arya did not participate in any battle. Her wolves were more than enough to beat back any of the rouncies and other lesser horses that Jaime Lannister fielded.

With her were Wylis Manderly and his knights–who had been withdrawn since learning about the death of his brother–Harrion Karstark, Donnel Locke, who was busy securing ferries for them to sail them up the Red Fork, and her own guards. Ned Dayne and some of the Brotherhood also accompanied her, though they were out on patrol. Arya had then taken this chance to measure the worth of this betrothed of hers; even if he associated with whores and wenches, she could still learn about the former squire who claimed his knight had knighted him under dubious circumstances.

To call him lacking was an understatement. Wendel Frey was four years her senior. He was not homely, but neither was he comely with a face your gaze slid over. Not like Arya cared either way — aside from being a philanderer, he was also a braggart, a craven, a liar, and possibly a kinslayer.

The sooner she arrived at Riverrun to beg Robb to do something about this ferret, the better. Of all the people she could have married, why in the Seven Hells did it have to be a Frey? She finally understood the disdain people had for that house.

"–do you think, Princess?"

Arya flinched as she realized the older boy had asked her a question. She was about to ask him to repeat when she noticed that fucking whore sneering at her as Wendel smirked and groped her thighs. A low growl came from the open window behind her, causing the whore to scream and Wendel to jump in fright as Nymeria peeked her massive head and stared at them. Arya's guards, who had been glaring murderously at Wendel Frey's guards standing nearby, did not flinch, even as the Frey guards' hands flew to their swords.

"D-Didn't you say you will have that beast shackled?!" Her betrothed glared at her accusingly.

Perhaps it was the slight buzz from the cider she drank, but Arya was tired of dealing with this sycophant. She smiled politely — an act she was not used to at all — yet had been forced to learn after a sennight of dealing with this nuisance.

"Whatever do you mean? I promised Nymeria would be a good girl, and she is definitely being a good wolf, aren't you, girl?" Arya raised her hand and scratched her direwolf under her jaw, causing her to rumble in pleasure.

The occupants of the Inn, most of them soldiers who had gotten used to Nymeria's presence, laughed at the Frey boy's expense — at least the ones who followed her — while the Frey soldiers looked like they swallowed a lemon whole. Wendel's pale face turned a shade of puce as he stood and glared at her.

"I-Is this any way to treat your betrothed? Once we are married, I will not have any of your mutts in my castle. Do you hear me?!"

By now, the entire Inn had gone silent as the tension rose significantly. Arya could see many Northmen glaring at the Freys across the taproom, which was split evenly between both groups. Yet the Freys had more men outside, and she could already hear a commotion from the window.

She really hated being a princess. If it were up to her, she would stab the boy in the neck, steal a horse, and ride off into the sunset, Nymeria in tow, and live off the land. But a glance at the Northern lords looking at her expectantly, their eyes pleading for her to give them the word — and they would slay all the Freys in their seats and join her wherever she went.

It was a strange feeling for Arya to realize she had truly gained the loyalty of her brother's warriors.

Loud voices were steadily approaching the inn. Several men stood with their hands reaching for their weapons in worry, but Arya relaxed when the voices turned into cheers, and the door opened, revealing Ned Dayne's beaming face.

"I have returned and brought some friends!"

Several figures entered after Ned, and Arya squinted her eyes at a few familiar faces. It was when Alyn gasped that she realized who they were.

"By the Old Gods, Hallis Mollen! You're a sight for sore eyes!"

The muscular man turned when he heard his name. Then, his eyes widened when they fell on her.

"Princess Arya!"

.

.

.

"A toast! For the slayers of the Mountain!"

The whole inn roared in joy as they celebrated the return of her mother's retinue, except the men in question were not as enthused, nor was Arya.

"We may have helped slay the Mountain That Rode, but it was Lady Stark who gave the finishing blow!" A Frey knight, a few years older than her brother, slammed his mug on the table, his eyes filled with guilt and shame. "And yet, we still failed to bring our charge back to the King. Don't treat us like heroes — we merely survived."

While it was upsetting that Arya would not meet her mother after so long, it was still impressive what a small group achieved. Earlier, she thought all the Freys were worthless weasels, but after learning about Perwyn Frey from the Stark guards who joined her, she had to reassess.

Not all the Freys were weasels. Only most of them were. Catelyn Rivers and Willow Heddle had quickly hunted for rumors and gossip before reporting to her on the Knight's identity. Perwyn Frey, elder brother to Olyvar Frey, Robb's squire, and part of the retinue that joined her mother in the Reach. The girls were quite thorough, and they even learned he was betrothed to a childhood sweetheart and a decent man all around.

The men had told them about the battle against the Mountain and how Robin Flint and Perwyn Frey were crucial in capturing Gregor Clegane long enough for her mother to give him the finishing blow. There were other names thrown in who also contributed, but Arya only cared about her mother.

She idly wondered if it was too late to change her betrothed but ultimately shook her head; whether it was Wendel or Perwyn, none of them stood to inherit anything other than, at most, a room in the Twins. Arya did not want to marry at all, but if she had to choose, she would rather marry someone who would not stifle her and could afford a castle or two.

Most importantly, they had to accept that any marriage with her included Nymeria. If the Direwolf did not approve, then there would be problems.

"We must take a fast ferry for Riverrun and deliver King Stannis' message to King Robb." Robin Flint was telling Harrion Karstark — Arya had left her betrothed with his whore in favor of sitting with the knights and lords to learn more about her mother. "I saw Ser Locke haranguing the merchants for their barges and has already secured a handful."

"Aye, once they finish loading supplies, he should come and call for us."

"How did you bypass Jaime Lannister's army?" Arya asked curiously.

"Stannis' Onion Knight managed to sneak us to Harroway, but his ship couldn't sail upriver." Lucas Blackwood replied. "We rode hard on donkeys and drays but were still accosted by Lannister foragers. Thanks to Lord Dayne and his scouts, we beat them back and made our way here."

"It was not difficult beating back peasants riding rounceys. We were worried when we learned Lord Frey paid Ser Lannister a thousand warhorses for the release of his three thousand men, but it appears either Ser Jaime was swindled by the Late Lord, or he is keeping them hidden for now." Ned Dayne raised his mug of ale in salute before returning to his discussion with several members of the Brotherhood.

It had been a few weeks since they recruited them, and while Beric Dondarrion remained in Hollow Hill with Thoros, the rest of the Brotherhood eagerly joined them after promises of rewards and a royal pardon. Ned had seemingly been elected leader due to his lordly status, skill at arms, and sharp mind, despite his young age; that he was knighted by Beric, the previous leader, also helped.

"How is my mother?"

"She is well. King Stannis was courteous and honorable with her treatment, as befitting of the Queen Dowager." Robin assured her. "She got her own lavish tent and a small army of servants. Naturally, she was under constant watch."

"The Stag king did not need to send all of us away." Hallis Mollen grumbled. "How will we bear to show our faces to King Robb after losing his mother to the enemy?!"

"Stannis has not come into conflict with us yet." Lucas gently reminded.

"You heard him, Lucas!" Robin insisted, "He was not quiet when he stubbornly declared to his knights and lords that King Robb was but a rebel. How will we treat with him if he does not see our king as his equal?"

"And that is what this letter is for." Lucas calmly replied. "After Brienne's foolish challenge, King Stannis was in a good enough mood that Lady Stark managed to request an audience with him. I am not at liberty to discuss what they talked about. It is only for the king's ears and eyes."

"Who's Brienne?" Arya asked Ser Perwyn, who had remained silent since his outburst.

"Brienne of Tarth. Former member of King Renly's Rainbow Guard." Ser Perwyn then patiently explained to her what he knew of the Tarth Maid. While a part of her was impressed with a female warrior who could best most knights, Arya could only grimace at the foolish girl who blindly challenged a king around his own army.

"So what happened to her?"

"She was beaten, of course. Brienne is strong, much stronger than a normal knight, and taller than Stannis, yet she lacked the skill to match the Stag King nor his sword of lightning that cut through her blade like a scythe through chaff." Perwyn drank from his mug, hiding a smile that Arya recognized from when her father or brothers gave it to her when they felt like indulging her. Clearly, the Frey knight was a compassionate one compared to his kin. "After she was beaten, she demanded another duel with normal blades, claiming Stannis cheated with his sorcery. Stannis Baratheon obliged, and after another duel with tourney blades, she was disarmed and beaten once more. Her father, Lord Selwyn Tarth, begged for her life, and the king granted it as long as Brienne swore fealty to him."

"And did she?"

"She did and is now charged with protecting Lady Stark, though–"

"Oi, don't get too chummy with my betrothed, you!" Arya groaned inwardly as Wendel Frey barged in and pushed his older brother roughly in the shoulder. "You lost your chance when you spurned the Banefort bride father negotiated for you for some Vypren chit."

The taproom went silent as the men watched in interest at the family feud. Arya noticed Perwyn's companions frowning at Wendel, but she was more interested in the Frey soldiers' wary expressions.

The knight in question merely looked amused at his younger brother's outburst. "Ah, I have heard of Elmar's death. You have my sympathies, little brother." Wendel looked pissed at the belittling tone, but his brother continued before he could reply. "I am impressed you managed to rally so many of our father's men. It must have been difficult for you to lead them into battle, but fear not; I am here and shall take over command while you continue your squirely duties."

For a moment, Wendel's eyes widened before he burst into laughter. "I'm a knight now, just like you! What makes you think you can usurp command of my men?"

"Oh, a knight, you say? I must confess myself surprised. Ser Damon Paege accepted you and cousin Hoster as squires when the war started, yet I did not expect a strict man like Ser Damon to knight you so young." Perwyn's smile did not reach his eyes and was full of teeth. "Pray tell, whatever happened to your knight and cousin?"

"Hoster died at Darry." Wendel sounded less sure, less cocky, as Perwyn stared him down. "A-An ambush by brigands when he was collecting firewood. Ser Damon knighted me on the battlefield during Harrenhal."

Arya wrinkled her nose; she smelled shite, alright.

"My condolences. I am sure you have fought bravely in defense of your knight and kin. I know you are a decent archer, and perhaps you could ride and swing a sword just as well. Tell me then, what glorious deed did you achieve to warrant Ser Damon to knight you?"

"I-I," Wendel looked around at the many cold eyes of the men boring down on him before shaking his head. "That doesn't matter. He saw fit to knight me as we retreated, and that's what happened. I don't need to explain anything to you. These are my troops, and they follow anything I say. J-Just stay away from my betrothed if you know what's best for you!"

Perwyn Frey's smile melted like snow in the Dornish desert as he suddenly stood. "Mathis!"

A serjeant, one of the guards that constantly shadowed Wendel Frey, immediately stood at attention. "Ser!"

"My brother is tired. Take him to the docks for fresh air until we are done, and we shall join you soon to return to Riverrun." The serjeant froze, his eyes wide as he glanced at the pale-faced Wendel Frey before Ser Perwyn barked. "Do you need further instructions, serjeant?"

"No, Ser! Come now, lad. Let's get you to the boats." The serjeant and another guard grabbed her betrothed's shoulders and dragged him out of the inn. Any protest was drowned by the men's scornful laughter.

Perwyn Frey then bowed deeply to her. "You have my sincerest apologies for my brother's uncouth attitude. I will send a strongly worded letter to my father as soon as we are in Riverrun, but know that it is House Frey's greatest honor to welcome you as one of our own."

Arya nodded and gave a demure reply that she frankly could not remember. She had seen and heard enough of her betrothed to know she would not stand for such nonsense. She needed to return to Riverrun and talk to Robb.

Or else she really was going to murder someone.

A*H*M

The Frostfangs

Your mother is Lyanna Stark. Make of that what you will.

Bloodraven had been silent since then, with his raven nowhere to be seen. Jon was not sure whether he was glad or wished he could confront the old greenseer. How…How in the Seven Hells did Eddard–NO, his father–hide such a secret for so long?

None knew what truly happened that fateful day in Dorne. Seven Northmen fought three of the Kingsguard, the finest knights in the realm. Only two of the Northmen survived: Eddard Stark and Howland Reed. All they gained from such a meaningless endeavor was death and Lyanna Stark's bones.

But what if that was not true? A voice whispered in his mind. What if there was a babe in that tower?

Jon had always wanted to know of his mother's identity. He had asked many people and investigated to the best of his abilities, but all he discovered was that he was first found in Winterfell after the war. Assuming Brynden spoke truly, Jon wondered how his father managed to spirit him from Dorne to Winterfell with none the wiser. He needed confirmation, or his heart would never rest.

It was why he dragged his new warband away from the Frostfangs and deeper into the western wastelands, deeper into the Lands of Always Winter, in search of the only man who could ease the turmoil in Jon's heart. By rights, he was abandoning his mission of harassing the Wildlings in favor of a personal grievance, yet Jon could never rest easy until he confirmed.

Even that fledgling connection he had with the Ice Dragon that niggled at his mind like an itch he could not reach did not interest him. In fact, Jon wanted as little to do with the House of the Dragon as possible.

A thousand men and their families followed him, all dressed in the heaviest furs they could find. Those too slow, such as the children or the elderly, were placed in sleighs and dragged by his wolves, allowing them to cross the frozen land swifter than usual. More children than greybeards or crones–the harsh lands Beyond the Wall were not forgiving, and living beyond fifty was rare.

They had to be fast, or else they would run out of rations; already, the wolves had not eaten in a week, yet they endured with promises of flesh soon. Most of the direwolves and half the wolves were left in the Frostfangs to roam and scout, yet Jon quickly discovered it was quite difficult to warg into them from so far away — at least not without using a weirwood as a medium.

Not Ghost, though. The connection with his direwolf was unshakable. Jon felt like he could see through his eyes from a thousand miles if need be.

The cold was biting, so much so that even Jon could feel it, yet it was still pleasant to him. Sadly, the men did not enjoy it as much, though they appreciated the extra furs he handed out. Furs and heavy clothes served only to hinder Jon these days. Even now, he wore light garments fit for a summer day in White Harbor — aside from his armor, of course. At first, he wore a byrnie over a padded jacket of linen and wool, boiled leather, and metal greaves, but now he was armored in the crystalline armor that the Ice Dolls wore, with more stored in one of the sleighs. His now torn-up byrnie and greaves were gifted to a savage warrior who had proven himself in battle, one uniquely named Leathers.

"Lord Snow! There's a river up ahead, just like you said!" Jax called, and Jon looked up from the endless snow to find the river he had seen earlier — no matter how mad going west might have sounded, Jon was not suicidal. He still had a plan. "I can see steam. There must be a valley or a deep cave below."

Jon looked through Ghost's eyes; the direwolf had scouted ahead of him as they chased the Ice Singer across the wasteland. Ghost was practically melded with the snow as he looked at the vast and lush valley below the cliffs, warmed by steam vents dotted across the land. It hardly compared to the fields around Winterfell, but there were still trees and grass, even if they were more grey than green. Ghost easily found a herd of reindeer grazing in a field, ermine and lemmings scurrying around by the trees, a snow bear sleeping under a rock, and bountiful fish jumping upstream, eager to reach the warmer water.

Several tents made from walrus and seal skins dotted the valley near the hot rushing waters of the river that flowed south to the Frozen Shore, which he could barely see due to the steam. Jon thought he could almost see Bear Island in the distance, but that had to be his imagination. These lands were uncharted; the only record of the Night's Watch ranging so far west was more than two thousand years ago by a ranger called Redwyn. Lorn Point was a massive icy cliff, yet it was near mythical as none had ever found it, though the wiser rangers theorized the chunk of frost had broken and long sunk into the sea.

This land, however, was far from Lorn Point's supposed location.

In the center of the valley was a lone weirwood. It was a thin and sad thing, barely a tree and more of a sapling, yet Jon recognized the freshly carved face on its trunk. Crown had told him about it, the last weirwood in the west, now a heart tree with a freshly carved face that looked suspiciously like his own, though with a sly grin that Jon would never make. Crown was quite the jester, but at least he confirmed that his friend passed through here.

A horn blast came from the center of the village, where a wildling wearing a walrus tusk helmet stood. He was a large, powerfully built man, perhaps a decade older than Jon. A massive wooden club studded with rocks was nearby. There must have been a thousand of them coming out of the tents: men, women, young and old. All of them hurrying with whatever weapons or arms they could find. For a moment, Jon wondered what had them so spooked until a snow owl landed on their chief's shoulder as he pointed to a spot further to the north. Ghost silently made his way around the rock he was hiding behind, and Jon saw what scared the walrus men so much.

Another army, nearly twice as many as the inhabitants of the village, approached, yet they were led by none other than the Ice Singer. They were still a distance away and would reach in less than an hour, close to their own speed. Jon pulled away from Ghost's mind and asked Gavin the Trader what he knew about these people.

"The Ice River clans are notorious for being cannibals, yet that did not mean they ate nothing but human flesh–merely their enemies," Gavin explained. "Even they and the other inhabitants of the Frozen Shore had joined Mance's army, for I've seen the Great Walrus in Mance's war council many a time. The man you described must be one of his many sons who refused to move with the rest of the tribe."

"And the others who joined the Ice Singer?"

"Traitors to men everywhere!" Leathers growled as he and several other warriors approached. "I've heard the rumors, yet I refused to believe it. It at least explained why only a single clan of the Ice Rivers joined Manse. The rest remained here where they worshiped the gods of ice and snow."

Jon clenched his fists before flexing it. He recalled what Brynden taught him and the rest of the Black Brothers. The Ice Dolls were formed from human babes who were sacrificed to the Ice Singers. It was clear what was about to happen.

"Men, move up the pace. We have a battle to interrupt, some heathens to beat, and an Ice Singer to kill. I want that horned horse for my own, and any who gets in my way shall be shoveling shit for a moon!"

The men hollered as they quickly arranged themselves into a fighting formation. Six hundred warriors would join him in battle. Four hundred more, mostly spearwives and youths, would protect the rest of the tribe. Little Dan would act as scout while the rest of the tribe followed at a sedate pace; no matter if they won or not, the only path to salvation from the cold was ahead. In a few minutes, they were hurrying at a steady pace, even as Jon continuously spied on the coming conflict through Ghost's eyes. It appeared the Ice Singer was negotiating with the walrus chief, though Ghost was too far away to hear what was being said. Not like Jon was guaranteed to understand whatever variation of the Old Tongue was being used, though it was simple to deduce the Ice Singer's demands.

His constant pointing at the women and their babes was easy enough to understand, as well as the cannibals following him, eying them like meat. Why the Ice Singer would want to preserve the lives of the tribe was a mystery, as he could easily raise them as wights.

It ultimately did not matter, for negotiations had quickly fallen through, with the walrus chief throwing a harpoon at the Ice Singer, which was easily swatted away. The Ice Singer coldly pointed his frozen blade at his foe, and the Ice River clansmen hollered as they wildly charged, no formation or tactics involved.

It would have been easy to crush them in their exposed rear if Ghost had his pack with him. Sadly, Jon had chosen to leave the wolves behind, something that Brynden would surely scoff at.

Soft boy, your wolves would make all the difference against your outnumbered foes.

Aye, yet they served better to help his tribe. They were also tired, hungry, and had been dragging those sleighs for days. It was better that they remained behind and protected the tribe in case of an ambush.

As they arrived at the valley, Jon saw that the fight was going awry for the walrus chief, who was fighting three men at the same time. He did not need to give his men any commands as they descended the cliff and joined Ghost behind and to the left of the cannibal's army. Jon flexed his left hand, causing Crown's Gift to slither into his arm and turn into a war bow; those of his men who had bows mirrored his action while Leathers and Jax formed into two teams, preparing for a charge.

It had only been a moon since Jon took command of this warband yet he had managed to instill enough discipline in them to learn not to shout and give away their position during an ambush, as well as wait until all the men were in position before committing to a charge.

Just as Jon notched his arrow, Ghost suddenly froze and turned to the far-right flank of the enemy army. Jon followed his gaze, and his eyes grew wide in a shock that was mirrored in the bright blue eyes of the familiar-looking tall man staring at him just as he was about to lunge into the cannibals with a crystalline blade. A small army of children surrounded him — no, not children, as Jon recognized one in particular with a crown of curly red hair who beamed at him with eyes of pure amber.

Uncle Benjen!

Notes:

Arya is under the wrong impression that Robb would leave her in the Twins after they marry. She came to that conclusion on her own because she is still a twelve-year-old girl. The Northmen could not fathom their princess not understanding that point and merely followed her lead with her patient demeanor.

Arya's Northmen are suffering from a strong case of Stark Fanaticism. They need to return to Robb ASAP, or they really would be ready and willing to place Arya on the Iron Throne if she demands it.

I am not at all satisfied with this chapter, but family circumstances did not allow me to write it with a clear mind. First, I had to put down my dog; he was old and sickly, but he's in a better place now. Second, my mother got into an accident that broke her arm, and I had to oversee her treatment in the hospital over the past three days. She's discharged now, but I need to take care of her for the next few weeks.

This resulted in a chapter that teased a lot of things but ended in a cliffhanger. I planned to rewrite it later, but I am so tired, and my mind is simply not into it at the moment, even though I planned for some epic consequences to Arya's less-than-stellar betrothed and Jon abandoning his post for a personal mission.

Join me on Discord for discussions, character portraits, and access to one advanced chapter! Discord code is vN7sTYhEp6.

Chapter 32: The Weight of Despair

Join me on Discord for discussions, character portraits, and access to one advanced chapter! Discord code is vN7sTYhEp6.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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Riverrun

"Behold, Riverrun! The seat of your maternal house, Princess Arya." Harrion Karstark grinned from his seat on the horse beside her. "This is my first time seeing it myself, but the tales do not do it justice. Truly a strong yet beautiful castle."

Arya nodded absentmindedly. The castle truly was beautiful, especially as its red walls looked like ripe peaches under the morning sunlight. The skies were clear, a reprieve from the overcast and rain that followed them for the past moon. They were still a couple of miles from the castle, as the nearest river port was a few miles from Riverrun. All along the Red Fork, Arya saw the bustling activity of a region mostly untouched by war, as merchants and riders traveled up and down the roads. The River Road was busy with plenty of patrols, and as they approached the castle, Arya found a large walled town on the north side of the castle, across the Tumblestone.

"What town is that?"

"That was one of Jaime Lannister's former war camps," Lucas Blackwood explained. "The Lannister knight had split his army into three camps, and after his defeat, Lord Edmure had them all dismantled and used the materials to build a fortified military camp there. A small town in all but name. Nearly twenty thousand men called the place home last I was here."

As they approached the castle, they found several other war camps built on the southern and eastern shores of the castle. At first glance, one would think the castle was under siege, yet it became apparent that these were all Rivermen and Northmen. Banners of Houses Tully and Stark fluttered everywhere; smaller pennants of lesser houses were on large pavilions and hastily constructed manses. Knights, dressed in brigandines, half-plates, and full plates, of various states of pageantry depending on their wealth, oversaw the training of men-at-arms and levies in the use of the spear or the crossbow. The men-at-arms could be distinguished from the lowly levy by their byrnies and kettle hats, compared to the levies who would be lucky if they had gambesons on them.

It was a large panoply of war, with big pavilions and tents neatly arranged inside a palisade with a ditch. Cooking fires could be seen through the open gates, where cooks and servants served the men lunch. Smiths hammering swords, farriers making horseshoes, men singing merrily, and much more could be heard from inside the war camp.

If this was the lesser camp, Arya wondered what the true military town her uncle constructed looked like. All along the road filled with peasants marching back and forth from the castle to the many villages and hamlets dotting the land, bringing produce and goods. Many stables were also constructed, hastily so as she saw several masons covering them with plaster, where she found horses and cattle feeding on fodder. The lands near the castle were nearly stripped clean of grass already, and Arya wondered how long could the Tully lands keep such a large army in one place. The many fields and farms they came across already had their harvests, yet the farmers had no shortage of beasts of burden and were busy plowing the fields for the next season.

Soon, several riders approached from the castle and talked to the no longer plump form of Ser Wylis Manderly, who rode ahead to meet them. Arya could not tell what they said, but the Manderly heir waved a thin hand towards her that had the riders nod seriously before riding back towards the castle with haste.

"King Robb has been notified of our arrival. Let us not keep him waiting."

They continued to walk their horses towards the castle, Arya quickly checking on Nymeria when she felt a jolt of joy from her direwolf. She and her pack had just met another pack led by a direwolf about a dozen miles to the south. Both direwolves were nipping at each other's tails as they frolicked near a stream, and Arya smiled; Greywind had grown.

Soon, they were crossing the drawbridge leading to the castle, and Arya spied a large crowd waiting for them in the courtyard.

"Arya!"

They had barely ridden past the gate before a shout grabbed her attention. Her brother, dressed in a white velvet tunic with the grey direwolf of House Stark embroidered over his chest, was waiting for her in the courtyard. Next to him stood a man in his twenties with similar features who could only be their Uncle Edmure with the silvery trout on his heraldry, and behind them were several other people that Arya could not bring herself to give more than a cursory glance.

"Robb!" She jumped from her horse and sprinted into his waiting arms, courtesy and propriety forgotten. "Robb, oh Robb! I've missed you so much!"

Strong arms hugged her tightly, and a rough hand ran through her hair as her brother replied. "I thought you were dead." His hoarse whispers were like a balm upon her tired heart. "We heard nothing from you for ages, and we thought the worst had happened to you, especially when we heard the damned Lannisters had murdered Father and all of his retinue. Knowing you, I thought for sure you were pretending to be a stableboy and got killed in the chaos."

Arya gave a wet chuckle as she cried ugly tears and clutched her brother tighter. "I-It was terrible, Robb. They were killing everyone, even Septa Mordane. I was having my lessons, yet the Kingsguard came and killed everyone! Old Vayon, the cooks, the servants, even the boys and girls!"

Whispers and murmurs echoed around them, and Arya suddenly remembered where she was. She could feel wetness on her face from the tears and snot, but Robb quickly wiped her face with his sleeve and turned to the onlooking crowd.

He stood straight, then, filled with dignity and a head and a half taller than her. A man in his own right.

"This is but a taste of what Lannister hospitality is like." Robb's gloved hand settled on her shoulder and gave her a reassuring squeeze. "They would welcome you with open arms before stabbing you in the back at the first opportunity. It was not enough that they attempted to murder my brother Bran for seeing something he should not, but they would murder all of our household, even if they were of noble blood. They are a treacherous and dishonorable lot and cannot be trusted. Look what they have done to my sister!"

Her brother stepped aside, and Arya was suddenly under the scrutiny of a large crowd of knights, nobles, and noblewomen. She swiftly understood what her brother was doing, and despite not understanding why and feeling miffed at being put on display, Arya did her best to look pitiful, which was quite easy considering she was still crying and was travel-weary with worn-out breeches and a tattered tunic.

Her toes were even sticking out of her boots!

"If this is how they treated the daughter of a highlord, what do you think they would do to your children?" Robb continued, venom dripping from his voice as his words echoed in the courtyard. "Sansa writes to me of terrible things, of how Joffrey The Illborn had his kingsguard strip her naked in his throne room and beat her like she's some sort of thieving gutter rat in full view of the royal court. He and his family have made a mockery of the honorable order, reducing it to a band of murderers slaying defenseless women and children, then tormenting noble maidens."

The faces of the nobles, full of shock and disbelief, quickly turned angry and scornful. "Down with Joffrey!"

"Down with the Lannisters!"

More cries and angry shouts echoed, the men raising fists in the air while the women wept for her in pity. Arya had already gathered herself and tried to get Robb to let go of her shoulders, but he quickly whispered, "Just a bit more," before raising his voice to the crowd.

"Tywin Lannister sends us offers of peace and even claims he had my sister in custody. Seeing that my youngest sister is now here, it was but another lie from the beaten lion. We've had our fill of inbred kings and queens. There shall be no peace unless it's on my terms!"

Roars of agreement followed as nobles of all houses cried, "Stark! Stark! Stark!" Rivermen or Northmen, all of them were united against the Lannisters.

"Arya, this is our Uncle Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun." Robb brought her before his older look-alike, who smiled at her warmly. "Uncle, my sister is tired and needs rest. I must ask you to see to the troops and our returning valiant men."

Her Uncle barely nodded when Robb excused himself and led her away from the cheering crowd and into a nearby tower, a few guards shadowing them from a respectable distance.

"I'm sorry I had to use you like this, sweet sister." Robb held her shoulder and hugged her closer once more as they climbed a spiral staircase. "You cannot imagine my joy when I learned of your survival, especially after Bran…you nearly gave me a heart attack when Glover said you threatened him with your wolves if he tried to bring you here."

Arya awkwardly looked away, noticing the obvious stain on her brother's silk vest from her snot. "Sorry for ruining your clothes."

"What? This? This is nothing. Spoils from House Payne after sacking their castle. I have many more and would burn them all if you ask me to, just to be sure you are safe."

"Payne?" Arya growled.

"Aye, the same house of Ilyn Payne."

"He killed our father."

"He was but an executioner, a tool. Blame not the tool but the hand that wields it."

"…He still killed our father."

"True, and he is now dead. Sansa made sure of it and retrieved Ice from his grasp."

"Truly?!"

"Indeed, Olyvar? If you would." They had just exited the staircase and arrived at the top floor, where a lone corridor led to a large oak door. One of the guards climbing behind them approached, and the first thing Arya noticed was how similar he looked to Perwyn and the Frey sigil on his surcoat. Before she could decide whether he was cut from the same cloth as her betrothed or not, she noticed the massive sword in his grasp.

Robb unsheathed the Stark ancestral blade, revealing dark, smoky ripples running along the length of the blade, and Arya felt both joy and sorrow. The last time she saw her father's sword was when it was about to cut through her father's neck. Or perhaps it was her brother's sword now. "Thanks to Sansa and her sorcerer husband, Ice has returned home, and your sister has just arrived in Winterfell."

"So she's with Bran and Rickon now?" Arya had many questions in her mind, such as when had Sansa found a husband and who was the man in question, but she was just too happy to be here to care. For once, Robb looked lost for words, and Arya saw his eyes misting over, and she instantly knew something bad had happened. "What is it? Who died, Robb?"

"You know that someone important to us died." It was not a question, and Arya nodded seriously.

"Around a fortnight ago, Nymeria had begun howling in sadness, the rest of her wolves following suit. I did not know why, but I just felt sad whenever I connected with her at the time. The men grumbled for days how they couldn't sleep from all the howling."

"Aye, our direwolves are fascinating creatures." A long moment passed with them standing silently in the corridor. Robb had already returned Ice to its sheath, and his guards remained by the spiral staircase. "Theon betrayed us. The Ironborn took Torrhen's Square, and he killed Ser Rodrik and most of the Tallharts. Then, he attacked Winterfell, nearly taking it if not for Bran doing…something that managed to beat the Ironborn back. Our brother…well, there's no way to mince my words–Bran died in the process."

Arya felt like a stone had dropped in her stomach. Her heart beat so hard it hurt, and she bit her lips as tears returned to her eyes. But she did not have the luxury to grieve as she glared up at Robb. "Why was Theon in the North?"

Her brother had the saddest look on his face that just would not let Arya feel too much anger at him. Nevertheless, he straightened his back and put on a mask of coldness that reminded her of Father when he passed judgment on the Iron Throne; she had thought Eddard Stark looked kingly at the time, and looking at Robb now, she realized he, too, was now a king.

"I sent Theon to his father to negotiate an alliance. It was a mistake on my part."

The simple acceptance of fault was enough for Arya; she had a hunch it had to do with their connection to the direwolves, but Arya could tell Robb greatly regretted his decision. "And Theon? Is he dead?"

"According to Sansa, her husband had somehow sent his spirit to Winterfell when Bran called for help and boiled him alive with waters from the hotsprings." Arya gawked at the matter-of-fact way her brother talked, thinking he was jesting, but no, Robb was deadly serious, and she detected a good amount of uncertainty whenever he spoke about Sansa's mysterious husband.

"We really need to have a long talk about this sorcerer goodbrother of ours."

"That we do, but not now. You are tired and need to rest. Come, I have someone I want to introduce you to."

Robb bid her follow him to the door at the end of the corridor, but Arya still had questions and stopped him. "Wait, I have a few more questions. What was with that act in the yard?"

"What act? I really was delighted to see you again, sweet sister." She kicked Robb's shin as he smirked, only to regret it as her torn shoes struck his hard bone. Still, she refused to hop on one foot and glared at him, even as she tried to hide a smile as she recognized the truth in his words. "Alright, alright, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Tywin Lannister had somehow managed to bring the Vale into the war and now marches on Stannis Baratheon, who is sieging King's Landing. He must have heard of Theon's failed assault on Winterfell and offered us terms in exchange for joining him against Stannis. The terms were an utter farce, of course — demanding that House Stark return Myrcella Waters, who is a guest of Sansa's, relinquish all their lands south of the Neck and pay recompense to the lords of the west, and in exchange, we receive an empty princely title like Dorne and supposedly your return."

"That's a piss poor offer. I mean, I was never anywhere near Tywin Lannister aside from when he stopped in Harrenhal."

"Language, sweet sister." Robb's lips twitched with mirth. "But you are right — it was all a farce; had I agreed, the Lannisters would have come up with some excuse not to return you or claim you died. Unsaid in that offer was that House Tully would lose their newly acquired lands in the Golden Tooth. Your Uncle Edmure conquered it and negotiated a marriage with Lady Alysanne Lefford, thereby annexing it. Many of the lords had entertained such an offer, even some of the Northmen who are beginning to tire from the war and are worried about their homes and lands. The Riverlords are the true problem, especially those on our southern borders like Goodbrook and Deddings, who report that a Reach army, fifteen thousand strong, is slowly making its way towards the Gold Road with Lord Mathis Rowan at its helm."

A tapestry of the war was forming in Arya's mind, and she realized that with the Ironborn attacking the North, Robb needed the Riverlords to step up, especially after the disastrous defeat outside Harrenhal. That mummer's play in the yard, in front of all those nobles, was the spark that Robb needed to unite the Riverlords against the Lannisters. She wagered part of the agreement Lord Tywin sent must have included plenty of demands for hostages as well; considering their recent treatment of hostages, no noble would be willing to send their child to King's Landing under a Lannister king.

"I'm surprised you are telling me all of this." Arya looked strangely at her brother; he had a crown of iron and bronze sitting on his mane of red hair, with a full beard to match his uncle's. "I mean, I'm just your sister. I'm not smart like Sansa, who somehow ensnared a sorcerer straight from the age of heroes. I'm just…me. Arya Underfoot."

Robb gazed warmly at her and held her shoulders tightly. "Don't sell yourself short, sweet sister. You have managed to save my army when I thought all was lost. If it was not for you, I may have had to agree to Tywin's offer. True, Sansa had managed to save the North through her husband, and without that, our cause would have been all for naught. But you? You had nothing but your wits and Nymeria to save not only dozens of noble prisoners but nearly six thousand soldiers!"

Arya struggled to fight the heat rising to her cheeks and probably failed miserably. "Well, when you put it that way…"

"I have learned a harsh lesson from my time in the South, Arya. Nothing is more important than trusting your family and involving them in matters of the realm. If I had left you uninformed, who knows what my willful sister would have done." Arya scowled, only for Robb to ruffle her messy hair. "It is why I have sent an offer–" his tone suggested that it was more a demand than anything else "–to the Night's Watch to release Jon. We need as many of our pack on hand as possible."

"Jon is coming here?!" For the first time in a long time, Arya felt sheer joy at the idea of her favorite brother coming to her — Robb was great, but Jon was different. Her hands patted Needle, which was still on her hip, but she suddenly frowned. "But he is sworn to the Night's Watch. And the Black Brothers take vows for life."

"Aye, but as king, I can release him from such oaths. It helps that I gave Jeor Mormont an offer he cannot refuse. I'm sorry to say, though, Jon will not be joining us any time soon. I need him in the North, and it might be some time until the Night's Watch accepts my offer."

Arya groaned, tugging on his sleeve. "You better not have skimped on it. I want Jon here now!"

"There's my bratty sister! I was worried you were an impostor by how serious and morose you were acting." Robb ruffled her hair again, but this time, Arya dodged him and folded her arms with a scowl. "I missed that pout of yours as well."

She glared at the ground and muttered, "Not a pout. So Jon is not going to come here soon?"

"Perhaps when the chaos in our home is settled, but then we also have a wildling army outside the Wall and even the Others have decided to return." Arya looked at him in shock. "Yes, Arya, after all the madness that has happened over the past few moons, the Others returning is hardly that implausible. I might not be the best to say this–some would even accuse me of being a hypocrite–but we all have our parts and duties to do. Jon has his own, even if he is released from the Wall, knowing him, he will want to deal with that issue first."

Arya frowned, guessing that her brother was talking about his paramour. Still, she remembered his earlier words. "Wait! Aunt Lysa joined the Lannisters?!"

Robb's smile turned grim. "Believe me, I was just as appalled and furious as you are now. My scouts report they are still mustering at the Bloody Gate, while Jaime Lannister has returned to Maidenpool, leaving a strong garrison in Harrenhal — presumably preparing Mooton's fleet to ferry the Valemen in case I block the King's Road. No doubt, he plans to join with the Vale host and strike Stannis from the north while his father and Mace Tyrell attack from the south. I do not know what our aunt thinks; even Uncle Edmure claims she has gone mad, but a letter from House Royce claims Petyr Baelish is to blame for this. He even married her in the Eyrie, and Lysa Arryn declared him regent for our cousin Robert."

"Baelish!" Arya gnashed her teeth. "He was always a treacherous, smarmy bastard. Especially now that we met Mother's retinue on the road, and they told us about how he betrayed Father in the Throne Room."

"He did what?! Wait, Mother is here?" Robb looked like he did not know whether to smile or scowl, "I must have missed her. I was worried when we lost all contact with her after Bitterbridge…why are you shaking your head, Arya?"

"She is, uh, a guest in Stannis' camp. She sends a letter, though!" Arya hurriedly added as her brother growled. "In truth, Ser Perwyn Frey said Stannis sent a raven ahead, but…judging by your surprise, it never arrived."

"Aye, ravens are not the most reliable, even during times of peace. With the war raging on, any hungry peasant would sling down a raven with a scroll and sell it to the nearest noble. It has become a real issue in the Riverlands, with gangs of raven hunters stealing our scrolls and selling them to the enemy. Lord Blackwood was just about to ride out and hunt them down, but if his son is here…" Robb shook his head. "I need to meet with my lords. Come, let me introduce you to Elaena. You will be staying with her."

Robb then snapped his fingers, and Arya nearly jumped when a team of scullery maids and a septa seemingly appeared from hidden alcoves, holding changes of clothes and hot basins of water.

"Wait, my frien–I mean, my ladies in waiting are down there. Can you call them up?"

Robb looked at her strangely but glanced at one of the guards, who bowed and hurried down the stairs. "Already collecting ladies for your court? Smart."

Arya grimaced inwardly as she was certain her brother would not approve of a bastard girl and a half-peasant as her friends. Thankfully, he did not comment on her silence as he led her to the large oak door and knocked firmly, waiting until a pretty voice bid them to enter.

.

.

.

Arya hated dresses. Nearly as much as the gossiping maids that had scrubbed her clean despite all her protests.

"Oh, you look lovely, my dear!" Elaena Marbrand tittered as she brushed her hair and looked at their reflection in a large mirror. The maids had already been sent away, even Arya's friends. "I daresay every man in Westeros would be lucky to court you."

"Except I'm bound to some weasel of all things," Arya grumbled as she glared at her reflection; to be fair, the dress was very comfortable, not as restricting or ridiculous looking as some of the ones she saw in the Red Keep. Especially since it did not have those weird, laced bindings that made it harder to breathe; a gorget? No, she would love to see Robb's face when he sees her wearing a gorget to a feast.

Ah, a corset.

Elaena Marbrand's quarters were a large luxurious apartment with a balcony overlooking the Godswood. Wooden floorboards, a large bed, varnished vanities, wardrobes, and even a dedicated marble bathtub in an accompanying room. Arya and her friends had taken a room for themselves earlier in the day, but Elaena had insisted she stay with her so they may learn more about each other. The walls were laden with rich tapestries of House Tully, rivers, and trouts, as well as two familiar girls and a younger boy, all of them sporting the Tully red hair, standing on the shores of a river. Arya had learned that this tower was converted into a maiden's vault by Hoster Tully for his daughters, nothing like the prison Baelor Targaryen built for his sisters, but merely a tower for his precious daughters to call their own after the death of Minisa Whent. With her mother and aunt married off, the tower had fallen into disuse until her mother arrived and took residence in it once more. With her mother gone, Robb had allowed his lover to live in it.

"Now, now, it's not all bad. The Freys are among the most powerful houses of the Riverlands, and you are still a king's sister." Arya turned her gaze in the mirror to the face standing a head taller than her; she wanted to hate this woman. How she managed to ensnare Robb and even put a babe in her. Yet Elaena was just so nice and kind…a bit of an airhead as well. "If you ask Robb, I'm sure he can negotiate with the Freys to release you from that marriage."

And that was the problem. Arya could do that, and now, after talking to Robb and meeting his lover, Arya realized she could throw a tantrum and most likely get away with the betrothal annulled. Perhaps she could even convince Robb that marrying a Frey provided no benefits, that the Freys were already beholden to the Tullys. Another house from another kingdom could bring them far more swords than the Freys.

Inadvertently, an image of a charming face with purple eyes flashed in her mind, but Arya shook her head.

"Robb already gave his word. Even if he agreed to release me from that marriage, it would not look well on him considering…" She stared pointedly at the woman's reflection; her face had turned sad. "He still has to marry a Frey as well."

"Indeed he does," Elaena agreed, not looking one bit bothered at the prospect. "You are a very dutiful girl, Arya Stark, perhaps even more than Robb." Arya's breath hitched, but the woman merely hugged her. "Despite my desire to keep him to myself, I knew what to expect when we made love that fateful day. He offered to marry me, to keep my honor and snub the Freys, but I did not want that mark of dishonor to follow him. I convinced him I would be satisfied with being his mistress, his royal paramour, while he can marry that Frey girl."

Suddenly, the kindly face smiling at her in the mirror twisted, and a disdainful frown took its place, "Like a lowly house could hold a candle to what we have. Ice and Fire combined, our sons and daughters shall be kings–nay, gods among men!"

For a moment, Arya stood stock still, terrified as the woman's voice gained an eeriness that made all of her hair rise to an end. The sun's dwindling light suddenly shone brighter as a too warm breeze came from the open window, and the songbirds of the godswood sang their melodies louder than usual. As fast as it appeared, the spell was broken as Elaena smiled once more.

"Yet, for now, we must adhere to the plans of men, but soon, only the gods will tell us our path." Her brother's paramour turned her around and beamed at her, not a hint of malice on her face. "Nevertheless, you are my sister now, even if Robb and I are not wed. If you truly, truly do not want to marry a Frey, or anyone for that matter, do not hesitate to let me know. I will do what I can for my new sister. Now, let us be off; we have a royal feast in your honor."

Even when Arya had arrived at the Great Hall and took a seat next to Robb, she barely remembered the feast. Her mind was too busy processing what she knew about Elaena Marbrand. She had heard many claims she was a witch who had ensnared Robb, and while Arya could believe the woman was a witch, she also knew Robb would not let a pretty face seduce him; Greywind would have had her for lunch if that was the case. Arya had received permission from Robb to invite Greywind and Nymeria into the castle for the feast, and Uncle Edmure allowed them, but only in the Godswood.

That was still close enough for Arya to allow Nymeria to feel out Elaena Marbrand. Nymeria's senses could be trusted, and though her direwolf was wary of the woman for some reason, she found her agreeable enough. Greywind even seemed to huff at his sister as if telling her, 'I already tested her, and she's good.'

Then why was Arya feeling so restless? The feast flew by, and she barely listened to what Robb and the others said. Mother advising them to meet the Valemen in battle, or at least block them at the Bloody Gate, to give time for Stannis to capture King's Landing. A chance for an alliance with the Stag King. Arya barely even touched her mug of cider when a toast to her mother was called for slaying the Mountain — something that Arya vividly realized was an incredible feat, but once more, her eyes drifted to the smiling Elaena Marbrand as she tittered and giggled like a girl with the rest of the noblewomen.

Hours later, a dance was called, and Robb moved to dance with his paramour while Uncle Edmure danced with a beautiful blonde woman she realized was the Lady of the Golden Tooth. Many of the noble maidens approached her and tried to talk to her, but Arya didn't feel like talking or smiling; despite acting as polite as she could, they quickly grew bored and moved to dance with the many knights and warriors of renown. Arya still felt miffed that Catelyn Rivers and Willow Heddle were not allowed into the feast; the servants and lesser nobles had their feast in the kitchens. Strangely, even Ned Dayne was not around, and she wondered if he preferred the company of the squires and servants after nearly a year living among them in the wild.

A figure suddenly appeared in front of her table, breaking her out of her thoughts, and Arya stifled a scowl at the annoying smirk on Wendel Frey's face.

"Come, we must show the nobles how blessed we are to be together." When she didn't move, Wendel scowled and lowered his head to whisper. "You don't want to make trouble for your brother, do you? Perwyn might think himself a noble knight, but he is nothing to the rest of us. Most of our troops are with my father in the Twins, but many of our best are in the Westerlands. It would be a shame if I told my father that the bride we were promised rejected us most shamefully. Why, he might even demand King Robb to fulfill his–"

"His what, exactly?"

A hoary voice rumbled behind the boy, causing him to jump. Arya had seen the elderly man approach but did not know him. Now that he was standing like an unmovable tower, dressed in clean and shining armor with a black trout as a sigil, she recognized him as her great uncle Brynden Tully.

"S-Ser Brynden! I thought you were in the west!"

The infamous Blackfish had a glare that would have made a rock shiver, let alone a mere Frey.

"You thought wrong. Now, why are you bothering my grandniece?"

"Bothering? I am talking to my betrothed." Ser Brynden Tully loomed over Wendel Frey, his stature tall like a sentinel tree, and Wendel stepped back and nearly tripped into the table. "It's the truth! I was only inviting her to a dance. Ask her!"

The Blackfish turned to her questioningly, and Arya opened her mouth but froze. Should she use this chance to get rid of the annoying lout? She might be doomed to a life with him, but for now, she could still act like a little girl, right? Then she remembered her duties and how Robb could not afford any more discord in his kingdom.

Arya gave a demure smile, or at least tried to, as she replied to her great uncle. "It is the truth, Ser Brynden."

"A likely story." Another voice huffed, and Harrion Karstark approached, wearing mourning black. Arya recalled hearing his father had perished in the Westerlands. "I have seen your attitude, boy. Drinking and whoring, lying and bragging. I don't believe your words one bit about your knighthood, either."

"Y-You dare? You're just some lowly free rider from the North and…" Suddenly, Wendel stuttered as he noticed the doublet Harrion wore featuring the Sun of Karstark. "I thought your name was Harry."

Harrion Karstark laughed coldly. "I lacked my tabard on the road, and you only heard the Princess call me so. I am Harrion Karstark, the Lord of Karhold." He leaned closer, squeezing Wendel's shoulder dangerously close to his neck. "Let me give you a piece of advice, boy. You should learn when to shut your mouth, Ser Craven Frey. You have given me grounds to challenge you to a duel of honor, something no knight can decline without besmirching their name for life. Wars have been fought for less, and even your father wouldn't blink if I shorten you a head, Ser." Karstark's smile turned outright savage. "After all, there's so many of your ilk; nobody would care if one more dies."

The trembling Wendel mumbled out an apology and scurried away like a rat. Arya watched him in disdain, the boy did not even talk back or stand his ground. She could not help but feel utter disappointment…and anger. Arya could accept an unfaithful husband, a braggart even, but a craven liar?

Regret welled up in her chest; she truly wished Harrion had challenged her craven betrothed, but the opportunity was now gone.

"Are you alright, my dear?" her great-uncle asked, hoary voice surprisingly soft. It was the first time she had ever met him, and Arya was certain she would normally have latched onto such a legendary figure for tales of valor and war. But all she felt was exhaustion.

"I'm fine. Thank you for your words, uncle, but they were unnecessary." Arya stood and curtsied to both men. "As a king's sister, I have my own duties to uphold and–"

"And if you give the word, I swear to you, Princess, House Karstark would stand by you."

"Careful, Harrion. That sounds close to treason." Brynden rebuked, though his face seemed torn. "King Robb might forgive you for a grieving man, but Arya is right. No matter how much I sympathize with her, she has her duties to uphold. Besides, she's two and ten, and any ceremonies could be delayed until she's of age."

"Pah. Walder won't mourn his weasel sons," Harrion scoffed. "You know the saying–there are more Freys than rats in the Crossing. Perhaps I'll just keep killing them until Princess Arya ends up with a decent one."

"…Thank you, Harry." What could Arya say that would not encourage treason? Robb had enough burdens on his shoulders without her adding more even if she really wanted to agree to the Lord of Karhold's offer.

"I must beg my leave, Princess." After a moment of awkward silence, Harrion finally spoke. "King Robb has bid me to ride at first light for the west to take command of my men. Ser Brynden."

She waited until Harrion Karstark excused himself before turning to her great uncle and bowing. "I find myself tired from the road, so I must excuse myself for the night."

The Blackfish frowned for a moment before nodding. "I will let your brother know. Have a good night, Princess."

Arya did not remember how she managed to slip from the busy hall, considering she was the guest of honor. Everyone was too busy dancing and singing, eating or drinking. She did not eat much despite the many plates of trout offered to her; she never had trout before, at least not in Winterfell. Once she left the Great Hall, she glanced at the Maiden's Tower before making her way to the nearby godswood. As she entered the godswood, she glanced behind her, finding the same five guards who had sworn their swords to her in Hollow Hill, shadowing her every step.

"I do not want to be disturbed."

The guards saluted and arrayed themselves at the grove's entrance. It was more of an airy garden than a godswood, with streams and thick stands of great old elms and tall redwoods. None of the roots and primal feeling she recalled from the godswood of Winterfell. There were no torches or lanterns, but the full moon's bright rays and the clear skies illuminated the path for her. Arya made her way down a cobbled path flanked by lush grass and wildflowers. She could smell mint coming from somewhere as well, giving a refreshing feeling. Within a few moments, she found herself in front of the heart tree, a slender weirwood with a sad-looking face. It looked like a breeze could knock it over, nothing like the stout and hardy weirwoods of the North or even Harrenhal's heart tree.

It somehow reminded her of the South. Soft and slender, built for beauty and vanity rather than strength and survival. Was that what Arya was becoming? Vain and ditzy like the ladies she disdained when she was but a girl arguing with Sansa about the silliest of things?

Something soft touched her cheek, and Arya turned to find Nymeria's nose. Her direwolf licked her face, and she realized she was crying. Arya angrily wiped away her tears; she was not a damsel to cry and be so pathetic.

"What should I do, Nymeria?" She hugged her direwolf tightly as she sat at the base of the heart tree. "What should I do when confronted with the vows I swore to myself?"

Her direwolf huffed and laid down beside her; Arya somehow understood her and snickered. "Of course, the answer is simple to you. Just run to the forests and live off the land. I'm sure I can handle it, I still have my Needle–"

Her hands patted her side only to find it empty. Arya frowned sadly; she had left Jon's gift in her room, even though she promised never to let it out of her sight. She sighed loudly, "Am I turning to a lady, Nymeria?"

Her direwolf turned to her seriously and nodded her head, causing her to frown. "You're supposed to assure me that no, I'm just a very good mummer and that you will wait for the right moment to tear that idiot's head off. Oh, maybe if I gain a reputation as an unlucky woman whose husbands always die mysteriously right before the wedding, people will refuse my hand in marriage? That would help Robb, right?"

She turned to Nymeria only to find her gazing at another path different from the one she took, where a figure approached; the path led to the Maiden's Tower, and Arya had a good idea who it was. True enough, Elaena Marbrand approached with a confused look on her face.

"I thought I heard voices. Turns out it was you." The maiden with the flaming red hair smiled kindly at her, purple eyes gleaming in mischief. "Have you already gone mad to talk to your direwolf, Arya?"

"Better conversation than some others." Arya shrugged, causing the woman to giggle as she fearlessly approached and bowed to the direwolf.

"May I join you?" Nymeria gazed at her for a moment, then nodded, allowing the older girl to gingerly rest on the wolf's flank beside Arya. "Robb said the same thing when I asked him about Greywind. I take it you can truly understand each other?"

"It's a Stark thing."

"I believe it. I have…dabbled in magic and rituals ever since I discovered a tome in my late mother's jewelry box." Arya blinked at her brother's lover, her hands gently rubbing circles over her large belly. "Nothing I tried really worked aside from dreams that never made sense to me…until I met your brother. Then, everything seemed to change."

"Was it sometime early in the seventh moon of the year?"

"Yes. Strange. Have you experienced anything at that time? Robb had fallen ill, but I did my best to nurse him to health. When he awoke, his connection to Greywind was far stronger than ever." Elaena looked around the godswood. "Where is that big ball of fur anyway?"

"Off with Nymeria's pack. Both packs need to get accustomed to each other, so Greywind is handling that. Nymeria decided to be here with me." Arya scratched her direwolf behind her ear, just as she loved it. "And yes, that was when I discovered I was a skinchanger. Not just wolves but also ravens, cats, rats, hawks, and many other animals. I can slip into their minds easily enough, though controlling them is a different matter. What about you? What powers do you have?"

"I already mentioned my dreams. Some are visions of events that may come, and others are what has already happened. Nevertheless, I have other powers I would like to test, but I did not really have the chance to experiment." Elaena withdrew a tome from her pocket. It was a small leatherbound book that somehow looked harmlessly ordinary in a way that made Arya's gaze slide over it. "This is just my notes, not the actual magical tome I inherited from my mother. It's all in High Valyrian."

"I suppose you really are a witch." A thought came to her as she recalled something she read. "You're a descendant of Elaena Targaryen."

"Indeed. But the tome, while gifted to Viserys Plum's wife by my ancestor, was not written by Elaena Targaryen." Elaena grinned. "If I had to guess, she just picked it randomly from the king's vault and passed it on to her son."

"Was that something you saw in a dream?"

"~Maybe~"

"Is the rumor true then? That the Unworthy was the one to sire Viserys rather than the Plumm Lord?"

"~Maybe~"

"Alright, keep your secrets then," Arya grumbled at the grinning woman, who kept tittering happily as she pinched Arya's cheeks, who was far too tired to fight her off.

"Don't be like that, Arya. How about this: do you want to try one of the rituals in the book?"

Arya glanced at the woman, intending to scoff, only to find her face deadly serious. Her eyes glowed like purple torches in the darkness, and it had nothing to do with the full moon shining behind her. She knew it was a bad idea to dabble in magic, but she had long gone past the point of worrying about such matters; as long as she did not push herself like in Harrenhal, it should be fine.

"What kind of ritual?"

Elaena whispered softly, "A curse to be used on your enemies. Do you want to be rid of that betrothal? Tell me now, and we can try it."

Somehow, Arya could tell the woman was speaking the truth. Nymeria was wide awake and staring at the woman as well, yet felt no malice or ill-intent towards her. On the contrary, Arya sensed sympathy, kinship, and, strangely, love coming from the woman. It reminded her of the love her mother had for her, and Arya wondered if the woman's pregnancy was scrambling her wits.

After all, why would some soft southern lady feel such…selfless feelings for a girl she just met?

'But did that matter?' A ruthless part of her mind whispered. She promised to do her duty, to marry for her brother's crown, but this was her chance to have a say in the matter. Did it matter which Frey she married? Her previous betrothed had already died, and Walder Frey simply picked another for her. Wendel Frey was a disgusting grumkin, and she could not imagine a lifetime by his side. Besides, Elaena was not even sure if it would work.

What's the worst that could happen?

"What do I need to do?"

Elaena's face brightened as she explained what was necessary for the ritual. Blood from the target, which was easily gained when Arya warged into a raven, sneaked into Wendel Frey's room where he was fucking a wench, clawed his bare back, and pecked at his neck before flying back to the godswood as she relished at Wendel's pained cries. It was Elaena's turn to gawk at how easily she showed her powers of skinchanging; the raven held a bloody piece of meat that it spat in her palms.

She then watched as Elaena did her magic; all the while, Arya tried to ignore how the moon seemed to have a reddish tint to it, and the sad face on the heart tree wept bloodred sap. Elaena was muttering in High Valyrian as she used the weirwood as a focus of some sort. The details flew over Arya's head, but she simply clutched onto Nymeria's fur for comfort.

Suddenly, she felt something was wrong, and a powerful desire to sleep was overcoming her. She barely heard Elaena gasp and mutter, "This is unexpected," before she dropped to the ground. Arya hurried to catch her, but her arms were like lead, and her body was so exhausted.

Nymeria growled as she, too, seemed lethargic, but as they fell on the ground and darkness consumed them, Arya suddenly found herself awake again with Elaena beside her.

"Where are we?"

It was a strange rocky island overlooking a calm yet dark sea and a sky that looked like it was on the verge of storming.

"I was not expecting any more visitors."

They turned at the elderly voice that somehow brimmed with power, and Arya gawked as she found a powerfully built old man sitting in front of a blackboard with chalk similar to what Maester Luwin used to teach her lessons. He was dressed in dark green robes and somehow reminded her of her father, but it was not his presence that shocked her; it was the green-eyed blonde girl her age seated on a desk with writing utensils, almost like a student, who looked back at them in shock.

"Myrcella?"

Notes:

Political alliances can be nasty stuff. It is the sad reality of noblewomen in all societies and eras that they would be used as bargaining ships. It had to do with the fact women were weaker than men, and they were the only way to produce future generations.

A woman was given plenty of privileges and luxuries, but was not expected to fight, to work, to rule; she could do all of that if she had the power, but first and foremost, her duty was to pop heirs for her chosen dynasty and no one could ask her for more.

This is what Sansa is trying to avoid with her future daughters. If they will have a fraction of Percy's power, why should they allow those weaker than them to dictate their lives?

Arya discovers that life really is not fair, but at the same time, her stubborn nature prevents her from telling Robb about her misgivings. If she had told Robb, he would have thrown Wendel Frey from Riverrun's battlements and torn apart the marriage agreement. Not to mention, even if Arya approved of the wedding, he never would have let her live in the Twins–that's Arya's own misconception.

Still, she's a twelve-year-old, and we do stupid shit when we're twelve. I'm sure many of you used an Ouija board and other silly things to try and fix your problems. The problem is, this is Westeros; magic is very real.

Chapter 33: Hubris

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This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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"A-Arya? Arya Stark? Is that you? What are you doing here? How did you come here?!"

Arya, for her part, continued to gawk at the boring princess who complained about the direwolves in the wheelhouse, what felt like another lifetime ago, until she recalled who her family was. Who her mother and brother were!

Before she could angrily say something mean, Elaena stumbled forward and grabbed her shoulder. Arya glared at her, but her eyes quickly turned worried as she saw the state her brother's lover was in. Her knees were shaking, the grip on her shoulder was tight, and her face was twisted in a mix of awe and terror as she gazed at the stranger who seemed to remind her of her father.

"Elae–"

Suddenly, the redhead collapsed to one knee and bowed her head. "Lord Father! I am honored to be in your presence."

Silence…the rocky island they were in was suddenly consumed by the silence that followed Elaena Marbrand's words. Even the gentle splashing of the waves on the rocks seemed to cease. Myrcella had a queer look on her face, almost as if she were not sure whether to laugh or avert her eyes in embarrassment. The old stranger, on the other hand, had an amused look on his kindly face as he rubbed his beard in thought.

Naturally, Arya was the first to break the silence. "Wait, that's your father? I thought you were Lord Marbrand's daughter?"

"No, Arya. I meant the Lord Father. Now get down and greet the Father properly!" Elaena grabbed her arm and tried to drag her down, only for Arya to wrench her arm free.

"What do you mean, the Father? Granted, he does look like my father somehow, but…" Arya scrutinized the man further, focusing as hard as she could, as her father's face seemed to overlap with the greying man with sea green eyes. "Just who are you?"

"I am Poseidon. And I am just as surprised as you at what the young lady there called me." Poseidon chuckled as he suddenly moved. One moment, he was about twenty feet away, and the next, he was helping Elaena up. "Come now, my girl. You should not strain yourself when you are with child. Even if this is more of a dream than reality, there is no need to risk your health."

Elaena, for her part, visibly gulped and tried to say something, but kept stuttering like mad. Arya did not understand; the man, Poseidon, seemed kind enough, so why was the older girl so terrified?

Suddenly, another presence appeared near Myrcella, and Arya stared at the beautiful woman dressed in something she imagined a Dornishwoman would wear.

"My apologies for the tardiness. Some powerful maiden was praying, but when I appeared, she was–oh." The maiden folded her arms in amusement as she noticed them. "Well, that explains where they went."

Before Arya could blurt out the first thing in her mind, Elaena beat her to it. "The Maiden!"

Arya just felt confused.

.

.

.

"So let me get this straight, you are the Maiden of the Seven?"

"Correct."

"But you prefer to call yourself Kali–uh, Chalisa?"

"Calypso, dear."

"Yes, that. And this is a, uh, mindscape? What even is that? How did we get here?"

"Think of it as a dream that is also real, little Arya. As for how, well, we will get to that later."

"Okay? How can a dream be real? Never mind, I feel like I will just be more confused. More importantly, you mentioned that you have always watched over us. Over me?"

"As much as I can, dear, ever since your goodbrother arrived. It is not easy to communicate with mortals, especially when they do not have the gift."

Arya was still unsure about Sansa's husband or what that gift was, but apparently, it was not skinchanging; according to the Maiden, that was just the crest of the wave that was the magic of the First Men. They were seated at the table where Myrcella Lannister had her writing tools earlier, but they had now moved it to the side. Arya and Elaena were on one side while their three hosts sat across them — the blonde girl whom Arya could not help but glare at occasionally sat snugly between the beautiful maiden and the kindly old man.

Speaking of the man, "And this man is the Father? Is that why he looks like my father?"

At that, Poseidon gave a deep chuckle. "I have heard of the Father and wondered why he had never made an appearance. I have met with the Smith and the Warrior and know of the Stranger, but the Father, the Mother, and the Crone, I assumed, were in slumber." The man smiled warmly at Elaena. "While that may still be true, your strong belief in me being the Father appears to have awakened something."

Arya had no idea what any of that meant, but glancing at Elaena, she seemed to have a smidgen of an idea as she smiled demurely.

"I have seen you in my dreams. I know of your son and his exploits, but he is not a god." Elaena suddenly stiffened as her purple eyes seemed to shine, and her face turned impassive. "You, however, I have seen what you did, what you could do, what you may yet do. The foreign god with the Father's disposition. With the power to rock the world, shake the seas, and bring peace or destruction to the tides and the land. You are an enigma, yet you fit in so well in the puzzle that is the divinity of this world. The others tolerate you, so they could use your son for their own advantage, yet you need not play to their tune. You need only claim your place, and the empty seat of the Father shall be full once more, allowing you to wield power you–"

"That's enough, my child." Poseidon's voice was gentle but firm, and Elaena was struck silent as she shook terribly, as if coming out of a trance. "I did not expect to find one such as you so easily. An oracle, one that still retains her powers despite losing her purity even. This world truly is a strange one, but it would not do for you to burn yourself out for a simple chat."

Arya looked in worry at her brother's lover. Blood was flowing from her eyes and nose, and she was suddenly overcome by a coughing fit as her face paled. Arya hurriedly patted her back in comfort, but then Calypso suddenly came on her other side and touched Elaena's head. Her new friend stopped coughing, the blood stopped, and her countenance got healthier as she stared in wonder at the Maiden.

"T-Thank you, I-I am honored. I am not worthy of–"

"Shush, now, my dear. You need rest and better control of your powers, but…" Calypso stared at Poseidon, and both seemed to be having some sort of silent conversation before the man—no, the god nodded. "I reckon you two do not have much time before you awaken. Someone is watching over your bodies at the moment, but he can only delay reporting to your King for so long. You need training for your powers, both of you."

"Wait, even me?"

"Yes, dear, unless you want to risk losing yourself in a rat the next time you go exploring?"

Arya's face reddened in embarrassment before glaring at the giggling blonde girl across her. "Why is she here in the first place? Wasn't she with my sister?"

"But I am with Sansa. In Winterfell, to be more precise." Myrcella smiled demurely, yet Arya scowled at the glint in the girl's emerald eyes. "Judging from what Calypso says, you will be joining me in my magic lessons."

"You? Magic? What kind of magic could you possibly possess?"

"Oh, a little bit of this and that." Myrcella waved her hand dismissively. "Not much from the First Men or Valyrian like Elaena here, but apparently, I have a different kind of talent. Don't fret, as your senior in the studies of magic, I shall take good care of you."

"I don't need any help from you."

"Shame, I would love to see what you can do." Myrcella narrowed her eyes as she smirked. "Surely, you can do more than parlor tricks like looking through a raven's eyes or depending too much on your direwolf."

"They worked very well in scaring your uncle into letting us go from Harrenhal. He must have pissed himself when Nymeria glared at him."

"He did not!" It was Arya's turn to smirk as the girl retorted, her grin wiped away.

"Did too."

"Did not–"

"That's enough, girls," Poseidon interrupted, patting Myrcella's head and exchanging a wry grin with Calypso — the blonde girl closed her eyes in pleasure, nearly purring like a cat, before flushing red and coughing, trying to look like the demure princess she was supposed to be. She failed terribly. "We have yet to discuss what you two were doing before coming here."

Arya fidgeted awkwardly and glanced at Elaena, who had recovered well enough to mirror her discomfort. Thankfully, the older girl took it upon herself to explain what they were doing.

Suffice it to say, both gods were not particularly amused. "You're lucky it was us you happened upon, for such a ritual required too much power. The roots of the weirwood sought more power from elsewhere instead of wringing you dry, and thus brought you here."

Arya shivered and glared sideways at a bashful Elaena. Poseidon was not done, however.

"More importantly, you would kill an innocent man so you could escape an uncomfortable wedding? After vowing to do your duty no less."

"Wendel Frey is not innocent!" Arya growled. "He's a kinslayer and a liar. I would kill him thrice over than curse myself to wed such a cur."

"And you absolutely know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is what you accuse him of?"

Arya fidgeted again as she stared at the man, who seemed to resemble her father even more. It was almost like Eddard Stark was talking to her at that moment, right after he caught her sneaking into the training yard. It both filled her heart with a sense of longing yet gave her a deep sense of sadness. She quickly shook away the melancholy in favor of showing her resolve; it would be easy to blame Elaena for enticing her with that curse, yet Arya was not a nithing—she agreed to it, knowing full well it would kill the craven liar.

"Perhaps there is a simple method to ascertain the girl's claims." Calypso chimed in before Arya could answer. The Maiden stood and walked towards a weirwood that Arya hadn't noticed before—wait, how in the Seven Hells did she not notice a weirwood? She caught the Maiden grinning at her. "Magic, my dear. Now, let's see Wendel Frey. Hmm, the scarcity of weirwoods south of the Neck makes it a little troublesome, but the roots run deep, making it simple for someone like me to see the truth, compared to, say, an untrained greenseer. Come along now, let us see the truth of your accusations."

Arya glanced at Elaena, who shrugged and stood. She followed the older girl but frowned when Myrcella joined them, the blonde princess all prim and proper in her black and gold dress. Arya was sorely tempted to demean the girl and accuse her of being an abomination born of incest, but something stopped her. It would be too petty, especially as the girl clearly believed she was Robert Baratheon's child, judging by the colors of her dress and the crowned stag sewn over her chest.

They stood before the weirwood, and suddenly, they were in a war camp overlooking a castle she recognized as Darry; it reminded her of that day when the Hound killed the butcher's boy, Micah. Arya focused on the familiar form of Wendel as he glared hatefully at a boy her age who looked similar to him, walking behind a man she recognized as Roose Bolton.

That had to be Elmar Frey, her late and unlamented betrothed. Bolton handed a scroll to his squire before heading to a large pink tent, and the Frey boy hurried in the opposite direction, closer to the battle lines, to deliver the message.

Wendel followed, armed with a bow and a quiver of arrows, and waited until Elmar was passing by a catapult, throwing stones at the castle before loosing his arrow. It struck Elmar in the neck, and the boy was dead before he hit the ground. Wendel grinned savagely before the sound of wood clattering on the ground made him turn, and another boy wearing the Twins surcoat stared at him in shock. Wendel did not hesitate as he drew another arrow and loosed it, piercing the boy in the heart.

The scene shifted to the Frey boy standing beside a knight wearing a black tabard with two intertwining snakes. Wendel sobbed at the sight of his dead brother and cousin being attended by the silent sisters. Arya, however, saw no tears, and as the knight patted Wendel Frey on the shoulder in comfort, the scene shifted once more, and they were outside Harrenhal. Men were fighting, most were running away, and the same knight from earlier was fighting against two soldiers wielding halberds, yet his armor was missing.

Arya watched as Wendel Frey shook where he stood with a spear in his hand. One of the soldiers was not facing him, and even Arya could see it was an excellent chance for the squire to help his knight. Yet, her betrothed turned tail and ran, leaving his knight to die a dog's death.

"That's damning enough, I believe." Calypso's voice echoed, and Arya shuddered as they returned to the island. The Maiden turned to the Father, whose face was inscrutable and further reminded Arya of her father's Lordly face. "I say the girl had it right. If it were up to me, I would make sure he would have some misfortune in his life."

"Yet it is not up to us to dictate how men live. They can be good, and they can be evil; it is their right to act how they see fit." Poseidon replied stoically. "The gift of Free Will is one that was guaranteed to them by the divine—it is something that is in common with the mortals of my world as well."

"True, Wendel Frey would surely be punished in the cycle for his crimes, yet the die is already cast. Arya and Elaena have used a curse, a powerful one at that." Calypso turned to them then. "You do not understand the consequences of what you have done, do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Curses must not be used lightly." Poseidon sighed. "An old saying from my world goes like this: Dig two graves when casting a curse. One for your victim…and one for yourself."

Dread filled Arya's stomach as she stared at the two gods, thinking they were jesting. But no, they looked deadly serious. Even Myrcella looked sad and worried. Arya turned to Elaena, whose face had gone deathly pale, and clutched her bulging stomach.

"T-That was not in the notes…"

"Ah, your ancestor's, Visenya Targaryen's magical tome. A strong queen who was learned in witchcraft but was wise enough not to dabble with it needlessly. 'The Lineage's Blight'…considering the particular curse you used, I believe there will be unintended consequences." The Maiden replied, her face impassive and her brown eyes flinty. "It is the price of such power to directly interfere in the fate of another. If mortals could so easily kill their foes without dirtying their hands, chaos would reign. Only gods can change one's fate and lay curses upon the world, and even then, we would think twice before cursing an innocent soul."

"But Wendel is–"

"Yes, yes, he is a scoundrel whom I would not think twice before smiting him and his line for offending me, let alone his crimes." Poseidon waved her off; the dismissive way he spoke about killing an entire line of people terrified Arya — it reminded her that these two were not humans. "But that is my prerogative as a god. You are a mortal. You wish to murder someone? Then do it with your own hands, not by twisting the threads of fate."

Was it that simple? Arya could have easily killed Wendel at any time, whether with her own hands or through someone else. Harry Karstark told her several times he would not hesitate to kill the braggart, especially earlier at the feast when the fool insulted him. It would have been so easy, so simple, and even accepted by the nobility, as it would have been an honor duel.

"This is my fault." Elaena sobbed as she collapsed to the ground. "I-I thought I was helping my new family!"

"The road to Tartarus is paved with good intentions." Poseidon gently replied. "Now, what will the price be? Your unborn child's life? One of you? Or perhaps the direwolf?"

The mention of Nymeria finally hammered home in Arya's mind the severity of their situation. Her eyes were wide as she stared at the kindly man who even now still reminded her of her father; even his tone of voice was like Ned Stark giving her a choice between washing the dishes in the kitchens or helping with the laundry as punishment for her mischief.

Arya turned to the Maiden for help, but Calypso merely watched impassively; she was on her own. There was no way Arya would let Elaena pay the price for her decision, but paying for the curse with Nymeria's life was out of the question. She had already betrayed her direwolf once. Never again.

She dropped to her knees and lowered her head. "I would beg for your mercy, but if you don't have any, then I will take responsibility."

"What? Arya, no!" Elaena yelped. "I was the one who convinced you to–"

"Impressive." Poseidon interrupted. "You would take responsibility so easily?"

Arya shrugged. "I made my decision, and it would be craven to try to escape the consequences of my actions. My only regret is that I didn't simply slit the knave's throat in his sleep and be done with it."

The silence that followed was dreadful as Arya could hear Elaena's harsh breathing and see her nervously wringing her hands. But Arya felt peaceful, as if she was content with her decision. Perhaps she could be allowed another life with Nymeria afterwards.

"Very well. You–"

"My Lord. My Lady. If I may," Arya flinched and looked up to find Myrcella standing in front of her and curtsying politely despite Poseidon's frown. "You mentioned earlier that cursing mortals is the domain of the gods — surely you could endure the cost of the curse far more than mere mortals? Perhaps you could show mercy this time, for these two are your kin now."

"Using their relation to me does not work, Myrcella. I'm not particularly concerned about kinslaying. If we go by these lands' norms, I myself am one of the highest degree, having helped my siblings chop my father up into a thousand pieces and throw the remains into the abyss." Poseidon wryly replied, the casual words sending chills down her spine. "Yet, I will admit I was young and foolish at the time—no matter how much my father deserved it. Moreover, Percy would not forgive me if he discovered I caused his wife any grief."

"Indeed, your son is the type to burn the world with his own hands if it meant his loved ones would be safe," Calypso said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Not to mention the Builder would not be amused either. This will set my progress in accumulating power by weeks, if not moons, going against the Overseers' laws like this."

Arya looked at Elaena, finding her mirroring her shock. She did not dare hope…

"Hmm, true. Naturally, I shall lend my power as well, but perhaps some form of punishment is still in order." Arya gulped as Poseidon gazed at her, his sea-green eyes shifting to a familiar gray, looking even more like her father than ever before. "At least to show our sincerity to the Old Gods while at the same time instilling in your minds the risk of dabbling with powers you are not prepared for."

"Agreed. First, you two shall be our minions in the mortal world. Whatever we ask of you, you shall do without complaints." Calypso folded her arms as her amused grin returned. "Second, you shall be attending lessons with Myrcella during your sleep. You have yet to thank her for saving your lives, I notice."

"Thank you, Princess." Elaena hurriedly showed her gratitude before nudging Arya to do the same.

"T-Thank you, Myrcella." Arya looked at the girl in a new light. To think she would come to their rescue when—that amused glint in her eyes, as if she had won a game, stared back at her as the insipid girl smiled demurely.

"You are very welcome, Arya. We are almost kin, after all."

Why did she constantly feel like the girl was somehow mocking her?

"Thank you again, uh, Lord Father? Lord Poseidon, then," Elaena hurried to correct herself when the god grunted. "I beg your pardon, and not to sound ungrateful, but I must say none of your conditions can be considered a punishment. In fact, I would even say you are re—"

Arya elbowed the airheaded girl in dismay. What the fuck was she saying?!

"Ah, thank you for reminding me, child. You will learn of your punishment when you awaken. Which should be now."

Suddenly, Arya felt incredibly dizzy as the world shifted to darkness. The last thing she saw was Myrcella waving goodbye at her. She opened her eyes and found herself staring at a pair of grass-green eyes looking at her in worry.

"You're awake! Thank the gods."

They were still in the godswood, and the sun was just beginning to rise. Arya groggily stood and found Elaena doing the same, though she was leaning heavily on Nymeria, who looked alert.

"Who?"

"Ah, I am Jojen Reed. I was out on patrol and arrived late last night. The castle is abuzz as some Frey lordling has suddenly died in his sleep. Imagine my surprise when I found you three collapsed on the roots of the Heart Tree. I would have called for the King if not for a vision from the gods telling me to wait."

Vision from the gods? Ah, he must be the one the Maiden spoke of. The mention of the gods had Arya shivering from fear; her head felt cold as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on her. Poseidon and Calypso, the Father and the Maiden…Arya was utterly confused about their existence. The gods were real, yet one of them was apparently a foreigner and also her goodfather, while the other used weirwoods instead of statues. Arya did not really look forward to the so-called lessons she would be doing with them—she would rather stay as far away from them as possible.

Though, perhaps it would be nice to learn actual magic. To have the power to control her own fate…and show Myrcella her place! Honestly, acting so high and mighty when she was just Joffrey's sister.

"Uh, Princess? Are you sure you're fine?"

"Yes, I am. You mentioned a Frey died?" Arya did her best to hide her excitement, only showing slight curiosity, though Jojen continued to stare at her queerly.

"Aye, Wendel Frey, I think was his name. Apparently, his heart burst while he was, uh, embracing a lady friend."

Arya didn't feel overjoyed like she expected. Instead, a numb acceptance settled in her chest. The gods must have come through, though a part of Arya felt trepidation as she recalled the Maiden's words about unintended consequences.

"Elaena, are you–" Arya turned to the redhead only to gawk. Her long and vibrant hair was falling away to the ground, and even as she watched, the woman's head had gone completely bald.

"Your hair!"

Elaena's yelp had Arya jump as she reached up her head and found it just as bare.

Punishment.

The word was like a breeze on the wind, and Arya groaned.

"Well, I, uh, suppose I shall keep what happened here to myself, but, uh, perhaps you two should hurry to your quarters?" Jojen stepped back, his face twitching in amusement. "I shall excuse myself to bed."

The older boy hurried away, leaving Arya and Elaena staring at each other in silence…until they burst out in laughter and hugged each other, their laughs turning into tears and sobs.

"I-I'm so sorry!"

"I thought we were going to die!"

"That was so scary!"

"Nymeria! Come and hug me!"

The direwolf obliged, confusion flowing through their bond, but Arya didn't care. She did not care that she had gone bald; she only felt glad that the gods were merciful. She wanted nothing more than to go to sleep and forget that ever happened, but that meant they would return to that island once more. The choice was taken from her hand when, after several minutes of them crying their hearts out, groggy groaning came from the entrance, causing them to freeze. Nymeria hurried outside and found their guards awakening from slumber.

If Arya had to guess, the Maiden must have somehow put them to sleep.

Deciding that they had been away for too long, Elaena grabbed her, took off her shawl, and covered her head with it. Arya did the same with her own and hurried past the guards, muttering that they were dismissed, before rushing to their tower. As soon as they were back in their quarters, exhaustion seemed to set in, and it was a small miracle that Catelyn and Willow were already asleep in their rooms.

Arya and Elaena barely got out of their clothes before they both collapsed on her bed and fell into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

.

.

.

It was a few days later that Arya learned the true extent of the curse. Robb and her uncle were shocked when they found her and Elaena bald, but they managed to convince them it was a mishap with a dye. They decided they would rather shave their heads than walk around with garish blue hair — thankfully, Poseidon's punishment did not stop them from growing their hair back, though the looks Arya had to endure did not help.

Regardless, it was when news came of turmoil in the Twins that Arya realized how bad things had become. Lord Walder Frey had perished from a burst bladder. With the death of several of his sons over the past year, including his heir Stevron Frey in the Westerlands and his son Ryam Frey barely a few days ago to a mishap with a lizard lion, the lordship of the castle came into question.

With the death of their lord without him assigning an heir, a succession crisis erupted in the Twins. By law, the seat would go to Edwyn Frey as the next in line after Ryam, yet he died outside Harrenhal with his brother Petyr. Walda Frey, daughter of Edwyn Frey, would have been next in line, and she was in the Twins when Lord Walder perished, yet news arrived that she mysteriously fell from the castle's walls and into the Green Fork, never to be seen again.

Black Walder would have been next in line, but more news came from the West; Black Walder Frey perished when he fell off his horse and broke his neck. That meant that by law, the Twins would fall to Walder Frey's second son, Emmon Frey, who was in Casterly Rock with his wife, Genna Lannister, something that Robb would never allow.

This was far too coincidental, and when Arya questioned Elaena, the budding witch confessed that she did not really know the curse's name when she used it. Only when Calypso said the name Lineage's Blight did they guess the results.

"I suppose we now know for sure who Wendel's father is. To think Black Walder was cuckolding his great-grandfather."

Arya did not know whether to laugh or cry at the scatterbrained older woman who immediately started gossiping; she knew that Elaena was intelligent and not a lackwit, yet she needed to set her priorities.

Sometimes, in her attempts to help, Elaena ended up making queer decisions with devastating consequences. Almost like a herald of chaos, that one.

Now, Robb was forced to abandon his plan to march on the Vale army, for it appeared Tywin Lannister had somehow learned of the crisis. The Lion Lord and his Rose ally were stuck by the Golden Bridge, where the Stormlands army repelled any attempt to cross.

Alas, a thousand miles of distance was hardly an inconvenience for Tywin Lannister's schemes. He somehow convinced Cleos Frey, Emmon Frey's son, to take control of the Twins and seize the Northmen's loot flowing to the North. Arya later learned that Cleos Frey was the same knight that her uncle put in a pillory for his role in unknowingly aiding Jaime Lannister's escape, and only when Lord Walder paid a handsome weregild to his liege lord was he released, but banished to the Twins in disgrace.

The humiliated knight seized the opportunity, murdered any opposition and loyalists to Robb, and swore vengeance against the Starks and Tullys before proclaiming fealty to Joffrey Baratheon. Cleos Frey had at least two thousand men ransomed from Jaime Lannister; all he needed to do was to hide in the Twins or harass the Rivermen.

Arya watched on with Elaena and other nobles as Robb and her uncle Edmure departed with a strong force for the Twins. Whether they would be able to talk reason to the knight or storm the castle remained to be seen—the Northmen were baying for blood when they learned the duplicitous knight had seized their loot.

In all the confusion, none had brought up Arya's betrothal, and she had no intention to remind others of it. Arya might have been freed from it, but it appeared her selfishness had caused a lot of trouble for her brother.

A*H*M

Jon

"So you think it is true. Rhaegar Targaryen really is my sire?"

It was after the battle, if it could truly be called a battle rather than a massacre, and Jon sat with Benjen around a fire pit. The cannibals and their Ice Singer leader did not stand a chance once they attacked their rear. Once Jon slew the Ice Singer and his uncle killed the Ice River clan's chieftain, the rest either fled, only to be hunted down by his wolves, or threw their weapons and surrendered. The Ice Singer truly was flesh and blood. After Jon looted his belongings and claimed his steed, Ghost had feasted on his flesh, not leaving a single bone before picking the marrow clean.

Jon almost imagined the direwolf got even stronger and bigger, but it was most likely the snow tricking his eyes.

The Walrus chieftain wanted to kill those who surrendered, but they were not his prisoners to kill; Jon had swiftly put him in his place and managed to earn his respect. Now, his budding warband had increased in size by twice; more than two thousand wildlings swore fealty to him, even if less than half could fight. It was a few hours later, and after making sure everyone was settled, that Jon finally had the chance to speak to his uncle.

"Looks like it, if a bloody dragon thought you were worth leaving alive, even if it was an ice dragon. I can't claim to know much about the rebellion or what Ned has been through, but Lyanna's disappearance took all of us by surprise. I cannot be sure if she was kidnapped or seduced by the Silver Prince, but we were very close, and despite her willfulness, I always thought she was closer to Sansa in demeanor than Arya." His uncle chewed thoughtfully on a skewer of roasted meat from the fire between them. "I always wanted to join the Night's Watch. I ruled Winterfell during the war, you know. Did not particularly like it. Once Ned returned with you, I just believed him when he said you were his before telling him I was going to the Wall. I longed for a life of adventure and conflict, running a castle, mediating feuds, and balancing ledgers is just not for me. Ned hated that."

"Oh? He did not want you to join the Night's Watch?"

"No, he wanted me to marry and sire more Starks. 'There's only the two of us now, Benjen. I need you here with me.' I refused to marry, for I feared I would stay with my new family. Instead, I lingered in Winterfell until Sansa was born, packed my things, and left. Not even the King can stop someone from voluntarily joining the Black Brothers, let alone the Lord of Winterfell. We did not speak for a whole year until Ned invited me for the harvest feast."

Jon remained silent as he flexed his fists and gazed at the strange yet ethereally beautiful creature in the distance, tending to two unicorns; one that Jon claimed from the dead Ice Singer while the other belonged to his uncle. Benjen also had a full set of frost armor and sword that fit him perfectly, making Jon slightly jealous — his own looted set was a mismatch. When Jon first saw the woman his uncle called Nyra, his first instinct was to slay her, but Benjen stopped him.

"She's an Ice Singer, Uncle. She is one of the Others!"

"Yet she is my woman and carrying my child." The icy woman definitely had a bulging belly as she stared fearfully at him from behind his uncle. The love in her gaze as she looked at Benjen looked genuine, by what Jon could sense. Did Lyanna Stark feel the same towards Rhaegar? "She saved me when I was captured, and I have learned a lot from her, and in turn, she has learned plenty from me."

Jon would have stubbornly insisted that Benjen had been fooled, that he was hoodwinked just like the Corpse Queen did to the Night King, if not for the Earth Singers calming him down.

"We also had a similar reaction to you, Jon." Crown had told him, as the rambunctious Singer had hugged his head tightly when they reunited and insisted he sit on his shoulders. It was almost like having Bran or Rickon around, despite Jon knowing Crown was at least thrice his age. "But when we were almost ambushed by frost giants and snow spiders, Nyra saved us. She controlled the snow to hide us, confronted the frost giants, and spoke to them in a queer tongue that sounded so familiar yet so foreign to us. She could have had us killed right then and there, but she chased them off in favor of staying with her lover."

"And you were all fine with that?"

"Well, Leaf was not, but she's the oldest one of us and stubborn in her ways. We all originally came from different tribes, united only by the Three-Eyed Crow's wisdom. Apparently, the same could be said of the Ice Singers; there are many tribes of them, and they are hardly united."

That had given Jon pause. His father had taught him plenty of ways to deal with divided foes. Nyra was talented at enchanting things and controlling ice and snow, but did not know necromancy, something he was honestly glad for. She knew how to enchant those armor and crystalline swords, even resizing them to fit Benjen and offering to do the same for him, but not how to create them. She was more an artisan than iceforger, yet according to Benjen, she was a pampered princess who never worked a day in her life and had to rely on him to survive the wild.

"This sounds like something out of one of those stories Sansa would read." Jon shook his head ruefully. "The otherworldly princess who fell in love with the handsome rogue that her overly strict family wanted to kill in some heathen ritual. Whatever happened to that orb you mentioned?"

"Ah, this?" His uncle produced the strange crystal orb from a sack. "It had gone dark once I stopped feeding it blood. Strangely, it did nothing when I poured animal blood on it; even some of those cannibals, when I fed their blood to it, nothing happened."

While curious, Jon had shifted the conversation to what he truly cared about: his lineage. This brought him back to their discussion.

"How come you don't seem to care that Father lied to us about this?"

His uncle just shrugged.

"Does it matter? You are still my nephew, whether you are Ned's, Lyanna's, or even Brandon's, you are still my blood and kin, and does not make you any less of a Stark, even if your name is Snow," Benjen answered in such a matter-of-fact way that it floored Jon. "If you are truly insistent on learning the truth, then there's only one man alive who knows for sure what truly happened in the Tower of Joy."

"Who?"

"Howland Reed. He lives in the Neck, rarely leaving it. In fact, I have not seen him since the day your father returned from Robert's Rebellion."

Uncle Benjen chewed the last of his meat skewer before wiping his hands and standing up with a stretch, his hair was slowly returning to black, yet more than half of it was white as snow, though his eyes remained bright blue compared to the grayish-blue he was accustomed to. Yet, it was still his beloved uncle underneath it all.

"I think I like this place," Uncle Benjen confided, but there was resignation in his tone. "I doubt I will be allowed back to the Night's Watch with Nyra in tow, but I can continue to follow my vows to protect the realms of men from here. I will see if I could rally this rabble to construct a port town of some sorts. You should return and report what we found to Jeor. I am not truly worried about Mance Rayder and his army, but according to Nyra, the Others are on the prowl. Some chieftain of theirs is busy uniting the other tribes, and sooner or later, they will strike at the Wall. From what she said, it sounds similar to Bloodraven in powers and position, an ancient observer that awakened and is guiding the Ice Singers."

"That's not good. Do you know why they want to attack us?" Bloodraven gave many theories, but Uncle Benjen was the only man ever to survive them, not just survive, but thrive!

"Why do humans fight each other? Wealth, women, slaves, lands, glory…you name it. Don't fret, I'm sure we can have Ned do something as Hand of the King and send some aid. Even the Faith would be excited to fight against a heathen foe, let alone the bored and pampered knights of the realm."

Dread filled Jon's heart as he had completely forgotten to tell his uncle about the situation in the South. But Uncle Benjen was right; Jon had to return to the Wall. He could not return with his new warband, and it would take a lot of work convincing Jax and the rest to remain here with Benjen. They had not been enthused at the presence of Nyra either, yet the Earth Singers had easily gained their awe and worship.

Jon would need some companions; Crown and a few other Earth Singers could join him. The wolves, too, of course, or else they would quickly eat all the animals in this valley if left to their devices. A direwolf couple had already bonded with Uncle Benjen, and with them came a dozen smaller wolves; those could stay behind and protect his uncle.

In the meantime, he had to tell his Uncle the terrible news. "Uncle Benjen…"

Notes:

Actions have consequences. If it were that simple to kill someone, then half the world would be dropping like flies. It's the problem with magical settings; there has to be some form of balance. With great power comes a great price.

Arya and Elaena were lucky, really lucky, that they only got out with merely hair loss. My editor wanted Elaena to miscarry and Arya to lose Nymeria, and to be honest, I was tempted, sorely tempted, to emphasize that actions have consequences.

But I'm just a softie and I already killed one Stark; it's too early for another to die (yes, I count the direwolves as Starks).

Thankfully, Myrcella came with the save. Poseidon and the Maiden are not cruel, but there are rules they have to follow. They might be gods, a term that I personally find disdainful and overly misused, but they are not omnipotent. Omnipotent gods are boring in a story.

Jon reunites with his uncle. Poor Benjen; he has been out of the loop for a long time. With this, we should be done with the Beyond-the-Wall plot thread for some time.

Chapter 34: Horsing Around

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This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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Somewhere in the Barrowlands, northeast of Barrowton

"Quite the fine specimens you have there."

"...I assure you, Lord Perseus, they were not so large or vicious-looking when they escaped a few weeks ago." Roose Ryswell replied from where he sat on his horse beside him. "Nor were they so heavily muscled."

"You sure about that? Cuz, those are some big horses." Percy whistled as he leaned forward on his saddle and inspected the herd of feral horses that had escaped from the battle near Torrhen's Square and joined with other similar herds. "I know animals are usually bigger in colder places, but hot damn! That horse is even bigger than Blackjack here!"

Said horse could be mistaken for one of those overly large draft horses due to its ridiculous size, but its proportions were definitely that of a destrier—if it were on steroids and received his father's blessings. The typically well-balanced muscles were even more pronounced, with not a single hint of fat; the stallion's body looked to be brimming with power, and its muscles and tendons almost seemed harder than stone. It looked as if it had fallen into a testosterone vat and drank it all before lathering itself with gym oil.

His own horse snorted underneath him and pawed the ground irritably; he did not need to speak horse to understand his disdain.

"Those brutes are all brawn with no wits or skills. Let me at 'em, boss, and I'll get the entire herd to follow my lead."

Blackjack had also grown stronger in the months since they bonded. He was already a powerful horse with great size, strength, intelligence, and stamina, yet he was never the most agile or the fastest horse. Now, however, his horse had gotten bigger, better, and swifter—purely from proximity to Percy. And a healthy diet that included a bit of Percy's blood, of course.

Who would have thought his blood would be a panacea to practically everything here? By his father, it was not just the blood but his sweat, spit, and even seed! When he and Sansa got a little frisky in the Godswood of the Dreadfort—his wife had refused to fuck in the castle itself from its eeriness and decided to give a final fuck you to the Bolton Line the day they left—Percy spilled some on the ground, only for the earth to absorb it. He could have sworn the wind got stronger and the earth slightly shook. He really hoped he did not just accidentally impregnate the land itself, like Poseidon did when he had a bad pull-out game and unknowingly created Antaeus.

"You just want a few mares for yourself, you damned horny horse." Percy shook his head to banish such creepy thoughts and slapped his steed's head affectionately; there was no use worrying about his little accidental magical monster bastards—Dad had thousands of them, and he turned out alright…for the most part. "Still upset you couldn't mount Wylla's horse? She's barely a mare, Bran's old horse at that, and far too small for you."

"Hey, she's good stock. Not like the canners I've been around down South, which are only good enough for stots and drays. The ones in that White City were alright, and I'm sure several of them are carrying my foals, but I've been on the road for a long while since then. A stud's gotta get some action, you know." Blackjack shook his head; Percy ignored the weird looks from the surrounding riders, most of whom had gotten used to his strange habits, especially when he talked to his horse, though his new squire, Larence, had a funny look on his face. "Besides, like you're one to talk. Still pussyfooting around the blue girl? We're going into battle soon. Stop being a cunt and breed the mare already!"

Percy's eyebrow twitched—he was not pussyfooting! He and Wylla simply did not have the chance for any alone time! His new lover had taken to managing the army's support staff or, as the Westerosi called it, the camp followers. Turned out, they couldn't just have hundreds and thousands of peasants and craftsmen following the army in a disorganized mess; most of them were on foot and slowed the army anyway!

They had left Winterfell a few days prior and had taken the ships to Castle Cerwyn, where they disembarked and traveled south on the kingsroad before veering west—the rest of the ships continued south to White Harbor. Percy had two Ironborn armies to deal with, the small one in Torrhen's Square that had been content to bunker down as they raided the lumber mills of the Wolfswood and the large one sieging Barrowton. Sansa had scouted with Beauty all along the western coast of the North, her moon hawk being an absolute cheat with its vision and speed. With its ability to meld into rocks and clouds and its large size that deterred other birds of prey, it was truly the best companion for a skinchanger. The only disadvantage was the need for it to rest every few hours, and long periods spent hunting and feeding were hardly a con. Still, Sansa mentioned Beauty had missed the mountains—something about looking for a mate, but that's for Sansa to handle since she was the chief matchmaker of the North now.

He shook his head inwardly; he had better things to worry about than a hen looking for her tercel. Despite his confidence in dispatching that Ironborn Princess and her forces swiftly, Sansa had ultimately decided they were of no concern at the moment—Asha Greyjoy was smarter than her brother, for she did not overextend and had already started shipping their ill-gotten gains to the Iron Islands. Seasoned wood, tar, cordage, grain, lots and lots of fur and textiles, and most importantly, her hostages in the form of the remaining Tallharts…it was clear where her priorities lay. Supplies to build more ships as well as nobles for ransom.

Though the pirate princess turned out to be quite the pervert, as she kept the youngest Tallhart boy, Beren, as her sex toy in the castle. The kid was barely thirteen, yet she…fucking hell, that was just wrong! And the biggest problem was that no one he spoke to seemed to understand that a boy could be raped by an older woman!

Hell, not even Sansa, who was the one to tell him right before he left Winterfell, saw a real issue with it.

"He's probably enjoying it," she said with a shrug. "I mean, if he truly was uncomfortable, wouldn't he pray for help? Did you receive any prayer?"

"No, but I doubt he would know about me to do it…not that it matters, to be honest."

Percy rubbed his temple as he recalled the constant migraines he would get ever since he heard Bran's prayer—it was like the floodgates had been opened. Practically all prayers to the Old Gods, and some for the New Gods, went through him before going wherever they were intended. Particularly from the New Gods, the Father, Mother, and Crone were the ones that reached him, but, for some reason, the prayers to the Father had suddenly gone silent two days ago, while the Mother had become weaker. Now he had to deal with old women praying for guidance on how to best design their grandkid's cloak, or how far they should go in spanking them when they're naughty.

If he had to compare the Weirwood network to something, it would be the old-style telephones where calls had to go through operators before they were redirected—except Percy was the only operator, and there was always someone in the North praying to a weirwood at any time of day. Percy knew for a fact that he had no connection, so to speak, south of the Neck. He shuddered at how he would handle the extra noise in his head once his influence eventually reached the south. Perhaps he should just stay in the North or go on a sailing trip?

"Then don't worry about it. Women endure far worse when captured than bedding a princess." Sansa's gaze had gone cold then. "Regardless, even if he were a girl and were being passed around by all the reavers, I would still not divert you to Torrhen's Square. Barrowton is on its last legs, and if it falls, tens of thousands of men, women, and children will be raped, enslaved, or murdered. I am afraid young Beren will have to endure sharing his captor's bed for a little while longer; it's a far better fate than most, and if the lad is smart, he would do his best in seducing her in turn and putting a babe in her—having a Tallhart claim on Pyke would be a master stroke."

"What if she is cruel to him? Why even go after a young kid like that?"

"She is not. I have spied on them, and while she is rough, Asha Greyjoy is not cruel. Even the residents of the castle were treated well, though I have a feeling that was a strategic decision of hers—she knows she can't hold the castle for long, only enough to raid and pillage before eventually retreating. Perhaps she is showing leniency to expect the same from us should we capture her."

Sansa explained, a mix of annoyance and respect seeping in her voice—his wife's hatred of all Ironborn conflicted with her respect for a fellow princess who was not only proven in battle but also ruling. Percy hummed in thought; that was plausible. That pirate princess ambushed and beat back a much larger force than hers, with no cavalry of her own, even. That spoke of daring and competence, and if there's one thing Percy had learned from war, it was to respect your enemy's capabilities, if not their character.

"As for why go after Beren, the lad is comely and looks older than his age suggests. And from what I heard from the reavers gossiping, Asha's old lover was wounded by Beren's older brother when they took the castle and ended up dying when the wound got bad; a twisted sense of revenge, perhaps. Besides," Sansa had continued with a coy smirk, "Are you telling me that you would have complained if you were his age and an older princess warmed your bed? Poor girl, you would have broken her on the first night and have her worshiping you on the third."

Instantly, an image of Percy meeting Aphrodite for the first time when he was thirteen sprang to mind. He had to admit he probably would not complain too much if he had to bang her, though he could have sworn he thought differently at the time. Eh, it was most likely his libido speaking. Percy shook his head; he still wanted to save the kid, or at least hear what he thought, but if even Larence, the boy's own cousin, did not see an issue, then he could only wait for Beren Tallhart to pray for help. Fucking hell, boys get the short end of the stick when it comes to matters such as this. Still, Sansa was right in that they could not afford to dawdle—it was a hard choice of saving the few in favor of the many, or in this case, one boy in favor of fifty thousand souls.

This brought him to his current conundrum; they were three days from Barrowton, and while they had plenty of horses, half of his army was still on foot. Cregan Karstark had sent his cavalry to scout and harass the Ironborn until their arrival, and Percy was awaiting reports from them—he was already missing Beauty as his eyes in the sky, or Sansa's eyes. It was earlier in the morning when his camp was roused by his scouts reporting riders approaching, which turned out to be Roose Ryswell with two hundred of his barrow knights joining their army. They were separated after the disastrous ambush at White Hart Lake that sent their army scattering. From what Percy recalled from Wyman Manderly's teachings, all three sons of the aging Lord Rodrik Ryswell were quarrelsome and could never agree on anything—not even the colors of their banner!

No one truly knew how the Ryswell army was scattered by the smaller Ironborn force, but after questioning the young man with the cold and calculating look, Percy managed to have an idea. It appeared that while Benfred Tallhart was the nominal leader of the army, true power lay in the two elder Ryswell brothers. Roger Ryswell, as Benfred's goodfather, held considerable influence with the boy, but his brother Rickard was more popular with the knights and constantly quarreled about who would be in command, culminating in the loss of cohesion and disunity. Frankly, Percy suspected Roose was keeping silent about a lot, considering he and his men did not look like they were in a battle; their armor was clean, and their horses did not look too tired.

Then again, the battle happened weeks ago, and the Ryswell army managed to retreat in good order since the Ironborn had no way of chasing down anyone with a horse. Regardless, Roose Ryswell and his knights were a welcome addition, as they were sorely lacking in heavy cavalry. That he also led him to this herd when he heard of his sorcerous powers was a bonus in Percy's book.

"Well, Boss? We don't have all day. How do you want to handle this? Will you break the herd's leader yourself, or will you let me do it?"

Percy was roused from his thoughts by Blackjack. He hummed for a moment; it would be simple enough for Percy to take over this herd, but that would make them overly reliant on him for orders rather than their own riders or fellow steeds. It was much larger than a typical herd of wild horses, as most of them were warhorses that escaped that disastrous battle and had gone feral after weeks with no contact with humans. Once horses realize they could fend for themselves in the wild and need no human to tell them what to do, it's difficult to break them again. Domesticated horses were usually stronger and healthier than wild horses, but with how magical the North had been lately, Percy was not surprised to find the feral and wild herds quickly intermingling.

With the Ironborn devastating the countryside of the Barrowlands, many of the knights and landowners released their horses into the wild rather than let the squids steal or kill them—those too joined with other herds, and now Percy was staring at nearly a thousand horses grazing in the vast plains of the Barrowlands. Naturally, they were not all part of the same herd, but dozens of smaller ones with their leaders that banded together, whether because the majority of them were feral and still used to their training to band together or something else, Percy did not know.

Either way, there was not actually a single leader for this entire horde of horses, but for now, that big, mean, and bad roan would be a good start unless they managed to find the alpha mare—the true leader of a horse herd. Percy chuckled, just like with Sansa being his Princess, and technically, his leader, he himself was far stronger than her, and others would normally assume that he was the leader, which he was, but that was not the point! Horse herds operated similarly, with one stallion protecting them, but led by a much smarter mare, and Sansa was definitely brighter than he was.

"Alright." Percy swung down from his saddle and started to unsaddle Blackjack, motioning for Larence to help with the reins. "Kyle!"

"Aye, my lord?"

"Let's give my horse the chance to prove himself. He will take over that herd while I will handle the rest. In the meantime, get back to camp and have Lady Manderly call in the stableboys and groomers. Check with the camp followers if anyone wants to work. On second thought, send riders to every stable, smith, and farrier nearby and requisition tack, horseshoes, and whatever else the horses need and send the bill to Winterfell; these poor bastards have been wearing the same tacks for weeks and must be in excruciating pain."

And that was the biggest reason why Percy decided to take over the herd; easily half of them still had saddles and reins on, which had long caused chaffing and burning to their skin. They needed to be caught and then treated for their wounds; either way, he doubted his men would be able to ride most of them anytime soon.

"Yes, Lord Perseus!"

Kyle turned his horse and hurried back to camp after mustering some of the Ryswell riders. Percy lifted the saddle off Blackjack's back and placed it on the ground, then the pad and cinch followed just as Larence finished removing the reins and bridle. Blackjack shook his head as he relished in the freedom before testing the ground with his hooves and snorting as if exercising his muscles. To be honest, Percy did not really need much tack to control his horse, but Blackjack was simply too used to having the things on him, not to mention they would be crucial when he equipped the horse in his full barding.

Once ready, Percy turned to his horse. "Alright, Blackjack, last to finish is a mule. Let's go!"

.

.

.

"So, you will take these infernal things off our backs, clean and groom us, feed us anything BUT grass, and we won't even have to go fighting soon?"

"Yep," Percy replied patiently to the alpha mare, one of twenty he managed to call for a chat. "Once we get the gear off you, we will treat you like the great steeds you deserve to be. Those of you who need rest shall have plenty of it. All I ask is for those who are well to carry the men and supplies, but—"

"Aw, hell nah, I want to fight!" Percy closed his eyes as he prayed for patience; whom he was praying to, he did not know. "I wanna charge right into a mass of two-legged fools and crush them under my hoov—"

One of the mares bonked the much larger stallion with her head. "Stop being a moron and shut up! I would rather have my nails clipped and those metal thingies replaced. I haven't found a decent rock to paw on in a long time, busy as I was herding you meatheads away from trouble."

"Hey, we aren't so bad," another stallion complained, only for another mare to snort loudly. "We're not! Come on, you're also bred for war. Why are you snorting at me for?"

"Because I like being alive, you numbskull," the mare neighed. "Honestly, do you have any idea what the horse mortality is like for chargers? The high and mighty humans like to look good on those destriers, but it's we chargers and coursers who are first to charge at those walls of metal. I hate pointy sticks!"

"It's not so bad. The smell of human blood as I bite their ears off, or showing who's boss to those other horses—"

"There ain't any horses on the other side, you dullard."

"Even better! We get to trample humans underfoot and–"

"I want my hair braided."

"Do you think they have that bubbly white thing they brush us with?"

"My ass cheeks are burning something bad. I hope they have those fatty stuff they lather my butthole with."

"Can I have an apple?"

"I think my tooth is going bad."

Percy sighed as the horses squabbled and argued about utterly inane things, and just when he thought he had reached an overture. He had no idea how the horses could speak in so much slang, but he also had no idea how they sounded both intelligent yet acted like the dumbest damned things ever. It's been an hour since he started this, and he really missed the horses back home; their blind loyalty and worship would have been a godsend here.

"Enough!" He finally exploded, silencing all the equine gossip. "Those of you who want to trample people to dust, yes, you will get your turn. Need your hair braided? We got it. Horseshoes? No sweat. Get your nails and eyelashes done? Why the fuck not? But for fuck's sake, can we get on with this? Are you going to join me, or will I need to bring out the stick after all?"

The many horses around him shifted uneasily as they remembered this was him giving the carrot; the stick was how he grabbed their attention in the first place. One of the alpha mares boldly approached, "We were once promised the same by our masters. Even if we couldn't talk to them, we understood them well enough, yet they led us astray and chased us off from our stables and pastures. What if you do the same when you don't need us anymore?"

The horse was an older mare with a dark coat that reminded him of the Hungarian Nonius breed back home, with well-defined withers, strong limbs, and a convex head that reminded him of a ram's head. Yet her eyes shone with intelligence and wisdom…for a horse.

"You were chased off because there were bad men coming to either take you or eat you." Percy groaned; despite understanding them, the horses were still animals—they could not understand the intricacies of the world around them. "Would you rather have stayed and turned on your old masters and siblings? Or worse, ferried back to those piles of rocks the Ironborn call home? I'm sure they would have a lot of use for you in their mines."

Several of the horses whinnied in fear at the mention of mines. No horse liked being in dark, tight places that were full of dust and grime.

"Think of the past few months as a vacation where you experienced what your wild cousins go through. I don't see any of them complaining half as much as you nags do."

And that was true, the wild horses were the ones who seemed most excited to join in. Percy had already broken a couple of the rowdier stallions, so it was not a matter of taming them, but gaining their allegiance would help matters greatly. Breaking the unruly horses was as simple as wrestling them to the ground, and none of them expected a mere 'two-leg' to be so strong; the hardest part was being careful not to accidentally break their legs.

The horses whispered to each other for a few more moments before finally, thankfully, they nodded in agreement, and Percy could have screamed in joy if not for the small army of stableboys, farriers, groomers, and others watching closely. He waved them over, and they hesitantly approached, but once the horses lined up for them obediently, they swiftly got to work. There were six hundred horses that needed urgent care, but thankfully, he had hundreds of workers and enough supplies for all of them.

Meanwhile, Percy went to check on Blackjack, only to find his horse surrounded by a dozen collapsed stallions. His horse was victorious, but not unscathed, judging by the bruises and bite marks.

"You do realize I may very well need you for battle soon." Percy sighed as he checked on the stubborn bastard, finding his wounds were not as serious as they looked—a week or so of rest, and he would be fit as a fiddle.

Blackjack huffed and puffed, trying his best to remain on his feet. "'Tis but a scratch."

"Don't quote Monty Python to me."

"What? A python! Where?!"

His exhausted horse suddenly gained a second wind and reared up in fright. Percy merely facepalmed and glanced at the downed horses; they also had bruises and bite marks on them, though it seemed Blackjack had not gone too far to establish dominance. A couple of weeks or so, and they should be good for battle, and looking at them, they all would make excellent chargers; just pure tanks of bone and muscles, and steel once he clad them in barding, that would be kings of any battle in the open field.

In fact, as Percy gazed at the rest of the horses and the terrain around him, he felt his confidence rising for once. The Ironborn might outnumber him, heavily armored and armed, but in a terrain like this, he could crush any formations they made as long as he was leading the charge to deal with any pesky pikewalls. Percy grinned; soon, they would join up with Cregan, and once they had the horses saddled and found suitable riders, they would have at least three thousand lancers to bring the Ironborn to heel!

Three days later, when Percy met with Cregan Karstark's host, a day's march from Barrowton, all his hopes were shattered.

"Victarion Greyjoy lifted the siege ten days ago and is forcefully marching his reavers south to the mouth of the river." Cregan Karstark's stoic report came as he met him in his tent that evening with the rest of the commanders in an emergency meeting. "My scouts report the Iron Fleet is preparing to load them before sailing away."

Wasn't Victarion Greyjoy supposed to be some hotheaded meathead? The best kind of opponent for Percy. Apparently, that did not mean he would let himself be trapped between the city and a relief army with cavalry superiority on open ground.

"And how did he know we were coming?" Percy struggled not to sigh or show any emotion, something he learned from how Sansa dealt with the Northmen—show no weakness, and emotion was a weakness. "They had no real outriders or scouts, and last I heard, we won every skirmish against the meager horses they fielded."

This time, Cregan Karstark had a guilty look on his face. "I had assigned my brother, Arthor, in command of the outriders. He has a good mind for planning and numbers, but I'm afraid he got too zealous in harassing the Ironborn and fell off his horse. The men reported that the reavers recognized him as a noble and captured him. Two days later, the siege was lifted."

Unsaid was the soft man probably squealed at the first sign of torture, and now, they were ten days behind them, and by now, they would most likely be in a much more favorable terrain. The land turned more hilly and rough the further south they went, and Percy's prior confidence melted once more into uncertainty. Just why did he allow Karstark to take command in the first place? Ah, yes. Because they brought the most troops after Manderly and Cregan was the most experienced commander they had. To be fair, he had conducted himself well so far, but his brother's failings reflect badly on him.

Perhaps Percy should have kept Ser Matrid Long as his commander of the outriders. In fact, he was his first choice, but Sansa had argued that they needed to show that they appreciated Karstark's swift muster and joining of their army. Politics got in the way of allowing a promising young man of a lower birth a position of authority in favor of an incompetent fool who got the job simply because his brother was the commander of the army.

Now, the very fate of the North hung in the balance of that decision.

"Perhaps we should simply let the Ironborn go?" Mors Condon, commander of the few men House Cerwyn could provide, offered weakly. "Let the reavers leave, and perhaps they could raid the other kingdoms for a change. We could focus our efforts on retaking Torrhen's Square, or reinforcing the Wall."

"Or even join King Robb in the south." Torghen Wells rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Did he not order more men to be raised?"

"Aye, why fight a much larger force than our own when they are leaving?" Theo Overton chimed in. "The squids did not gain much from the fighting and have already lost plenty of men in Moat Cailin. I say we can count this as a victory!"

As more of the men muttered, it seemed the idea of letting the Ironborn go was slowly but surely sounding like a good idea in their minds. Percy raised his hand for silence, and the table quickly quieted down.

"What do you think, Mister Cregan?"

House Karstark was most likely the only house present that had never, nor would ever, suffer any raids or attacks by the Ironborn. He could trust the man to at least give him a neutral answer.

Cregan sat like a statue, his gray eyes subtly checking the other lords and captains, as if gauging where the wind was blowing. Finally, he stared right at him and gave a shallow nod. "Whatever the Lord Protector's decision will be, I will abide by it."

Percy frowned. "Of course you will, but I need counsel and I am asking you to give it."

The man's eyes turned flinty. "We are surrounded by enemies from all sides. Wildlings and worse to the north, more Ironborn to the west, and our eastern coasts are open for potential raids by Essosi scum if they believe we are weak. Victarion Greyjoy commands a considerable force, yet I believe we could defeat him if we could catch him—he has quite the head start on us. Finally, even if we are victorious, our numbers will be severely dwindled, there is no doubt about that. Many of us will die, and we will be able to reinforce neither the Wall nor King Robb."

"Fair points all around." Percy tapped the table as the men muttered in agreement. "Your suggestion?"

"We send some of our horsemen to shadow his army until we are certain he departs our shores before wheeling about and dislodging Asha Greyjoy from Torrhen's Square," Cregan answered promptly. "They are too close to Winterfell for my liking, and we cannot allow the Ironborn access to the Wolfswood where they can harvest precious timber with impunity."

More mutters of agreement, and Percy had to admit it was sound reasoning. Wylla, however, looked like she disagreed, and Percy prodded, "What do you think, Lady Manderly?"

They were surrounded by lords, knights, and commanders, and it would not do for him to speak casually with any of them, especially not whom many suspected was his paramour, even if none dared to voice their opinions.

"Lord Cregan's assessment is sound, but I disagree that we should let Victarion escape with his army."

Cregan Karstark's face remained impassive, yet Percy caught him flexing his fingers minutely, and his eyes turned cold.

"Please give your reasoning, Lady Manderly. I value your opinion greatly." Percy let the statement hang for a moment as he gazed at the rest of the men. "All of you."

How about that for diplomatically telling them that he approved of Wylla while still willing to hear their opinions? Percy chuckled inwardly and gave himself a mental pat on the back. The men had kept their thoughts well, but Percy could tell they did not approve of having a woman in a war council—too bad for them, Wylla was not just a pretty face for him to admire after hours of dealing with their ugly mugs, but she really was a smart girl and did great with the logistics of the campaign so far. She even approved of his choice to rename the camp followers into support staff! His goal to somewhat modernize the ragtag armies of Westeros, and the North in particular, was slow-going, but baby steps.

Wylla smiled demurely at his words before she straightened her back and stared seriously at the rest of the men. "You all know that the Ironborn must not be underestimated. For too long they had reaved and raided our shores with impunity. They steal our hard-earned crops, gold, and other things, while kidnapping our men, women, and children, forcing them into slavery while slaughtering any who resist. Aye, they call it thralldom, but we all know it's slavery."

The more Wylla talked, the harder the men's faces went; even Cregan's face softened slightly, causing Wylla to continue. "This is our chance! Imagine this, the entire might of the Iron Islands is here, running with their tails between their legs. If we could destroy Victarion Greyjoy's army here, we could safeguard the North for an entire generation from any Ironborn raid. It could even pave the way for a full-scale invasion of the Iron Islands, where we could wipe out the Ironborn once and for all!"

A thoughtful silence descended around the tent. Percy glanced at Cregan Karstark, his face giving nothing away, and inspected the rest of the men, finding them torn between the prospect of defeating the Ironborn and fighting a tough fight. He fell into deep thought; Wylla was a good speaker, a passionate one even, and managed to shift the mood around the table to a future that was nice to look forward to but difficult to achieve. Cregan was far more rational and thinking tactically, it made sense to go after the Pirate Princess, hopefully capture her, and use her as a card when negotiating peace.

A safe bet with low risks yet possibly no rewards if their luck was bad, and Asha Greyjoy caught wind of their arrival and simply packed her stuff and left for her islands. Or a high-risk, high reward scenario where they could deal a major blow and potentially cripple an entire nation's ability to wage war for a long time. What would Sansa focus on more? She did not seem too worried about Asha Greyjoy and was content to let her play with the Ryswells and their Tallhart Lord, at least until they decided to formally request aid from Winterfell. News had arrived from the south that Lord Helman Tallhart had perished outside Harrenhal, making Benfred Tallhart the new Lord of Torrhen's Square; Percy wondered if the young lord's pride stopped him from seeking aid, or whether the Ryswells were pulling his strings.

He groaned inwardly. Sansa once told him that the Northmen did not play politics like the Southerners, yet he had to disagree with his wife; they clearly did, possibly with even more pride and stubbornness. Returning to his musings, he had a feeling Sansa would go for the jugular and get rid of Victarion and his army, but was that a sound decision?

Why was he uncertain anyway? He kept thinking of attacking Victarion's army like a mortal general would, but Percy was not a simple general. He was a hero, so perhaps it's about time he did some heroic things.

"I have decided." All murmuring along the table was silenced as Percy turned to Wylla, who lowered her head demurely. "Lady Manderly, you shall proceed with the supply wagons and support staff to Barrowton along with a thousand foot. They are in dire need of food and supplies. See to it that they are cared for."

Wylla nodded and immediately started writing his commands in a scroll—her official duty in the meeting was his personal scribe, yet she was also his advisor.

"I will take all the horses, all the lancers, and archers and chase after Victarion Greyjoy." Percy continued to the rest of the men, whose eyes widened in both worry and excitement. "Hopefully, we will slow them down enough to drag them into a melee. Mister Cregan, you will be force marching the men, and follow me southwards, but I expect you to lead them well. We leave at first light."

The men nodded and left for their duties, though their eyes were conflicted. They may not approve, but he did not need their approval; only their obedience, like the good little minions that they were. Percy had demonstrated to each and every one of them his powers and had sparred with more than one of them when they acted cocky—no one got to act cocky around him…except himself, of course.

At least, Cregan Karstark was true to his word and swiftly called several of his men to prepare the army to march again. Eager to seek forgiveness for his brother's fuckup, no doubt.

The meeting was dismissed then, and Percy hurried to check on the horses; Blackjack and the rest of the horses were good for travel, and by the time they reached the Ironborn, they should have recovered enough for battle. Once he had ensured his horses were well and checked on his squire, finding him grooming his own horse, he returned to his tent for what would possibly be the last decent sleep he would have for some days.

Only to find Wylla waiting for him on his cot, naked as the day she was born. Her face was a blushing mess, but her eyes shone in determination once she saw him.

"We have dawdled enough, Percy. I will not have you ride off into battle before we bed."

He couldn't help but feel heat rush to his groin at the sight, and any worry in his mind evaporated. Percy quickly checked outside the tent and made sure the guards were his most loyal soldiers, the same ones who had joined him and Sansa in White Harbor, bidding them keep some distance before chucking away his clothes and approaching the blue-haired maiden.

Notes:

Horse shenanigans. I can make so many jokes about it.

Now to the meat of the matter: Victarion Greyjoy is a brute, but he ain't dumb. He's been stranded, sieging a city uselessly for months with his army trapped in open terrain; perfect horse country. The moment he realized that the North really had mustered an army with a significant cavalry force, he decided to cut his losses and take what he had already managed to loot back to the Iron Islands.

Whether he manages to reach his fleet before Percy catches him remains to be seen.

Chapter 35: A Night of Terrors

Notes:

Join me on Discord for discussions, character portraits, and access to one advanced chapter! Discord code is vN7sTYhEp6.

Please be aware that I've changed my update schedule. Lament/Hero shall be updated on Monday (biweekly) while ArcMoon/Divinity shall be updated on Friday (monthly).

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet

"What's the holdup?"

Victarion Greyjoy urged his horse forward as his column stopped. In less than a minute, he was at the front of his large army, where he found the reason for the sudden stop.

"Fucking cunts! Did I tell you to fucking stop?! Move, damn you, MOVE!"

One of his captains, an Orkwood, judging by the dark green pines on a yellow background on his tabard, was beating a thrall with a bludgeon. Victarion growled as he recognized Aggar Quickspear, brother to Lord Alyn Orkwood and one of his most vocal detractors since he decided to attack Barrowton. Several other Orkwood men gathered around their captain, some beating thralls who had collapsed from exhaustion, while others watched him approach.

"What the devil are you doing?!" Victarion jumped down from his horse and dragged the Orkwood captain away from the half-dead thrall. "Why are you dallying like a band of old washerwomen!"

"The lazy bastards are not pushing the carts fast enough!" Aggar growled, and Victarion had to hold himself from beating the fool to death. It wouldn't be the first time he had beaten a man to death in this campaign. Yet this was not the time for conflict in his army, not when they needed to leave with post-haste.

He looked at the dozens of carts and carriages leading the army. All of their loot, thralls, cattle, tools, hostages, and a good deal of other plunder were placed at the front of the army to protect them from raiders. There were not enough horses to carry even a thousand of his men, and most were reserved for dragging the carts. The rest had to jog along on the dirt path that travelled south about a hundred yards east of the banks of the Barrow River to reach the point where the fleet was anchored. Even Victarion's own steed was but a rouncey he claimed from an abandoned holdfast, the only one that remained after the stable hands let the rest of the herds loose. Those same stable hands, farriers, farmers, and herders were caught and forced into thralldom. If they did not have enough beasts of burden to drag the carts, the thralls had to do it.

Only it seemed he overestimated the Northmen. It's only been a fortnight since they forced them to drag the carts, yet they dropped like flies. Orkwood was in charge of leading the vanguard, yet here he was, beating the already half-dead thralls to death because they proved useless.

"Then get your men to start pushing the fucking carts instead!" Victarion roared in his face. "We can't afford to slow down for any reason. Now move! Leave the half-dead thralls and keep moving!"

He then turned to the rest of the thralls who were still on their feet, thousands of them, but Victarion was never that good at counting. He glared at their emaciated forms; they had barely been given food. In fact, even his men had not had the chance to stop for a solid meal over the past sennight.

"Any of you who stop will be killed and left for the vultures to feast on," he promised, his voice dark and foreboding. "We are only a day or two away from the fleet; survive that long, and you will have food and drink before you are given your new duties as thralls for your masters."

The thralls lowered their heads, yet Victarion could see the hatred and defiance in their eyes. It didn't matter. They would learn to accept their lot in life. He turned back to the rest of his army and saw hundreds of exhausted eyes staring at him. Victarion gritted his teeth; exhaustion was expected, but it was the disappointment and mutiny in their eyes that irked him. He looked at the late afternoon skies and decided it might be best to set up camp—they had not had a break in five days. Even at night, he would drive the men onwards. It was easy to navigate in the dark by simply following the banks of the river, even if the thrice-cursed fog that seemed to follow them caused more than a dozen men to fall in each night, never to be seen again.

"Men, we will find a spot to camp and rest until dawn." A long sigh of relief echoed up and down the column as the men's eyes seemed to come alive. Victarion got back on his horse and called for Ralf the Limper. "Take some horsemen and scout ahead for a decent spot to camp."

"Aye, Captain."

Within an hour, they had found a wide enough clearing for all twelve thousand men to camp—in addition to the thousands more thralls, of course. Ideally, they would have camped on a hill, or several of them even, but the terrain was still mostly flat, and most of the hills were further east, away from the river. The river was behind them, but behind a cliff with over a hundred feet drop; they had to continue following the riverbank until the ground level with the water, so their ships could start loading.

More importantly, they could not afford to separate too much or risk losing themselves in the fog. The men believed it was a boon from the Drowned God, a wall of mist and fog to hide them from curious eyes, yet Victarion thought otherwise. Such a fog was unnatural, there was no doubt about it, but fog should come from the sea, not inland; the only body of water nearby was the river and while the Barrow River was wide, it could not raise so much fog suddenly. Especially as he did not recall it being so foggy moons ago when they marched up the banks.

Victarion stared across the river, trying to make out the other side of the bank where plenty of woodlands could be seen, but to no avail. It was too dark, and the misty veil did not help. Perhaps they should have stopped by that abandoned fishing village a few miles past and sent what few riders they had further south for the fleet to sail upriver to pick them up. He shook his head; they were too exposed, and while the village could double as a river port, no more than two or three ships could have docked at the same time on those small piers. Still, he had his men tear down any wooden buildings and reuse the lumber for firewood or sharpen it for stakes to protect the camp; the docks remained as they were, for they had no time to waste.

He sighed inwardly as he thought about their campaign so far. It had its ups and downs, but since his decision to siege Barrowton, it had only been downs.

His decision to retreat was extremely unpopular, especially with those far too enamored with the gifts of the Drowned God. He had already been forced to kill two of his captains for mutiny, and he knew exactly who to blame for egging them on.

"The Drowned God promised us victory!" Aggar Orkwood exclaimed that night in front of a campfire. Like any reaver worth his salt, Victarion knew when to hide in the shadows in preparation for a raid, and now he could listen in on the men and gauge who was on his side and who was not. "We saw his ferocious minions, our allies, as they assaulted the city from the river. We could have joined them in battle and taken it by storm then and there!"

"And burn just like they did? Give it a rest, Orkwood," One of the Goodbrother triplets retorted. Victarion was unsure which of the younger two it was, but all three have been leal allies to him. "The Northmen were starving. They would have feasted on our flesh the same way they did those fishmen and your brother's men."

A few of the men chuckled, but most of them cursed at the mention of the Barrowmen. Victarion scowled at the reminder; the cowardly Northerners refused to sally out and face him like true warriors. Hiding behind their moats and walls like old turtles, they were so close to starving them to death. Even if Victarion had preferred a straight fight, he was not foolish enough to fully commit to an assault on a well-fortified city that was practically an island. They were great in numbers, but an Ironborn was a sailor first, a reaver second, and finally, a soldier.

He should have brought those Myrish siege engineers, but Balon needed them for repairs in Pyke or to help the shipyards design a new type of ship, Victarion was unsure. Not like they would have done much, considering the lack of trees or rocks for a hundred miles around the city—unless they ventured further west, but that would have been too dangerous with their lack of supply lines. It was a moon after they began the siege, and the men's grumbling had gotten too close to mutiny, that his brother Aeron suddenly appeared in camp with strange hooded figures, bringing news both ill and queer.

"Theon is dead?" Victarion was not particularly shocked but was unsure how to feel at the loss of his nephew—he barely knew the boy who had spent more time in the greenlands than anywhere else.

"Aye, he nearly captured the Heart of the North if not for that foreign heathen godling. The Drowned God had suffered a setback, but he promised victory for those faithful to him. Behold! The Drowned God's minions, who shall deliver victory to us!"

In hindsight, Victarion should have received his brother in the privacy of Goldgrass' Keep rather than in the courtyard in front of all of his captains. For the next moment, the figures with Aeron removed their hoods, revealing demons from the depths of the sea. It was only thanks to the trust and respect the men had for the Damphair and Victarion's presence that the captains didn't panic and attack the monstrosities at once.

The creatures spoke in an unholy, raspy tongue that reminded Victarion of a catfish about to be gutted. The sound grated heavily on everyone's ears, and Victarion seriously considered slaying the devils himself, just so they could stop the irritating prattle. Thankfully, his brother raised his hand to silence them and translated for them—how Aeron knew what they said, Victarion did not know, nor did he care, compared to the plan.

"The Drowned God, in his generosity, sent his people to help us. They will attack the city from the river and ask for volunteers to join them, but they demand the glory of leading the attack as well as the first pick of the loot and the defenders."

"What do you mean the defenders, Damphair?" Greydon Goodbrother asked while his brothers stared at the creatures in distrust. Victarion only recognized the eldest of the Goodbrother triplets because he held the black horn of Hammerhorn that only the lord or the heir could carry. "And how will we overcome the chain blocking the way?"

"Leave the chain and those on the towers to them. As for the defenders…just as we will take them for thralls, they too demand their pound of flesh."

"You mean…cannibalism?!"

"Is it a sin if the ones eating manflesh are not men?" Aeron shrugged. "Besides, who are we to judge the Drowned God's chosen of how they treat their thralls?"

Victarion had hesitated to send any of his most loyal captains for such a harebrained scheme. He was content to wait out the siege until the defenders starved to death or surrendered. His kingly brother wanted to take all of the North, yet no matter how much Victarion would love to fulfill such an ambition, they did not have the numbers for such an endeavor. Many of the men were willing to throw their lives away for a chance to be in the Drowned God's halls in the afterlife, and while Victarion did not fear death, he preferred to enjoy life. Storming the city would have destroyed his army and any hope that they would ever be able to conquer the North.

Victarion had refused his brother's reckless scheme, especially after he told him that Sansa Stark and her sorcerer husband were raising an army to meet them in the field. The loss of Moat Cailin was a devastating blow that unfortunately took too long for him to learn about—an entire fortnight from the event for one of the ship captains to have the courage to report—and now their backs were open for retaliation from the Northmen. The loss of the gateway to the North turned out to be a blessing for Victarion, helping him convince most of the captains that retreat was always an option. That they should not be too eager to seek death when there was so much more to enjoy in life.

Yet, despite forbidding his brother's attack, his hands were forced when the Damphair gained enough support from the younger reavers and Pykes—those sons of thralls who wished to make a name for themselves—and disappeared the next day with three thousand men. Jorl Orkwood, heir to his father's seat, was egged on by his fool of an uncle to take his father's men and join the sea devils in that mad attack. The foolish boy stole hundreds of their horses to ride fast for the Saltspear and gather his ships to start the attack. Aggar Orkwood had conveniently remained in the safety of Goldgrass while his foolish nephew perished in the burning of the docks.

Victarion did not even know what happened to his brother, and he feared the worst.

A sennight after that, they caught that prancing Karstark walrus and squeezed the truth out of him. At least three thousand lancers and thrice as many footmen were approaching, led by a sorcerer of unknown powers. Victarion had three choices.

The first was to storm Barrowton and hope they had enough time to loot it for all it was worth before fleeing and most likely losing half his army if they even succeeded.

The second was to hunker down in Goldgrass and wait until they arrived, then face them in the open field…his men were brave and well armed, but meeting three thousand lancers with no cavalry of their own? In the empty plains of Barrowton? Victarion might not be the sharpest dagger in the Greyjoy family, but he was no fool.

Thus, he opted for the third option that grated on all his captains heavily: retreat to the ships with their already considerable gains and either return to the Iron Islands or regroup with Asha's forces in Torrhen's Square. His niece had proven herself well after taking the castle; news came from home about his brother being impressed by the amount of lumber she seized, and already the shipyards of Pyke were busy building new ships.

Two weeks of forced marching had his army nearly at the coast of the Saltspear and the safety of their fleet. The men grumbled and complained; several even had the gall to accuse him of cowardice!

Naturally, he challenged any bold fool to a duel and promptly beheaded them.

Bored with listening in on the men's grumbling like a thief in the night, he walked away to another campfire and joined the men there.

"Are you alright, Captain?"

Old Balon Tawney and his son Little Lenwood, who was not so little anymore and a captain in his own right despite being Theon's age, were seated with Greydon Goodbrother and several other men hailing from Orkmont. Victarion made sure to use House Tawney to curb the influence of Orkwood, but Goodbrother also had a branch on the island. Normally, Orkwood was loyal and did not make trouble, but with their heir dead, Aggar Orkwood took command of the rest of the men and ships. Perhaps Victarion should have challenged the fool to a duel and be done with it; he did not have the patience for such foolish games. But he had already slain too many of his captains for mutiny, and Orkwood was not a house he could easily offend, or else his brother would complain too much. Especially after he beheaded the Botley heir for drunkenly accusing him of being craven, without even giving him a chance to defend himself in a duel.

"Aye, I'm alright. How's the men?"

"Grumbling like usual," Greydon chuckled as he threw a log into the fire.

"They do more than grumbling," Victarion unconsciously growled.

"Aye, they do, but so long as they don't do anything stupid, it will be fine." His brother's namesake shrugged. "We're less than a day away from the fleet. We Ironmen would rather reave than throw our lives away needlessly."

"Aye, we don't have a good history when it comes to sieges," Lenwood added before looking around warily and leaning in to whisper. "Not that I agree with the men, Captain, but why didn't we take the battle to the Northmen? Sure, they have horses, and we don't, but we are greater in numbers and worth more than any of them in battle. We could have forced them into rougher territory where their horses would be useless."

"And do you see any such terrain around here? The land is empty of any woodlands or hills everywhere you see—that is, if you can see anything in that fucking fog." Victarion swept out his arm for emphasis, even as they spoke, the fog seemed to slowly but surely encroach closer to the camp—never inside, but eerily stopped barely a few hundred yards from it. "The Northmen know their lands better than we do. Otherwise, we would not be sticking to the riverbank so much to protect our flank."

"Aye, but…aren't we running away?"

"Of course we are, lad," his father replied. "We are reavers, not hotheaded greenlander knights who rush to death. We don't fight for honor and glory, but wealth and women!"

"Hear, hear!" Norne Goodbrother cheered as he and his cousin laughed. "We don't fear death, for the Drowned God promises an eternity with him in the afterlife. That does not mean we must rush into it."

"What is dead may never die, but rises stronger once again," Lenwood uttered as if in a trance, and for a moment, the flames of the campfire dimmed as an ill wind blew from the north, causing Victarion to frown—he gazed at the northern perimeter, finding nothing of concern and shook his head. He was becoming too jumpy. "If the Drowned God himself came to our aid, how could we reject him so?"

"It is a test. The Drowned God wants to see if we will throw our lives away cheaply, or if we will live to fight another day in his name," Greydon retorted, but the nervous tick of his arm betrayed his hesitation. "Besides, the Drowned God clearly conjured that fog that hides us from the Northmen. Didn't Prince Theon use a similar trick to defeat the garrison of Torrhen's Square?"

Truth be told, Victarion was unsure what to think about the matter. He always considered himself a devout follower of the Drowned God, yet perhaps not to the extent of his brother Aeron. He knew he was not the smartest of his brothers, but Victarion liked to think he understood war better than them. Euron, he would rather not think about the bastard, but Aeron was a reaver before that incident that had him fully embrace priesthood. His kingly brother, Balon, had not been the same since he lost his sons in the rebellion years ago. Victarion had warned him that invading the North offered little benefits aside from thralls and lumber—certainly important things, but in the moons since they had been in the North, all of the coin they managed to liberate did not reach a thousand dragons.

What use were too many thralls that they could not feed, or lumber for ships they did not have the hands to man? Would they give them to the thralls so they could escape home? He might have told the men they would join Asha in raiding the Wolfswood, maybe even take Winterfell from behind if they're lucky, but Victarion's heart was not in it. News came from the South about the obscene riches that Robb Stark rightfully plundered from the Westerlands. Why shouldn't they be the ones to take such gold and vast riches instead of the greenlander king, who would mock them for wasting time sieging a poor city?

Victarion shook his head. He would have words with his brother when he returned to Pyke. If not the Westerlands, the Reach was also a viable option—anywhere better than these barren lands of snow and trees.

"I think we've stayed up for long enough. Let's catch some shut-eye. Norne, find me Ralf the Limper. We must set up a watch."

"Yes, Captain."

An hour later, Victarion was satisfied that the men had settled in, and the night's watch was assigned, so he retired for the night in his tent. Most men were too tired to set up their tents, but each Captain had teams of thralls to attend to their needs. Victarion was tempted to have one of the captured women warm his bed tonight, but he decided against it. His ass was sore from riding all day and his back ached from wearing full armor for days, and he would rather just sleep.

Victarion Greyjoy woke up with a start to the sound of shouting and rushed footsteps. He swiftly got to his feet, stumbled out of his tent, and checked the skies, only to frown. The stars and the moon were hidden by heavy clouds that had been absent earlier. It could have been the Hour of the Ghosts for all he knew, but it did not feel like he slept for more than two hours.

Looking at the camp, men were rushing everywhere, Captains rousing their subordinates with angry shouts, and soon, Ralf the Limper hobbled to his side. "What's happening?"

"Sentries were killed! Shot from afar by archers on horseback, they say. Harras Harlaw is trying to establish order, but Aggar Orkwood sent pursuers after them."

"He what?!" Victarion cursed under his breath. "That is it! I'm crushing that fool's skull! Help me don my armor."

A few minutes later, Victarion marched through the camp, roaring orders, gathering men, and urging those still asleep to dress for battle.

"FORM RANKS, YOU MAGGOTS! FORM RANKS! SHIELDS AND PIKES IN FRONT! ARCHERS IN THE BACK!"

Thankfully, the men quickly calmed down at his presence, especially as the anticipated enemy ambush did not come.

Despite the worry of an attack, Victarion trusted Harras to handle the matter for now, even if he was a knight in the greenlander way; first, he needed to check on the thralls and the loot. They were located in the center of the camp, right at the edge of the cliff. Perhaps it was not smart to give them an escape route, but the Barrow River was rocky and fast—the hundred-foot drop might not be much for an Ironborn, but he doubted the Northmen would be brave enough to jump.

Satisfied that the thralls were secure and his men reported nothing happening, Victarion moved on. Despite being in a flat plain, Victarion had insisted on dragging plenty of sharpened logs from the siege lines and any abandoned village they passed by. Even some of the shattered ships on the river that they managed to recover, as well as carts lined up as barriers to halt lancers charging in. It was not enough to build a palisade, nor did they have any kind of gates, but merely surrounding the camp with stakes and empty carts was better than being completely open for a cavalry charge.

Soon, he was at the perimeter facing east, finding several men struck down by arrows being dragged further into the camp. Most of the commotion had already been settled, though judging by Harras Harlaw's roars, he might not need to kill Aggar Orkwood after all.

"–Sent the men blindly into the night chasing fucking horsemen! Were you dropped on your fucking head as a child?"

"You fucking half-greenlander bitch dare?!" Aggar had his axe bared with many more of his men than Harlaw, but Harras was in his full armor and had Nightfall in his hand. "I ought to take your head for—"

Victarion did not get the chance to announce his presence before the sounds of horses galloping approached from the east—the torches did not help with seeing in the dark. Still, when the sound of horses suddenly stopped, followed by the twang of bows and the whistling of arrows, he did not need to be a maester to know they were under attack again. Unfortunately, most of the men were far dimmer than he, and it was only when the arrows landed in their midst, bringing down a dozen men, that they started to panic. Before Harlaw or Orkwood could argue over whom to take command, he pushed his way through with an axe and shield in his hands.

"Don't gawk like boys seeing a fucking cunt for the first time. Get away from the torches and form a shield wall—NOW! FORM RANKS!"

His men joined him just as more arrows landed on their shields, while Harlaw quickly doused the torches before joining them behind a shield. Orkwood, however, called for his archers to attack in turn, yet the moment they broke the line to loosen their arrows, they were quickly turned into hedgehogs by the enemy bowmen instead. Harlaw might have doused the torches, but the camp was like a beacon in the night for their attackers to take their pick.

"We can't keep this up, Captain!" Harras shouted after several minutes of hiding behind their shields, "There's a thousand of us here, and I only counted about a hundred arrows hitting us in each volley. We need to advance!"

"We will never catch them on foot," Victarion grumbled before bellowing into the night. "Cowardly Northmen! Come and face us!"

Surprisingly, the arrows stopped, and Aggar Orkwood, who had somehow moved to the backline, decided it was a bright idea to speak. "Why don't you go and clear them out, Harlaw? Since yer so eager for battle."

Before Victarion could swing his axe at the fucker for choosing the worst time to taunt his fellow captain, his senses screamed for him to duck as a whistling sound reached him, just in time for something to fly where his head was and skewer whoever was behind him. Victarion hurriedly stood up and gawked at the long javelin that had skewered through Aggar Orkwood's thick breastplate right over his heart, where the steel was supposed to be thickest. The Orkwood captain's eyes were wide in disbelief as he coughed blood before falling sideways, breaking the javelin off his body.

"By the Drowned God, keep your fucking shields up!"

The men hurried to follow his orders, yet deep down, Victarion knew that no shield could stop a javelin like that. No, calling it a javelin would be a misnomer; it looked more like a scorpion bolt.

How? Scorpions were not easy to drag to the battlefield, and even then, he had not heard the telltale clicking of such machines of war. He knew what they sounded like, having several of them on the Iron Victory, and they were louder than bows—if he could hear the twang of bows as the archers resumed their shooting, then he would hear a scorpion shooting.

A part of him wondered if it was thrown by hand. It was certainly thinner than a normal scorpion bolt and—No, impossible! No human could ever throw such projectiles with their bare hands at such a vast–

Another whistling sound, different from the arrows, and another javelin flew over his head. Thankfully, this time, it missed completely and shattered on the ground a short distance from them. There was nothing they could do against the constant barrage of archers aside from enduring and having their marksmen retaliate in kind. Sadly, with the overcast skies, the flat plains ahead of them were darker than tar, and he had yet to hear that sweet scream of agony from getting hit by the Ironborn's bodkin arrows.

"Maybe we should advance, Captain?" Ralf the Limper asked after about twenty more minutes of enduring the hail of arrows. By now, the men had calmed down and realized they were mostly safe behind their shields. "We're like ducks with clipped wings, waiting for some greenlander brat to catch with his pebbles."

A few more men fell, but their shields and heavy armor protected them for the most part. The occasional javelin throw brought down a dozen of his men, despite half of them missing entirely. Victarion began believing that some monstrous fellow was throwing the javelins by hand. Thankfully, whoever it was throwing the javelins either ran out of javelins or decided to take a rest, as no more were thrown for some time.

"No, that's what they want us to do. The moment we leave the safety of the camp, they will charge us with their horses. Can't you hear those beasts running along?" Victarion retorted and called for silence. True enough, the sound of horses rushing back and forth, neighing and snorting as their riders directed them, reached them. This was no simple band of raiders, but a considerable force they faced. "We only needed to wait until the cunts ran out of arrows, and then they will charge."

At least, that's what Victarion hoped. Inside, he was seething with rage at such cowardly tactics.

"Then why don't we fall back and lure them deeper into the camp?" Ralf insisted, causing Victarion to seriously consider such a plan. Yes, it could work. They could fill the camp with debris and carts to render their horses useless.

Before he could formulate a proper plan, though, someone called his name from deeper in the camp, and Victarion left Harras Harlaw in charge of the perimeter's defense.

"What is it?" It was one of the Goodbrother triplets, not the heir, though.

"Something queer is going on at the northern perimeter." Gran, or maybe it was Gormond, anxiously held the conspicuous striped goat's hair sashes that all Goodbrothers wore. "Some strange lights and noise could be seen and heard in the fog. I sent two men to scout the fishing village, but they have yet to—"

"Captain!" Another man called him, this time a Tawney man. "Attack! We're under attack from the south!"

Victarion swore. The Tawneys were responsible for keeping watch in the south, which should have been the safest perimeter. He mostly had them there to stop any reaver from deciding to leave early, while the Goodbrothers, his closest and strongest allies, protected the north side along with many other houses.

First, he rallied more men and made his way to the northern perimeter since it was closer, finding them hunkering behind carts and shieldwalls. There were no ominously powerful javelins being thrown at them, but there was definitely something unnatural going on. What looked like several balls of flame seemed to move all along the wall of fog, and he could have sworn he heard a grinding and clicking sound for a moment.

"Wynch! Take five men and check what's going on."

Alester Wynch looked reluctant, but after being kicked in the bum, he hurried to obey. He and his five men had barely walked a dozen or two steps before the sound of arrows whistling in the night descended on them. Thankfully, they were all heavily armored and had their shields ready, allowing them to quickly backtrack to the perimeter safely.

"Archers, Captain."

"I can see that, you nitwit." Victarion boldly stepped forth, roaring through his kraken helmet. "COWARDS! COME OUT AND FACE ME!"

His roar echoed in the night, yet no one dared approach; the queer flaming balls persisted, however, and Victarion knew the superstitious Ironmen would do something foolish if he left them to their devices. Yet, he needed to check on the southern perimeter, so he grabbed Gran Goodbrother.

"Keep an eye out for any mischief, but for fuck's sake, don't leave the safety of the shield wall! Hold your ground, no matter what happens."

"Aye, Captain."

Satisfied that the rest of the men heard him, Victarion left for the south side, finding the sentries shooting blindly into the fog while several men carried dead soldiers away. There were no arrow wounds, yet whatever killed them must have been incredibly sharp, for it had pierced through their armor like parchment.

At least this time, there were no strange flames nor any return fire from archers.

"Where is the enemy?" Victarion asked Balon Tawney; the veteran reaver was scowling in the distance as he held his bow, as if waiting for a moment to pepper whatever came forth with arrows.

"Some armored fucker rode in, cut down a dozen of the guards before retreating."

"Just one fucking greenlander knight did this?!" Victarion did not know whether he wanted to laugh, cry, or kick the already dead sentries for being so weak. Instead, he did what he had been doing all night, turned to the fog, and roared out a challenge. "ARE YOU SATISFIED SLAYING MERE WEAKLINGS? I AM VICTARION GREYJOY! COME AND FACE ME IF YOU DARE!"

Victarion did not expect a reply, but he got one that had him gawking before nearly biting his tongue in fury.

"No, thank you, I prefer hiding in the fog." The men had instantly shot where the voice came from, but they heard nothing but the young-sounding voice laugh. "Missed me! Thanks for the offer, but I'll get back to you later."

"He's mocking us! Fucking craven!" One of the reavers roared and charged into the fog, followed by a dozen other men. "FIGHT PROPER, CRAVEN!"

"Wait!"

Victarion had barely managed to stop three other fools from following before the sound of several horses neighing, something sharp slicing the air, a brief scream of pain, and then nothing. A few heartbeats later, something flew towards them, and Victarion stepped aside. The gasps of his men had him look down, finding a dozen heads staring at him in anguish; a dozen reaver heads.

"That fucking—"

"Enough, you fools!" Victarion punched the reaver about to charge again into the mist, dropping him to the ground. "This is what he wants. Cowardly Northman does not dare to attack us in the open."

"Then what should we do, Captain?" Balon Tawney asked, his son, Lenwood, approached from the camp with more men, all of them had bows.

"You wait, form ranks and spear wall. There are more of them out there—it could be a hundred or a thousand, for all we know. If they dare charge again, nail them with arrows and bring them down. Whatever you do, do not advance into that fog. It's unnatural, and we know the enemy has a sorcerer in their midst."

The men muttered in worry, but they were still Ironborn. They quickly nodded in determination and resumed their watch, allowing Victarion to return to camp.

They were boxed in, with no idea of the number of attackers, but it couldn't have been many; otherwise, they would have mounted a full-frontal assault. If they even had half their numbers, they could have beaten them when they were tired and exhausted, trapped as they were with the river to their back. Yet the craven enemy commander used trickery and deceit to whittle them down. Regardless of whatever the enemy had in mind, Victarion suspected he would not assault them any time soon, but one thing was clear.

This would be a long, sleepless night.

Several hours later, halfway through the Hour of the Wolf, Victarion was jerked awake by a terrible scream. He must have dozed off for a bit, but as he jumped to his feet and hurried to the northern perimeter, he caught a reaver running the opposite way.

"What's happening?"

"Dragons! The enemy has fucking dragons!"

Victarion slapped the fool before lifting him by his collar. All around them, hundreds of reavers listened closely. "What the devil are you on about? Dragons have been gone for hundreds of years!"

"D-Daegon Shepard…he relieved the Goodbrothers. Nothing had happened all night, nothing at all! So he led a hundred of his men into the fog to learn what those flames were and…and...By the Drowned God, it happened so fast. A terrible roar and half a dozen streams of fire belched out and burned Daegon and his men to a crisp!"

Victarion dropped the blithering fool to the ground. He stared around him, finding something he never believed he would see in an Ironborn's eyes.

Fear.

Notes:

The Ironborn are in the midst of a nightmare, that's for sure.

Chapter 36: The Sundering

Notes:

Join me on Discord for discussions, character portraits, and access to one advanced chapter! Discord code is vN7sTYhEp6.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

 

A few days earlier

Barrowton

"On behalf of Barrowton, I must thank you once again for your prompt aid, Lady Wylla." Brandon bowed to the maiden before him. "I must also apologize for not providing you with a proper welcome as befitting your station."

"It is of no issue at all, Mister Brandon; any thanks should be directed to Princess Sansa, however, for I am but her voice as she busies herself with matters of ruling from Winterfell." Wylla Manderly gave a graceful curtsy as they waited for the wheelhouse to arrive in the courtyard of the abandoned Barrow Hall. Mister? He shook his head inwardly as she continued. "Barrowton has endured a lot, and your welcome feast was a great respite from the long days of travel. I look forward to exploring what Barrowton has to offer and discussing how best we can work together in these trying times."

Brandon hid his grimace well, yet he could not at all protest; everyone must do their due, and the maiden before him had been unflinchingly polite. Wylla then turned to his daughter, who had so far remained silent as she shyly fiddled with the hem of her gray woolen dress. Berena looked like a scullery maid compared to the mermaid lady, yet within a few minutes of small talk, his daughter swiftly opened up to Wylla.

The granddaughter of the Merman Lord had arrived yesterday morning, much to the jubilation of the townsfolk. With her came plenty of much-needed supplies courtesy of Princess Sansa Stark in Winterfell. A thousand footmen accompanied her to the town, along with thrice that number of camp followers. The remaining army the Princess sent chased after the Ironborn.

Barrowton had survived the siege just as they were about to kill the first dog for its meat. Little Pooch was an old and lovable Border Barrow that the townsfolk promptly made Lord as an apology for trying to eat him. The confused dog took it in stride when offerings of meat and bones were given to him aplenty, and his formerly skinny body looked noticeably fatter now.

If anyone accused them of insulting Barbrey Ryswell in the process, they would spit on her name and dare her or the Ryswells to protest. Suffice it to say, the Widow of the Rills was not welcome in Barrowton anymore, and until the return of Damon Dustin, the running of the town was left to a council nominally headed by himself, with Little Pooch as the symbolic figurehead.

Brandon had seen a lot of things, but this had to be the strangest thing of them all. Perhaps hunger and desperation made people do strange things, but was it bad that even he found Little Pooch more agreeable than that harridan woman?

Still, that was a sennight ago, but the townsfolk were hesitant to leave the safety of the curtain walls, wary of Ironmen's trickery. Thankfully, the abandoned siege camp and Castle Goldgrass had enough food to feed the town for a few more days, not to mention the many hideouts that the Ironborn missed and where the smallfolk kept their winter rations in case of an emergency. After recovering the bodies of Lord Stout and his household and laying them to rest in the Goldgrass's crypts as was proper, the men once again looked to him for guidance and leadership.

Fortunately, the arrival of the Stark host took that responsibility off his hands.

Strangely, the host was led by a woman, not a lady or an heiress, but the second daughter of the heir to New Castle. Yet Wylla Manderly conducted herself gracefully and seemed to be positively glowing and brimming with energy for some reason. Her men followed her orders without question despite the presence of noblemen and knights in the small army.

Her vibrant blue hair gathered much attention, not because of the color, but due to how natural it looked. Then again, after fighting demons from the depths and witnessing Berena's powers, the townsfolk merely shrugged and didn't wonder too much how a young girl not yet twenty had gained the respect of thousands of men to speak for them.

All of yesterday was spent feasting and celebrating their victory, but come morning, Lady Manderly had requested access to any ships they had available. Brandon hesitated to tell her the truth, fearing she would commandeer them. These ships were communal; the entirety of Barrowton owned them, and they would be crucial to the town's recovery.

Worse, Brandon dreaded Wylla Manderly meeting his daughter. The townsfolk still called her the Stark Witch, and many have proclaimed her the town's savior. The Manderlys were the only major house in the North to follow the Seven, and followers of the Southron gods were never friendly with so-called heathen magic.

To his dismay, at the earliest whisper of Stark Witch, Lady Wylla's interest was piqued, and she requested that she meet his daughter. Brandon could have refused, but the girl was so polite and charming that he did not even realize he had called Berena to join them until she arrived, shyly giving a curtsy that most likely would have been seen as an insult due to how clumsy it was.

Thankfully, Wylla Manderly took no offense and immediately questioned Berena about her powers and Brandon himself of his relationship to the Starks—just as the wheelhouse arrived, and they promptly boarded, several heavily armed mounted Stark men-at-arms following closely behind them. Much to Brandon's chagrin, Wylla was only curious and listened intently as they rode the wheelhouse to the hidden cove where the cogs were docked.

It had not taken long after Berena first spoke to Wylla during breakfast that the blue-haired maiden had managed to befriend his shy daughter enough to have her join them for the rest of the day. For some reason, he could have sworn Wylla had the slightest of frowns when Berena mentioned Damon and how they intended to marry when he returned from the South. Yet, the Manderly maiden had quickly gushed about how romantic that was.

He had no idea what 'Romantic' meant, but he assumed it was a good thing…he hoped.

"I just worry if he would bring a wife from the south." Berena had confessed as they sat in the wheelhouse. "One who was noble and beautiful, bringing honor and a rich dowry worthy of the Lord of the Barrowlands."

Brandon felt utterly out of place and regretted not taking a horse when offered. His worry for his daughter overcame his senses, and now he had to endure women's gossip.

"Oh, I am certain you have nothing to worry about," the Manderly maiden quickly comforted Berena. "You are plenty beautiful and offer far more than some soft tittering chit from the south who has never seen snow or endured a siege from the Ironborn."

Wylla's sky-blue eyes gleamed with something he could not understand as she held his daughter's hand comfortingly. Berena's prior worry melted away at the younger girl's confidence. Women, even after seventy years, Brandon would never claim to understand them.

"Do you truly believe Damon would stay true?" His daughter asked as they left the wheelhouse and followed the trail to the cove where the ships were hidden. "War changes people, and even King Robb has found a paramour."

"His Grace has neither wedded nor called off the betrothal, so House Frey has no ground to complain." Wylla waved her hand flippantly before her gaze turned serious. "Even if your man strays, he would not dare call off the marriage or else suffer the wrath of House Stark."

"Begging your pardon, My Lady, but I am a Stark in name only," Brandon decided to interject then. "I have nothing to offer in dowry that has not burned to ashes during the siege, nor do I know anyone from Winterfell."

"That will not be an issue. I assure you that Princess Sansa will offer a dowry worthy of a maiden of House Stark to House Dustin." The absolute confidence in her words nearly had Brandon believe her without question. Nearly. "Besides, your tale is similar to how the princess met her husband."

"Truly?"

Brandon listened with half an ear as he led the group around one final bend to the cove. So Princess Sansa's husband was a sorcerer? Was that why Wylla did not bat an eye upon learning of Berena's powers? Suddenly, an epiphany hit him as he recalled an important lesson Lord Edwyle Stark instilled in him and his brother when they were still his heirs apparent.

"The Starks have long collected any bloodlines suspected of having any magic or extraordinary abilities. It was why we coveted a Targaryen bride so much and feuded with the Crown over not fulfilling the Pact of Ice and Fire."

"Wasn't that pact between Jacaerys' daughter and Rickon Stark?"

"Vile slander by Southron maesters. A Targaryen daughter was promised to us, yet the House of the Dragon went back on their word," Lord Edwyle growled. "Regardless, you must remember this closely: magic may have dwindled, yet it waxes and wanes like the tide. When magic is ascendant, House Stark shall be poised to rise no matter what!"

Naturally, neither he nor Benjen had taken stock of what Lord Edwyle said, thinking the old wolf was losing his wits. Now, it seemed it was he who did not have faith. It appeared he underestimated the Starks of this era; Sansa Stark abandoned all caution and married a powerful sorcerer to bring his blood into the Stark bloodline. Brandon did not know Eddard Stark, but it appeared he had taught his children well—the quiet wolf was the most dangerous for a reason.

Finally, they arrived at the docks, and Wylla asked him, "Are these all the ships you managed to hide?"

"Aye, My Lady," Brandon replied. "They're not truly fit for combat, but these twelve cogs and twenty fishing boats are all that Barrowton has left."

The young maiden hummed thoughtfully as she inspected the vessels hidden upriver. Without the docks or shipyards, they could not bring them to the town, but thanks to the lake and the cliff above it, they managed to hide them from the Ironborn.

"How many men do you think they can ferry?"

"Not all of them are built to standard, but if I had to give an average number, I would say about a thousand in total, including the sailors."

"That's less than I thought, though perhaps I'm more used to the new designs Percy made," Wylla hummed. "How soon can you get these ships ready to sail?"

"They are seaworthy if that's what you are wondering, but—"

"I know, not fit for combat, but all they would need to do is ferry men down the Barrow River. How fast would it take them to sail to the Saltspear?"

"Once we get the sailors and the men boarded? A day or two. The Barrow River is wide and fast enough not to need oars or sail, but once in the Saltspear…" Brandon looked at the blue-haired maiden weirdly. "What do you have in mind, My Lady?"

"Give me a moment. Donnis?!" Wylla suddenly called, and one of the men-at-arms hurried to her side. "How soon can you get Ben and his spitfires onboard the ships?"

"As soon as we return to town. Benny has been dying to try his machines out and is sick and tired of the constant training we have him do." The aforementioned Donnis grinned, and Brandon frowned at the casual way he spoke to the lady, but if she didn't mind…

"Good. Mister Brandon?" He quirked an eyebrow at the strange term. That was the second time she had used it—maybe she meant Master? "I think…I am in need of a weirwood, preferably a heart tree." Brandon's random thoughts flew from his mind as he gawked at the girl, doubly so when she turned to his daughter with an excited grin. "Berena, how would you like to aid the Princess's Consort and Lord Protector of the North in bringing an end to the Ironborn threat?"

Two days later

"You alright there, old timer?"

Brandon flinched before releasing a wide yawn. It was late evening, and the only light came from the full moon and the stars above them, along with the occasional torch or lantern held by the men. Brandon could barely see in front of him from the fog that clung to the docks of the abandoned fishing village. He remembered a small clan living here, yet now they were gone; most likely killed by the reavers. Squinting in front of him, the fog seemed to suddenly clear, or at least he could see through it better, and Brandon realized he had lost track of time as he watched the monotonous work of the men disembarking.

"I'm fine." He turned to the speaker, a heavily armored knight with dark hair and green eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness. "You are?"

"Perseus Jackson, but you can call me Percy."

Brandon gawked at suddenly being face-to-face with the infamous sorcerer. He was not on the lead ship and only got off when Donnis called them in, so he had no idea what he looked like.

He looked down at the offered hand and promptly shook it firmly. "An honor."

"Likewise." Percy grinned sardonically. "So you must be that lady's father. Brandon, right?"

"How do you know Berena?"

"She, uh, nearly knocked me off my horse when she gave me a call through the Weirwood Network." The young sorcerer rubbed his brow. "I'm glad for the unexpected help Wylla sent, but I did not expect a greenseer to appear out of nowhere; a friendly one as well!"

Greenseer? Why did that term sound familiar? Brandon shook his head as Percy motioned for him to follow back to the pier; his ship was the last to dock and was nearly done unloading.

"I appreciate you ferrying the men, Mister Brandon, but I think it would be best if you returned to Barrowton posthaste. The Ironborn are encamped nearby and could send men to investigate all the racket."

Said racket was that Bennard fellow and his team of craftsmen were carefully unloading those disassembled siege engines of theirs. Lanterns were placed above them as they worked in the darkness, yet he wondered how they could see in the fog.

"Very well. I am not a spring chicken anymore, boy. Winter is coming! I'm only here because there were not enough captains. Will you be alright then? Do you need us to make another run and ferry more men?"

"No need. The extra eight hundred men were enough to convince me to abandon my original plan."

"So, what kind of strategy do you have now?"

"Nothing special. Going to abuse this fog I made to hide the men in the darkness while harassing the Ironborn to death." Percy grinned as he waved at several of his men tending to the horses—there had to be thousands of horses spread across the plains surrounding the village, all of them the most obedient he had ever seen, not even making a single sound. "If they dare to leave their camp, they will be burned to a crisp."

"Using those mangonels and…spitfires? Reminds me of the Unworthy's mad devices."

"That's the inspiration, but have faith. We have already tested them, and we won't be using Wildfire. Isn't that right, Ben?"

"Aye, Captain Percy! No green piss here." The heavily muscled young man eagerly showed several vials holding viscous liquids of different colors. "Once we're ready, we mix these beauties up, and then the flames will be ready to use. Perfectly safe, and it's all thanks to you, Captain. Who would have thought weirwood sap and a bit of—"

"Thank you, Ben." Percy interrupted while wagging a finger in warning. "Go along now."

They watched as Bennard saluted and hurried back to his men.

"Weirwood sap and?"

"Trade secret. The less people know, the better."

"Fair enough." Brandon shrugged. He did not really care, and even if he did, he had no way of getting the truth. "So, are you the one controlling this fog? How do you do it anyway?"

"I suppose you can call it magic. Hey, Donnis, are all the men done disembarking?"

"Aye, Lord Percy," Donnis replied from the dock. "Kyle is going over that spiked club the Barrowmen brought. Should be handy against the heavily armored Ironborn."

A good five hundred of the city's defenders had clamored to join the small fleet when word broke out that they were attacking the Ironborn. Many of them were old men who lost their families or homes to the squids. With nothing to return to, they insisted they get their pound of flesh from the Ironborn. Brandon would have joined them if not for his daughter waiting for him at home; the shipyard might have been destroyed, but he could always rebuild. Yet a good third of the men here were green boys eager for glory and loot.

"Well then, I suppose I should leave." Brandon shook Percy's hand once more before making his way to the pier and up the deck of the cog; he could use some shut-eye. He suddenly stopped as a thought came to mind and turned to Percy. "Pardon me, your Princeship. If I might be so bold as to inquire, what was your plan once you caught up to Victarion Greyjoy? You only have three thousand men against his twelve-or-so-thousand. The rest of the army ought to be at least a day behind you."

"Yeah, though I doubt I can count on Cregan and the rest of the army to make it in time. As for my original plan? It's simple." Perseus Jackson grinned savagely, and Brandon felt a shiver crawl up his spine. "All I have to do is…"

A*H*M

Hour of the Nightingale

Percy

"CHARGE!"

Men and horses roared as they followed him into the southern perimeter of the Ironborn camp. More horses than men, yet Percy understood them all the same. Blackjack galloped for the hastily formed spear wall, its wielders looking exhausted after sleepless hours of him pranking them to death. His sword increased in length and size, turning into the familiar trident he picked up from under the sea, and then he sliced horizontally several times, aiming more for the spear tips than the ones holding it. It took precision and strength that he doubted anyone but a demigod could have, yet Percy managed to turn a cavalry charge's worst nightmare into useless pieces of tinder that their owners gawked at in disbelief.

Then they were crushed under the hoof by over 1500 pounds of horse flesh and armor. Blackjack forced his way through, trusting Percy to cut down any Ironborn who could pose a risk, while the rest of his retinue followed and slew any reaver still alive. It didn't matter how heavily armored the Ironmen were or if they had shields and pikes; when Percy broke their formation, that was the end for them.

Their tight ranks worked against them as the Ironborn huddled by the entrance of their camp, using the stakes to funnel Percy and his troops into a narrow corridor that would have acted as a kill zone. While that was tactically sound, it backfired on them when Percy simply crashed through, cutting anyone in the way as Blackjack forged on. The line must have been twenty men wide and over fifty men deep; most of the men in the backline were either archers or reserves who could barely see in front of them. Still a considerable number, nearly another thousand men.

By the time Percy broke through the last man, he nearly chuckled at the faces full of shock. Several of the archers loosed arrows at him, yet Aegis was instantly in front of Blackjack's head, protecting them both even if Percy had to lean forward in his saddle. Five hundred lancers followed him, along with three hundred riderless horses, bucking wildly at any Ironman they found while their riders finished off those still alive or dazed with maces, lances, flails, and the Northman's favorite—war picks. Then, they charged once more at the backline of archers that barely managed to notch their arrows before he crashed into them and swept his lance left and right like a blender.

He had never been the best with spears, but once he discovered his new weapon, Percy had focused on training with the spear as much as possible, especially from horseback. The result, as he took a moment to survey the surrounding camp, was devastating.

Over a thousand Ironborn lay dead behind him with that single charge, and another thousand around him that he and his men finished off in the melee. Looking deeper, their camp was around seven hundred feet deep and a thousand feet wide; quite tight for their numbers, yet there were hardly any tents as the men slept in the open around many campfires. It was cold but had yet to snow; then again, this was considered some of the warmer parts of the North. From his vantage point on Blackjack's back, he could see Kyle's men on the east side crashing through the lines of defenders. Percy had left the bulk of the troops with his right-hand man, nearly three thousand lancers and mounted archers.

Despite being well-equipped and led by his personally trained men, they were still mortals and could not demolish the spear wall as easily as he did. Kyle had already lost his horse and was busy dueling a man with a Valyrian steel sword, while Mark and his archers maneuvered themselves a bit southward to shoot the Ironborn through the gaps in the stakes. For their part, the Ironborn had much of their forces facing Kyle and his men, about three or four thousand. Even as Percy watched, a good thousand or so of them had noticed them, mostly archers, and wheeled about to face them, only for Mark and his archers to rain death on their exposed backs.

"Captain Percy. The Ironborn are fleeing deeper into the camp. Your orders?" Larence Snow was a good kid. Dutiful and smart, rarely asked stupid questions, and quick on the initiative.

He turned to his squire and grinned. The men were still forming around him, so he had time to think. The Ironborn leader, Victarion Greyjoy, was nowhere to be seen. Yet, even as he watched, the fleeing Ironborn were rallying to a familiar guttural voice near the stockades keeping the prisoners.

Further to the north, his spitfires and mangonels rained fiery death on the defenders. Matrid Long screened the engineers with two hundred lancers while three hundred Bolton halberdiers, supported by the five hundred Barrowmen using bows and their Goedendags (not that they realized what they created and Percy did not wish to name the weapon for them) held the line in case of a counterattack. Looking at how quickly the Ironborn fled from the fiery destruction, it appeared his plan had succeeded.

As he took stock of the situation, Percy's mind wandered to his original plan…catch up with the Ironborn, hope they're close enough to the river, and then drown the fuckers en masse. Percy would have had nightmares about drowning so many men at once, but he had resolved himself to do it just to protect his men from needless slaughter.

That plan was promptly scrapped when he learned they had at least three thousand innocent men, women, and children of the North captive.

Which brought him to his backup plan. Calling it a plan would be a misnomer, as it mainly entailed him charging their rear, finding their leader, killing him, demanding the rest to surrender, and killing the rest until someone with two brain cells to rub together wizened up and surrendered. That plan also died when Victarion Greyjoy decided to do something unpredictable and camp for the night instead of pushing forward as he had been doing the past week. Still, Percy simply changed tactics and used the fog he had conjured to hide Mark and his archers while they peppered the Ironborn all night and had the rest of the men rest until morning, when they would strike when the Ironmen broke camp.

Simple… except for the part where his own men and horses were exhausted and would definitely be mowed down if the Ironborn decided to leave the safety of their camp and charge en masse and stumble on the sleeping men. Even with horses, most of his men were not trained to fight on horseback; Mark had five hundred archers, two hundred from the Hornwood, and the rest from the Forest Clans. Each of them was on a horse carrying six quivers of arrows and two more on their persons—nearly eighty thousand arrows, which was a true annoyance to collect from many of the lands in the North. Unfortunately, the horses were stots or drays, not bred for combat or speed, clumsy to control, and dumber than bricks (Percy nearly pulled out his hair when he tried to talk to them). Weighed down as they were, there was a good chance the reavers could eventually catch them by surprise, even on foot, and decimate them.

Then, just as he was about to commit to a pseudo-siege of Victarion's camp, Wylla and Berena contacted him through the Weirwood Network. Wylla's aid was unexpected but a godsend as it allowed him to finally relax and think up a plan worthy of Athena. Having Donnis and Benny around made things much easier, as his half-maester and chief engineer had greater attention to detail than he did.

But Percy was never famed for his attention span or planning abilities—that had all been Annabeth.

The result was this: six spitfires and four mangonels in the north commanded by Ser Matrid Long. The bulk of his troops in the east commanded by Kyle (who was really due for a promotion as well as Mark, if Percy had a say in the matter, which he most definitely did!), and finally, five hundred heavy lancers (plus a further three hundred saddleless horses joining for the fun) under his command attacking from the south—the most important location that would prevent any Ironborn from fleeing where their ships were docked.

Percy still needed to deal with the fleet, and there was no way he would let anyone escape to warn them and sail away.

Even as he watched, Ser Matrid had just crashed into the last defenders still standing while the rest fled deeper into the camp, right where Victarion Greyjoy was rallying the rest. His course set, he turned to Larence, finding Roose Ryswell and his men had also joined; the Barrow knights were bloodied, in good spirits, and eager for more combat.

"Our losses?"

"Minimal," Roose reported. "Less than ten men."

"Good. Roose, take your men and charge the rear of the defenders on the eastern perimeter. Once they're broken, join me where the Iron Captain is rallying his men. We need to save the captives imprisoned in those stockades before the Ironborn get any funny ideas."

"Aye, Lord Perseus."

The Ryswell man politely saluted, lowered his visor, and urged his men eastward. Percy was unsure about the Barrow Knights, but they had proven themselves well. Especially when he gave leadership to an upstart noble like Matrid Long and a complete commoner like Kyle. If Roose Ryswell had any complaints, he did not voice them, opting to follow his lead obediently, yet Percy was sure he would have some favors to ask later on.

Wheeling to where he could see the hulking man in lobstered armor with an octopus-themed helmet, Percy led his men forward at a relaxed canter, stopping about fifty feet from the formidable spear wall facing him. There must have been three thousand men in a tight formation, all of them hunkering down behind their shields with their spears poking out threateningly. They formed a long, crescent-shaped wall of steel that must have stretched for more than a thousand feet and surrounded all of their loot and prisoners. Percy snorted. Even when close to death and defeat, a pirate would care more about his booty than anything else.

Still, Percy and his meager three hundred were significantly outnumbered, yet he did not worry, for Ser Matrid had just arrived from the north with a thousand more men; he could even see Donnis and Benny dragging their siege engines forward. Some of the Ironborn were even surrendering, and as per his orders, his men quickly took them into custody, binding their hands and legs in sailor knots—even if Matrid had to bellow at the Bolton sergeant for trying to execute them.

He frowned. The Bolton men were well-disciplined, well-armed, and eager to prove themselves, yet they were a little too excitable at times. Still, Percy nodded in approval at Matrid's actions; his choice in commander was bearing fruit, and he planned to give him a promotion in that new military ranking system he was toying with, even if it would mostly be just for show until the king approved it.

He turned to his foes and inspected them. None of their weapons were uniform; every Ironborn was equipped in heavy armor, whether plate or scale mail, chainmail, and a nasal half-helmet. For arms, they used spears and shields of varying lengths and sizes, along with whatever sidearms they preferred—axes, daggers, swords, axes, maces, war hammers, dirks, even more axes…anything that could kill, they had on their person. Was that an axe fetish?

A few of them also had bows and arrows, but it was clear the bulk of their archers were trapped in the melee towards the east.

Regardless, Percy could simply do the same as earlier, lead the charge, and break their formation before descending into a butchery as they were trampled under the hooves of his horses. Except the Ironborn had decided to be utter bastards after all, as their formation opened, allowing him to see hundreds of Northmen kneeling on the ground with reavers holding their weapons over their necks.

"Is this what the brave men of the Iron Islands have been reduced to? Cowering behind women and children!" Percy's angry roar echoed loudly as he felt his blood boil. The sky, which he had cleared earlier to give his men the best vision, quickly darkened again as the world mirrored his rage.

"Like you're one to talk, craven sorcerer." Victarion pushed his way out of the formation, removing his helmet and glaring at him in the no man's land between them. "Hiding in shadows and the mist like a thief in the night. Refusing to meet us in battle like a man while using your wicked spells and magic to burn us like the Mad King. If you're brave, then come and face me!"

"A duel? Why not, but you will release the prisoners."

"Only if you defeat me!" Victarion Greyjoy banged the flat of his axe on his shield and gestured for him. "Now come if you dare. I won't ask for anything after killing you. Your men will fall to me either way!"

"How delusional," Percy jumped from Blackjack, removed his helmet, and placed it on the saddle. Then, he shouldered his shield and purposely sauntered forward. With a thought, his lance shrank down to a dagger, and he returned it to its sheath—the longer he stayed in the North and claimed weirwoods, the easier his control over his powers got, including using the lance.

"No weapons then? Hah, perhaps you ain't as craven as I thought." Victarion threw aside his axe and shield before charging with a roar.

Percy rushed forward, meeting the man's attempted grapple with both hands. Victarion Greyjoy was much bigger than him, nearly an entire head taller, yet as he growled and gripped his hands tightly in a vain attempt to crush them, Percy smirked. Swifter than he could react, Percy tightened his grip hard enough for the Victarion's steel gauntlets to screech as he crushed them. Credit to the pirate, he merely grimaced and reared his head back for a headbutt, only for Percy to twist his hands sideways and kick his right knee, causing him to lose balance. To finish this charade, Percy tossed and gripped his left hand even harder until the metal was completely crushed into the hand, grasped his right wrist, flipped him over his shoulders, and slammed him on the ground.

Victarion barely had time to shout in pain before Percy flipped him on his stomach, stomped on his shoulder blade, and pulled his arm away until a popping sound told him it was dislocated—both arms were disarmed. The man was already defeated, but that was not enough. Finally, he stomped on Victarion's back just as his groan of pain was cut short and turned into a wheeze, and Percy glared at the Ironborn ahead of him.

"Your leader has lost. Release the prisoners and lay down your weapons."

The men shifted on their feet and stared at each other in uncertainty. The sound of combat to the east slowly died as the first vestiges of the sun's rays began to appear through the dark clouds above. Percy glanced sideways, finding that most of the Ironborn surrendered once Ryswell's Barrow Knights shattered the rearguard and crashed into the rest of the defenders.

"Fuck you, y-you bastard!" A young man wearing a tabard with a scourge of nettles pushed his way forward, holding a girl no older than twelve by the hair as he pushed his dagger close to her neck. "We won't surrender to some Greenlander heathen like you."

Percy frowned, yet he looked down and found Victarion had pushed his head up through the pain and glared menacingly at the man. "Lenwood, you would disobey me?"

"You are telling us to surrender?" The young man looked shocked, a face mirrored by all the Ironborn around him, before contorting in rage. "He killed my father! We can still win this!"

"Aye, surrendering is for the weak and Greenlanders." Another man limped forward. "Men of the Iron Islands do not fear death, for our Drowned God shall welcome us in his watery halls. Your agreement was with Greyjoy, not with us! What is dead may never die!"

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!" Just like that, the thousands of Ironborn seemed to suddenly gain a second wind. "BUT RISES AGAIN, HARDER AND STRONGER!"

An ill-wind rushed from the south then, and the flames of the torches and campfires seemed to dance as the Ironborn roared in defiance. Victarion growled in rage, crawling forward and out of Percy's foot as he glared viciously at the limping man. "You would defy me, Ralf? Make my word mean shit?!"

"You lost, Captain," Ralf the Limper said, his face dark and full of disdain. "No, you are no captain of mine. Beaten by such a sprog! Men, turn this little shit into a hedgehog!"

Several men pulled their bows and aimed them at Percy, but before they could even notch their arrows, or his men behind him could so much as rush to protect him, Percy slung Aegis into his hand and, in one smooth motion, threw it like a discus. The Valyrian steel shield was like a thin silver light that passed through the lines of Ironmen faster than the eye could blink before disappearing into the night.

For a moment, no one moved, but then one archer at the front gasped before freezing in place and falling over, leaving his legs and part of his torso still standing for a few seconds before following it along with his severed hands. The Ironborn did not get a chance to shout in shock before a long line of men suddenly tipped over, their torsos separating from their bodies. The cuts gradually climbed higher and higher the more the line traveled further; if the first man was cut just by his navel, then the tenth man was cut through his lungs, and the fiftieth man had half his face shorn clean off.

Not a single prisoner was harmed. The Ironmen did not yet seem to understand what had just happened. Suddenly, the girl in Lenwood's hands grimaced as he dug his dagger deeper into her neck when he gawked at the surrounding corpses, causing blood to spill; her brown eyes found Percy's, and a voice suddenly sounded in his head.

"Gods of springs and stone, give me strength just like that to beat these damned squids!"

Percy couldn't help but laugh; not begging for help or aid, but strength! It started as a chuckle before erupting into full belly laughter. So loud and reverberating was his laughter that the sudden devilish wind died, and the Ironborn slowly turned to him.

"You have no idea, do you?"

"W-What?"

Percy didn't answer. Instead, he raised his hands to the heavens and focused. Before the limping captain could say a word, a mighty rumble deafened everything. Suddenly, drops of water began to fall on everyone, dousing some of the abandoned campfires and torches. Ironborn and Northmen, including his troops, looked up at the dark skies in confusion. With a thought, Percy cleared the skies completely, allowing the rising sun, the full moon, and the myriad of stars twinkling in the heavens to shine down, allowing the Ironborn to gawk in shock and horror.

Even the Iron Captain gawked as a fish fell on his head, flopping uselessly on the ground. "T-The river?"

"Do you understand now, men of the Iron Islands?" His voice echoed, but it didn't feel like his voice. It felt like a thousand versions of himself were speaking at the same time. "You never stood a chance. Picking a spot near a body of water was a terrible mistake when dealing with the likes of me."

"Just…who, no, what the fuck are you?"

"I am Perseus Jackson, son of the One True God of the Seas, Poseidon!"

At his declaration, hurricane winds suddenly blew out of nowhere, and even Percy was slightly shocked. He did not think his father had the power to influence the world, at least not yet. He raised his hand when something flew towards him and caught Aegis by the rim, using his fingertips to grip it firmly lest it cut his hand. Searching for the shield would have been annoying, but judging by the deep and amused chuckle in his mind, Poseidon had his back.

Percy stared ahead as the souls of the many who were slain tonight appeared for a moment—the Ironborn souls looked tormented as a demon with an endless number of tentacles latched onto them before dragging them far away to the southwest when it realized he was staring. He could have stopped it, but did he care? These pirates had thrown their lot and had to suffer the consequences. In contrast, the Northmen who died, and quite a few of them died, especially in the eastern perimeter, looked relaxed and watched on with interest before floating away deeper into the North or down into the land.

Several of the Ironmen had already dropped their weapons, and a lot more fell on their asses in shock, yet the majority did the opposite as they gripped their weapons tighter than ever.

"You who worship that traitor, the Grey King, and call him Drowned God…you have no idea what he does with your souls. I will admit that demon has a vast reach, yet this is the North. And my domain!" His words echoed far and wide. "Beg your god for aid all you want, yet none shall come. He is weak and cowardly, and I dare him to strike me if he finds fault in my words."

Percy smirked as, with a thought, he separated the vast wall of water above them to show darkening clouds—perhaps he was milking this far too much, but what was it that the Builder told him? Break their spirits and belief in their god, and the Ironborn should lose all hope.

His powers had grown a lot in the last months, and he could now control such a massive wall of water with his thoughts alone instead of his hands.

"Well then, I await your wrath, your royal fugliness!"

The Drowned God had no influence in the North, not when Percy had officially claimed the Heart of the North—he may still damn the souls of the dead Ironmen, but that was the extent of his powers. Yet the Ironborn did not need to know that. The dark clouds solidified into an ugly face that resembled Victarion's helmet before the world turned bright as lightning struck Percy where he stood, followed by a savage roar of thunder.

Naturally, the lightning did absolutely nothing to him, for how could Poseidon harm him? Hopefully, he would forgive him for making an ugly caricature of him in the heavens. Then again, Percy could feel the drain in his powers as his father used it to continue with the act.

"It's a trick! A mummer's show by the sorcerer!" Ralf the Limper stabbed a quivering finger at Percy. "He—"

Quick as, well, lightning, another lightning bolt tore through the sky, burning Ralf the Limper to ash and leaving a massive crater where he stood. Percy stepped away from the fake lightning that burned the ground around him, but did not so much as singe his hair.

"Really, Dad?"

"Part of the show, son. I think I'm approaching my limit, however, so good luck."

Percy felt his father's presence fading from his mind and waved his hand at the skies, dispersing the dark clouds with the ugly tentacle face. He stepped forward, calmly walking to the man called Lenwood as if he were strolling on the beach. Many of the Ironborn stepped back in fear at his approach, but Percy merely plucked the man's dagger away from the girl before pushing him to the ground, and held the girl closely before continuing to walk with her deeper into the ranks of the Ironmen.

"Surrender. You have all lost. Your god failed to even harm me, let alone smite me. I can kill you with a thought, but I may yet make use of you."

They did not deserve his mercy, but he would offer it all the same, even if it would cause significant problems with the Northmen. Percy did not think even Sansa would approve of this, but he intrinsically believed he was doing the right thing. It was like an epiphany had struck Percy as he heard the Ironborn utter those words over and over again; they were like thralls to their god, beholden to him in an unnatural way. But judging by the men he captured in Moat Cailin and even Victarion, Percy believed he could break that hold.

"Surrender your will to me, and I will slay the demon that binds you and free your islands from its many-tentacled grasp."

For a long moment, nobody moved or even spoke, but then one man wearing a black horn around his waist stepped forward. He was followed by two identical men—triplets—each of them wearing sashes made of goat's hair. All three held swords and stopped before him…before falling to their knees and placing them before him.

"We surrender and beg your mercy, Lord Sorcerer."

It was like a flood. The three men were clearly of great importance, as nearly a third of the Ironborn quickly followed suit; Percy noticed all of them wore the same sigil on their surcoats, if in different colors, a horn over an empty background. One by one, all the Ironborn fell to their knees, many of them muttering about the Storm God (which irked Percy as he really hoped that douchebag didn't have his gaze here).

Even Lenwood stayed on the ground, his eyes vacant, but Percy had eyes only for their downed leader. Victarion Greyjoy looked like a man whose beliefs had been utterly shattered, and simply lowered his head when his gaze fell on him.

 

Notes:

That's that, Percy has done the impossible. Scam the Ironborn into disbelieving their god.

It is said Zeus is the god of theater, but clearly, Poseidon isn't a bad actor either.

Mercy is a luxury the strong can afford to give. If Percy had not had such vast powers in his grasp, he would not have entertained going out of his way to be merciful to people he would normally hate.

Chapter 37: Herald of the Divine

Notes:

Join me on Discord for discussions, character portraits, and access to one advanced chapter! Discord code is vN7sTYhEp6.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

"What's the verdict, Ben? Are they worth all the hassle?"

"I say these beauties have well proven their worth!" Bennard patted one of the spitfires lovingly like they were his children; the formerly skittish man had grown into a confident warrior after spending so much time with them. "Even the idea of putting the substance in clay pots and throwing them with mangonels was genius! I know some engineers use fire pots made from tar and pitch for a similar result, but this method is safer yet more destructive."

Percy nodded as his chief engineer continued glazing his machines while his crew disassembled them. He was inspecting the aftereffects of the spitfires, and Percy had to agree that they turned out to be devastating. The additional firepower allowed a thousand men to easily defeat a foe more than twice their numbers on the northern flank. Nevertheless, they were too destructive as much of the Ironmen and their armor were reduced to melted slag and burned husks; scavengers could still salvage some of the metal, but they were mostly ruined.

Now, if only the annoying voice that had somehow managed to latch onto his mind would shut up for a moment.

"Hehehehehe, such firepower! Oh, how I wish you were around when I was King! I would have showered you with all you ever desired as long as you showed me how to control—"

"Would you give it a rest already? I'm not a pyromaniac like you."

"Sure you are! You may be of the sea, but your heat resistance, combined with your knowledge of the substances, makes you far more superb than my alchemists. An honorary dragon, one whom I would love to have had as a son instead of my disappointments." Percy could barely see the ghost of the fallen king following him around as he left Benny to his duties. "It is such a tragedy how my House has fallen. Why, if I were alive, I would have had you marry my daughter right away! You still can, if I recall, she's somewhere to the east and has dragons even!"

"Dragons seem to be a dime a dozen these days."

"Nonsense, a dragon is not just the fire breathing reptile but the rider as well!"

"...Aren't you supposed to be mad? Why is it that you sound so sane yet still mad?"

"Ah, my dear boy, madness is an affliction of the mind and body. I have neither, hehehe." Aerys, the Mad King cackled before his smile turned smug. "Even then, being sane is boring. A little bit of madness never hurt anybody."

"Except your victims."

"Oh, don't mention them. I was Mad at the time…and they deserved it. Thieves and brigands, what did it matter if I executed them with fire or hanging?"

"And my wife's grandfather? Her uncle and the many nobles you so foolishly murdered that resulted in the destruction of your family?"

For once, Aerys Targaryen was silent. Percy never would have thought he would be chatting normally with the most hated man in Westeros, especially in the North, but the ghost did mention something interesting: he neither had a body nor a mind, just a wandering soul. It was not the first time he had spoken to a ghost, the Builder being one, but Aerys had caught him by surprise when he appeared out of nowhere a few hours ago.

"Perhaps I was…reckless with my decisions but…"

"Enough, go back to the network, will you? How you even manage to keep escaping it and appearing in the North of all places astounds me. Don't think I didn't notice you back in White Harbor a few moons ago."

"Hehe, caught that, did you? The North paid homage to me, just like the rest of the Seven Kingdoms—the dragon's influence spread far." Percy could almost imagine the ghost shrugging before he sighed dramatically. "Oh, very well. I'll leave you to all that boring stuff, but I will appear again whenever you set things on fire. I wonder if Rickard will let me visit this time? I did say I was sorry, but the bore just kicked me out! Can you believe that? Farewell, Perseus Jackson!"

Aerys faded away before Percy could curse him a few times. Perhaps it was for the better, as Cregan Karstark was approaching. Percy shook his head inwardly and decided to focus on the present rather than worrying about a rogue ghost whom he thought had escaped when he bonded with Winterfell's heart tree.

"How are the men, Mister Cregan?"

"Tired, My Lord. A few days of rest would see them back to strength after marching for so long." There was no sign of exhaustion or grief on Cregan's face, even after discovering his brother had died two days prior to a heart attack; the Ironborn were candid about the matter. The man couldn't keep up with the march and simply buried him in a shallow grave on the spot where he collapsed—a strange courtesy from the so-called savage pirates, yet it appeared even they cared about propriety between noble peers. "I believe they are more disappointed at missing the fight than anything."

They inspected the former Ironborn camp—now their own. Percy walked languidly as he listened to his army commander. It was noon, barely six hours since he cowed the Ironborn, yet he was surprised by Cregan appearing with the army from the north two hours ago. They looked utterly exhausted—no doubt the Karstark man drove them like the hounds of hell were behind them to make it to the battle. Percy had no regret for taking away the chance for them to fight; troops on their last legs would make for poor soldiers in battle.

"My Lord, the men are…confused about your treatment of the Ironborn."

"Confused, Mister Cregan?" Percy smirked, and the stoic man smiled lightly.

"They are grumbling, My Lord."

"Just grumbling, eh? That's not too bad."

"Well, ehm, more like they are livid." Cregan coughed apologetically. "They trust the Princess, and your own prowess keeps most opinions held, but they whisper that you are soft and weak for allowing the Ironborn to live."

Percy slowly turned his head to his commander, the tight control over his emotions threatening to spill. He was neither blind nor deaf to the men's complaints, considering nearly all of them talked near horses, and Percy always chatted with the horses every evening before sleep. He had not had the chance to mingle with the herds today, so he must have missed the latest gossip.

"They will do as they are told," Percy said simply after a minute of silence. "I have need of the Ironmen. Only if they're obedient, of course."

"As you say, Lord Perseus."

An awkward silence fell between them as he continued inspecting the war camp, just as a yawning Larence Snow and surly Benjicot Branch joined him, waiting for orders, but Percy merely had them follow silently.

"What are your thoughts on settling the matter of the Ironborn?" He suddenly asked Cregan. The sly Karstark had not voiced his own opinion, and he was rather hard to read.

"To tell the truth, I have no personal grievance against them. They never raided the eastern coast of the North, but I understand my fellow Northmen's reservations about them. House Karstark is more likely to feud with the Boltons or Skagosi, but even then, House Stark ruled the North with an iron grip for thousands of years. Any such feuds are swiftly crushed in the cradle through a Holmgang or Einvigi. An honor duel, if you will," he added at his confused face, "though not many use the proper Northron term any longer."

Percy nodded along, having heard many smallfolk speaking in the nearly unintelligible dialect that prevailed in the North. If he had to guess, it sounded like Gaelic, while the Common Tongue was more like English. He still didn't understand how there were no Germanic languages in this world or even French, though Valyrian sounded similar enough to Latin and Hebrew or Arabic, he supposed. It was the Ghiscari that ended up sounding the closest to Ancient Greek, much to Percy's dismay, even if it allowed him to speak near fluently with a few merchants from New Ghis in White Harbor. The language of Slaver's Bay ended up being Greek…why did he find that so damn ironic?

At least the Greeks of this world have pyramids…and lots and lots of slaves. Man, he was pretty sure the Egyptians did not build their pyramids with slaves, or at least he thought they did, but Annabeth corrected him. Slaver's Bay…what a retarded name. However, if he looked at it closer, they sounded more like an unholy mix of Greeks, Egyptians, and Romans, while the Valyrians were more like Carthaginians on magical steroids. It explained their politics as well as the bit of Hebrew in their tongue; it was Punic, a Semitic language.

He missed Annabeth's encyclopedic mind.

Percy shook his head and focused on the Northman. "You tend to deflect a lot, Mr Cregan."

"A little bit, I suppose. To answer your question, the Northmen are always wary of outsiders. The last time foreigners were allowed to settle in the North was over a thousand years ago with the Manderlys, and that was only accepted because House Stark allowed them to do so, and no one wanted the land granted to them."

"So if I want to make civilized men out of these bands of glorified pirates, I'll need assurances from King Robb?"

"Precisely so. The alternative is to divide them into smaller groups and have them work in the service of the Northern Crown. You already have two hundred Ironmen working to rebuild Moat Cailin. I don't know what you did that turned them so meek and obedient, but they might be worth feeding and clothing, considering their progress so far."

Percy hummed in thought. Truthfully, he would not have cared so much about the Ironborn if they had not surrendered to him. His pride would not allow his charges to be mistreated or executed simply because it was convenient. Regardless of their prior crimes, if everyone kept retaliating against each other, peace would never be an option; he would still make sure the Northern captives were treated far better and, once they recovered, would have men escort them to their homes. They were no longer in a rush to catch an enemy after all.

"And the Wall? What if they decide to take the Black?"

"While I know some Ironmen in the Watch and House Karstark maintains good relations with the commander of Eastwatch, Cotter Pyke, I do not recommend sending too many at once. At most, a score or two, enough for the stewards and rangers to fold them into the Watch without trouble."

Percy sighed. He did not really have a lot of options regarding them. Why was murder such an easy and tempting option? Ah, yes, because it was the easy thing to do, and his mother did not raise Percy Jackson to take the easy way out. It was not just some dumb thing like 'It's the right thing to do', but Percy saw potential in these people. Six thousand battle-hardened men who were also excellent sailors…yes, Percy would do his damnedest to secure their loyalty, even if everyone thought it was foolish.

Worst-case scenario, he would just drown them if they turned out treacherous. He's sure they'd love that. It occurred to Percy that the only reason he entertained such an approach was his confidence to weather any conflict. Being overpowered had its perks!

"You have given me much to think about, Mr Cregan. We will rest here for a few days. The horses need rest, and a lot of men need burying."

"Understood, My Lord."

Cregan turned to an aide, one of his sons, if Percy recalled, and started giving orders. They stopped at the eastern part of the camp, where the men were digging a mass grave in the distance. The dead were lined up nearby, their faces covered with a cloth to keep their dignity. The battle on the eastern perimeter had been especially bloody. However, thanks to Mark's archers and Roose's cavalry striking their rear, Kyle managed to subdue their commander, Harras Harlaw, and the rest of the Ironborn immediately surrendered. Still, of the thirty-five hundred men he left with Kyle, nearly five hundred lost their lives, and twice that were injured and wouldn't be able to fight for some time—of those, one hundred were languishing between life and death. Donnis was nearly overwhelmed as he and his fellow acolyte of Winterfell, Edric, were the only trained healers in their army, at least until Cregan arrived with several maesters, acolytes, and surgeons who had quickly offered to help even through their exhaustion.

He sighed inwardly. They needed a proper way to heal and treat the soldiers. Percy had ideas that could be implemented, but ideas needed time to be turned into something tangible and useful, not a feat that could be pushed during an active campaign. Still, he had already taught the men the virtues of good hygiene and orderly camps, with latrines dug away from sources of water—things that were common sense to any modern man. If the Romans could have field hospitals and triages, then surely Westeros, with its more advanced society, could do the same. Then again, while the maesters did an excellent job all around, Percy had yet to find a dedicated healer among them. Even Luwin, Winterfell's maester, had other focuses in his profession.

What Percy needed was to start some sort of medical school, but he knew nothing about healing aside from first aid; why would he when any injury he suffered would be treated with water? Even then, Westeros was hardly the exemplar in technological and medical advancements; the world was massive, and Essos offered far more knowledge and skills than what the Citadel allowed the people.

Still, there was one thing he could do to help the men recover, even if it may have weird long-term effects. Giving people his blood gave many health benefits, but it also either increased their loyalty to him or made them hate him more. Percy did not care, for even if someone hated him, he would welcome all challengers. He rummaged in his pocket, remembered he was still wearing his full suit of armor, and sighed.

"You are dismissed, Cregan. We will have a war council at…" Percy thought for a moment on how to translate five in the afternoon to these people before groaning. He had yet to memorize those strange hours of theirs. "Hold on a second."

He moved to an empty part of the camp, grabbing an abandoned pike on the ground before glancing at the skies; it was a bit cloudy, but the sun still sent shadows. He stabbed the pike deep into the ground, leaving about ten feet of ash wood poking straight up. Percy then used his dagger to make a circle where the lance's shadow ended and drew twelve dashes to mimic the clock hours before clapping his hand from dust and examining his handiwork.

"Lord Perseus, what is this?" Roose Ryswell asked, and Percy realized many of the men were staring at him strangely.

"This is a solar watch. A method to tell the time using the sun's rays. See here," Percy pointed at where the lance's shadow was pointing at noon. "This says that it's noon. Cregan, we will convene in five hours or when the shadow reaches here."

The men still looked at him weirdly as he pointed at the five o'clock dash, but he didn't care; they would soon learn it was more practical than squinting at the skies. He knew they had their own methods of telling the time, but the earlier he set some standards, the better. Percy walked back to his tent, passing by Blackjack and a few of his chosen horses grazing nearby, and greeted them. There was no need to make stalls or corrals for the horses; they knew to obey him, or else there would be no more pampering.

He left Benjicot outside of his tent with a few guards, while Larence joined him in to find his new maid waiting patiently.

"Will you be bathing, My Lord? I have set out your garments if you wish to change."

"Thank you, Raya. Go stand near Larence for now."

His new maid-servant nodded. The poor girl he had saved earlier had left an impression on him, and when he discovered she had lost her family, he offered her a position. Raya did not spend long in captivity and looked far healthier than the other captives. Her and her family were the last residents in that small fishing village they came upon earlier, but her entire family was brutally murdered by one of the Ironborn captains. Raya was taken captive because another captain found her hiding in a beached boat and took a liking to her. Percy would have killed her family's murderer for her, as a new-hire bonus, but turns out he was one of the first he nailed with his javelins early in the night.

Talk about divine retribution. Regardless, Raya was thankful and joined Larence in fulfilling the many duties that squires and servants had to do, and that Percy did not have the time to bother with.

Larence stood by the mannequin holding his armor and shield, and Raya joined him, holding a bucket of water with a few rags on the rim. Percy grinned for a moment; he was only in his underwear, and his body was filthy after the long night of fighting. Deciding to have a bit of fun, he willed the water in the bucket to burst out and splash on him, much to Raya's surprise. The girl still treated him like a, well, god, and he did not miss the way she eyed his body like a piece of meat. Sadly for her, he was not at all interested in a twelve-year-old, nor would he entertain the idea of bedding a woman without his wife's knowledge. Still, showing her a lighter side of him would work in easing her into her new duties without her acting like he would judge every single thing she did.

Percy did not waste any of the water as he controlled it to roam all along his body, from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, collecting all sorts of dirt, grime, dust, and anything that would make him stink. Once done, he had the water form into a large ball, still carrying all that grime and dirt, before sending it outside the tent. He chortled at the sound of his guards cursing before focusing as he aimed at an empty spot, purified the water from all the scum, and let it fall on the ground before summoning the water back into the tent and straight into Raya's bucket.

The whole thing barely lasted a few seconds, and Percy was cleaner than anyone else in camp, even if he still wished he could have one of Wintefell's hot baths. "Thank you for the bath, Raya."

The girl blinked in astonishment, even as his squire excitedly asked. "Could you do that with your armor?"

"And take away the opportunity for you to improve yourself? No, I don't think so. Hard work builds character, and you've been sleeping since the battle ended. Come on then, chop chop. I want that armor to be clean enough for me to use as a mirror. And don't ask Raya to help you, she is busy with other things."

Percy grinned at his squire's despondent face, but he was a good kid and quickly went to work without complaining. It was strange to have a guy his age be his squire and manservant, but it spoke of how Percy had quickly acclimated to this new world that neither he nor any of the Northmen batted an eye about it. Strength and authority were far more important than any perceived expectations of men, it seemed.

He put on the shirt Raya had prepared and Sansa had sewn for him. The medieval tunics and doublets everyone wore were decent, but Percy preferred to keep a bit of America with him. A white buttoned half-sleeved shirt with a small red direwolf sigil on the chest, followed by a black leather jacket with his sigil sewn on the back in dark blue; a horseman galloping on waves while brandishing a trident. His wife was truly an excellent seamstress, as the shirt was more comfortable than anything he wore back home. Even the jacket was just as good, better than any cloaks and coats. Finishing his garments with blue leather pants with a few pockets according to his design and leather boots, Percy used the silver mirror Raya held to comb his hair before remembering why he came here in the first place.

He rummaged in his chest of belongings before finding what he was looking for: a few glass vials. Finding clear glass in his travels had been difficult, but he didn't need it to be clear. In fact, the greenish tint to it, courtesy of an amateur glassmaker in White Harbor, worked better to hide its contents. Pulling his dagger, he cut his palm and filled the vials with his blood, glancing at Raya's surprised gasp and winking at her; he groaned inwardly as the girl flushed as red as a tomato. She was really taking the whole 'having a sorcerer master' thing in stride.

Once done, he poured salt water from his waterskin over his palm to heal it. It was more than he would normally do for his men, but he could always recover after a hearty meal and a nap.

"Once you're done polishing the armor, have the cooks prepare me a meal for four, Larence."

"Expecting guests, My Lord?"

"No, I'm just hungry." Chuckling at his squire's face, he turned to his new maid. "Raya, good job on your first day. I know you're tired and have not had a chance to get any proper rest from your captivity. Take the rest of the day off and make sure to eat well. Once you're full, come back here and sleep; I already prepared a cot for you."

Said cot was on the other side of the tent with a curtain to give the girl privacy; Larence also had his cot across from hers. Percy had purchased this pavilion from a merchant from Pentos when he was in White Harbor; he had found it large and luxurious enough to have privacy time with his wife, though he only got to use it for what he planned with Wylla. Nevertheless, while others would have their personal maids and servants sleep outside or in their own tent, Percy made sure they would not be inferior to his own.

"But My Lord—" The young girl with coal-black hair and just as dark eyes tried to protest, only to let out a massive yawn instead, causing him to chuckle and ruffle her messy hair. The girl blushed again, and even though Percy knew he should not encourage such thoughts in her, he couldn't help but find her adorable the same way one would find a puppy.

"Rest," he ordered. "If you want to be my maid, then you will have a lot of duties ahead of you. I would rather you don't exhaust yourself and do a sloppy job that my wife would find you lacking when you finally meet."

Raya's eyes widened, and she nodded her head rapidly. Satisfied, Percy turned to his squire, who wordlessly nodded, conveying he would ensure she rested. Then, he left the tent and handed half the vials to Benjicot. "Go to all the cooking pots and empty between three and five drops in them, depending on their size."

"What is this, My Lord?"

"Something to help in the men's recovery. Just don't ask too many questions and get to it."

The woodsman nodded and hurried off to do as told. Percy watched as he stopped by the closest cauldron and talked to the cook for a moment. The cook turned to him with incomprehension but allowed him to pour a few drops into the stew. Satisfied, Percy walked off to do the same, regretting having Mark watch over the wounded instead of following him around; he would not have asked silly questions. Shaking his head, he moved on, feeling a slight chill in the breeze, and realized that if he was starting to feel chilly, the rest of the men must be cold—winter, or the cold moons as they called it here, was approaching, and Percy could sense it might snow tonight.

He first checked on the former prisoners. They were in bad shape and hungrily ate any serving of stew or gruel given to them as they huddled under blankets and fur cloaks. The cooks kept the cauldrons hot as they cooked more, and Percy added his blood. Next, he made his way to a section outside the camp dedicated to the injured, finding a haggard-looking Donnis wiping his hands of blood.

"Donnis, here." Percy gave him two vials of the blood, and the half-maester's eyes shone in understanding. "I wish I could help more, but this is the best I can do."

"You are a lifesaver, Captain Percy. This is already plenty of help."

Percy nodded and watched as his company's doctor hurriedly added his blood to some of the concoctions he was brewing. His men called him Captain when he mentioned not liking the term Lord, mostly because he found more pride in being a captain of a ship than a lord of men. Even as he watched, Donnis fed a man suffering from a bad infection a potion and nearly instantly gained a healthy flush to his face.

Satisfied, Percy returned to the camp, which had been expanded to accommodate nearly ten thousand more men. Not to mention the support staff who were busy helping with the cooking, digging, and, most importantly, scavenging the dead. Percy poured a few drops of his blood into one of the cauldrons, its cook lowering his head in obedience, then moved on to where a massive pile of arms and armor was being sorted through by the men. Of the twelve thousand Ironborn, half of them had died, and the rest were stripped of their armor, had their arms and legs bound by iron shackles from their inventory, and huddled next to each other to stay warm. Percy would have given them clothes or blankets for warmth, but the Northern prisoners got most of them first. The irony of them being placed in the same stockades as their former prisoners was not lost on them, as he could see and hear them grumbling as he approached.

"Captain Percy!" Kyle grinned broadly as he saw him approach. His brown hair and beard had grown long and shaggy from the constant traveling. A wicked new scar adorned his cheek, courtesy of the new blade he had on his hip. "Come to check on the prisoners?"

"Yeah, you haven't had any troubles, have you?"

"Nay, they grumble and moan, but they know they're beaten."

"What about their wounded?" Percy glanced at where several barbers were treating a line of wounded Ironborn; none of the Northmen wanted to treat them, but Percy insisted, and they followed his commands. Even then, his own men got priority with the maesters and acolytes, so only the barbers and hedge witches or wizards (a truly ridiculous term compared to what he can do) took over. "Any improvements?"

"Well, I'm not really sure why you care so much about the squids, Captain," Kyle whispered as they inspected the stockades. "The men, especially the former prisoners and the rest of the army, are…upset at you sparing the Ironborn."

They stopped at a cooking fire where Victarion Greyjoy had his arms in a splint, yet followed him with his eyes like a cornered beast expecting treachery. Many of the nobles and captains of the Iron Islands sat on the ground near him, trying to warm themselves with the fire. As nobles, they were given better treatment than their underlings, but they were still stripped of all arms and armor, though they were allowed to wear garments with their house colors on. That fellow that Kyle beat glared murderously at the Valyrian steel sword strapped to the Northman's belt.

Percy still had them all gathered in one spot and away from their men, just in case they got any funny ideas and tried to stage an escape.

"It's you. What else do you want from us?"

"A prudent question, Vicky!" Percy grinned as he stopped before Victarion and the rest of his captains. The Iron Captain glowered at the nickname, but Percy chuckled. He moved between the captives and added some drops of his blood to the stew being cooked for them. "I want your fleet. All of it."

"Why you—" One of the reavers stood, only for Kyle to smack his jaw with a punch, and the man dropped like a sack of potatoes. His deputy scowled deeply at the rest of the Ironborn, with more of his soldiers joining him with a hand wave.

"It appears you have been too merciful to these scum, Lord Perseus." The sudden reminder of his status had the Ironborn lower their gazes warily, while a score of his personal guards surrounded them. "To think a mere captain of the dinghies you call ships would dare speak out of turn. Give me your leave, and I will cut out his tongue, My Lord."

Percy gazed at Victarion, who did not even glance at the groaning reaver. "Let's hold that for now. You know, Vicky, nearly all the Northmen wanted to execute you all. The only good squid is a dead squid, they tell me."

"And it would have been the smart thing to do. The full strength of the Iron Islands lay before you. Kill us all, and you will never have to worry about another invasion for generations."

"Not all of them. Your niece had proven herself a nuisance. Barely so, but still, like a fly buzzing around my head, she is a nuisance."

"Heh, who knows? Maybe if she waits for a chance long enough, you will trip and fall when you least expect it."

Percy knelt right in front of the Iron Captain. "Do you think for one moment that she stands any chance against me?"

Greyjoy squinted at him before sighing. Realization sank into his face, and he let out a bitter laugh.

"…You haven't truly shown us your full powers, have you, sorcerer?"

"Aye, I could have wiped your entire army with a wave of my hand, but that would risk your captives. My powers stem from the seas, you see. You saw how I controlled the Barrow River and even the clouds. That is nothing compared to what I can do at sea." With a simple wave of his hand, water burst out of the ground from an underground spring, and Percy had it morph into shapes. A horseman wielding a trident slaying a massive kraken. "Imagine your entire fleet at my mercy as they drown with their ships when they eventually reject my calls to surrender. Or perhaps when I arrive at the pile of rocks you call home, your brother does not seem to be the bright type; otherwise, he would have accepted Robb Stark's alliance and had you filthy rich from raiding the Westerlands and the Reach. What have you gained from coming here but death and the cold?"

Worried mutters erupted around him as the Ironmen stared fearfully at him, yet many seemed to get his point as they murmured about how useless their endeavor here had been. Percy did not move his gaze from Victarion, and he could practically see the last vestiges of defiance and rebellion melt away as the Iron Captain sighed in defeat.

"I will help you convince the sailors to surrender, but I will not help you fight my kin. I wish to take the Black."

"I would have preferred you swear your fealty to me, but as a noble, that is your right, and I will honor it." Percy then stood as he stared at the rest of the Ironborn, not just the lords and heirs and captains, but many of the Ironmen who could hear him, and he raised his voice. "I will accept any who wishes to swear fealty to me, to release yourself from the hold of that demon and eke out a proper way of life rather than being forced to raid every season to make ends meet. Your islands are rich in iron and coal but not much in the way of farmland. I will speak to the King of the North and convince him to give me land for me and my wife to rule, where you shall be the first of my people. Whether he agrees or not, I will still accept your fealty so long as you swear yourselves to Me!"

His words held power, yet he did not make another show. They knew what he was capable of, and if they were smart, they would do the right thing. Percy was certain that Sansa would heavily disagree with his method, not to mention King Robb, but he had already decided. He never fancied himself as someone who would offer salvation to those who strayed, but even if the Ironmen were the scum of the earth, was it truly right to have their souls suffer eternally in that demon's belly?

Still, six thousand extra mouths to feed was a lot, and he needed first to be assured of their loyalty before he sent them somewhere to work—or had them man their fleet in his name instead of some moron sitting on some moldy chair. He gazed at the lords and saw that many of them considered his offer seriously, yet none dared to be the first to accept. Percy's gaze paused on the Goodbrother triplets; they were the first to surrender to him, but their leader shook his head apologetically.

"Only our Lord Father can do such a drastic thing as renouncing the Greyjoys for someone else, let alone a Greenlander…though you are no mere Greenlander," Greydon began, his voice hoarse as he glanced at his brothers. "Yet he is not here. I cannot offer you our lands or incomes, but I can offer you mine, my brothers, my men's, and my ships' fealty if you answer me this question."

"What is it?"

"You promised us safety and a new life. I have no doubt now that I witnessed and felt your powers firsthand that you are no mere human. You claimed yourself the son of a god, Lord Perseus. Is that true?"

All mutterings ceased as the crowd stared at him expectantly. Even Kyle and his men looked at him in wonder. Percy had never told anyone about his divine lineage, for it did not matter at the time. Now that he was asking men to renounce their god and king in favor of himself, that he was asking them to worship him and his father instead of that demon, he felt it was right to tell the truth.

"It is so," he said simply. His gaze met their expectant eyes until they flinched.

"My father is Poseidon." Then, his next words came out filled with power that carried itself through the hills and lingered in the air like a solemn declaration. "Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses, and God of the Sea."

The words echoed in his mind like a gong—and the minds of all that listened, judging by the awe and fear mixed in their gazes. Did he just… do something monumental?

Nah, his dad would have surely said something. Probably.

Coughing, the demigod continued, "My father has taken the Bite as his seat for now and does not ask much from his worshipers; the occasional sacrifice of food to the flames, merely a small portion of your meal, would do. Protect and help the denizens of the sea. Treat your horses well… and perhaps build him a temple or two."

"What about raiding? The iron price—"

"Resulted in you falling under my mercy. Quite the conundrum, don't you think?" Percy folded his arms at another captain. "Following your logic, you all are my thralls now that I beat you. I have every right to kill you all or give you a better opportunity."

"Your god… Does he offer a hall for his worshipers in the afterlife?" Percy turned to the speaker, an old man wearing a green surcoat with a drowned man. What was that house again? Suddenly? Sunderly? "The Drowned God promises us eternity by his side in his halls under the sea, a far better prospect than the Greenlanders who are damned after death."

"What makes you so sure about that? Your Drowned God is but a demon that feasts on your souls to keep his powers, though that is merely my word against thousands of years of deception. Nevertheless, he had yet to show his power to any of you, except for those monstrosities from the depths that I heard were easily slain and feasted on by the folks in Barrowton." Percy's voice thickened with disdain. "Such a weak offering to his loyal supplicants; he did not even dare to respond to my challenge earlier. The fact is, none of you know for certain what awaits you in the afterlife. All that matters is how you live this life. Think it through well. We leave in five days."

Percy left the crowd of Ironborn nobles and walked among the rank and file of their men, repeating his offer for all of them to hear. Whether they take it or not, Percy would still use them. Moat Cailin needed bodies to finish rebuilding, though he would need to ensure they were fed and clothed, or it would be a waste.

"Can you actually make some kind of afterlife for them, Father?" Percy asked later that night before he went to sleep.

His father's voice was far more…tangible than he remembered.

"It will be difficult, as the natural course for deceased souls is to return to the Network. Nevertheless, I believe I can make some sort of hall where the most loyal and glorious of my worshipers can serve me in death as they would in life." Poseidon hummed in his mind for a moment. "It is not really something I tried before, but I have seen Hades and other gods do something similar. As long as they willingly surrender their souls to me, I can make it happen, though I will convene with the Old Gods first; the Drowned God was already stealing all those souls. If I offer to take only the most worthy, I am certain they will agree."

Sure enough, it was the next day, when he visited the stockades once more, and the first to swear fealty to him approached. As expected, it was the Goodbrothers, and Percy decided to hold the swearing ceremony in the middle of the war camp.

"I, Greydon Goodbrother, swear upon sea and storm, before gods and men, that I shall stand true to you, Perseus Jackson, my rightful lord… and to Poseidon, my rightful god. Your foes shall be my foes, your kin my kin, and your honor my charge. I shall hold my oath as iron-bound to guard your hall, heed your word, and march where you command, be it through fire, wave, or warring lands."

His brothers repeated his oaths, and no sooner had they finished than Percy heard his father hum in satisfaction before the snow falling on them ceased for a moment, and a ray of light fell on him. Poseidon was truly milking the spectacle.

"My first worshipers. Lovely."

The Northmen looked on in shocked fugue at the scene before Percy cleared his throat. "I, Perseus Jackson, hear your oath and take you as my men. Rise."

His new minions stood, and any hesitation in their faces melted as they looked around them. Percy had no idea what Poseidon was telling them in their minds, but he wagered it was whatever he did for thousands of years to gain supplicants. More Ironmen joined afterward, swearing fealty to him and Poseidon, and his father continued with the light show. Percy even spied several specters watching on in the distance, one of them he could have sworn was the Builder; how the ghost managed to leave Winterfell, he did not know, though perhaps it was thanks to that new weirwood that had sprung up in the middle of the camp overnight.

By the third day, nearly half of the Ironmen swore fealty to him. One was Harras Harlaw, who claimed he had prayed to the Father and was advised to swear to him. It did not take a genius for Percy to realize Poseidon was truly milking this chance to get as many supplicants as possible. The former owner of the Valyrian steel sword, Nightfall, demanded that Kyle relinquish the blade, only for Percy to tell him to earn it back, Iron Price-style. It took his first captain seven spars and three knocked-out teeth to convince the knight to renounce his claim over the blade that his ancestors had stolen themselves. Kyle had established himself as a warrior of renown among the Northmen, who eagerly ignored his peasant upbringing and accepted him as one of their own.

By the fourth day, all but a thousand Ironmen had sworn to him. Victarion had remained obstinate, but Percy felt it had more to do with his bonds of kinship than anything. It was regrettable, but no true loss. They were to depart next dawn, the Northern prisoners had steadily been escorted back to their homes, and the army was to join him at the coast when Beauty suddenly appeared with a letter.

Sansa had new orders that left Percy scratching his head.

Notes:

Percy and Poseidon gain their first followers! Percy might not be the most charismatic fellow, nor does he have a way with words, but he has something far more important: Tangible Power. Men and women would follow such a man to the ends of the earth, especially if promised an afterlife.

That it was done through half-acting and half-truth hurts nobody.

I wonder what adventure Sansa has planned for our hero?

Chapter 38: Starstruck

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

Join me on Discord for discussions, character portraits, and access to one advanced chapter! Discord code is vN7sTYhEp6.

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Riverrun

An orange cat skulked around a corner leading to the kitchens. There were many other cats all waiting for the cooks to give them scraps of food or catch the occasional mouse, but not this cat; it's been well-fed by her owner, who stared through her eyes as she spied on the boy and girl speaking in hushed tones in one of the pantries.

"How is the princess?" Edric Dayne asked the blonde girl. "Does she treat you well?"

"Yes, Arya is kind and friendly, though she always has that air of melancholy about her," Catelyn Rivers replied. "As if the weight of the world is on her shoulders, especially when word of the Blackfish clashing with Rowan's forces arrived two days ago."

"Ah, I heard about that. My old master perished for the last time in that battle," Ned said with a heavy sigh. "Thoros arrived with his ashes this morning and told me Ser Beric had refused to be brought back again. He asked me what to do with his remains. Sadly, there's little chance his ashes could be returned to Blackhaven soon. Perhaps once the war ends… if it ends at all."

"What do you think will happen to the Dondarrion Seat?"

"It will go to one of his many cousins. Most likely, they will be fighting over the seat with no king or lord to mediate…if they have not begun already." Ned scoffed disdainfully as he sat on a sack of wheat and chewed a stalk in thought. "I am confident they have been feuding on who would take the seat since Beric and I disappeared after Mummer's Ford. But forget about that. Tell me more about Arya."

"Oh my, asking a lady to tell her secrets about another lady?" Catelyn smirked. "My own princess, no less."

"Come now, you know I'm harmless."

"Could have fooled me. Why are you so interested in her anyway?" Her voice thickened with mock surprise. "Could it be you fancy her?!"

Ned Dayne blushed but did not avert his eyes. "So what if I do? She's pretty, fun to talk to, and knows her way around a blade."

"And you want me to help you gain her hand in marriage?" Catelyn's eyes suddenly went cold. "Because I will not help you seduce her if that's what you are asking."

"What? No!" Ned jumped to his feet, face full of indignation. "You've known me for nearly a year. Do you believe I am that kind of man?"

"We did kiss." Catelyn deadpanned. "And saw each other naked. I recall you staring at my teats like they were prettier than the stars in the sky, as if you had never seen a pair before. So much for the legendary Dornishmen's salacity."

"H-Hey, we were bathing! And I was hurt during that kiss and…" At the girl's cold gaze, Ned rubbed his face. "You know I have my duties, Cat. I am the lord of one of Dorne's oldest and most powerful houses. My hand in marriage is a significant political tool that I cannot afford to squander away."

"I know, a princess' hand over some bastard girl from the Riverlands." Catelyn Rivers's smile turned brittle. "I never stood a chance."

Ned held the older girl's hands comfortingly before kissing her knuckles. "I am sorry if I ever led you on in any way, my lady. The past year we spent together may have been due to circumstances, but I will admit to having grown fond of you. You will always be welcome in Starfall and her lands, but I cannot take you as my paramour. Despite what is said about the Dornish, we don't take paramours before marriage—unless you're the Red Viper and have a princely brother to clean after your mess."

"Welcome to be a scullery maid or perhaps a seamstress. And I thought we shared something together; poor Willow would be devastated," Catelyn Rivers grumbled, though there was no heat in her voice. Suddenly, she turned to the door, where the cat watched and smirked knowingly. "So you want me to facilitate a marriage between you and Arya. I can do that, though, while Arya Stark would be an excellent choice for Lady of Starfall, she is still betrothed to the Freys."

"A betrothal I can speak to King Robb about to have annulled. Especially with the current circumstances surrounding the Twins."

"And once a betrothal is agreed upon, I just need to convince my princess to allow me to join your bed after marriage." The blonde girl gripped his hands tighter. "That would be fine with you, right? You said paramours after marriage, and you like me enough to accept me, right?"

"Er, yes? But—"

"No, my dear lordling, there shall be no more buts in the matter. I have already staked my claim on you long ago." Catelyn grinned before kissing the shorter boy on the cheek, stood by the door to the pantry, and grabbed the cat in her arms, petting her lovingly. "You better have a plan to convince King Robb. You are a long way from home, and I doubt your liege lord allows you to be involved in this war, considering what you told me about that fence sitter."

"Right, plan. Time for some planning." Ned flexed his fists before smiling at her. "Thanks, Cat. I owe you a lot. Even if this doesn't work, my offer still stands; I'm sure my aunt and cousin would welcome a learned noble lady as their companion. We care not whether you are a Lychester or a Rivers."

"Thank you, Ned."

Catelyn watched the Dornish Lord walk away, muttering to himself about talking to Thoros first before sighing tiredly. She stroked the cat's back before staring into her familiar grey eyes.

"Well, Arya. You heard the lordling. It's up to you how you go from here."

The cat blinked before Arya withdrew from the link to find herself back at the ladies' gathering in the drawing room. Listening closely, she did not seem to have missed much.

"...I heard it was thanks to your son that they managed to ambush the Reachmen," Alysanne Lefford—or was it Tully now—was telling another lady wearing Blackwood colors.

"Yes, the Old Gods have blessed my dear Lucas," Lady Blackwood replied fervently. "His brother Brynden also sends me letters of strange dreams he's been having in the Westerlands. Truly, we are in a time of magic and gods."

More women tittered and chatted while servants provided them with food and drink. Arya dearly wanted to scratch under the head coverings she wore to hide her head—she and Elaena had opted to wear a septa's cowl to hide their shame, which others had mistaken for piousness. Though thankfully, they would not need to wear it for much longer. A sennight more or so, and her hair would be long enough to be considered girly, so that none would do more than look twice at her appearance.

Speaking of her brother's lover, a nudge on her knee had her turn to Elaena. "Are you alright, Arya? What did you learn?"

Elaena had been covering for her as she listened in on Ned after she sent Cat to talk to him. "Progress. I will need to speak to Ned and then write a letter to Robb. Have we heard anything from him yet?"

The grimace on the face of her fellow practitioner of magic was all the answer she needed. "The maester shall be bringing a raven scroll soon. I have foreseen difficulties with my beloved's attempt in seizing that castle."

It had been a fortnight since Robb and her uncle Edmure took five thousand men and marched for the Crossing. Another thousand would join them from Seaguard. There was still a slight hope that they would be able to settle things peacefully, though no one truly believed that. The alternative was storming a castle that could not be taken from one side alone—they had no forces east of the Green Fork, and if Cleos Frey refused to meet them in battle, then all they could do was prepare for a long siege.

Their enemies would not wait for them, however, and Mathis Rowan had crossed the Blackwater Rush with fifteen thousand men and began raiding around the Stony Sept. A force of ten thousand men led by Brynden Tully and Tytos Blackwood marched south to meet the Reachmen, though no battle had happened so far. Only skirmishes and minor battles, as the Blackfish preferred to harass and slow down the larger Reach force, a talented skinchanger was a godsend for their forces, which allowed the Blackfish to always be at least two steps ahead of Rowan.

Arya prayed the other side did not have magic users of their own.

Their magic lessons finally bore fruit, after countless sleepless nights where they were summoned by the Maiden and the Father as they helped them improve their powers. Now, Elaena's visions were more frequent yet still vague. Still, she refrained from dabbling in any rituals or curses. The focus was more on Arya than Elaena since the older woman was with child, but their divine teachers were harsh taskmasters who expected her to memorize all they said about the intricacies of skinchanging and then practice it when she was awake. So far, she had mastered the talent of not losing herself in the animals she skinchange into, no matter how panicked they might be, yet she had yet to succeed in skinchanging while lucid—she always had to be sitting or asleep unless it was with Nymeria.

Myrcella was always there to talk, though she still would not tell what magic she had. Arya was beginning to believe she did not have any and was merely there out of a mishap.

The animated chatter was soon interrupted by a knock on the door.

It was Maester Vyman with a word from the Crossing.

"So it will be a siege." Alysanne Tully sighed tiredly. "I prayed the matter would be settled peacefully, but the new Frey Lord must be confident in holding his castle."

"He has the eastern side open and could bring more men and supplies through it," Arya added, noticing that the rest of the ladies seemed uncomfortable with the discussion—if it were victories, they would love to hear it, but any setbacks would be too much for them to bear. "Has there been word from Lord Bracken to the east?"

Jonos Bracken was tasked with monitoring the situation in Harrenhal and beyond.

"Yes, Princess. A Vale force ten thousand strong had marched past the Bloody Gate down the High Road." One lady gasped while the others looked stricken before the Maester hurried on. "Do not worry, My Ladies. Lord Bracken had secured the Ruby Ford and the King's Bridge. Jaime Lannister was seen at the Saltpans with a fleet of cogs, surely to ferry them into the Crownlands and bypassing the blockade at the Trident."

"So their goal is to attack Stannis Baratheon? Does that mean we won't see any battles here?"

"Well, erm…"

The ladies hounded the poor maester for more information that he did not have—her mother's idea to meet the Valemen in battle or at least subvert them failed before it could begin due to Cleos Frey's treachery. Arya ignored the women in favor of what she would say when she met with Ned later; the idea of marrying him had always been on her mind since she first learned of her betrothal to the Freys. At first, she never thought she would marry, but now that she had accepted her lot, she promised herself to do her duty.

Considering House Frey's woes, Robb had confided in her that he planned to annul that betrothal as punishment for their treachery. Perwyn Frey joined him with the meager Frey forces available as a show of unity, and Arya knew her brother approved of the knight. If Robb had a say in the matter, and as king, he definitely does, he would install Perwyn as the new Lord Frey if he had the chance.

She had managed to free herself from the Frey betrothal, but her hand was still a valuable political tool. Better she married on her own terms than allow some lord to pressure Robb into giving her away for some paltry usage of his pastures—Arya was still miffed at Robb for rushing with the original agreement. She could hardly do better than marry into the Daynes of Starfall. Rumor had it they could muster at least five thousand men among their house and vassals, not to mention Ned was right here and had already established a good rapport with many of the Northmen.

Catelyn Rivers had confessed to her about their relationship, but Arya did not care; she had asked the older girl to get a straight answer from Ned. Arya had not been certain if the young lord would be interested in horse-faced Arya Underfoot, but to think he found her pretty… she could feel the heat rushing to her face before shaking her head. Yes, Ned Dayne was the best option for Arya, even if his lands were a thousand miles away, and the Martells may even attempt to block the marriage. They had been conspicuously silent during the war, but it did not matter if they disapproved of an alliance between one of their principal bannermen and a potentially hostile kingdom.

To her surprise, the young Dayne lord was far more honorable than she thought and had not yet bedded Catelyn as Arya suspected. Arya wondered if she minded the older girl becoming her future husband's paramour and found herself she did not truly care; she was her handmaiden, so she would follow her to Starfall once she was wed. Arya did not think she would enjoy coupling much; her idea was to give Ned an heir or two and then have Cat take over her marital duties while she explored the vast lands of Dorne with Nymeria. Or even go sailing!

As Arya daydreamed about her future, Elaena nudged her elbow. "Arya, do you think something is wrong with Aly?"

Arya jerked awake and stared at Lady Tully, finding her swaying in her seat. She nodded along to whatever was being said before her face suddenly turned green, and she stood up hurriedly.

"I beg your pardon, My Ladies. I do not feel—" Just as she moved away from the table, she nearly collapsed before Arya sprang to her feet and held her… only for both of them to fall to the ground.

At least she cushioned her fall.

Screams of fear erupted all around them as the ladies panicked, yet one voice, clearer and with a powerful boom that Arya knew was magic, roared above them all.

"MAESTER!" Elaena shouted for Vyman, who had just left, only to hurry back in and find their collapsed forms. She quickly called for the guards to help him carry the stricken Lady Tully to a couch before examining her. "Are you alright, Arya?"

"I'm fine." She rubbed her head, finding she had lost her head covering in the chaos. "What's wrong with her?"

The maester shushed for silence, the other ladies still muttered and squealed in worry; Arya never truly understood what the point of panicking like this was. It was a few minutes later that the maester had finished examining Alysanne Leford and stood with a tired smile.

"The Lady Tully is with child."

The news of Lady Tully's pregnancy was a welcome respite to the gloom that had fallen on Riverrun lately. Elaena Marbrand had stuck with her fellow Westernlady, leaving Arya alone to deal with her own nuptial woes. It was a few days later, and she was in the godswood with Nymeria. The rest of her guards were outside with instructions not to disturb her and only allow her guest through.

"You wished to see me, Princess?"

Arya stood from where she was praying to the heart tree, more like training in her attempt to see through it. So far, she had learned she was no greenseer, but she could still connect to the Weirwood Network and view things happening through other heart trees, yet she had yet to learn how to connect to a specific tree. Her attempt to see through Winterfell's heart tree resulted in her watching the queer sight of a powerful young man with black hair and green eyes accepting fealty of what looked like Ironborn. There were many Northmen around him as well, but Arya was too confused to understand what was happening—she could not hear what people were saying unless it was right in front of the tree.

Shaking her head, Arya Stark turned to the young man standing a few feet before her. His pale blonde hair, rosy tanned skin, and indigo eyes truly were exotic—no wonder he had half the castle's maidens clamoring for his hand. She was not blind. Edric Dayne was possibly the most valuable unwed lord in the Riverlands. Many noblewomen had tried to catch his eyes and attention, thinking that the fourteen-year-old boy would be easy to seduce, yet he had proven to be made of sterner mettle. A charming smile here, a polite rejection there, and not even the most obstinate of maidens could blame him for rejecting even a dance with him.

Edric Dayne only had eyes for Catelyn Rivers, Willow Heddle… and herself.

"Hello, Ned. I have spoken to Catelyn."

Instantly, Ned's eyes widened before he straightened his back and nodded seriously. "What do you think, Princess?"

Arya stared at the young man for a moment as she idly petted Nymeria's large head—the direwolf looking curiously from where she was sprawled on the ground. "You understand I am still betrothed to House Frey?"

"I will talk to King Robb and convince him to annul it. House Dayne can provide more swords than any other house in the Riverlands."

"Perhaps so, but where are those swords?" Arya tilted her head. "Once pacified, House Frey would still give us at least two thousand swords while allowing eternal usage of their bridge, not to mention the tax revenue and other reparations that my brother would surely demand from them. Starfall is a thousand miles away, and you are still beholden to Doran Martell. What if he interferes with such a union? What if he prohibits you from calling the banners and crossing through the hostile Reach to join us? Would you be willing to go behind your liege lord's back for me?"

That was the biggest issue with an alliance with House Dayne. They were a strong, honorable, and rich house with a history even older than House Stark. Yet what benefits could they provide in this war they were currently fighting? Doran Martell had yet to move from Sunspear, and no word had arrived from Dorne in months. Unless they drag all of Dorne into the conflict, Arya did not expect House Dayne to march their troops through the Dornish Marches, deep into the Reach, before making it to the Riverlands. They would be destroyed by the Reach's vastly superior numbers.

And yet, judging by Edric Dayne's smirk, he did not care. "I would do it. You're pretty enough to risk it all."

"Don't lie to me, Ned." Even as she said it, she could tell through her bond with Nymeria that he was not lying. He really was a queer boy for thinking she was pretty. "I'm not—"

"Sure you are. Even with your short hair, you are comely. Besides, if it were only good looks, I would have accepted any of those soft chits who hound my every waking moment." Ned insisted as he knelt before her and held her hands. She couldn't help but smile stupidly at how sincere he was. "Now, allow me to properly court you, Princess. Would you be amenable to a betrothal? I would march my forces to your aid if you say so. Doran Martell can go suck on a lemon for all I care, for the Prince of Dorne has no right to tell a Lord of Starfall who he marries or not."

Arya couldn't help but chortle. "You would truly do it, wouldn't you?"

"It is my right as a noble, especially when we are bound by blood. None can stop me, and none has the right to stop me. Tell me you would love to spend your life by my side, and I will ride with all haste to King Robb and gain his permission. I already sent Thoros and a few men with Ser Beric's remains to Seagard to take a ship to Starfall. Lord Mallister had mentioned the Ironborn had all of their forces in the North and agreed to provide me with a fast ship to deliver a letter to Aunt Ashara. She would call the banners on my behalf and seek allies among the other Dornish Lords who—"

"Stop." With every excited word the boy said, Arya couldn't help but feel like she had underestimated Ned. "You really planned all of this out, haven't you?"

"Not at all. While I really do like you, I did not think we could have a chance together if not for the circumstances." Ned grinned brightly, even as Arya grimaced inwardly and wanted to kick his shin. He should have just said he was waiting for an opportunity to arise! "Thoros arriving, the Ironborn occupied, Mallister agreeing to lend me a boat, the Frey crisis. This was the opportunity I've been waiting for. So what say you, Arya Stark? Do you agree?"

For some strange reason, Arya felt a pleasant heat in her belly as she stared at the gleaming eyes of the boy who was beautiful enough to be confused for a girl, yet unlike other pretty boys, Arya could sense his intentions. He did not lie once to her.

"Why?"

"Pardon?"

"Why me? I'm just… Arya Stark."

Ned smiled indulgently. "Well, just Arya Stark. I can give you dozens of reasons why I believe we would be a good match, but I think there is only one that truly matters."

Arya sighed, knowing the truth of the matter. It was her lot in life as a princess, just like all other noble ladies.

"My brother's appr–"/"Your direwolf's approval."

She blinked once, twice, but no, the young man who looked like he was about to burst from excitement was completely serious. Arya turned to Nymeria, who, shockingly, stood up and licked Ned Dayne's face, causing him to laughingly push her away.

Arya sighed loudly, muttering about traitors who had already sold her long before the battle, much to both the wolf and the boy's amusement. "What about Catelyn?"

Ned sighed. "I will not lie to you, Princess. I like her. I had planned to take her away from this madness she was in and provide her with a home in Starfall. I am sure my cousin would love a friend who can challenge her in smartness—Dyanna is quite bookish, you see—and perhaps once I'm married with heirs, I can convince my Lady Wife to bring a paramour to our bed."

"I see. Regardless of your intent, Catelyn shall join me as my handmaiden. Willow, too, for that matter, should she wish to leave the Riverlands. Naturally, Nymeria and her pack will follow along, so I hope you have large enough woodlands to keep them satisfied."

"Of course, anything for you! Wait, does that mean?"

"Yes, Edric Dayne," Arya said, causing the young lord to stare at her in wonder. "If you can convince my royal brother, then I will accept your proposal."

Ned Dayne beamed brightly before quickly kissing her and rushing away, waving farewell and promising her he would be on his way within the hour. Arya's eyes widened at the sudden kiss—it was short, chaste, and… nice. She idly touched her lips, remembering the feeling and taste of the boy's lips; for the first time in her life, Arya Stark did not mind the idea of marriage.

Still, she went to sleep feeling at peace that night after giving Ned a letter to Robb along with her favor—a hurriedly stitched length of silk with the direwolf sigil that looked more like a badger than a wolf—and watched him ride away with nearly all the members of the Brotherhood. The situation was still dire for their cause, however. Arya needed to do something to help her brother, something that would make him more willing to have her marry so far away. As she woke up to find herself on the same rocky island where she took her lessons, Arya found the blonde form of Myrcella Baratheon waving at her, and an idea formed in her mind.

Swallowing her irritation with the girl who just seemed so perfect in everything she did, Arya greeted her and chatted for a bit until Poseidon and Calypso arrived before bringing up her idea.

"Myrcella, could you deliver a message to Sansa for me?"

Myrcella hummed, "Why not use a raven?"

"I can't risk it getting lost, and I need Sansa's help quickly."

"Oh, uhm, I wish I could, but Lord Poseidon has decreed that my body is not ready to accept the reality of my dreams."

"Wait, what?" Arya stared in confusion at the blonde girl. "What do you mean your body isn't—you mean to tell me that you don't remember anything that happens here when you wake up?!"

"Yes, the school of magic that I am focusing on is straining on the body. Lord Father has stated that until I'm ready, it would be best for me not to even remember about it. Especially in a magically powerful place like Winterfell." Myrcella patted her hands apologetically. "What did you want to tell her anyway? Maybe we can ask Lord Father to intercede—"

"That will not be necessary." Poseidon suddenly appeared from the depths of the sea, looking far healthier than normal. No, he looked younger—at least a decade younger than before. "Myrcella, I have removed the bindings on your mind. Once you awaken, you will be able to remember everything you learned and can begin practicing. I suggest starting with small animals, however, until you manage to find a suitable power source. You are but a focus for the power, yet you have little energy to power it."

"Yes, Lord Poseidon." Myrcella bowed respectfully yet could not hide her beaming smile. "Will I also remember your teachings on navigation, the weather, and ship designs?"

Poseidon smiled. The lines on his face seemed to be fading as even his familiar green eyes shone brighter. "Of course you will. I dare say the maester will be in for a surprise when you commandeer his charts and parchments. If only Percy cared more about my teachings rather than sleeping with his wife."

The ever-elusive Percy Jackson. Arya had heard a lot about him from many people. She still could not fathom that he was from another world and the son of this man in front of them, or that Poseidon was but a shard of a much stronger entity. It was confusing to her, but one thing made her curious.

"So, ship designs?" She turned to Myrcella, a smirk blooming as she nudged her sides jokingly. "That's your magic? Fascinating."

"I know, right? Lord Poseidon knows all sorts of ship designs, from the regular wooden ones to even mighty floating castles made entirely from castle-forged steel!"

Contrary to her expectations, Myrcella nearly jumped in her seat from excitement as she waved her hands frantically. "I thought it was all Percy when he designed those galleasses and brigs for Lord Manderly. You have to see those ships, Arya. The sails are beautiful and practical. They have fire-belching weapons on them, and even the scorpions are more powerful than normal! And yet it was all things Percy learned from his father, and once he and Sansa started their procession in the North, he neglected many of the lessons and…"

Arya regretted goading the girl. She had no idea what those strange names being thrown around meant, nor could she fathom a ship made of steel, yet the things Myrcella was saying sounded even more fantastical than the maddest of magics she could imagine. Glancing at Poseidon for aid, the old man had a fond smile that simply made Arya relax—he was the Father. It reminded her of Eddard Stark more than anything now.

"Excuse my tardiness." A sudden voice called as the Maiden appeared beside Poseidon. "I was helping a maiden in that cursed city."

"Cursed city?" Arya asked in confusion.

"The one you escaped from. I believe you know the maiden in question. She was in your father's entourage. A daughter of one of his men, I believe."

Arya's eyes widened in shock, "S-Someone survived that massacre?!"

Calypso grimaced. "Survive…that's one way to word it. I did what I could for her. The rest will be up to her. Now, what did I miss?"

Arya dearly wanted to know more about whoever it was, and if she knew her before shaking her head roughly, there was nothing she could do for her now. The best she could do was help her brother win, and maybe then they could look for her and save that maiden from whatever hell she found herself in courtesy of that monster and his mother.

"I need to send a message to Sansa. Robb is stuck outside of the Twins, and the Reachmen are attacking our home."

"I see," Calypso hummed before turning first to Poseidon and then to Myrcella. "I believe she is ready."

"Agreed." Poseidon gazed seriously at the blonde girl sitting beside her. "As long as she remembers not to overexert herself, she should be fine."

"Yes, Lord Father. I trust the Lady Maiden's teachings." Myrcella nodded seriously.

"I never had talent in healing magic. Never needed it, for I could simply brute force my will and power into healing whomever I wish. Even then, I had my limits, and more than once, I ended up making things worse for people I hold dear." Poseidon's eyes grew distant. "The Maiden might know some things, but she is not a goddess of healing either. We are simply not omnipotent enough to know about all manner of things. I trust you will be extremely careful when you practice your powers, Myrcella. At least until we can find a true practitioner of the healing arts for you to learn from?"

"I understand, Lord Poseidon," Myrcella repeated, all serious and obedient. "Even though I wish I could help those around me soon, I know not to overestimate my abilities. Though, I do not know where we could find a healer."

"Leave that to fate." Calypso tittered. "With Magic awakening everywhere, it is only a matter of time before someone appears. Worst case, you will just have to make do with trial and error—or wait until Sansa gives birth and helps you with the power requirements… if you could stop her from coupling with her husband long enough."

The two divines and their student chortled. All the while, Arya felt like she was being completely ignored. "Sorry to intrude, but as I was saying—"

"I heard you, my girl." Poseidon rebuked gently. "You require Percy's aid to help your brother take that castle. He had just scored a major victory and even convinced many of the Ironmen to swear fealty to me. Very well, Myrcella? Tell Sansa Stark what her sister wants, and we shall see from there."

"Yes, My Lord."

She gave her message, and Myrcella assured her she would deliver it to Sansa once she woke up. Then, they returned to their old routine lessons; Arya's lessons were on something called zoology—a school of learning that Poseidon was a master at. If she ever wanted to master skinchanging completely, she needed to know everything there was to know about the animal she possessed.

Still, her mind kept wandering back to that kiss she shared with Ned, and she wondered how he would fare with her brother.

Notes:

Arya finally catches a break. Even if Robb agrees to that marriage, and Ned calls his banners and marches for his new family's aid while giving Doran the middle finger, he still has that slight issue of crossing hundreds of miles of hostile territory.

Barely an inconvenience, I'm sure.

I'm imagining Ned Dayne's character as Ned Stark if he were born in Dorne. I just couldn't help but write the irony of the relationship with Catelyn Rivers.

Chapter 39: A Shitty Hand

Join me on Discord for discussions, character portraits, and access to one advanced chapter! Discord code is vN7sTYhEp6.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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Coldwatch, the Norrey Seat

"Let's take a break, young Rickon. We've been at this since—"

Brandon Norrey dodged the little red-haired bundle of boundless energy and grabbed the hatchet that looked more like a great ax in Rickon Stark's small hands. "I said it's break time. What did I say was the condition for training you with live steel?"

"To follow everything you say." Rickon breathed harshly, eyes full of tears. "B-But I have to get stronger! They killed Bran, and he was supposed to be safe in Winterfell. If I don't get stronger, they will kill me next!"

The old clan chief grimaced inwardly as he cursed his nephew's loud mouth. Word had arrived from Winterfell about the attack, and Sansa Stark confirmed young Bran's decision to foster Rickon with them. His nephew, Rickard, let slip during dinner about Bran's death. Since then, Rickon Stark was like a demon possessed. Not even his wildling minder or his dog-loving friend could distract him from his quest to become a 'dangerous' warrior.

A small mercy that he had not sworn bitter vengeance and heavy vows to kill all reavers by his own hand and grind their bones to dust.

However, judging by how the crowd of onlookers, both his people and the retinue that followed the lad, looked on in respect and muttering how The Rickon was truly The Ned's son, Brandon couldn't help but feel proud. Rickon had seen his fostering as an adventure, as a game at first. Not anymore. Now, his considerable talent and brilliance were fully unleashed by the dogged persistence. If he kept it up, by the time he grew into a man, Rickon had the potential to be great. One of the greatest warriors in the North.

But now, Brandon had to ensure Rickon did not break himself for it.

"The Ironborn are a thousand miles away," the Norrey Chief gently reminded. "None of them would dare come so close to the mountains."

"It's not them!" Rickon insisted as he tried to pull away the axe from the older man's grasp, but to no avail. "I have to be strong, stronger than father and Robb and Jon."

Brandon frowned at the young Stark's defiant look. "If not the Ironborn, who do you mean, then?"

Rickon tried to pull the axe one last time before growling in frustration and glaring with a rage that should not be in the eyes of a seven-year-old child. "Everyone! Ironmen, traitors, southrons, and wildlings! They all want to kill me and destroy my family! I must be stronger and slay them first before they kill my family!"

The fear and mad conviction in the young prince had the Norrey chief sigh. He glanced sideways at where the black direwolf calmly watched them from where he lay on the snow and enjoyed Palla's ministrations as she brushed his fur. Contrary to his master's emotional outburst, Shaggydog seemed to grow calmer, though Brandon wondered why the beast allowed that strange yet beautiful hawk to roost next to his head.

He shook his head and let go of the hatchet, causing Rickon to fall on his bum. "Alright then, lad. You want to get stronger? I'll make a Champion of the Mountains out of you, but no taking back your words, no matter how hard the training becomes."

"Yes!" Rickon shouted before charging at him again, only for Brandon to groan in disappointment as he tripped him and watched him roll on the snow-covered ground.

"What did I say about charging like a wild boar?"

Rickon spat out dirt and snow before growling in embarrassment, "Not to, lest I want to be surrounded or fall into a trap."

"Good lad. Now focus and show me what I taught you, or else I will double your lessons in numbers."

The threat seemed to work brilliantly, as Rickon instantly calmed down and focused on his footwork rather than charging wildly.

Meanwhile, Sansa watched on from Beauty's eyes with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she was glad to find her brother in good health and eager to train to better serve House Stark in the future. On the other hand, she did not like that her baby brother believed himself responsible for protecting them. It was the duty of the elder siblings to care for and protect their younger ones, not the opposite.

Not to mention every time Rickon held a sharp blade, every instinct in Sansa's being wanted to slap it out of his hands and hug him close to her bosom and assure him all would be fine—that he could be as wild and free as he wished, and his big sister would handle everything. She had already lost one brother and was prepared to do everything to protect the rest of her family, even if it meant keeping Rickon close to her forever.

Yet needs and wants rarely met. Sansa wanted the best for her brother, but she could not afford to pamper him. Shaggydog looked at her with his large green eyes; the usually wild and rambunctious direwolf was calm and demure. For a moment, Sansa feared a skinchanger had taken over her brother's companion, but no, it was Palla, kennel master Farlen's daughter, who somehow managed to calm him.

Judging by how the girl stared at her with wide, unblinking amber eyes, Sansa wagered Palla must have awakened a gift of some sort. Both she and the direwolf most likely knew someone was watching them through Beauty's eyes, but judging by their solemn and respectful demeanor, they could tell it was Sansa.

To tell the truth, it creeped Sansa out, but she was glad her brother had such a talented retainer by his side. Sansa was not the kind to befriend the scullery maids or other daughters of the castle's servants—at least in the past, she didn't, though now she had learned the value of knowing as much as you could about your servants. Still, that was more Arya's forte, but she recalled Palla always being a queer girl who did not care about dresses or songs but loved dogs and other animals.

A shrill screech came from overhead, and Sansa was forced to relinquish control back to Beauty; her mate was calling for her. The moon hawk flew away to a mountain top where she shrieked back a greeting at an arctic harrier. Sansa thought the snow-feathered hawk was not as pretty as her hawk, but Beauty liked him enough, and that was enough, she supposed. If all went well, Beauty would return to Winterfell happily mated and ready to lay her eggs.

Deciding to leave the two lovebirds alone, Sansa took one last look at the setting sun, then at Rickon before sighing inwardly. She detached her mind and found herself back in the Godswood of Winterfell, resting over the roots of the heart tree.

"How was everything, Princess?"

It was Meera Reed, possibly her closest companion now that both Percy and Wylla had left. Checking on Rickon was the last of her visits today, and judging by the amount of ice and snow that had gathered on her, Sansa had stayed too long in the Godswood. Thankfully, ever since she married Percy, the cold had not bothered her much, especially by the heart trees.

"The Wall still stands, and the dragon still lazes by the coast and turns fish-monsters into ice the moment they step out of the water, so good news all around."

Meera nodded as she offered her a hand and helped her up. Sansa waved her hand lazily, and all the ice and snow on her body and hair floated over her palm before she dropped it to the ground. Meera had seen her new trick several times already and merely looked on with interest instead of the previous awe and worship. Sansa knew that magic was returning to the world, but it was also evolving; not everyone had a fair start, and by virtue of being Percy's wife, Sansa had the most benefits as she discovered her powers.

Sansa's belly had grown even larger, already in her fourth moon, yet she looked like she was ready to give birth—even if she was carrying triplets. Nevertheless, just as the Maiden promised, there were no complications at all with her pregnancy aside from an increased appetite… and her teats had grown swollen with milk. Too swollen.

Gods, she felt like a cow. She wished Percy were back with her and treating her like a goddess… and helping her with the newest problem. Thankfully, Sansa had found a solution.

"What of Prince Jon?" Meera asked. After a raven from Riverrun had arrived, informing her of her royal brother's latest decree, everyone called Jon 'Prince Jon'. "Is he back yet?"

Sansa shook her head. "I checked on the Bridge of Skulls, and while they were still under constant attack by the wildlings, Beauty couldn't fly over and scout ahead."

"Do you think the magic of the Wall prevents her? Father mentioned that the Wall acts as more than just a physical barrier."

"That does make sense. Regardless of the matter, the wildlings looked far fewer in number, barely over twenty thousand of them; they must have truly spread out to seek a weak point along the Wall." Sansa held the older, yet shorter girl's arm as they left the Godswood. "I did not find Jon among the defenders by the bridge, and when I gave my message to Lord Commander Mormont, he denied knowledge of Jon's whereabouts."

They left the Godswood, smiling at the two permanent guards of the primal forest of the Starks, before three warriors, all part of the original hundred who greeted her in White Harbor, immediately joined her and followed her from a respectful distance.

"I am certain Prince Jon is well," Meera assured her after a few minutes of walking. The sun had already set, and they made their way through the Great Keep's corridors to her chambers. "He is your brother, after all."

"Bran was also my brother. It didn't stop the Ironborn from murdering him," Sansa pointed out, causing the Crannog girl to sigh. "I appreciate the sentiment, Meera. I pray for my brother's safety, but the lands beyond the Wall are considered godforsaken for a reason. Hopefully, he would return, and Jeor Mormont would tell him of Robb's decision to free him from his vows."

"Do you wager he would reject it and insist on remaining on the Wall?"

Sansa sighed in dismay—it seemed that Meera was treating this like some sort of entertaining mummer show.

"Jon had always been dutiful, but not as much as he is stubborn. I pray he accepts the decision and joins me in Winterfell." Sansa's eyes narrowed as her mind raced with plans and schemes that her cousin would be crucial to accomplish. "We have much to discuss, Jon and I."

Meera hummed noncommittally, and they walked in silence. Soon, they arrived at her chambers, her guards joining two more and spreading around the family wing of the keep where Sansa and her ladies-in-waiting lived. Myrcella and Rosamund shared a room, while Alys Karstark, Branda Flint, and Myriame Locke each had separate rooms. Meanwhile, Sansa shared her room with Meera, and the moment they entered, she quickly stripped her top while Meera brought two clear glass jars—one of the few in all of Winterfell that were part of Myrcella's dowry.

The fact that Cersei Lannister continued to unintentionally support her would forever be amusing to Sansa.

"Thank you, Meera. You don't have to stay if you don't want—"

"Princess, does my presence upset you?"

"You know the answer to that."

"Then please allow me to be of service to you." Meera smiled demurely as she unconsciously licked her lips. "It would be my pleasure."

Sansa couldn't help but sigh in exasperation at the shorter girl, who did her best to keep eye contact with her but ended up blushing madly as her eyes were drawn downwards. It's been a sennight since Sansa had given up on pretending she could handle her issue by herself and was hesitant to ask for help from the other girls. Cella and Rosa were too young to be of use in such a matter, while the other maidens were not as close to Sansa.

Maester Luwin had assured her that she was healthier than an ox… or a cow, she supposed, and that while her children were growing faster than usual, they were in perfect health.

She could simply ignore her leaking teats and endure the soreness in them, but as acting Lady of Winterfell, it would be incredibly discourteous and shameful to be holding court with half her clothes wet and smelling of milk. Thus, she decided to seek help from the one person whom she knew she could trust with anything now that Wylla and Percy were gone.

That Meera ended up utterly enamored with her teats was an unintended side effect, but a welcome one nonetheless.

"Very well, Meera." Sansa sat on the couch, leaned on the armrest, and grabbed a hefty teat with one hand, her pink nipple was swollen and puffy, already leaking milk. "You may begin."

"It would be my pleasure~"

Meera could hardly hide her hungry look as she joined her, glass jars forgotten on a nearby table, before latching onto her right nipple and sucked like a newborn babe.

Sansa sighed in relief as she gently rubbed the older girl's voluminous rust-colored hair while looking deeply into the green eyes that were full of love as they fed from her. There was something exciting about the taboo nature of what they were doing, even if there was no sexual intent or actions at all between them.

Oh, who was she lying to? Sansa was enjoying Meera's ministrations. She never thought she would feel attraction towards maidens just as she did towards Percy, but she loved every minute of it, no matter how salacious it seemed. Or Dornish, as Wylla commented: sadly, it seemed the blue-haired girl was not as enthused towards the same sex as her, but no matter, she still did her duties to her Man.

Then again, perhaps it was not all sexual. Her maternal instincts had been going haywire, most likely because of her pregnancy. Moreover, the idea of an older girl like Meera feeding from her body while looking at her with eyes that should only be reserved for her mother gave Sansa a warm feeling in her belly.

Ah, was that what awaited her once she gave birth? Sansa could hardly wait.

Sansa occasionally wiped Meera's chin when she spilled some milk and unconsciously cooed at her. The first time she did so, Sansa felt heat in her cheeks but seeing that Meera loved it, judging by her harsher breathing and dopey smile, Sansa carried on.

Finally, after ten minutes of sucking and feeding, Meera let go of her nipple. Her breathing was even harsher, her eyes were glazed, and her face was red. Sansa had known that her milk was special; just like Percy's blood and… other fluids, her milk had extra effects on those who consumed it. Over the past week, Meera had grown more powerful, somehow capable of wrestling a grown man to the ground in the training yard, yet also even harder to notice if she decided to hide.

Judging by the heightened feelings of love and devotion she felt from the girl, it also amplified the loyalty of the individual; just like with Percy. It was a big risk, giving a chance for others to betray her and empower them while they were at it, but Sansa had been extremely careful—ever since Percy and Wylla departed, no one but Meera had consumed her milk.

"Are you satisfied, Meera?" Sansa whispered as she rubbed the girl's cheek lovingly before wiping her mouth with her thumb and allowing the girl to suck it. The Crannog girl nodded dazedly before shaking her head and grabbing a jar, causing Sansa to smile approvingly—and with no small amount of teasing. "I'm glad you remember your manners. It would be a shame if you turned out to be ungrateful after giving you such a feast."

"It was my greatest pleasure, Princess." Meera grinned as she brought the jar to her other teat, and together they drained her heavy breasts. It took them some time, but Sansa finally sighed in satisfaction and relief after they filled the second jar and sealed it with wet cloth and twine. "Would you like me to start preparing for tomorrow's breakfast?"

"Yes, Meera." Sansa yawned, dressed in her sleepwear, before stretching and making her way to the large bed that once belonged to her parents. "You are free for the rest of the night, but be sure to attend breakfast. I want you with me to witness the effects."

Meera nodded seriously before storing the two jars of milk in a stone chest full of other jars. After tonight's session, they had twelve jars of milk, more than enough for Sansa to have her ladies-in-waiting consume it during breakfast and for Meera to see if any of them hid any sort of ill intent. Strangely, none of the milk had yet to spoil, which was inconvenient as Meera had hoped to make clabber or yogurt from the soured ones and use the others for cooking. A glass of warm milk for each of her ladies was a must, but some porridge and soft cheese would have been nice.

Sansa laid down in the bed and closed her eyes; thinking about her ladies had her wonder the other reason on why she decided to suddenly test them. She needed more women willing to bear sons and daughters for her husband, though she doubted any of the girls would be suitable for such a duty. Alys was intelligent and charming yet ambitious and cunning; having such a woman as a friend and ally would be useful, but as a sister wife? Sansa was brave and confident in her ability to control the other maidens, but it would become more complicated if a girl with too much ambition joined them.

Especially when she took into account the other, more important reason for her experiment.

If Alys Karstark somehow awakened some powerful magic or bloodline from drinking her milk, Sansa would certainly be miffed. She trusted Percy unconditionally, but there was no need to place unnecessary risks in this relationship of theirs. Even if she knew Alys knew about Sansa, Wylla, and Percy's relationship and gave her that knowing look that Sansa instantly understood to her being interested.

Truthfully, that was the biggest reason she was hesitant about Alys. Perhaps she could try and play matchmaker for her and Robb? Sansa groaned in annoyance; if only that Frey betrothal did not hang over their heads.

Even then, Sansa worried Robb would just marry his Westerlander paramour like the romantic fool he was. She sighed in exasperation: if Robb was a romantic fool, then Sansa was the greatest fool of them all.

Shaking her head, she focused on the rest of the girls: Myriame Locke was a cheerful and friendly girl if a bit ditzy, a perfect choice if Sansa had a say about it—and she did have a say in whom Percy sleeps with—while Branda Flint was calm and perceptive but too much of a prude.

Decisions, decisions. Perhaps it would be best to wait and see if they would awaken any powers tomorrow before deciding. Sansa would rather not have any pretty face in bed with her husband unless they offer something tangible.

It did not help that both Houses Locke and Flint were not as… open-minded as Manderly. Sansa groaned again and adjusted her head on the pillows, her babes protesting the sudden movement by making their presence known with a kick. She giggled, such strong children.

Rosamund and Myrcella, aside from being too young and not having bled yet, were not really in the discussion due to their hostage status. They were the two that she needed to monitor the most tomorrow; if anyone harbored any ill intent towards her, it would be them.

Finally, it all hinged on Percy's decision. Sansa could offer him the most pliable and beautiful maiden in the world, but if he didn't like her, she couldn't force him to sleep with her. A part of her wondered how things had come to this; that she, the daughter of Eddard Stark and now the wife of a powerful demigod, was actively trying to get her husband to impregnate other women. If she was a hapless mortal, then of course she would be worried that some other woman could take her place beside Percy, but Sansa knew she was different.

That she was growing into something different.

She needed Percy to have as many children as possible. As long as she was the one who raised them, and approved of their mothers, Sansa could foresee that a bountiful future for them. Many would disagree, and would scorn her for her decision, but she would endure. They did not understand. Neither did Sansa for that matter, but she simply knew that a storm was coming and to weather it, they needed more people like Percy.

More demigods.

Regardless, these were all thoughts for the future, and as she groggily noted Meera covering her with a blanket before excusing herself, Sansa lashed out with her arm, grabbed the shorter girl, and dragged her into bed. Her squeak of surprise was amusing, but Sansa had slept alone for too long already. After stroking the older girl's head gently and hugging her like a doll, Sansa swiftly dosed off.

"This is delicious!" Myriame exclaimed as she ate the fruit clabber. "Far better than any yogurt I tried before."

"Glad to hear it," Sansa smiled demurely before gazing at Meera as she woodenly ate her omelette. "You may thank Meera for her wondrous cooking."

"Thank you, Meera." Myriame chimed, and even Branda and Alys ate in pleasure, cups of milk drained nearby, as they echoed the Locke maiden.

Sansa, on the other hand, was craving Percy's trademark pancakes and had a large stack before her, drenched in honey—she did not like his vaunted maple syrup, preferring the rich honey that came straight from Locke lands. So far, things have gone well, very well. She truly did not expect any of her ladies to be… well, so loyal. She had underestimated the power of the Stark name and how her brother's vassals practically worshiped them. They might be her friends, but truthfully, the relationship between a lady and her handmaidens was more akin to that of an honored guest… or a hostage for those too blunt to use the term. It appeared it was too early to witness any adverse effects, however, as none of the girls seemed to awaken any sort of powers.

Then again, it took Meera until the third day of consistent diet before she showed any promise.

"… But where are Myrcella and Rosamund?" Branda was saying, and Sansa jerked from her daydreaming with a frown.

"I'm not sure. I recall requesting their presence last night."

Unsaid was that when she requested something, it was more of a demand than anything. Before she could call for a guard to check on them, a timid knock was followed by a high-pitched request for entry.

"Come in, Rosa."

After a long time, Sansa finally managed to differentiate the girls—she thought she was the only one to have succeeded in it, even. The door opened, showing Rosamund Lannister holding a drowsy and tired Myrcella.

"Oh my! What's wrong with her?" Sansa hurried to grab Cersei's daughter, finding her hot to the touch—no, she was burning!

"I don't know, she woke up suddenly in the middle of the night and started writing down all sorts of things on any parchment or piece of linen she could find."

Rosa was close to hysterics, and Sansa was about to call for the maester before a familiar voice she had not heard in a while whispered in her mind. "I recommend keeping her secret. She will recover with rest and sustenance."

"Calypso? You have been silent for a long time."

"Urgent matters, but Myrcella will explain better." Sansa had already pulled Myrcella to her bed with Meera and Rosa's help. The rest of the girls followed cautiously, only for Sansa to turn to them with a demure but firm smile.

"Thank you for attending to my whims and joining me for breakfast. You are free to return to your duties now."

Understanding the dismissal for what it was, the girls bowed politely before excusing themselves. Once alone, Sansa grabbed one of the two remaining glasses of milk and gently fed it to Myrcella. The young princess greedily gulped it all down the moment the first drop touched her lips before waking up with a gasp. She looked around, finding them hovering over her, then Myrcella squinted her eyes as she stared at her before gasping again.

"Sansa! Arya needs your help!"

Sansa gawked but then listened to the most bizarre tale ever. She glanced at Rosa and Meera, finding the same confused look mirrored on their faces, but the things Cella spoke of were too precise to be happenstance, especially after the Maiden's cryptic words earlier. Too much knowledge and information that Sansa was missing, in particular that the Freys had rebelled a fortnight ago, and Robb was now besieging the Crossing.

But that was not the most important piece of knowledge. "Percy beat the Ironborn?"

"Yes, that's what Lord Fa–Poseidon said. He even convinced many of the Ironmen to swear fealty to him!"

To say Sansa was shocked would be an understatement. She did her best to stifle a groan; this just made things far more complicated. Nevertheless, Sansa had received Arya's warning and understood that her sister had absolutely no faith in their royal brother!

A nudge in her mind told her that Beauty had returned and was flying over Winterfell. If she were to send a letter to Percy, she had to do it now while Beauty was still in good health. But what to do, though? It was the beginning of the summer snows, and the North would be too cold and the ground too icy for a proper campaign, except at the Wall. Percy had scored a great victory, but she did not know the specifics, nor how many men under his command were ready to continue for another campaign, even if it would be in the warmer Riverlands, where the army could feed off another kingdom's fields instead of the sparse grain available in the North. She was certain her husband had his own plans as well, and Sansa did not want to make him feel like she was abusing him as if he were a pack mule travelling all over the continent.

Still, she could at least give him the option of which choice to make. Grabbing a roll of parchment, an ink pot, and a quill from her desk, she began writing a simple update on what was going on in the North and the Riverlands, and laying out the choices before him, along with her preferences and qualms.

Unable to stop, Sansa also wrote how much she missed him and wished to see him soon, emphasizing heavily on soon. She felt herself smiling giddily as she stored the larger-than-normal letter in a leather pouch, then tied it to Beauty's back, something that ravens would not be able to do. As she watched Beauty fly off to the south, she knew Percy would receive her letter in half a day and looked forward to his reply tonight.

In the meantime, she turned with her hands on her hips as she mock-glared at the golden-haired princess. "So what's this I hear about you getting magical training from two divines?!"

Myrcella smiled awkwardly, only for Rosa to glomp her with tears flowing down her cheeks as she cried about how she thought she was dying and what she would do without her. It made Sansa feel terrible as she honestly did not know what to do with Rosamund. Ideally, after the war ended, Myrcella would be ransomed back to Casterly Rock, but Rosamund's family was poor.

"Cella, dear? Mind telling me what branch of magic you focus on?"

"Healing!" Myrcella replied proudly only to flinch at the sudden change in Sansa's face. "Princess? W-Why the scary look?"

"Who, me? Scary?! I'm but an angel from the seven heavens."

Sansa grinned wickedly as plans and ideas, schemes of the lowest cunning, flew in her mind. Myrcella the healer? There was no way in all seven hells Sansa would allow her to leave her side; such powers were the rarest of them all, and even Percy could not heal others, only himself with water, unless he opted to bleed himself dry for others.

Knowing her lovable husband, she wagered he would definitely do something like that.

As for Myrcella… the beginning of a plan was forming, and as she turned to Rosamund's wary face, Sansa realized this unassuming Not-twin of Myrcella would be the key to the success of her plan.

"Rosamund? How would you like to be a Lady of a Castle?"

Later that night, Beauty returned with Percy's reply. Sansa was about to head to bed after another session with Meera when the moon hawk landed and squawked to get the leather pouch off her back. Once she did so, Beauty flew to the rafters over the alcove where Sansa had prepared a nest; the moon hawk would soon start laying eggs, and Sansa would be forced to rely on ravens once more.

Sighing at how much she had come to rely on her companion, Sansa opened Percy's letter, excitement at Percy's decision blooming in her heart, only to grimace at the reply.

Casualties negligible. Will send Cregan and ten thousand men down the King's Road to help your brother take the Crossing. I have an important meeting at the coast with the rest of the Ironborn. Will see if I can swing by later to introduce myself to Robb.

Love,

Percy

"… Looks like your husband did not get the hint," Meera whispered as she read the letter beside her.

Sansa sniffled before collapsing on the bed and bawling her eyes out. "Not Robb, you idiot! I want my Percyyyyyyyy!"

Suffice to say, Maester Luwin was forced to make the long trek to her chambers to check on her sudden wails, only to declare that her humors were acting up due to the long absence from her husband—a completely normal phenomenon.

Sansa nearly threw her chamber pot at his head.

A*H*M

Small council chambers,

The Hand of the King.

"Good news at last?" Tyrek asked as Tyrion read the message that one of his father's spies managed to sneak past the siege lines.

"Indeed. My father and the roses have managed to beat the Stormlanders at the Golden Bridge. Their forces are scattered, and Lord Tywin is on his way to relieve us."

The small council chamber was empty owing to the lack of councilors. Pycelle was the only one who remained with Varys' flight, Baelish in the Vale, and the lack of choices for the master of laws and master of ships. The Grandmaester was most likely with one of his whores, something that Tyrion had also been indulging in a lot lately.

As a matter of fact, Pycelle had sent word of a new whore in return for his discretion, and Bronn should have brought her to his rooms by now. He glanced at his new guard, Ser Lothor Brune, a stolid knight who had proven himself on the walls and was personally recommended by Ser Arys Oakheart. Tyrion had agreed to replace Ser Arys with the Clawman due to the Kingsguard needing to protect the 'king'. Even now, Ser Arys was on the battlements with the men while Tyrek answered his summons.

Ah, if only Tyrek truly were the king instead of Joffrey. The siege had done wonders in turning the uncertain lad into a formidable knight. Tyrion's idea was a master stroke; having Tyrek grow his hair and style it similarly to Joffrey's girly locks, then dressing him in the king's armor while always making sure he wore a helmet, assured the populace that their king was with them. In the streets or on the walls, Tyrek had made an excellent showing, nearly single-handedly keeping the defenders' morale high despite the odds and the constant assaults and attacks from Stannis' forces.

Even the occasional time he was seen without his helmet, none of the courtiers blinked twice and truly believed him to be Joffrey. Speaking of his nephew, he had not been seen in months, as he preferred to stay hidden in his rooms, doing whatever it was kings did when they were despairing. More than once did Tyrion entertain the idea of silently disposing of Joffrey and installing Tyrek in his stead.

Alas, with his dear sister and nephew safe in Castle Blount with Ser Boros Blount acting as their kingsguard, such a scheme would die in the cradle once Cersei took one look at Tyrek. Tyrion was certain even his father would let the ruse be if only to make things easier, but not his sister. Castle Blount was conveniently located south of the Blackwater Rush, and Tyrion was confident his father must have already met them, if not dragged them with him on the campaign.

"Shame he could not invest in chasing after them." Tyrek sighed as he stood over a map of the Crownlands. Tyrion couldn't help but smile proudly—a few moons ago, and the lad would be rejoicing that they were saved, akin to counting his apples before gathering them. Now, his focus immediately shifted to the next step. "Even if Lord Tywin and Ser Jaime attack Stannis simultaneously, there is a risk that the Stormlanders would rally and strike from the rear."

"At which point, you know what needs to be done, right?"

"Aye, I will sally forth with what little horse we have," Tyrek replied solemnly before allowing a small smile to appear on his face. "I suppose King Joffrey would be taking his responsibilities once again."

"If it were up to me, I would have sent him with his mother and brother, but the king decided he was no craven who would flee." Tyrion chortled as he drank from his goblet of Arbor Gold before toasting to the Claw knight. "Ser Lothor, enough of eating apples, and join me for a drink. Perhaps I can let you watch as I rail that whore who's waiting for me in my rooms."

The Brune knight merely bit into another apple silently, and Tyrion shrugged. Ever since Shae was killed, he had drowned himself in what he knew best; work, wine, and whores. Yet no matter how much work he handled, how much wine he drank, and how many whores he fucked, his heart still felt hollow—except for a burning rage aimed at a certain eunuch.

"Ser Arys warns me of queer things happening in the Red Keep lately," Tyrek suddenly said, and Tyrion buried his despondency in favor of work. "Did you know that the king had been summoning smallfolk to his chambers? Only they are never heard from again. One, sometimes two, every day."

Tyrion did not want to think at all about what his monstrous nephew was doing to smallfolk in his chambers.

"Who cares if the king has some sport? Perhaps he simply wants to chat with them and ask how they are faring during the siege." The deadpan looks from both Tyrek and Brune did not faze him, as Tyrion drank again from his goblet of wine. "As long as he is discreet, he can do whatever the fuck he wants in Maegor's Holdfast. I heard he had even found faith in these trying times; perhaps he might become a septon or Baelor the Blessed, come again!"

"Cousin Tyrion!" The serious tone in Tyrek's voice gave Tyrion pause. "It's been far too long since Joffrey had made an appearance in court or even left his chambers. Didn't your sellsword explore Maegor's tunnels with those wildlings from the Vale, and they reached his chambers? Have you forgotten about the unholy effigies Joffrey had built in one of his rooms? The Hound and Moore let no one near, not even the servants, but Joffrey still calls for more smallfolk to be dragged to the royal apartments. Those Flea Bottom rats never leave those chambers, and no servants come to clean up after whatever Joffrey does in there. Soon, the absences will be noticed—if it hasn't happened already. Meryn Trant has not been seen since last night, not since Joffrey sent him to bring more smallfolk and—"

"That's enough, Ser!" Tyrion banged his goblet on the table. "What you speak of comes dangerously close to treason."

Tyrek glowered at him, and somewhere in the back of Tyrion's mind, he knew that his cousin was right. Whatever it was Joffrey was doing was foul, no doubt some sort of heathen rituals from Essos and beyond.

Tyrion was nothing if not a learned man, and when he first listened to those reports and saw the designs of those effigies and ritual circles, he knew that his royal nephew was dabbling in matters he should neither know nor even imagine. His men never found Joffrey in the room, so they truly did not know what happened to those smallfolk, and Tyrion decided it was best he never knew.

Regardless, he could not care less. Soon, his father and Jaime would swoop in and throw Stannis to the sea before entering the city victorious, and royal matters would be left in their hands. As for Tyrion? Tyrion would count his blessings and dive deeper into the whorehouses and the barrels of wine.

His fledgling hope for love had perished with Shae, and now… Let Tywin carry the burden of the Hand to a foolish little shit of a king, let him deal with whatever demonic shit Joffrey was up to; the damned bugger had never been the same since the witch escaped King's Landing and kidnapped Myrcella.

Tyrion stood up before grabbing the table to steady himself. He grabbed the entire decanter of Arbor gold and sauntered out of the small council chambers, but not before giving one last bit of advice to his cousin. "Do not forget your role, Tyrek. You are playing it, not assuming it. Whatever the King does is of no concern to you, me, or anyone. None but the gods can judge the king… or Lord Tywin, perhaps."

"But the people—"

"Can go fuck themselves. Who cares if one or ten or a thousand of those dirty rats died during a siege? No one will care, so long as no one tattles about it. As for Trant, no doubt he got sidetracked in one of the brothels; who knew that a siege would make so many whores out of all these 'respectable women', just to make a living." Tyrion barked out in laughter as he drank deeply from the decanter. "Regardless, I suggest you retire for the night in case Stannis mounts another assault in the morn. I, on the other hand, have a nubile whore waiting for me in my chambers. Brune, follow along now. Even if you're a prude, you can still stand guard outside my chambers."

His piece said, Tyrion left the chambers, the Brune knight following him with yet another apple in his hand. A part of him felt guilty at lashing out at Tyrek; the lad was promising, and Tyrion felt true pride when he thought of him. This was his legacy! The cousin whom many ignored or undermined, yet had proven himself to be a loyal and dutiful knight. Tyrion should not have treated him like that, but he could not bring himself to care.

Tyrek would forgive him, eventually. He was a decent lad. Once Lord Tywin arrived in the city, Tyrion would praise Tyrek to the high heavens, and surely, his father would reward his nephew. All that Tyrion cared about now was fucking that whore, then going to sleep.

He arrived outside his chambers in the tower of the hand to find Bronn cleaning his nails with a dagger. The sellsword stood up once he saw them, "Well, now that I'm done being a bawd, I will leave you to your fun. Unless you changed your mind and won't mind me going for a round, meself?"

"Fuck off, Bronn." Tyrion burst out in laughter. "I don't pay you to share my whores, but so you can fuck your own whores."

"Worth a try. Lass looks devilish." Bronn leered before glancing at Brune. "You gonna watch? Trust me, there's nothing more hideous than a dwarf rutting like a—"

"Fuck off, Bronn," Tyrion repeated, this time with more heat in his voice, and the sellsword chuckled before leaving the corridor. The Imp glared at the Brune knight. "Well? What are you going to do?"

"I get paid to guard you. If you die on my watch, it will be my head," Lothor Brune replied in boredom. "Did your sellsword check the whore for weapons?"

"This isn't my first time fucking a whore. Just stay there until I'm done. It should only take all night."

The Claw knight stared stoically ahead as he leaned on the wall, while Tyrion wheezed in laughter and pushed the door open, closing it behind him. He had barely gotten in before he was already kicking off his shoes and stripping. He could see the girl seated on the ground merely wearing a shift; a bundle of clothes was nearby the fireplace, but Tyrion ignored them all for the beauty before him.

She had bone white hair falling to her shoulders, pale skin that had not seen the light of the sun in a long time. The girl held her knees to her chest as she stared at him with wide, red eyes that seemed not to have any life in them. She could not have been older than four and ten, possibly younger, yet she was not Valyrian. The hair might be pale, and she was definitely attractive, with nice curves for a girl her age, but the features seemed… less sophisticated than Valyrians. He wagered she was more First Men than Andal even.

Regardless, he did not truly care if she was the Maiden reborn or the Crone; Tyrion had come here to fuck, and by the Seven he would fuck.

"Get on the bed, girl. I have no patience for foreplay today." The girl did not move, only continued to stare at him, causing Tyrion to grunt in annoyance. "What's your name?"

"Who would you like me to be, My Lord?" Came the eerie soft voice before the girl's blank face turned into a demure smile. "Would you like me to be Jenny of Old Stones?" Then it turned into a haughty look of superiority. "Perhaps the Good Queen Alyssanne?" Finally, the girl's expression turned into a familiar yet cruel grin, which would have perfectly captured his sister's demeanor if not for the wrong coloring. "Perhaps the Queen Dowager?"

"Oohhh, I like you, girl. You can be my cunt of a sister. Now get on the bed and prepare to squeal."

"It would be my pleasure," the girl breathed, sending shivers down his spine.

Tyrion stripped the last of his clothes and climbed onto the bed. Then, suddenly, he felt the girl hug him from behind. It almost felt loving, and Tyrion scowled. "You claim to be Cersei Lannister, yet she would never act like—"

He gasped as something sharp stabbed his neck. Blood gurgled from his throat as he tried to shout, to scream for help, but the blade came down again, once, twice, thrice, and the world darkened around Tyrion.

Why? The words died on his tongue. I did not even get to fuck her!

"My lord? Everything alright?"

No one answered. Lothor frowned before pushing the door, and immediately drew his sword at the smell of blood. He took a cautious step inside, only to be met with the queerest sight of a young girl with bone white hair, red eyes that looked like blood in the candlelight. She was holding a sack of something large and round and bloody in one hand and a wicked-looking dagger in the other, all the while her face, covered in blood, gazed at him eerily.

Focusing closely on the dagger, Lothor's heart skipped a beat; Valyrian steel!

Glancing at the decapitated corpse of the dwarf on the bed, Lothor Brune realized he had just failed his charge. He glared at the girl who looked more like a living weirwood than a human from where she stood by the empty fireplace.

"You're dead, girl."

"No, ser. I wish I were, but I am very much alive. You will be dead if they catch you, however."

"Not if I present you to the king—"

"Who will still have your head for failing to protect his uncle," the girl continued in a tone that was drier than the Dornish desert. "You can still live if you come with me; I know a secret passage out of the city. After all, She promised me a knight would join me if he only followed what his heart says."

Lothor Brune had never been more confused in his life. He was hardly a knight in the first place, but he still took his oaths seriously. He preferred not to talk except when needed, and had already spoken more to this girl than he had all week. Glancing at the bleeding corpse of Tyrion Lannister, Lothor sighed; damned if he did, damned if he didn't.

"Fine, lead the way. Don't think of betraying me, girl, or I will kill you."

He was never one for overly elaborate threats; straight to the point was how he liked it. Besides, something about the girl made him feel at home, the home which his family rejected him from; served them right with actual grumkins laying waste to their lands now.

Perhaps it was her weirwood colors?

"I will not betray you. You are my protector."

With that, the girl opened a small door inside the hearth and beckoned him to follow. Shrugging helplessly, Lothor grabbed a few apples from the bowl of fruits on a nearby table before following the girl.

"I am Ser Lothor of House Brune. What's your name, girl?" He asked as they descended the ladder to a secret passageway, and froze at the sight of many small figures staring eerily at him. Before he could brandish his sword, the girl waved them away, and they left, leaving behind a similar round and bloody sack that she handed to him.

"Well met, Lothor Brune." The girl's bland face held no emotion whatsoever. "You may call me…"

Notes:

Rickon be having his training arc, but he's too young to say if it will stick.

Sansa embraces her inner Greek God. I mean, come on! When it comes to Greek Myth and mother's milk, Hera comes to mind, right? Only Sansa is far more lewd than Hera could ever hope to be, lol.

The funniest thing is that she thinks she has no side effects at all from her pregnancy. News flash: Hormones are a bitch, add magic to the mix and it's ten times as bad.

And finally, we get a look at King's Landing… and the end of the Imp. One can say he got dealt a *shitty hand*.

Who is this mysterious girl who killed him? The next chapter will be entirely about her, and I warn you, it's not for the faint of heart.

All I will say is that she is NOT an OC but an important character from the books.

Chapter 40: Stairway to the Seven Hells

Notes:

Join me on Discord for discussions, character portraits, and access to one advanced chapter! Discord code is vN7sTYhEp6.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

Warning: Dark themes ahead. Mentions of rape, torture, and drug abuse.

Time unknown

Paradise

I wander blindly in a place that exists beyond good and evil; beyond life and death.

There is no fortune or misfortune. No happiness. No sadness.

White and black tear into me, heaven and earth torment me… I've been defiled.

Where does it begin, and where does it end?

I don't belong anywhere. I'm not going anywhere. My future is shattered, my purpose is gone.

But the world just keeps on turning around me…

The place was simply known as 'Paradise.' No doubt the building itself had a proper name, but none of us were ever told what it was. Nor were we ever told exactly where in the land we were, or what we were doing here…

Or, indeed, how we ended up there to begin with.

The door opened, and Arya immediately stood from her bed as a young girl with empty eyes beckoned to her. "We have been summoned."

Arya followed stiffly. They walked on varnished flooring until they arrived in a lavish room where they stood in a line beside eighteen other children. Most were girls, but some were boys. She did not know their names, or at least which names they used today.

Someone entered the room. Several people. Arya kept her eyes down. Good girls kept their eyes down until called upon.

"Which number would you like today?"

"Nineteen."

"Certainly."

"You've been nominated, Arya. Be sure to treat the customer with care."

Arya… or sometimes it was Cersei, sometimes it was Alyssa or even Alyn—willful girls, cruel queens, cool boys—she was them all. Yet was her name truly Arya? She did not think so, but she learned not to ask the masters about it, or she would be punished. She did not like to be punished. It was painful. Pain… it rhymes with something, but what was it?

Arya… that was not her name. She remembered having a different name. A surname, too, something that was reserved for the nobility, but she could not remember it. Was she a noble? It couldn't be, or else she would not be left here.

Arya tried to remember as she lay on the soft bed and stared blankly at the ceiling. There was someone else in the room, probably the customer, but he did not touch her. Or maybe he did, but she never remembered much. They all looked the same, though this one was tall. Taller than normal, with a white cloak that made her head hurt as it reminded her of something. It did not matter. All their faces were a blur to her. This was the best time to dwell on her thoughts and try to remember, as she always did, ever since she realized she had a name, not just a number.

"Come on, girl. You don't look even close to the princess, but you will do," the man complained.

Ah. He was a Kingsguard. Guards of the… king? Arya's head hurt, but she understood what he wanted. What was the name of the princess?

"My noble knight, I am sure you are tired from your duties. Dutiful knights deserve rewards. I, Princess Myrcella Baratheon, will attend to your every need." Arya smiled shyly at the dour-faced man. His graying red hair was familiar, but her head ached as she tried to remember. "It would be my pleasure."

Arya found herself in her room. It had granite walls, and a cold draft came from somewhere. It was hardly the most comfortable of rooms, not like in 'Paradise', where the workers were given nice rooms and good food. But she felt safe in it. In the safety of her room, Arya sat on the ground, folded her knees to her chest, and focused on remembering like she always did. Remember her origin, her past, her surname. Her head pounded, and she felt thirsty. An unholy thirst that could not be quenched unless with holy water.

Yet it was to no avail.

Anything prior to a year ago, she could not remember. Her owners were the ones who named her Arya… no, that wasn't right either. It had taken her a lot of effort since she was brought here, but she finally remembered her name, the name her mother and father gave her, though she did not remember them.

Jeyne was her name, the pain reminded her. Ah, Jeyne, Jeyne, it rhymes with pain!

She was so happy when she remembered it that she told everyone about it. The mistress did not like it.

They beat her and punished her. Forced her to stand for hours, sometimes days on end. Not allowed to sleep. Not allowed to eat or drink. It was painful, and she hated the pain, but they didn't realize the pain cleared her mind. The pain helped her remember.

There were others like her. Boys and girls, naked and standing at attention under the watchful eyes of their trainer. They were all young, and young children needed a septa to raise them—at least that was what that man with the pointy beard had said. But their minder was not nice, not kind. Shouldn't a septa be a nice person? Jeyne thought she had known a septa a long time ago. She was stern and rarely smiled, but Jeyne knew she was kind and nice.

Unlike the smiling one standing over her, caning her naked back, as she was forced to stand in a perfect posture. She was not allowed to flinch. Not allowed to cry. She would take her punishments with a demure smile.

"You have been a bad girl, Arya. What did we say about lying?"

"Lying is a sin," Jeyne replied blandly, her feet aching from standing for so long on the cold ground, but she was accustomed to pain. "I must not tell lies."

The woman turned her around and held her chin. Jeyne stared at the lined face sporting a kind smile and bright blue eyes—anyone who saw the woman would surely believe she was a simple old septa.

"Good girl. But I'm afraid you have been naughty again, Arya. Our customer wanted Alyn to attend to him this time, but he was upset when you lied and claimed you were Jeyne and acted like a girl." The old matron sighed sadly. "I fear the lessons have not sunk in, and you will need to be punished further."

"… It would be my pleasure."

Jeyne would endure. She would endure more and more punishments, even as the other children around her cried and screamed and raged. She did not want to disappear like them. Jeyne would survive, at least so she could learn about her past. Learn why she was here. Who she was.

The sound of the door slamming woke Jeyne from her memory. The customer was gone. Her body was now aching, but the pain was less than that of any punishment. She needed to wash and clean up. Woodenly, she left the room for the bathhouse. Someone stood in her path holding a goblet of foaming white water.

"Here is your holy water, Arya," the voice said kindly. "Don't forget to drink it all."

"It would be my pleasure." Jeyne accepted the goblet and was about to drink, only for someone to call the matron from the stairs. She did not know why, but Jeyne left for the bathhouse while the matron was busy; she wanted to savor it this time instead of drinking it in front of the matron. The holy water always helped her feel safe and made her worries go away—when the pain became too much, it also made it go away.

It had been a long time since pain bothered her, but the idea of not drinking it was just wrong.

Once inside, she left the goblet on a table and approached a tub. Its waters were already cool, but Jeyne did not mind. She could not feel the difference between hot and cold anyway. Only the lack of steam told her it was cold. Grabbing a rag and soap, she lathered her body and started cleaning, flinching slightly as she discovered several bite marks, bruises, and cuts on her arms and shoulders.

The customer had not been kind.

Jeyne sat in the cold waters of the bathtub, staring at her reflection in the water. A familiar face stared back at her, with brown eyes and long locks of brown hair. Why couldn't she remember her past? Why did she want to remember so badly?

She gripped her head as a bout of pain struck. She wanted to remember. She needed to remember. But the pain! Oh, the pain! Jeyne stumbled out of the tub, overturning it and spilling water everywhere, but she did not care. Her vision was blurry, but her gaze fell on the innocent goblet of holy water. That milky color and sweet taste—she needed it. It would take the pain away.

Crawling towards it, Jeyne's legs gave out, and she looked down, finding bruises and cuts on her thighs and calves; the customer really wasn't kind.

Screams and shouts came from the tiny window on the wall. Something was happening outside, but Jeyne was not supposed to look outside. She was too precious to be seen outside without her master's permission. That's what the matron told her. That's what the others told her.

She shook her head, only to regret it as her headache became worse. Crawling closer to the table holding the goblet of her salvation, Jeyne was about to grab it when the world shook. A terrible sound like thunder, the building shook, and Jeyne stared wide-eyed in terror as the goblet fell from the table and spilled its contents on the ground near the drainage.

"Noooo!" Jeyne moaned, her throat parched. She was thirsty. She needed that! Jeyne was about to crawl closer to the drain, ready to lick the precious potion, only for something big and heavy to strike the building. All of 'Paradise' shook, and Jeyne collapsed on the ground.

She breathed heavily as her head pounded. Rolling over, Jeyne opened her tired eyes and gasped as the sun shone down on her. The entire roof of Paradise was gone. Something groaned, and a piece of the rafters broke away and fell, striking her head, and Jeyne knew no more.

Jeyne was back in the granite room. It was her safe place. Her home. She tried to remember, but her head hurt. She tried harder, and this time, memories flooded her mind, and Jeyne gasped in joy, only to whimper in fear at the first memory.

"Where are you taking me? Where's Sansa?"

A slap to the face was what she got for asking questions. Who was Sansa?

A second memory rushed to her mind. She was on the floor, staring up at a slender man with a pointy beard. He was dressed in modest but comfortable-looking clothing, with nothing to catch the eye except for the mockingbird embroidered on the breast in black thread, and the hilt of a dagger poking out of his belt.

"Hmm, she will do, I suppose." The man stared at her the same way one would look at a chicken to slaughter. "Keep her hidden for now until we know what the Lannisters plan to do with Ned Stark."

Ned Stark… that name rang bells in her mind, but she had been dragged away by rough men, only catching the slender man muttering, "Now to find the wolf girl."

The world darkened, and another memory flooded her mind. She was in a dark room. A prison cell. Not somewhere a person of her status should be. Her status… what was it anyway? She had been here for weeks. It was comfortable enough, she supposed, but she was worried. Worried about… she didn't know who, but Jeyne was worried about them.

The door opened, and someone entered. It was the same man from earlier with two other rougher men who dragged her up from the cot. "Hello, Jeyne. Do you know who I am?"

"Lord Petyr Baelish," Jeyne answered, but she did not know how she knew. The name meant nothing to her, but it must have been the right thing, for he smiled.

"Would you like to go home, Jeyne?"

Home… feelings of cold and warmth engulfed her. Where was her home? Did she have a home? Was she deserving of a home? Jeyne nodded quickly, trying to hide her fear, but her voice cracked and she stuttered badly.

"I want to go home. I want my father, too!"

The man smiled sadly, "I'm afraid your father is dead, Jeyne. He committed treason and resisted arrest." Jeyne could not remember her reaction, for her head had begun to hurt. Her father was dead. Was it worth it to remember something that would only make her sad?

The memory still played, and she stared blankly at the man as he spoke honeyed words, "I need to know everything about your home. The names of the cooks, the brewer, and the master at arms. Tell me everything you know, Jeyne, and I will send you home. You can do that for me, right, Jeyne?"

And Jeyne told him. She told him everything she knew, even if she did not remember what she said. The man must have been satisfied, for he left, but not before she cried out, "What about your promise? You will send me home, right?"

A mocking smile was the only reply, "Of course, I will. I am a man of my word. Take her to Paradise. The matron knows what to do with her."

Another memory, and Jeyne was naked and shackled to a wall as she screamed for help. But no help would arrive as she was whipped on her back, buttocks, and legs.

"You're only making this more difficult for yourself, Arya." She could not see who was punishing her, but she would later recognize the voice of the old matron. "What did you say?"

"JEYNE!" She would scream hoarsely as she was struck again. "MY NAME IS JEYNE!"

"Looks like you need more lessons. Pain would do wonders to remind you."

And so her punishments would continue. These people were masters in inflicting pain, and Jeyne did not like pain.

A goblet of holy water was given to her after one of her punishments. She looked up to find another girl urging her to drink.

"It will help the pain go away," she said, and Jeyne was too thirsty to say no. She drank it and it was the tastiest thing she ever drank. It tasted sweet and syrupy, and all was well.

All her worries, all of her pain, they all melted away. Her mind felt light and unburdened. Jeyne felt as if she was flying.

"I'm Arya. You need to learn to accept your fate. Crying and being defiant angers the matron." The girl, was she the Arya the matron wanted her to pretend to be? Jeyne couldn't see her features, but she patiently explained, and Jeyne couldn't help but listen intently to everything she said. She made the pain go away. She must be a friend, and friends say the truth. "Soon you will have to work, like all of us. The customers don't like it when you break the act. No matter what you have to do or what people do to you, always respond with, 'It would be my pleasure.'"

"B-But, I don't want to work," Jeyne cried. "I did nothing wrong. Why must I be forced to do these things?"

Arya smiled sadly. "We must all do our roles. I will help you just this once, but I can't always be there for you."

Many memories came and went, and Jeyne stared incomprehensibly at the girl who looked like her, taking care of her many customers. "Well, Arya. Why don't we sit and have a little chat together?"

"It would be my pleasure."

"You're always such a good girl."

Another memory, another customer. She couldn't remember what they said, but she always replied the same, and they loved her for it.

"It would be my pleasure." "It would be my pleasure." "It would be my pleasure." "It would be my pleasure." "It would be my pleasure." "It would be my pleasure." "It would be my pleasure." "It would be my pleasure." "It would be my pleasure." "It would be my pleasure." "It would be my pleasure."

Suddenly, Jeyne gasped. No, that was not her. She did not know how long she had been doing that, but that was not her!

The memory shifted, and Arya–no, Jeyne was crying on a bed while begging for help and mercy. The frog-faced customer only got angrier and struck her before calling the matron.

"What are you doing, Arya? Just do what you usually do!"

Jeyne only cried harder, even as the matron slapped her and the customer cursed. "What a waste of time. I want my money back! I was led to believe number nineteen was special."

"She's not normally like this, I can assure you. She's usually a good girl… I don't know what's gotten into her. She's our little angel, capable of meeting all of our customers' needs, no matter what they may be." The matron dragged her from the bed and held the back of her neck roughly. "Come on, Arya. Say hello. You've done this enough times now. What was it you asked her to be, My Lord? A sweet princess? An obedient squire?"

Jeyne did not answer, only sobbed louder and struggled against the woman's surprisingly strong grip.

"Clearly you're not teaching your whores well," the stout man grumbled. "I am the king's friend, you know. We shall see what he and Littlefinger think about this!"

The customer left, and the matron threw her to the ground before calling for her guards. "It appears her lessons have not yet sunk in. Take her downstairs and prepare the dogs. Don't forget to have her drink. Make it twice the dosage."

Two rough hands grabbed her, and Jeyne would not see the sun for a fortnight after that—or was it a moon? She couldn't remember how long it was. She would never remember what she endured in that room, either. Jeyne was unsure whether that was good or not.

Another memory, and Arya was tending to her wounds, "No matter how much it hurts, no matter how sad you feel, don't ever cry. Don't ever say sorry because no one ever forgives you even if you do."

"But it hurts! It hurts so much!" Jeyne cried, but Arya merely smiled and gave her the goblet of holy water; even if Jeyne could not see her eyes or features, she liked that smile. Arya urged her to drink, and Jeyne drank. The pain and worry melted away, and all that mattered were Arya's words.

"The best thing to do is to try to imagine how your customer is feeling. Like, this must feel really good for them. Pretend you are in their place. It won't be enough to alleviate your pain, but it does help you stop worrying about things. Remember to always think about how to make the customer happy. That's the key to your safe place!"

Her safe place… Jeyne looked around. She was back in the cold room with granite walls, sitting on the floor with a doll in her hands. She looked at the doll. It was featureless, like everything else in her life, but it somehow reminded her of home. Home… where was home? It was somewhere cold but warm. Large yet full of people.

Jeyne hugged her knees as her mind was flooded with more memories. Memories of training. Memories of customers. Memories of that man with the mockingbird asking her questions. So many questions…

It was a specific memory that made the matron focus harder on her training with names.

"If we can't find Arya Stark, then chances are, no one will," Lord Mockingbird was telling the matron, his hands idly fiddling with a dagger with a smoky dark blade. Jeyne stood, her posture was perfect, not by grace, but by necessity—trained shoulders drawn back to hide the tremble in her ribs. "But that doesn't mean the Starks and the Lannisters need to know she is dead. We need only prepare one of our own, right, Arya Stark?"

"Yes, My Lord."

"Splendid." Lord Mockingbird beamed, nodding at the matron. "You have done well in training her."

"It was not easy, My Lord. She's older than normal, half-savage, and stubborn as a mule, but the potion has done wonders in scrambling her wits." The matron smiled at her, though Jeyne saw through that veneer of kindness for what it truly was—a monster. "Why, she has become a favorite among the customers. Already, she knows a dozen names, and I have her booked for a moon ahead."

"Good, good. Make sure she continues taking the potion and moon tea, of course. I must leave soon for an assignment that will most likely take months to finish." Lord Mockingbird sheathed the dagger—Valyrian steel, her mind supplied, though she didn't know how she knew—and handed it to the matron.

"M-My Lord! Such a gift—"

Lord Mockingbird slapped the matron and scowled. "I will forgive such insolence only once, Ursula. This dagger could implicate me if discovered on my person. Some may even covet it. Store it in my office once you arrive in King's Landing."

"My apologies, Lord." The matron, Ursula, glared at her as if blaming Jeyne for her mistake. "What about her?"

"Take her to King's Landing as well and continue her training in one of my brothels there—I fear that Stannis will besiege the city soon, and this little Paradise will be compromised once his foragers and outriders approach. Even if the ruse fails, it might buy us time. If all else fails, I'm sure a broken nubile noblewoman, trained to be whoever the customer wants her to be, would sell well in Lys."

Ah, she truly was of noble birth. Jeyne was back in her safe place. She hugged her knees and rocked her body. She was not Arya Stark. She was Jeyne. She was a noble. She was from… where was she from?!

Jeyne screamed in frustration and hugged her knees tighter. Why couldn't she remember? Was her wits truly addled? Were her memories forever gone? What was she without her memories? Lord Mockingbird wanted to use her for something… why won't he just kill her?

Without her memories, she was already dead.

She was defiled. Both in body and soul.

Would no one save her from this nightmare? It had been so long since Jeyne asked for help. None ever answered her, and only pain followed any call for help. It was all her fault. She was a bad and naughty girl who did not deserve to be saved. Why else would she suffer so?

Suddenly, Arya's haunting voice echoed around her, "No one will care, no one will forgive, no one will answer. They will say and do things, and we will do like always, Sweet Jeyne. Close our ears like always. Close our eyes like always. We do as we always do and go out to work. It is best for you to smile and accept your fate. Now, repeat after me, Jeyne: It would be my pleasure."

Jeyne stared at the apparition that appeared before her. A white haired girl stood over her with eyes red as a weirwood's leaves. It was the first time she had seen her, yet that familiar smile told her she knew exactly who she was.

"What's wrong, Jeyne? We must wake up and go back to work. It is the only way to be happy and safe."

Her voice became clearer, no longer muffled. Jeyne cocked her head as she continued to gaze at the apparition. Strangely, she did not feel fear or shock, but her eyes widened as she realized something. "My safe place."

"What?"

"You are my safe place." Jeyne stood up and held the girl's cheeks; they were cold like a corpse. They were of similar height, dressed the same, and their bodies were practically the same. "And I am not Arya; you are. Thank you for taking my place. But I am fine now."

Arya smiled in relief before disappearing like a ghost—no, not disappeared. She was inside her now. Jeyne hugged herself as all the memories of her time in Paradise rushed through. It was bad enough that she wanted to smash her head on the wall. Why? How could people be so vile, so dastardly?

But she would not falter. She would accept it all. She must be strong. No. She was strong. The world kept turning around her.

Jeyne moved to the window and looked outside, resisting the temptation to jump headfirst down, and finding a world of mist and fog. She did not know if she was alive or dead. The world had surely ended outside with that explosion. But she was stuck here, still. Her safe place.

"Will someone… save me?"

The faintest of lights broke through the mist, and a muffled voice answered. "What would you do with your freedom?"

Jeyne thought for a moment. "I want to go home."

"Home is where the heart belongs. Where is your heart?"

"My heart… I have no heart. Does that mean I can't go home?"

"You need to find your heart to return home," the voice said gently. "I am too weak to help you now, but you must find your heart to go home."

Jeyne clutched her heart. There was no beating. "I have a void in my chest. I want to go home to fill it."

"… Home is out of reach, but perhaps there is another way." The voice sounded reluctant, but eventually gave her advice. "I will help you as best I can, but it will be up to you to find a way home."

"More than I could hope for," Jeyne replied dryly, surprised by her own tone. Suddenly, the world shook, and she felt pain in her head and soreness in her muscles. Jeyne woke up to find the stars above her. She was naked, but the wooden beam that should have crushed her head had missed her by an inch.

"You must leave," the voice whispered, tired and weak. "This city has made a mockery of my name. I can barely speak to you as it is."

Jeyne crawled from under the beam, looking around for anything to cover herself with. She found a cloak and a sack of coin, most likely belonging to a customer who died from the massive piece of masonry that struck the building. Peering inside the sack, she found several gold coins and many more in silver.

She searched for more clothes, finding a pair of pants, shoes, and a tunic to go with the cloak. A plate of food sent her stomach rumbling. Something was burning. The brothel was burning, yet she was the only one who survived, at least on the top floor. Jeyne did not care. She grabbed the burned bread and cold strips of meat and hungrily ate—it tasted like ash and leather.

Once sated, she packed the rest of the food and anything else she thought was helpful in a sack. Jeyne searched some more until she found several skins of water and packed them as well. Then, she stopped before a pitcher of ale and drank it all in one gulp.

It tasted like nothing. It could very well have been brackish water, but Jeyne did not care—she would still drink it.

Wiping her mouth away, she paused as she noticed a familiar hilt poking from under the rubble. Jeyne pulled the Valyrian steel dagger from its sheath and stared at it in wonder. Ah, this must be Lord Mockingbird's solar. These were his clothes and his coin. Jeyne felt her heart flutter at the irony.

Her eyes glazed away from the dagger to find her reflection staring back at her from a broken mirror. Her brown hair was white as snow, and her brown eyes had turned red. Bloodshot, but the iris also had a manic gleam in it. Was this her? She raised her hand to her cheek and pinched, not feeling pain. Jeyne frowned and pinched harder, pulling her cheek away, yet there was still no pain. Nevertheless, she knew it was her when the cheek stretched enough for her to see it at the edge of her vision. Even her skin was bone-white, like a corpse.

Ah. She couldn't feel pain anymore. Or was she ever capable of feeling in the first place? Jeyne touched her heart, feeling it beating, yet it felt hollow and echoing as if it were in a clay urn. How was she to fill that void in her heart?

"There's someone outside the walls who can tell you who you are," the voice murmured. "But you may need to offer the Stag King something to allow you through."

Jeyne nodded to herself and stepped to the edge of the burning brothel. People were rushing along the streets. Armed soldiers and other people carrying water buckets. Not wishing to be found, Jeyne ran deeper into the burning brothel, careful not to let herself be burned—she may not feel the pain, but judging by how red her skin became, she would still be hurt.

A groan came from a nearby room, and Jeyne paused. She tried opening the door, but it was locked. She was about to leave when a familiar voice called, "Is someone there? Please, help me! I'm stuck."

Jeyne did not think. She kicked the door several times until it broke off its hinges—the fire had weakened the door, or a weak girl like her would never have been capable of such a feat of strength. She ripped the door off with her hands and threw it behind her, then blinked; she was supposed to be a weak girl.

Jeyne stared at her hands, finding splinters had dug in them from her reckless stunt. Nodding to herself, Jeyne understood herself better. She was not stronger, merely unable to feel pain, and had to be more careful in the future. Her heart beat angrily for a moment; no, she was strong. She needed to be strong to punish the world that made her like this. A tired sigh tore from her lips as her heart calmed.

Wants scream; needs beg. The silence answers both.

"Help me!"

Jeyne entered the room, finding the voice's owner trapped under a wooden beam, not too different from the one that nearly killed her. Her heart quickened and beat like a war drum. She clutched it tightly; it was no longer hollow. Jeyne's chest hurt from how powerful her heartbeat was. The earlier exhaustion and resignation melted away at the sheer excitement in her veins.

She felt alive.

All it took was for her to see the terrified face of her tormentor as her blue eyes stared at her pleadingly.

"Who are you? No, it doesn't matter. Help me out of here, and I will give you riches beyond your dreams!"

Jeyne tilted her head as she knelt beside the blonde head of the old matron wearing nothing but a shift. She must have been caught unawares, for she lacked the gray dress or even the seven-pointed star necklace that was part of her disguise as a holy woman.

"You don't recognize me?" Jeyne rasped out. Her voice was rough from lack of use and inhaling too much smoke.

"I don't know, just help me out of here!" The matron tried to push the beam, but Jeyne quickly stood and stepped on it. "What in the seven hells are you doing?!"

"You don't recognize me?" Jeyne repeated as she unsheathed the dagger, its dragonbone grip giving her comfort and a sense of power. "After so long together…"

"Who the fuck are you? How could you be so cruel to a woman of the cloth?"

"You are as much a septa as I am a queen, Matron Ursula," Jeyne snarked at the woman who for what felt like an entire lifetime had trained her, tormented her, and made her life an utter misery.

No, it did not feel like it; it was a lifetime. Jeyne knew nothing in the world but Paradise and what she endured there.

"You took my name from me. My memories. My life and my family. I want to watch you die a slow and miserable death." She paused as voices from downstairs reached her, someone calling for survivors. "Alas, I can't risk them saving you."

She could see her own reflection in the woman's terrified blue eyes; Jeyne's red eyes were nearly bulging, and a manic grin full of teeth stretched her lips widely.

Ah, she looked pretty! Innocent and pure, too, even though she didn't feel like either.

"W-Wait, could you be—"

Jeyne did not hesitate. She plunged the dagger into the old woman's throat, the razor-sharp edge slicing into skin, tendon, and bone like a hot knife through butter. She watched Ursula struggle feebly, finding it curious how easily the woman who tormented her for so long could lose her life.

Jeyne moved her head close to her ear, enjoying the dying gurgles as much as the hammering in her heart. "My name is Jeyne. It rhymes with pain, you see. And it was my pleasure."

The woman's eyes bugged out, and Jeyne wanted to think that she realized who she was before she died, but most likely not. Jeyne was but one of tens or even hundreds of boys and girls this monster kidnapped and trained on behalf of her master. The Mockingbird… her heart, which had calmed and become lethargic, beat rapidly once more, filling Jeyne with vigor. She pulled the dagger from the woman's throat, wiped it on her hair, before sheathing it and taking stock of the room around her.

The fire was spreading in the building, even as men tried to fight it from the streets, but the room they were in was fine for now. It was on the opposite side of the building, facing the walls. In fact, Jeyne could see the war camp beyond the wall, along with the trebuchets flinging flaming rocks like the one that destroyed the brothel at other sections of the wall.

Jeyne needed to go to that camp to find the person who could give her the answers she needed. But suddenly, she no longer felt the need for those answers, or at least not yet. There were more people who had wronged her and still lived.

The world should burn for what it did to her.

She stared at the dead woman, and a deep desire brewed in her heart to hack her head off and keep it for herself. But the sound of wood breaking had her flinch and grimace; she wanted so many things, but this cruel world would not give them to her.

Jeyne climbed out of the window and up the roof of the brothel—she did not know she could climb so well, but she did not think much about it. To the north was the war camp. She won't be able to make it there, she realized. To the south was a hill with a massive ruin on it. Its name tickled her mind. She felt like she should know about it, but the name eluded her. Further to the south and east was another hill with a tall red castle.

"The Red Keep." Suddenly, memories flooded her mind, causing her to grimace. It was all jumbled up, but two faces sprang to her mind that she knew should be in that castle. Two people who were responsible for her misery. "Mockingbird. The Queen!"

"Hey, there's someone up there. Get down, you fool! It's about to collapse."

Jeyne looked down, finding several people on the ground pointing at her. Without thinking, Jeyne quickly jumped to the building next door. It was right beside a gate with a dragon motif on it—the Dragon Gate. There were many soldiers on the walls shooting bows and crossbows in the distance, a man with a gleaming iron hand shouting orders and obscenities at them, while green flames blazed beyond them.

"Go to the hill. There's a secret passage."

Trusting the voice, Jeyne hurriedly climbed down and across the street—The Street of Silk, her memories supplied—dodging soldiers and smallfolk running up and down the street, before grabbing an abandoned lantern at the voice's urging. She approached the Hill of Rhaenys, where the massive ruin of the Dragon Pit lay, and followed the voice in her head as she directed her to an alcove with a rusted old torch that she pulled. A door opened, and Jeyne rushed in, closing it behind her.

"What now?" The passage was dark, but Jeyne lifted the oil lamp, spreading its light far. The ruddy light only revealed an endless tunnel, its walls damp and mossy. She shouldered the sack holding her meager belongings and walked forward. "Who are you anyway?"

"I am the Maiden, and I have been trying so hard to reach you, my dear." Jeyne paused for a moment before continuing. "You are not surprised."

"You say the name Maiden like I should care about it. I don't know what it means." Jeyne shrugged. "Nothing personal, I just don't remember much of anything anymore."

"Fair. You may call me Calypso then. I will try to help you, but my powers are limited, especially in this city of sin and villainy. Something foul is happening in that red castle, and it's blocking my already weak influence."

"The Red Keep." Jeyne paused as she reached a crossroads and pulled out her dagger, marking an arrow on the wall, before turning left. "My enemies are there. I need to kill them."

"You must be careful." Calypso insisted, and Jeyne had the feeling she did not hear her. "I am losing our connection. I need rest. I can tell that no matter what you do, you will never be satisfied. You see many as your enemies, and that might even be true, but you must not lose yourself in revenge and your true goal."

"Home…" Jeyne muttered. "But my revenge. My heart beats so powerfully just by thinking about it. I must have it. Revenge against the world that abandoned me. Defiled me. Broke me."

Her heart thundered louder and stronger with each word, but the words sounded dull in Jeyne's ears. As if they were all simple, mundane truths.

"Nothing I say would stop you, it seems." Calypso sounded despondent, but Jeyne could not really bring herself to care. She was glad that someone finally responded to her prayers and calls for help, but nothing mattered more to her than keeping her heart beating. Thoughts of home were nice and gave her warmth and a soothing coolness. But thoughts of revenge were better; they gave her a scorching heat that filled her with vigor. "Still, alone, you are weak. Perhaps you will find a knight to protect you in that castle. Yet, you must be wary; something foul is—"

"Yes, the whole castle is foul." Jeyne wrinkled her nose. She did not know why she thought so; her lack of memories annoyed her, but she was confident in that fact. "Thank you for the help."

"You are welcome. Do not forget your real goal; to discover your memories, you need to head to the Stag King's camp. The one who holds your memories is there and will surely help you recover them."

"I want to go right away, but I don't think I can with that battle going on. I fear even if I wait till morning, they would surely kill me before I approach the camp. No, home was so far away, but revenge! Revenge is just around the corner."

Jeyne arrived at another intersection, turning around the corner with her dagger brandished, only to find nothing but rats. "Perhaps not this corner."

She still stabbed them; she did not know how long her rations would last, and food of any kind would be good to have. Jeyne also could not help but feel joy and glee as she watched them squirm, squealing in pain, and their lifeblood leaving their bodies. She imagined her faceless enemies the same, and her heart beat ever so slightly faster.

Jeyne tied the cat-sized rats to her belt and rummaged through her sack for a roll of parchment, using a piece of charcoal to draw a map of the tunnel so far. "Mapping these tunnels will be time-consuming as it is."

"The tunnels extend to the Red Keep and outside of the city. I don't know which headings are the right ones, however." Calypso's voice was sad and even more muffled. "I'm sure if you bring a peace offering to the Stag King, he would let you into his camp. Good luck, Jeyne."

"A peace offering…" Jeyne hummed, her heart, which had calmed down earlier as she mapped the tunnels, thundered again as an idea formed in her mind. "I may know just the thing."

Notes:

This was a doozy to write.

Kudos to any who know where I got the inspiration for this chapter.

While I have taken some liberties with a few things, Jeyne's fate is pretty much the same in the books. Petyr Baelish is one hell of a monster.

Chapter 41: Reforging The Broken

Join me on Discord  for story discussions, character portraits, and more! Discord code is vN7sTYhEp6.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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It had taken some time and luck, but Jeyne had managed to map most of the tunnels leading out of the Dragonpit thanks to unexpected help. For many weeks, she had lived in those tunnels, where she found several groups of people that formed factions and claimed hideouts all over the depths of the city. It was as if King's Landing had a new city hidden from sight right under its streets, safe from the constant bombardment and the war above, yet there was no doubt these factions were connected to the upper city.

The tunnel network was far more vast than she ever expected, and Jeyne would later learn that what started as a sewage system that connected to Maegor's tunnels evolved over the centuries by many people claiming them as their own and expanding into them.

The Gold Cloaks seldom patrolled down here, and even when they did, they only came in force with support from several, if not all, of the factions. Speaking of the factions…

The most prominent were the ones dealing with the 'green piss.' They worked directly under the Hand of the King, and Jeyne was tempted, oh so tempted, to use them to get to the first target of her vengeance!

She did not care who the Hand was, someone they called the Imp, but he worked for the king. And the Mockingbird also worked for the king. It made total sense to Jeyne to hunt the king's minions—their deaths would draw out the rest.

Now, if only Jeyne could remember who the king was… strangely, she remembered the queen vividly, her haughty face, catty green eyes that looked down on everything and everyone, and a mane of golden curls cascading past her shoulders. It was she who had sent her to the Mockingbird, and she would not forget that day. Torn away from her rooms, away from the friend whose face had long faded in her memory, Jeyne had been dragged to the queen; she would forever remember that look of scornful disdain in those eyes.

Like Jeyne was worth less than the dirt under her boots.

"Gift her to Littlefinger as thanks for his aid. A Lannister always pays their debt."

Her condescending smirk as she looked down on the world from behind her wine chalice would haunt Jeyne forever. It was not enough that she was given to Lord Mockingbird, but her training included impersonating the queen she hated. Her name finally came to her just then. Cersei Lannister… a vile monster of a woman that would die by Jeyne's hand, even if it was the last thing she ever did. Jeyne swore it to the Maiden, the sole ray of light in her misery.

Nevertheless, vengeance on Cersei could wait, for she had to decide what to do with their fire-worshipping minions. Those pyromancers were well protected, and although Jeyne could remain unseen, she was not strong enough to kill a knight, let alone a city guard, especially not those led by that man with the iron hand. Jeyne had seen him lead his men as they beat back several attacks by the other factions.

The pyromancers seemed too busy brewing their green substance and stashing it all over the city. They even discovered older stashes and brought the dangerous-looking pots that had been soaked green to the walls to be used in that conflagration of a moat that surrounded the city.

Jeyne had seen it. King's Landing had a deep and wide trench surrounding it all the way from the river to the sea. Filled with water, the defenders could quickly set even water aflame with the substance during an attack, and it would burn all day in green flames.

Yet, the enemy trebuchets simply hurled their projectiles over it, bringing down towers and buildings as well as setting the city on fire.

There were gaps, of course, where the defenders would sally out and attack the siege camps, but those gaps could be easily blocked off with more wildfire. It trapped the defenders but also kept the attackers at bay. Worse, it made it impossible for Jeyne to escape the city.

Of the other factions under the city, there were the septons with black robes, whom she steered well away from, even when the Maiden suggested she seek help from them. Jeyne would not have it; memories of Ursula garbed in cloth and wearing a septa's regalia as she tormented her were still too fresh in her mind. She would rather not be near the Faith, even when Calypso confessed she was the Maiden of the Seven.

It only confused Jeyne, and she did not like it. Calypso was the friendly voice in her head. She did not care if she was a goddess to those people, even if they could help her as her followers. Only Jeyne could help Jeyne, and Jeyne refused to subject herself to those she did not trust. Did that mean she did not trust Calypso? She did not know and would rather not think about it. The Maiden had been by her side through these weeks, even if she could offer little more than advice and occasionally a boon when she could.

There was another major faction that occupied a large space below what used to be Fishmonger Square. They were a motley band of worshippers, but their sheer number gave the others pause. And for once, they were not followers of any god, but a man and a woman. Apparently, a witch who was held in the Red Keep had escaped with a sorcerer while Jeyne was in Paradise, but not before blowing a large part of the city to smithereens. Jeyne could not help but feel something akin to fondness when she thought of the witch's name, Sansa Stark. From what she heard, she was also a Princess of the North, and rumors say she even married that sorcerer she seduced.

Her heart beat erratically at the name that brought a blurry vision of a sweet girl with crimson curls of silken hair and gentle blue eyes.

Did Jeyne know her? Did she know about Jeyne? No, it couldn't be. Why would a princess know of Jeyne the Defiled? She would have surely saved her if they were acquainted. The North… something told Jeyne she should know that place, but just as she tried to learn more, the truth slipped through her mind like smoke.

She shook her head; it didn't matter. There was another faction neighboring the one who worshipped the sorcerous couple, but this one was made of merchants and craftsmen, guilds and custom houses, out of work with the destruction of the docks. They cursed Sansa Stark's name openly for destroying their livelihood and conflicted with her fanatical worshipers. But Jeyne disagreed with them; she was imprisoned like Jeyne and found a savior in her worst moment.

Would Jeyne find a savior as well? She did not know, though the Maiden told her she would find allies soon. She could use minions of her own; a knight would be nice, but Jeyne wanted something far more meaningful: someone who could tell her who she was.

Inexplicably, her gaze turned north, where Stannis Baratheon's camp was nestled along the ragged shores of the Blackwater Bay. Even through rocks and stone, Jeyne could imagine the wooden city he built for his people; King's Haven, the whispers said.

Those whispers and rumors had cost Jeyne a lot, as she traded her meager belongings with those merchants. Not just information, but also supplies were offered, but she felt swindled when they demanded a gold coin for a sack of grain.

But all good things came to an end.

Jeyne was forced to escape after slicing the throat of a thief who thought her a weak little girl. He was mistaken, and she proved it when she then eviscerated him in front of everyone—a mistake on her part in hindsight, for she should have killed him in some hidden alcove, away from the eyes of others. She missed feeling pain and pleasure, but it allowed her great strength she never thought was possible for a girl her size, though she was sure the Maiden was also watching over her.

Still, her body had not been responding as well as it should after one fight too many, and Jeyne was forced to acknowledge that while the pain was gone, her body would break like any other.

Of the many strange factions under the city, it was the group of tongueless children, who looked like they had not had a solid meal in moons, that surprised her the most. They had grown feral, forming gangs that preyed on any lone traveler, yet she would learn they had leaders among them, directing them. If they could not find a proper meal, they would kidnap their victims and deliver them to Flea Bottom's pots of brown—or another faction under the city that offered similar services.

It did not take much for her to realize what that meant. Even stranger was her lack of disgust. Was it not just pain and pleasure that were taken from her?

Jeyne had to defend herself when she stumbled on one of their hideouts. They had an overseer, an older woman who was the only one who could talk among them. Jeyne did not know her name, nor did she care; she had the same eyes and even garments as Ursula, and the moment she saw Jeyne, she knew what she wanted from her. The woman had demanded that she surrender, promising her food and boarding in return for work; that kind smile that hid malice and evil would never fool her. Jeyne had chanced upon a private room where boys and girls her age and younger were used and abused by customers; she had refused and turned away.

The overseer did not like that and called for her minions to capture her. Her hand forced, Jeyne had rushed in, pushed aside the dozen emaciated children, jumped impossibly high over the table the woman sat behind, and plunged her dagger into her eye. It was not enough. Jeyne did not feel satisfied and stabbed the dagger again and again until her front was covered in blood before she hacked at her neck, the Valyrian steel cutting through it easily, and raised the decapitated head like a trophy for all to see. Jeyne's eyes burned as the world grew red around her, but she quickly recovered as she inspected her trophy.

The woman's face was mangled beyond recognition, and while Jeyne felt the slightest of excitement in her heart, the hollow and empty feeling returned.

This was not a target of her vengeance.

Surprisingly, the children didn't attack her after that, but merely stared at the dead woman the same way a dog would look at a bone. Despite their numbers, they were but children; the oldest did not look older than her by a year, and they were lost without their leader. It appeared that killing the woman in a most brutal fashion endeared her to them. One thing led to the other, and Jeyne found herself the leader of this gang of lost children as they cleared the tunnels of any rivals, killing the other overseers, absorbing the surviving children into their group, and shutting down the brothels that abused them.

Lost… that's what they all were—children lost and abandoned by the world. Jeyne had refused Calypso's advice to seek help from the Faith, but this was different. She was their leader, and the fates of these children weighed on her shoulders. It was not a tangible weight that she could feel, but it pressed down on her nonetheless.

In return, they would be her minions and would follow her commands unquestioningly, as she promised them a way out of this hellhole.

A thought tickled her mind about how this was no different from a feudal contract.

She later learned that the children's master was someone called Varys who worked for the king but had suddenly disappeared. The woman she killed was one of several accomplices to the master of whispers, who oversaw his network and 'Little Birds'. After she learned how the children came to be under their employ, she did not at all feel any regret for killing the woman.

Jeyne had trouble understanding them, for they could not speak, yet surprisingly, they could read and write very well. With their help, mapping the tunnels became far easier, especially considering her true goal: the Red Keep. But first, they had taken over one of the few sections of the under-city that had clean water; the constant use of wildfire outside the city had poisoned many of the wells and cisterns leading to the city. Another goal of hers that the Maiden constantly reminded her of was finding a way out of the city, something that Jeyne almost forgot, time and again, in her lust for vengeance.

Her revenge was important, but she also wanted to learn who she was.

There were other groups who opposed them, of course. Naturally, Jeyne and her minions had built up defenses using crossbows and spears stolen from the garrison and blocked many of the tunnels leading to their own. Normally, none would do something so risky, for it prevented them from moving around too much, but Jeyne's group had already discovered the tunnel leading out of the city and were busy clearing it.

Now, all that was needed was to prepare a gift for the Stag King; she did not just want to be out of the city, she promised her group they would have a good life out of the walls. Throwing them outside with no care or a plan was no different from killing them.

Still, one group, more bandits than anything, had gotten too bold, and her faction slaughtered them in their sleep after Jeyne sneaked into their base to poison their food. Jeyne may not be strong enough to take down grown men, but she was sneaky and a good climber. Having the guidance of the Maiden also helped.

Jeyne would like to give credit to her leadership in what happened next, but it was luck and guidance from the Maiden more than anything. They had finally found a way into the Red Keep and sneakily stole much-needed supplies from there. Weapons and tools were aplenty in the city if one knew where to look, but it was food that was sparsely found these days. Unfortunately, the Maiden could not at all speak to her in the Red Keep for some reason, so Jeyne had to be careful with her adventures in there.

They had explored the tunnels in the Red Keep with impunity, even learning when to disappear when the Hand's men occasionally went in. The most important thing they discovered was the king's wing. What Jeyne saw in one of the rooms prepared for Joffrey Baratheon was inhuman. The king himself was inhuman, even if he looked like a maiden's dream with a dashing face and golden hair curling to his shoulders. But his face, oh his pretty face, was twisted into a demonic glee.

The quarters were entirely dyed red with blood, with an unholy stench of death and despair that clung to the skin. In the center of the room, right in front of an infernal altar of bone and marble, was a circle of blood and bone. Six corners it had, each one held a skull of a goat of some sort. The shadows were almost alive as Joffrey lay naked in the center of it while his kingsguard brought him men, women, and children from Fleabottom.

It was only thanks to Jeyne's deadened heart that she didn't blink when each offering was sacrificed to the altar, their blood flowing into what she realized was a magical circle while the flesh and bones were consumed by a gaping mouth in the altar. Every time it happened, Joffrey Baratheon would moan in ecstasy and would orgasm as if he were lying with the goddess of love herself. Yet Jeyne could tell that he seemed to be growing stronger, prettier, healthier… yet underneath it all lay madness and corruption that even her dead senses could see.

It was a miracle the fools never bothered exploring the tunnels in the royal quarters.

When Jeyne had told the Maiden about it, she was angry. Calypso had asked her to find a way to kill the king, but that was impossible. The secret tunnel may lead to the royal wing, but that specific room with the altar only provided a spyhole; apparently, it was Queen Visenya's personal study room, and later Tianna of the Towers would occupy it. The Cruel did not dare encroach on his mother's abode, even after her death, yet he must not have trusted his witch wife.

Jeyne needed time and more resources to find a way to kill Joffrey, yet the only way through was to march into Maegor's holdfast; an impossible feat without an army, as the king surrounded himself with his kingsguard and a personal retinue of a hundred warriors. Joffrey Baratheon had grown paranoid after Sansa Stark's escape, the whispers said.

Then, just as Jeyne was feeling lost on how she could prepare the Stag King's gift, she discovered several of her former peers of Paradise, abandoned in the streets and willing to suck a cock for a groat and a loaf of bread. Jeyne had recruited them, bathed them, clothed them, and promised them a life out of the city if they helped her get her revenge. For their aid would be crucial in the new plan she formed, one that did not entail targeting Joffrey.

She had told the Maiden that a demon like him was to be slain by a hero, and she was no hero. Calypso had surprisingly gone quiet after that but eventually accepted her reasoning.

Still, Jeyne wondered if she was acting similarly to the women she despised and murdered when she recruited girls who suffered just like her. Could she be similar to Lord Mockingbird? Jeyne did not think so, as she vowed to protect them and did not shy away from joining them in any mission she gave them.

Such as kidnapping the grandmaster's favorite whore and convincing her to work for them. It was easy to convince her to vouch for Jeyne and the other girls as experienced whores for the old thing who constantly craved more pleasures of the flesh. Jeyne may not feel anything anymore, but that old rat's touch still felt unpleasant. Yet they had done such a good job that Pycelle had dismissed the girl, and now, they were his favorite whores.

It was worth it in the end, for after many days of planning, an opportunity finally presented itself. One of the kingsguard had gone to Fleabottom for more sacrifices for his king, but they managed to ambush him and his men. It would have been a tough fight if Jeyne had not leaked the truth of what was happening in the Red Keep to the residents. To say she had enjoyed watching the dour-faced man who had hurt her all those weeks ago be ripped to shreds by a mob of angry peasants would be a lie. His vaunted armor did not help him when he and his men were beaten with clubs and hammers.

After Jeyne and her group cut their horses' legs, slicing through the tendons, the manhunter's demise was assured.

They had to be quick after that. That same night, Jeyne had snuck into the Red Keep with the rest of her group and slew the grandmaester, hacking his head off as a trophy. Then, they emptied the entirety of his quarters: scrolls, parchments, messages, books, medicine, herbs, records… anything that could be carried out through the tunnels was taken, just in case the Stag King disapproved of their gift.

Jeyne had been warned that he was a stiff bore. Better to be safe than sorry.

Finally, she sent one of her girls, Jenny, with a message for the Hand. Jenny had been seen many times already in the Red Keep, and Tyrion Lannister knew her as Pycelle's new favorite whore. All her group was already in the tunnels; Jenny also retreated there once her job was done, while Jeyne presented herself to the sellsword who led her to Tyrion Lannister's room.

At first, Jeyne had been unsure whether to kill the dwarf or bring him alive for the Stag King. But after learning he had knowledge of the King's proclivities, yet let it happen anyway, she decided it would be best only to bring his head. Who knew what cunning scheme the Imp could have done while they were on the way?

It was certainly a surprise when Ser Lothor Brune appeared, and Jeyne remembered the Maiden's words so long ago. She didn't think it would work, recruiting the knight to her side, and she was prepared to die that moment. Her group had already cleared the way out of the city and collapsed the underground hall they had been using as a hideout; they did not need her anymore and could escape at any time and present the gifts they had already prepared for the Stag King.

And yet…

"And yet, Ser Lothor Brune proved himself honorable and joined us. I ask you to give him an opportunity to prove himself, Your Grace."

The white-haired girl finished, her red eyes staring at nothing yet at all of them at the same time. She sat there, on a seat the king called for her; Lothor Brune stood behind her like a sentinel, while further away, nearly a hundred children were being seen to. Stew and onion soups, bread, and watered-down ale were provided. Any available septas were called in to help care for them, check them for injuries, or provide comfort.

Not the girl, though. She had glared so harshly at a septa who approached her that she froze in place. Devil, some of the men called her when she arrived outside the gate with her small army, carrying two tarred heads in a bag. Witch, even more called her, when the king met her in the same courtyard where he had met Catelyn those moons ago. Many had complained why the King had summoned the entire council for this, provided the girl with bread and salt, and called for a soup kitchen, before she even told her name.

"She brought me the heads of my enemies," he had simply said when asked. "That alone is enough to guarantee my protection."

Knights and lords, heirs and spares, priests and septas were here, listening to the king's words, and later the girl's tale. There must have been hundreds, if not a thousand, onlookers, as many more people listened intently from outside the square, even if hardly any of them would hear the girl's soft tones.

Two hours. It took two hours for her to finish her tale, even if Catelyn felt the girl did not tell the full story. And yet, her tale was one of woe and ugliness and despair that had even the most hardened knight in the king's retinue go green in the face—she shuddered at what other matters she held back that would have most likely had grown men cry. Already, many men were puking their guts out, while even the septas were shedding tears after some of them had accused the girl of being a devil.

Sporting weirwood colors would do that.

Catelyn Stark stole a glance at Stannis Baratheon, trying to divine his thought process. He had sat there on his simple wooden throne, silent as a statue, as he listened to the girl, Jeyne's tale. Catelyn could not help but think the girl felt familiar. The colors might be queer, but she definitely had Northern features. Yet her speech was undoubtedly Southron, though considering what she said, she must have been trained to speak that way.

The thought made Catelyn ill to her bones, yet a rage was boiling inside her as she looked at the girl's blank eyes again—just imagining this happening to one of her daughters made her livid. Now, if only she could convince Stannis of the benefits of Ser Andar Royce's proposal. For the past few moons, Catelyn had been treated as an honored guest, with full luxury and honors expected of a Queen Dowager—even if her royal son was the enemy of her host. Stannis even included her in some of the war councils, and they had formed a tentative understanding; one of Catelyn trying to assure Stannis that Robb could be swayed to join him, provided certain concessions were made.

So far, Stannis had listened patiently yet given no indication at all of what he planned. For all Catelyn knew, he could have been amusing her while he secretly planned to have her son murdered. It grated on her nerves and burned her insides, but she endured; she had to play this right, the future of the North and her family's well-being hung in the balance.

It was when Ser Andar Royce arrived with one hundred men as an envoy of his father and with a warning that the Vale had joined the Lannisters that Stannis finally showed an emotion other than stone-faced anger. He accepted Ser Andar as a guest and heard his counsel, which Catelyn herself had discussed with the heir to Runestone after a private meeting. A meeting where she learned her daughter had married the sorcerer who saved her with the blessings of House Manderly and was already heavy with child.

Catelyn did not know whether to laugh at her daughter's boldness or cry that she missed her wedding. Though a part of her was indignant that Sansa would marry an unknown foreigner so soon upon arriving in Westeros, and even felt dismay that Wyman Manderly would endorse such a decision. Catelyn was sure the man was far more wily than he let others know, but it was when tales arrived of the exploits of the sorcerer that she finally decided it was definitely a good decision to tie someone of his powers to their House.

She still wished to have met the man at least once, but needs and wants rarely coincided.

"You want me to seek aid against the Vale?" Stannis had asked incredulously when Andar mentioned it at dinner. Every night, the King would have dinner with a few different guests to instill a sense of loyalty and keep morale high. Ironically, it was something he had begun after Catelyn advised him about it, which in turn was something she had learned from Ned.

"Aye, Your Grace. By now, at least ten thousand Vale knights march down the High Road and will join with the Kingslayer's army. From what Robb Stark had informed us, Jaime Lannister should have twice that number, though I believe he has kept a good chunk in Harrenhal to pressure the Riverlands and secure his western flank."

Andar had a map of the Crownlands showing Harrenhal and the Trident at the top left, Maidenpool at the top center, and King's Landing nearly at the bottom center. He traced his finger from Maidenpool to their position. "If we believe Robb Stark, and I mean no offense, My Lady, then he has complete control over the King's Road. Jaime Lannister might have bloodied the Northmen, but he had not come out unscathed; he would not risk forcing a crossing through the Trident and is more likely to use the fleet he already commandeered to ferry the Valemen to Maidenpool and then march against us. At least twenty thousand men, half of them the finest knights the Vale has to offer, while to our south lie Mace Tyrell and Tywin Lannister."

Unsaid was that they were outnumbered. Stannis' full force was forty-five thousand, though he could certainly force his mariners and sailors ashore and arm them, boosting his numbers to match the sixty thousand that Mace and Tywin commanded. But they could not match them knight for knight, for a third of the enemy was the chivalry of the Reach and the Westerlands. However, none truly wanted to invest the fleet on land, as they would be no better than untrained levies—more of a liability than a force that could hold the line.

"I can write to Robb, Your Grace." Catelyn chimed in, putting on her finest charm even if she wished she still had her long hair. "He can ride east, leave some of his troops besieging Harrenhal, and join us in battle against our combined foes."

That was it; the hook had been Andar's proposal, the line had been their impending doom, and the sinker was the promise of aid which could see all their enemies destroyed in one fell swoop. Stannis definitely looked intrigued and had adjourned the meeting to think about it. She and Andar had left the tent pleased that night, each hopeful for the king to agree, as each of them stood to benefit from such an unexpected alliance in different ways.

Until the next day arrived with news from Riverrun, both good and bad, the good news was that Arya had been found and was with Robb now. The bad news was that her son not only got a paramour but got her with child; how it took so long for such a scandalous affair to make it here spoke of how Robb had managed to curb the rumors somewhat.

The worst, however, was the Frey affair. With the Crossing in rebellion, the plan that Catelyn had worked so hard on was thrown to the wind, and now they were stuck waiting for something to happen. Whether it was for King's Landing to capitulate or for Stannis to move first and strike after Tywin or Jaime, she did not know.

Yet this Jeyne now brought a possible avenue of attack that could turn the tide of the war.

A sudden cry of anguish, and Catelyn flinched as she turned to the side, Brienne behind her had her hand on her sword, before calming. A small man with a lean, lined yet sharp face stepped forward, his threadbare septon's robe designating him as the man they call the Sparrow, a wandering septon who had gathered quite the following as he visited villages devastated by the war. The Sparrow had arrived in King's Haven a moon ago and requested King Stannis' protection for himself and his followers, which, quite surprisingly, Stannis granted.

"You poor dear! Oh, you poor dear!" The Sparrow stepped hesitantly towards Jeyne, yet her blank gaze and the way her hand clenched on the chair's armrest had him stop. He knelt on the ground a few feet from her and bowed his head in shame. "You have suffered so much and at the hands of ones who claimed to follow the Faith even!"

"I doubt Matron Ursula was ever part of the Faith," Jeyne replied flatly. "It's more likely that dragons would come again than the Faith being directly responsible for what happened to me and mine."

Several people shifted nervously, something that the white-haired girl did not miss, "Dragons are back then? I stand corrected. Perhaps the Faith is more rotten than I assumed."

"I want to say otherwise, but it would be right. Oh, my dear, I know it in my heart; I felt it in my bones long before this. The Faith in King's Landing is corrupt to the core, a hollow, twisted charade of everything it should have stood for. A sad fact I know it better than any other," the Sparrow said, voice laden with sorrow. Then, he stood straight, meeting the King's gaze, who looked on from the side, silent and observing as he always did. "This girl, nay, this Angel, was chosen by the Maiden. You heard her, the Maiden talked to her, guided her in her bleakest hour, and led her to our king; the abomination that sits on the Iron Throne dabbles in witchcraft and devilry! Not only does he sacrifice his own people to demonic gods, but he consumes their flesh in vile mockery of holy rites! How could we ever let such vile evil exist? We must vanquish it no matter the cost."

"Hear, hear!"

The Sparrow's righteous fury could be felt by all; even Catelyn could not help but feel disgusted and enraged at the sheer vileness of what was happening in the Red Keep. If a noblewoman like her had to fight the urge to stand and declare her support for the septon, then the younger knights and lords had no chance of holding back. Especially not after Jeyne opened her heart to them with all the atrocities she endured.

"Down with Joffrey the Illborn!"

"Down with the monster!"

"Death to the devil spawn! We must root out that family from the lands!"

"Aye, too much misery and evil. Such heresy and vile sorcery must be stomped out."

"For the White Angel!"

And so on and so forth, many shouts of indignation erupted with oaths and promises given freely to recover the honor of Jeyne. All the while, Catelyn continued to stare at the girl who had been staring at her ever since she finished her tale. Even throughout her tale, she would steal glances at her, her usually dead eyes looking confused. There was something about her that bothered Catelyn, as if she was sure she knew her.

"Your Grace!" Lord Bryce Fossoway stepped forward and went down on one knee. "Grant me permission to lead the next assault into the city! We can use those tunnels the angel discovered to take the defenders unawares."

"Nay, please grant me the honor." It was a knight from the Stormlands, this time, proud and tall. Ser Guyard the Green, they called him after serving Renly once. Despite his talent, the boy was as green as summer and eager for glory. "I shall bring you Joffrey the Illborn's head posthaste and avenge the poor children suffering in the city."

Many other knights and gallant warriors stepped forward, all claiming the same. Catelyn scoffed; the only reason so many of the young and valorous knights still lived was that there had not been a real storming of the city yet. Moons of siege yet Stannis had been content peppering the city from land and sea with his trebuchets while half his army blocked Tywin Lannister at the Gold Road. What he was waiting for, none knew, but then no one was eager to brave the death trap that was the Burning Moat.

As more and more men called to mount an attack through the tunnels, Catelyn watched on, waiting to see what the king would do. She couldn't think of a better option than taking the city by storm, but considering what Jeyne warned about the wildfire, she did not think it was wise to mount an assault. King's Landing had become a deathtrap, one that was apparently turned into a playground for a demonic god, even.

Stannis raised his hand, and all the clamor was immediately silenced.

"Ser Lothor Brune, step forward." The turncloak did as ordered and knelt on one knee. "You had served the Imp for the past few moons. You have also failed in your duty to protect him and even joined his slayer's side. Why should I accept a man like you who turns his cloak when convenient to my service?"

The king's barbed tongue was relentless, as a few boos and shouts of disdain were sent at the clawman, yet he remained steady as he lifted his head. "I have important knowledge that could decide the fate of your campaign, Your Grace. That much should be enough to show my loyalty, I presume."

Catelyn could hear the grinding of teeth as the king all but glared at the knight. Just as she thought he would decline, Stannis gritted his teeth, uttering reluctantly, "Only if it's truly as valuable as you claim."

"Tywin Lannister had broken through the Golden Bridge two days ago, scattering your vanguard. You should be receiving news of the battle soon. He rides here with posthaste while the Kingslayer and his Vale allies approach from the north."

Suddenly, the overeager cries to storm the city fell silent as everyone looked worried, especially the hundreds of civilians listening in. Stannis, however, looked unconcerned, as if the defeat of his vanguard was a minor inconvenience. He stood up and turned towards his tent, signaling for the rest of the lords to follow suit.

"I would like to hear more in detail." His gaze stopped at Jeyne, and for a heartbeat, Catelyn thought the Stag King's gaze softened. "You have done me a great deed, Lady Jeyne. You are free to stay under my protection. Lady Stark, please see to her care and the rest of her group. They are your responsibility now."

Catelyn gawked at the brazen man, but before she could protest, a figure stood before her, and Catelyn found herself transfixed as she gazed at the eerie red gaze of a face she was becoming more convinced she knew!

"I know you," Jeyne suddenly said as everyone dispersed around them. "I don't know how, but I know you."

Catelyn looked around, finding Brienne opening the cover to an empty tent, and Catelyn gently pulled Jeyne inside. The girl did not protest at all, allowing herself to be easily led.

Once in the privacy of the tent, with Brienne guarding it from outside, Catelyn turned to her. "I also have a feeling that I should also know you. You mentioned you have no memory of your past. What changed?"

"The Maiden said someone in this camp will bring back my memories, and you are the only one who causes my heart to feel something other than hollowness when I look at you." Jeyne tilted her head, her eyes growing large as if trying to drink her in as much as she could. "Are you my mother?"

The hope and longing in the girl's words were jarring compared to the past few hours of her dry tone and drier humor. Yet Catelyn felt for the girl; her heart beat strongly for her—it was strange, she had seen all kinds of atrocities happening to lord and peasant, rich and pauper, yet something about this poor girl tore at her heartstrings.

Her face… there was definitely something familiar about her. She brought her closer to the torch's light, the light casting eerie shadows on her face that made her red eyes even more vivid. Catelyn found herself holding the girl's cold face, tracing her fingers over her cheeks, temples, nose, lips, and forehead. A sudden thought came to her, one that filled her stomach with dread, and she hurriedly took off her shawl and covered the girl's distracting white hair. Her heart skipped a beat, tears swelled in her eyes, and Catelyn remembered a young girl who stuck to her Sansa like her shadow; one with dark hair, brown eyes, a bright smile, and dreams of summer.

"J-Jeyne."

The girl raised an eyebrow, "Yes, it's Jeyne. Rhymes with pain. I'm thinking of taking the name Jeyne Pain if the king allows it, but that sounds close to House Payne, so maybe not—"

"No, my dear girl, you're Jeyne. My Jeyne. Jeyne Poole!"

The girl's eyes widened, her breathing grew heavy, and her entire body shook as if dunked in ice. "P-Poole. W-What? What's this name? W-Why am I—" Her hands trailed to her face, tears swelling in her eyes. She shook her head roughly, pushing Catelyn away as she fell back on a seat and grabbed her head. "Why can't I remember? I know this name, Jeyne Poole… that's my name. IT'S MY NAME!"

Catelyn wanted to hold the girl whom she had watched grow up since she was a toddler. While she would not claim to have raised her, she had still watched over her since her mother's death when she was young. But the way she shook, her hand moving under her cloak to hug herself, held her back. "Your father was Vayon Poole. He was Winterfell's steward and joined my husband in King's Landing."

"H-Husband… Ned Stark?"

"Yes." Catelyn carefully approached the girl and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Jeyne, you have been missing for more than a year. All who went south with Ned were murdered by the Lannisters except for my daughters. You mentioned you were given away to some whoremonger who tormented and trained you for months. Tell me, Jeyne. Who was it? What did they want from you?"

Jeyne remained stock-still, staring blankly at her. Her earlier panic melted away like it never existed, as if it were all an act. Yet Catelyn was certain she was reaching the girl. Whether it was because she felt useless as her daughters slipped from her grasp or because she felt guilty and responsible for the girl, it did not matter. She needed to help Jeyne. Catelyn knelt before the girl, holding her hands and rubbing soothing circles over her knuckles.

"You need to tell me, Jeyne. You were like a daughter to me. Tell me what they wanted from you and who it was that hurt you so that I can help you." Her hands reached up to her cheeks, clasping the girl lovingly. "So we may have our revenge on those monsters."

Jeyne's skin suddenly grew warm, and even her cheeks turned red as her breathing hitched. "Revenge?"

"Yes, Jeyne," Catelyn said, voice firm and steady. She wanted to cry and rage and weep, but the girl did not need that. She needed a steady hand to keep her from falling apart. "Do you really think I would remain silent after someone did this to one of my own? Your father was a loyal bannerman of House Stark. Your home is Winterfell and the North. Anyone who wrongs a son or daughter of Winterfell shall suffer our wrath. Winter is coming!"

Finally, her words reached the girl as the tears returned and dripped down her cheeks, yet her breathing calmed. It was a sad sight, the girl crying but not really. "He wanted Arya Stark. He wanted to know all there was to know about Winterfell. I told him everything he wanted to know. He promised me safety and a way home. He lied."

Catelyn could not care less about a little girl giving away whatever she thought would be major secrets of Winterfell; no one would ever fault her for that. One thing mattered more than anything, though. "But Arya is with Robb. You had no way of knowing where she was."

"He didn't care. He believed Arya Stark was dead. So he wanted to make his own Arya Stark, one who looked close enough to the real thing to deceive those not in the know," Jeyne replied drily, her hands pulling on her locks of bone white hair. "So much for his grand plan."

Dread filled Catelyn's stomach. "Who is he, Jeyne? Just who was it that could come up with this most heinous of acts?"

"I called him Lord Mockingbird, but I think he had a real name, though I must have forgotten it." It took all of Catelyn's self-control not to clench her fist as she held Jeyne's face. The girl withdrew a dagger from under her cloak, one that had Catelyn's fingers aching. "He had this in his possession. I stole it from him."

"Petyr Baelish!" The words came out through her clenched teeth like a curse.

"Yes, that's the name. He and Cersei Lannister must die." Jeyne smiled at her; it was such an innocent smile, like a child looking lovingly at their parent. "You will help me, right? You promised to help me get my vengeance."

Catelyn rubbed the girl's cheeks tenderly and smiled gently, "Of course, sweet Jeyne. I promise you we will have our revenge on them and all who wronged us. Now, hide that dagger and stay here. I need to have a quick word with the king."

"You will come back, right?" Jeyne suddenly asked, voice thick with desperation, just as Catelyn stood. "You said I was like a daughter to you. I don't know what that is, but it must be something good. Can I call you mother?"

Catelyn did not know if someone could have their heart broken so many times in such a short time. She hugged Jeyne closely, kissing her cheeks and forehead while whispering in her ear, "Of course, sweetling. I will come back soon, and I will tell you all about your childhood. You would like that, wouldn't you? You and my daughter Sansa were quite close after all."

"Yes, I would love that. Sansa… the witch princess. I loved her tale of escape. So she was really my friend?"

"Like sisters. Now, I have to tell the king what you told me. He would know what to do about Petyr Baelish. You want revenge on Lord Mockingbird, right?" The girl nodded enthusiastically. "Good. I will have Brienne lead you to my rooms. We will talk more there."

With that, Catelyn left the tent and told her sworn sword to take Jeyne to her accommodations. She was almost stomping as she made her way to the king's tent and nearly barged in on the war council. Catelyn had promptly told Stannis what she discovered and her recommendation to eliminate Petyr Baelish posthaste lest he cause more death and misery or attempt to steal another House's line. She reminded everyone that he was already doing so with House Arryn and nearly did the same with House Stark. Who knew what other plots and schemes he had on the rest of the nobles of Westeros?

She wagered the lords cared far more about the latter crime than any atrocity. Stannis had bid her goodnight while he and his lords planned what to do. Catelyn had wanted to advise a retreat, but she was not in the right mind to argue with overly proud men and rushed to her quarters, finding Jeyne waiting for her on the ground, sitting in front of the crackling brazier.

She perked up when she saw her. "You came back quickly."

Catelyn sat beside her and hugged her close. "Of course I did. Now, as promised, let me tell you about that one time when you and Sansa were building a snow snark, and Arya crashed into it…"

They spent the night chatting and talking, the girl relishing in her touch and Catelyn almost feeling the heat and life returning to Jeyne's formerly cold skin. The girl had mentioned that she had lost all sense of pain and pleasure, but shyly confessed it felt pleasant listening to her. Catelyn was tired and wanted to sleep, but endured for her sake.

At some point, they had simply slept right there on the ground in their clothing, and Catelyn was only awoken by a servant. "His Grace has summoned you, Lady Stark. He asked to bring Lady Jeyne as well."

A few minutes later, they had quickly refreshed themselves and hurried to the king's tent, where everyone walked in and out in a sense of urgency. Catelyn found Stannis standing over a table with a map of the Crownlands, the same one Andar Royce used in their meeting.

"I have decided that you shall sail to Dragonstone and stay with my daughter. You shall take your girl and her friends as well."

Catelyn nodded; it did not truly matter whether she stayed here or not. That the king was having her stay with his daughter and heir was an honor, even if it was a risk to Shireen Baratheon. But if the tales were true, then the Dragon Princess would have nothing to fear from anyone, what with her dragon already the size of a small pony and never leaving her presence.

"What of the Lannisters, Your Grace?"

"What about them?"

"Will you meet them in battle? Or will you storm the city?"

Stannis stared at her for a long moment, yet as always, she could not fathom what those cold blue eyes hid. Yet, she knew the man was not as cold as he liked to pretend to be.

"I have told my lords that we shall mount a final, all-out assault on the city soon." Catelyn swallowed heavily. She felt like there was something more not being said but held her tongue, for it was not her place to speak here. The king noticed, though his eyes were not on her. "Do you have something to say, Lady Jeyne?"

Catelyn's eyes widened, and she nearly forgot the girl was there. The girl with the sharp tongue and no impulse control.

"Lady Jeyne… I like that." A sharp smile spread through her previously blank face. "I know little of warfare, Your Grace, but I don't think you can take the city so easily. It's difficult to sneak too many people through the tunnels, and the pyromancers have been busy stocking the city with stashes of wildfire. You will also need guides."

"I know, and I have already secured them. Not all of your friends desire to follow you forever."

"That's good. I wish they all would find a place where they belong. Still, if you know how difficult it is, then why would you—" Suddenly, Jeyne's eyes widened before she smirked toothily. "Oh, you are a sly one, Your Grace."

"Careful, girl. I may have taken a shine to you, but don't push your luck."

"Understood." Despite the threat, Jeyne's smirk widened as she gave an elegant curtsy. "I wish you good fortune in the battle to come."

Stannis nodded before waving his hand, and a figure appeared that Catelyn had not noticed earlier. "Ser Davos will take you to Dragonstone. Don't forget to take your knight with you. I have no need for turncloaks, but if you find him useful, then so be it. However, I need to know where your loyalties lie, Jeyne Poole."

Jeyne blinked and tilted her head. "I am but a simple girl, Your Grace. What could I possibly do to threaten your rule?"

"Even the smallest peasant has a role. Now, where do your loyalties lie? You can read and write, yes?"

"Of course. I can speak and write Common, High Valyrian, Bastard Valyrian, and Pentoshi." Stannis raised an eyebrow, and even Catelyn looked impressed. Jeyne merely shrugged, her face grown cold. "I had harsh taskmasters."

The king nodded. "I can offer you a place as my daughter's handmaiden. A great honor, and my daughter will see to it that you are wed to a noble knight."

"I am honored, truly I am, Your Grace." Jeyne curtsied again but smiled sadly. "Yet my heart now belongs to another. I must have my vengeance and regain my memories. I have a feeling Lady Stark is the key to my goals."

"Would that feeling happen to be whispers of the Maiden?"

"Mostly, though, she does greet the Storm God. Something about his aspect of the Warrior slipping, that mortals he does not like will gain his allegiance, whether he likes it or not."

Catelyn gawked at the insane matters being discussed as if they were the weather; speaking of, an angry roar of thunder echoed from above, yet she was more shocked by Stannis' bark of laughter. She only ever heard the king laugh once.

"Aye, he is certainly a grumpy fellow. Very well, you may leave now. The sooner, the better." Stannis nodded to Catelyn. "Farewell, Lady Stark. Unless you have a suggestion of your own?"

For a moment, she was tempted just to give a denial and bid farewell, but perhaps it was due to the king entertaining Jeyne that Catelyn felt bold. "It is not too late to retreat, Your Grace. Ser Andar Royce promises half the Vale's support if you shift your gaze north instead. You can take them unawares and secure the Vale as a base to launch another invasion against the Iron Throne."

"I have heard your counsel and noted it. You may leave, Lady Stark."

Catelyn clenched her fists at the utterly obstinate man. But then, she quickly let go. It was not on her shoulders that the burden rested. She was not the one to lead men into battle, so what right did she have to advise him in matters of warcraft? It still burned, though.

She and Jeyne gave a curtsy before excusing themselves with Ser Davos Seaworth. The Onion Knight informed them his ship and escort were ready and would await them to leave by noon. Catelyn and Jeyne gathered her ragtag army of children, or as she liked to call them, her minions, and were soon sailing to Dragonstone.

How the war would turn from there, Catelyn did not know. She was a guest, a hostage in all but name, and couldn't help but miss her children.

Bran's death had nearly broken her—for many days she had grieved and would hardly even eat. Only the war had forced her to swallow her grief and focus on her duty, to try and have Stannis ally with Robb.

Yet she could not help but worry.

Was Rickon safe?

How was Robb handling himself?

How much had Arya suffered to slip through the war-torn Riverlands to escape to her brother?

How was Sansa faring with some foreign sorcerer for a husband?

One thing was certain: the first thing she would do upon arriving in Dragonstone was to send a raven to Winterfell.

Notes:

I'm going to be honest. I am not at all satisfied with how I handled Jeyne's plot. I had planned it from the very beginning, but in hindsight, I should have probably introduced her early on and gradually built it up instead of summarizing her struggle in King's Landing in half a chapter when I could have easily written an entire mini arc for her.

Then again, she might grow to be a divisive figure among the fans if I had dragged her character arc for too long. At least this has served as good practice for me when I introduce a new POV in a few chapters.

Chapter 42: King of the Wildlings

Join me on Discord for story discussions, character portraits, and more! Discord code is vN7sTYhEp6.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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Westwatch-by-the-Bridge

"Keep loosening arrows! Faster, damn it!"

"They have ladders on the walls again."

"Bloody wildlings have gone rabid!"

"Take out that giant!"

"Seven hells, there's no end to them! Weren't they fockin' broken at the Wall?!"

"TOMMARD!"

"He's gone, brother. We need more arrows! Light up the braziers; fire is the only way to deal with them."

"The wind and the cold make 'em bloody useless!"

The din of battle, of men screaming the names of their comrades in arms as they were felled by slings and arrows, of orders and warnings, echoed all over the westernmost castle of the Wall. Gareth Mollen had learned to turn away the thoughts of his fellow dead Northmen in favor of delivering death to the wildlings. He loosed his arrow at a savage warrior in bone armor, piercing him in the neck, and barely glanced at his body tumbling down from the bridge and into the gorge below before aiming for another target.

His position on one of the wooden towers built at an angle away from the curtain wall allowed him and his troop of archers to easily pick at the wildlings crossing the two-hundred-foot-long bridge, even if the main purpose of the tower had been lost.

"Why did the bloody mangonels stop firing?"

"The tower was brought down by a giant's slingshot, that's why," Qhorin the Halfhand was the one to reply. The man seemed utterly relaxed as he struck his halberd at a wildling trying to climb the parapets, splitting his skull in half, then pushed him down and destroyed the ladder. He quickly retreated when arrows and stones whistled over his head and turned to roar, "Aim for the giants! Focus on the savages still on the bridge—leave those scaling the ramparts to us!"

"You heard the man. Archers, at the ready. Scorpions, aim for the giants!" Gareth Mollen yelled over the wind as he and his dozen archers loosed their arrows at the wildlings crowding the bridge, but the savages had long learned from their mistakes and hid behind their large wooden shields, blocking most of their arrows. They were ugly things, more bark than boards, yet the wildlings had plenty of strength to carry them and an entire forest nearby to replenish them.

On the three remaining towers, three scorpions aimed at the giants at the far end of the bridge, where the ominous swoosh of their titanic slings reached even here despite their poor eyesight.

It had not halted them from hitting a target from afar—castles were hard to miss. He grimaced as the fog on the other side made it difficult to aim for them, and only one of the scorpion bolts pierced through a giant's leg, bringing him down with a terrible roar of agony.

"Bring more wood to the gate. It won't hold much longer." Walder's desperate cries echoed from below, where he and a score of Northmen braced the wooden gate as wildling axes and rams struck.

The remains of five giants could be seen close to the walls, along with hundreds, if not thousands, of dead wildlings. The new portcullis donated by Winterfell, now ripped off and twisted, was thrown aside like an unwanted toy. The attack had begun early that morning, and Gareth Mollen cursed their luck. For many weeks, they had endured constant attacks by the savages, and when word came of attacks all along the Wall, along with a pause of assaults from across the bridge, they decided to send reinforcements to man the abandoned castles. At first, it seemed like the most prudent decision as they repelled several grapplers and climbers, yet they kept a vigilant watch on Mance's depleted army across the bridge, where the Wildling King was content to stay in his camp and have his giants pepper them with their slings.

Giants…Gareth could not help but feel joy and awe at seeing them for the first time, yet dread and frustration for the death and misery they caused; of all their thousands of foes, the giants had proven to be the true menace, as even the skinchangers of the enemy were countered by their own. Gareth glanced deeper into the castle, where a weirwood had sprouted over the past moons, and a dozen of those fae creatures encircled it.

Children of the Forest…child-sized they might have been, but their small bodies moved with unnatural grace and speed. Gareth was not sure he liked it when Qhorin brought them over with his troops, but they had proven vital in somehow keeping away the enemy's eagles and pests from spying on them. Not like he could tell if they truly did what they claimed or if they were pulling their legs, but the Black Brothers trusted them, and that was enough for the Clansmen and Umber men that formed the bulk of the relief.

He shook his head as his mind raced with thoughts of what he could do with the help of giants; the Children might be too strange for him to fathom, but Giants? Oh, the castles and monuments he could build, the lands he could clear, the canals he could dig. Yet now they were being used against them in a way none had thought was possible. Instead of using them as big, dumb shock troops, Mance Rayder used them as mobile artillery.

It was difficult to tell how many of them there were, but there were always at least a handful peppering Westwatch like a catapult of muscle and fur, or wielding their massive bows as if they were scorpion bolts.

The most damage was suffered to their hands.

Still, the giants rarely kept their assaults for long, lest they risk getting skewered by his scorpions. Already, they had killed about a dozen since the conflict started nearly four moons ago, and usually, they would retreat once they fired enough bolts to scare them. Things changed this morning, however, when at the crack of dawn, just before the changing of the guards, the entire army attacked en masse, led by five giants clad in primitive armor of bone and wood, leading two mammoths to the gates.

Try as they might, Gareth and the rest of the men tried to shoot them before they reached the walls, yet nearly a score of giants flung rocks and arrows at them, forcing them to hide behind the wall or abandon the towers entirely. There were eight towers this morning, two of them on the curtain walls and six around it, but only four remained; the two on the wall used to house a mangonel each, but they were the first to go, as the entire top halves of the towers were sheared off by rocks the size of an anvil.

Eventually, the giants reached the gates; three of them hooked the portcullis with several hooks tied to the mammoths with chains, then urged them to pull away, all the while two of the giants attacked the men atop the walls. The damned things were so large that the tallest of them could reach out its arm and pull the defenders from the wall. Thankfully, Qhorin and his men were wily and managed to bring down the giants with their pikes; being so tall turned out to be a hindrance when they lacked any helmets, allowing them to poke holes through their eyes.

Unfortunately, the mammoths were not as easy to bring down as the massive beasts dragged the portcullis out of the wall with a terrible screech, allowing the savages to ram the gate with the help of the surviving giants. Gareth did not know how the savages managed to procure such a long chain of steel and bronze, but it did not matter; what mattered was how vulnerable the gate was.

That was four hours ago, and the gate had already been breached thrice, yet they had more than enough men to plug the gap and for Walder to hold the line, halting the tide of the wildlings with his massive poleaxe. Gareth still could not fathom that this was the same lackwit who could only say 'Hodor' a few moons ago, yet here he was, nearly eight feet of pure muscle clad in the finest steel Winterfell could provide, roaring like a demon as he cut a handful of the savages in one slash when they had broken through the gate a few days prior.

Since then, Walder was given command of the gate, above other more senior warriors or chiefs, who were too busy trying to survive to complain.

"The gates shall fall for sure this time. It's more a barricade than a real gate at this point, HAH!" Big Buckets' bellows could be heard from the gate as he thrusted his spear through a gap and into a wildling's eye. "Let's bathe in their blood, then!"

"Prepare the horses!"

Gareth looked down at the shout, finding Ser Denys Mallister rushing to the paddocks with nearly a hundred men where the horses were already saddled and barded. Minutes later, they were streaming out of the wooden gate and lining up into a wedge formation. Black Brothers and Northmen, Clansmen and men of Winterfell, all of them heavily armored and wielding a long lance, a short spear, and whatever side arms they preferred.

The familiar whistling sound came again, and Gareth instinctively ducked, just as a rock crushed the man standing beside him and shook the tower beneath his feet.

"Archers to me," Gareth shouted as he led his men down from the tower and gathered as many archers as he could find, lined them up in a cone, aiming for the gate while leaving a path for the cavalry to charge. "Fall back, let the horses through!"

The giant of Winterfell had to drag the Wull Chief back just as the gate was finally thrown off its hinges and a horde of the savages streamed through, only to be greeted by a hundred arrows, just as Mallister shouted, "Charge!"

The ensuing melee ensured that anyone who survived the initial charge was slain, while Gareth called for the footmen to form a spear wall. The gate was lost, and while he had several spares prepared, he would need to fix the hinges, which could not be done in battle. On the walls, Qhorin and his men had switched to their bows and loosed their arrows at the wildlings struggling to make their way through the corpse-ridden bridge with even more ladders.

"Fall back," Ser Mallister ordered after the last wildling was killed, allowing the infantry to push their way out of the gate and clear the bottom of the walls. The elderly commander of the Shadow Tower dismounted and approached him, along with other lords and chiefs. "If you will repair that gate, then do it swiftly, before another wave of the savages rushes over the bridge."

"Do you think they have the men for it? We must have slain at least five thousand men today alone!" Brandon 'the younger' Norrey said as he cleaned his axe blade, his face was caked with blood and sported a wicked scar on his cheek. "So many losses are enough to make the finest knights falter, let alone a loose band of savages. The bridge itself is riddled with corpses, not even the wildlings would be able to push their way through."

"I wouldn't underestimate their stubbornness," Big Buckets grumbled as he favored his left leg; the elderly chief's face was marred by a spear thrust that barely missed his left eye yet tore his ear off. "Mance Rayder is not some drunken, battle-happy lout like the rest o' them. No, he's grown in the watch and learned our ways, a cunning old crook. The earlier split was just pulling the wool over our eyes, I say—trying to stretch our defenses thin."

"And he succeeded," Commander Mallister finished. "Now he has no choice but to break through here or die trying with the Cold Shadows breathing down his neck."

The men turned solemn at the words, a few of the younger ones cursing the wildlings while the greybeards looked ready for more fighting; this was their final battle, and they would rather die here than by the winter's cold. Gareth did a quick head count of the defenders, finding they had about a thousand remaining, ignoring the noncombatants. There had been many more moons ago, but as the attacks on the Wall intensified, they were forced to send men away as reinforcements. Everyone who was no good with a sword or a spear had been put to work to carry supplies, cut wood, or repair half-crumbling old ramparts and towers.

Before Gareth could call for his builders to bring the spare gate, something shifted in the air, and everyone froze. The howling of the wind, far more harsh than usual, was almost akin to the sound of a wild beast dying.

The men looked around wearily.

"That ain't normal," somebody said, his voice quivering. "Sounded like wolves howling more than wind."

"Oi, the wildlings are falling back." One of the men on the walls shouted. "They're retreating!"

"Something must have spooked them." Qhorin shook his head as he squinted at the distant fog. "They were just roaring and screaming like the savages they were, no doubt preparing for another attack."

"Perhaps they finally gave up?" A hopeful voice asked only for an eerie voice to reply in broken common.

"The White Huntsman approaches." Gareth cursed as the short creature appeared in front of them, staring blankly at the distant fog across the bridge. She, or was it a he? Gareth could not tell as they covered themselves in cloaks of leaves and fur to fight the cold, but the creature spoke in broken common that she learned after months in Qhorin's company. "We must prepare."

"Prepare for what?"

Suddenly, the air split with a roar like none Gareth had ever heard—low and long, like the death-cry of some dying beast, rolling down from the frozen north. The horn-blast was deep and dreadful, echoing through the valleys and across the snowbound hills, and in its wake came silence so thick it choked the breath from his throat. Even the air shimmered as the wildlings lost the last of their courage.

The earth trembled beneath their boots, subtle at first, then stronger, as though some great beast had stirred beneath the rock. The wind rose all at once, shrieking like a dying thing, and the sound came again—louder, closer—dragging with it the howls of wolves and the faint, unmistakable wailing of men. Gareth stood frozen, his fingers cold and clammy, his bones quaking as that unholy call washed over him again. He thought he heard screaming from the Wildling camp, or perhaps it was the echo of his own soul fleeing his body.

The horn did not simply sound. It declared. Something had awakened. Something was coming.

"What the fuck was—"

An ominous crack came from the Wall, and they suddenly turned to find a large block of ice breaking off the distant structure.

"That was a horn blast," The Wull chief mumbled. "Unlike anything I've ever heard before, but no doubt the blast of a horn."

"One horn blast? Or was it two?" The Earth Singer tilted her head as she asked Qhorin, who had just descended from the wall on unsteady feet.

"I think that was just one, but the wind made it sound like two." The Halfhand then turned to his men. "Move it, men, let's clear the bridge of those corpses. We will strike the savages."

"Are you out of your mind, Halfhand?" Mors Umber asked as he shouldered his spear; most of the foot forming the spear wall were Umber men. "We should use this chance to rebuild the gate and prepare for the next attack."

"You don't understand, Umber." Qhorin shook his head as the Black Brothers all hurried to follow his command after a nod from Denys Mallister. "None of you do."

"Well, explain it to us, then."

"One horn blast; that's the return of a Ranger."

"It's the White Huntsman!"

"I thought he was a myth."

"Just kill the fucker."

"Traitors! And you call yourselves freefolk!"

Jon Snow rode hard on his new steed, trampling over any of the wildlings in his way as he slashed left and right with Longclaw; every strike proved lethal as the Valyrian steel sword cut through bone and wood and quilted leather like butter. The howls of thousands of wolves echoed as they surrounded the wildling camp.

Most did not attack, only encircled the wildling camp from behind. Ghost and a hundred direwolves led the rest by his side, charging through like a wave of fur and teeth.

He breathed lightly as he swung his sword once more, five hundred men following him on foot as they killed any foe he missed while riding on the back of the direwolves were the Earth Singers, raining arrows at their targets. Leaf rode atop Ghost's back, loosening her bow at several spearwives while glancing at Crown, who sat behind him. The two Earth Singers seemed to have a strange rivalry as his companion aimed his bow; his arrows flew true as they pierced every target they found, warrior or spearwife, any who dared raise their weapons against him would be felled. He grinned at the much older Earth Singer, who huffed in amusement, before Ghost charged further in.

The Horn of Winter had spread fear and panic in the midst of the wildlings, allowing his much smaller force to attack them when they least expected.

Jon and his five hundred warriors had left Nyra's Port, the settlement his uncle had founded, nearly two moons ago. Half of his army consisted of the men who joined him when they fought the Ice Singer, while the other half consisted of the Walrus Chieftain and his men, who agreed to follow him instead of risking another attack.

For weeks, he had practiced the usage of the Horn of Winter in the Frostfangs. He never used it more than one or two blasts at once, for Jon had no wish to awake 'giants' from stone once again. Not to mention just using it once made him feel like he had run for ten miles without stopping. Still, by now, he had learned how to use the thing, and it did not just make noise, but he could focus it to truly spread fear and panic into the hearts of his enemies.

A strange side effect was that every time he used the horn, more wolves would join him, howling together. His pack had truly grown to the point that he had no idea how he could feed so many throats.

All Jon had when he attacked the wildling army was five hundred men, thrice that in wolves, a hundred direwolves, thirty Earth Singers, and a dream. A dream that his fellow Northmen across the bridge would understand and join him in the fight. A dream that the wildlings would let go of their pride and bend the fucking knee.

Soon, Jon and his army had cut through the wildling army, routing or killing thousands in his path, until he reached a large white tent made from snowbear fur where the savages seemed to have rallied. A wall of warriors and spearwives blocked his way, led by a slender man with a sharp face and holding a greatsword. He watched him, uncertainty in his eyes as Jon raised his sword and bade his forces to stop.

"The White Huntsman," the man began as he inspected his army. "You are outnumbered, Jon Snow."

Jon frowned, and Ghost bared his fangs. "You know my name, but I do not know yours."

"Mance Rayder, they call me. Or turncloak and traitor, as I am known on the other side of the Wall. But truthfully? I see myself as a humble bard more than anything."

Jon's eyes flicked across the wildling camp. Mance had nearly ten thousand men before him, with even more trickling in. The wildling king sought to distract him and buy more time for his men to recover and surround him; it was certainly a good plan, but Mance Rayder made a mistake when he placed his tent so far behind his lines. The sound of swords clashing and men screaming came from the south, and Jon's face curled into a smile.

His brothers were coming.

"A bard," he echoed disdainfully. "Would a mere bard gather all the feuding clans and warring tribes and lead them as their king?"

"I've never had a crown on my head or sat my arse on a bloody throne, if that's what you're asking." Mance chuckled as he eyed him with shrewd brown eyes. "My birth is as low as a man's can get, no septon's ever smeared my head with oils, I don't own any castles, and my queen wears furs and amber, not silk and sapphires. I am my own champion, my own fool, and my own harpist."

"You certainly like the sound of your own voice," Jon allowed lightly. "Yet the only harping I hear is that of a craven traitor who would rather throw an endless number of his people to their death than face their true enemy."

Jon's words caused grumbling among the freefolk even as a comely blonde woman shouted. "What would you know about our true enemy, kneeler? You who are safe in the warmth of the south behind that ice Wall of yours."

"Have you no eyes to see with, woman?" Jon tapped his crystalline breastplate and patted the unicorn's neck. "I have slain the Others and their masters, taken their armor for myself, and claimed their steed. What have you craven savages done other than throw your lives away? You did all you could to avoid fighting those so-called foes of legend in favor of killing yourself at the ends of Northern pikes and arrows. I know not all of you are utter lackwits, for my entire army is made of your kin. Men and women whom I would proudly call my kith and kin, who fought by my side against the undead hordes of the Ice Singers."

It was like the wildlings finally saw him for the first time, as several mutters about his armor and his horse sounded. Then came more mutters about 'Warg King' as they noticed they were surrounded by wolves of varying sizes, even as more wildlings were forced into their midst. One specific wildling looked furious as he glared at him murderously from on top of a snow bear. He was not the only skinchanger in their midst, but judging by his bald head and his small stature, this could only be Varamyr Sixskins.

As more men joined the army before him, Jon noticed even more women and children hurriedly joining in their midst. Jon then realized why Mance Rayder chose to position his tent so far away from the Bridge of Skulls; there were far more women, children, and elderly than men. He even spied many giants in the distance, though they did not seem eager to fight, merely to protect their own. This was not the only holdout, merely the closest one; there must have been many other such smaller camps with other chieftains making a last stand to protect their people.

The wildlings were numerous, there was no question about it, but Jon wagered more than two-thirds of them could not fight.

"You claim I am outnumbered, Mance Rayder, but all I am surrounded by is fear and corpses not yet fallen."

Jon looked down at the wildling king and found him lacking. His eyes drifted to the men and women beside him; he recognized many of them as chieftains and warchiefs of the various tribes from his lessons with Bloodraven.

"I will not waste my breath further," he continued. "Surrender, and I shall treat you fairly. Lay down your arms, and I shall call for the Northmen to cease their slaughter that is happening even now. Bend your knee, and your lives can be negotiated."

Mance scoffed and shook his head, "We do not kneel."

"Does he speak for all of you?" Jon ignored the traitor as he inspected the rest of the chiefs. "Would you follow him to your deaths for misplaced pride? All of you are beaten, all of you are on the very brink of defeat—those of you who are not blind should see it well enough. Once you kneel, you can get up, but once you die, it's all over."

His challenge caused many of them to curse at him, brandishing their weapons as if ready to fight, yet none dared step forward.

Suddenly, something tickled his mind. The connection between him and Ghost was more solid than a mountain. It felt like an ant was bashing its head on it, and Ghost snorted in his mind, just as a scream of agony came from the midst of the wildlings. Jon stared in amusement as Varamyr Sixskins gurgled as his eyes rolled upwards and his body tensed heavily before freezing. The small man fell off his snowbear, cracking his head on a loose rock, instantly killing him. The bear looked confused at the loss of its master, but swiftly shook its head just as Crown climbed Jon's shoulders and raised his hand.

"Come here, girl!"

The massive snow bear tilted her head before pushing her way outside of the wall of men who hurriedly ran out of her path. Three wolves joined her, along with a shadow cat that even Jon did not notice, just as an eagle screeched above and landed on Crown's outstretched hand.

"It appears your vaunted Sixskins was no match for Jon Thousandskins." The Earth Singer grinned cheekily as he patted the eagle's feathers and jumped on the snow bear's back. "My, this eagle hates you, Jon. What did you do to him?"

"Who knows? I recall seeing it flying overhead when I attacked my first band of wildlings." Jon squinted at the bird's angry golden eyes; he could sense a faint skinchanger bond in it, but it was weak and subdued. "I might have killed a skinchanger then who retreated to the bird's mind."

"Hmm, it does feel like there's someone in there. That won't do." Crown gently turned the eagle's face to him, stared deeply into its eyes for a moment before tapping its head. Something seemed to burst out of the bird, which shook its head, but now felt calmer. "There, all mine now. Now I'm Crown Sixskins. Would none of you join my ranks?"

The Earth Singer innocently asked the wildlings who had stared in silent shock at the creature of legend that had so easily usurped their most powerful skinchanger's animals. Surprisingly, about a thousand men left Mance's side, dragging their families and hurrying to his side. Curses came from the rest of the wildlings, and several of them even raised their bows to kill the traitors, but when his men raised their own bows, Mance stopped them.

Several men hurriedly fell to their knees before him. "We were bound to Sixskins, and we are now yours."

Jon nodded; any oath could wait for later. He signaled for his men to let the women and children through while the men joined his ranks. Suddenly, his numbers swelled by more than twice, even if Jon had no idea how he would provide them with what he promised. How could a steward of the Night's Watch have more followers than the entire order?

He shook his head; it did not matter. Jon was certain he could make something work with the Lord Commander. He only needed to speak to Robb to convince him that the war in the South was a waste of time and that they should focus their efforts on the war here.

"Who else desires to live? I can hear the sound of battle steadily approaching, and I assure you that my fellow Northmen are not nearly as merciful as I am. Swear yourself to me, and I will protect you and give you a place to call home away from these lands of ice and snow."

"Do it, father!" The young walrus chief cried out from beside him. "I saw the Huntsman slaying our icy foes easily. What have you gained from allying yourself and my brothers with Mance Rayder and those thrice-cursed Ice River Clans!"

"Skagard! Is that you, boy?" The Great Walrus, as large as his son and with a belly that would rival Hugo Wull, cried out. He was surrounded by nearly a dozen similarly large men who were like younger copies of him, but far less stout. "What are you doing here?"

"Those wretched cannibals allied with the Others and attacked our settlement." Skagard glared hatefully at a group of men with harsh eyes wearing human bones as armor. "But the Huntsman and the Earth Singers came to our rescue."

"Aye, Jon Snow fought for us, protected us, and led us to victory." Jax scowled at Mance then. "You promised us freedom and a way south from the madness that hunts us in the coldest of nights. Forcing us to dig in the mountains for your precious horn, only to abandon us when it became inconvenient. Yet, we never needed to flee in the first place; the Others can be fought, and they can definitely be killed."

Murmurs spread through the wildlings like fire through wild grass. Jon could see many more faltering—even the aforementioned Ice River clans looked more dismayed than angry at what one of their own had done.

He dismounted from his horse and walked forward a few steps, raised his sword, and pointed at the wildling king. "Mance Rayder. You claim to be your own champion. Prove it, or are you too craven to face me?"

To his credit, Mance unhesitantly stepped forward, unsheathing his greatsword. "Let us dance then—man to man."

"Finally found your spine, eh?" Jon chuckled as he came forth to meet the wildling king half-way. "Good."

"You are far different from when I last saw you, Jon Snow."

"I don't recall ever meeting you."

"I was there during the king's feast in Winterfell. Snuck in with the bards, you see." They circled each other, each looking for weakness, for an opening in the enemy. Mance wore a black ringmail and a helm with raven wings at each temple. "You were a broody little boy with a chip the size of the Wall on his shoulders. You have certainly grown since then."

Jon moved and struck at the man's sword, yet Mance was faster than he thought and managed to deflect his blow in a way that prevented him from slicing through the castle-forged steel like it was paper.

"If you were in Winterfell, then you should have known that with my father as Hand of the King, he could have used his position to meet you. Even if you were a turncloak."

"How could I be a turncloak when I never knew anything other than the Night's Watch?" Even as they talked, they exchanged several blows, though Jon would admit to holding back. It was not every day he heard what a king had to say, and he would admit to being interested in the man who managed to rally the Freefolk to his banner. As one who had dealt with them for so many months, Jon knew it was no easy feat. "I committed no crime to be sentenced to the black, nor was I aware of what I was swearing when they put me before a weirwood before I saw my first winter and had me give the vows."

"Perhaps you are right, but you still formed this army and attacked the North. You could have negotiated, and my brother would have listened."

"How could we negotiate from a position of weakness?"

Jon scoffed and went on the offensive, unleashing a flurry of strikes that had the king on the back foot as he did his best to parry or deflect. Mance Rayder was a good warrior, but Jon was simply better, or perhaps the wildling king knew he was already facing defeat. Finally, after one vicious strike had unbalanced the wildling king, Jon kicked his legs, forcing him to the ground before kicking away his sword.

"That's because you are weak!" Jon roared as he stared not at the man but at the rest of the wildlings. "All of you are weaklings and foolish ones at that. Instead of finding a way to fight the Others, you decided to throw your lives away against the forces of the North and the Night's Watch. When confronted with a fate worse than death, you should abandon your pride and beg for mercy. Something that despite the thousands of years of feuding with the North, we would have given it to you if you bent the fucking knee!"

The sound of horses approached as the Northmen finally arrived, bloody and tired, yet far better armed than the thousands of wildlings they cut their way through. They were led by an unknown Black Brother who clasped his black cloak with a silver eagle. This could only be Ser Denys Mallister, especially with Qhorin Halfhand riding beside him. There were many other familiar faces, some of them were from Winterfell, even though Jon paused at the giant of a man clad in fine steel. He did not recognize that one, especially with the great helm that covered his features.

The Wildlings warily brandished their weapons, but the Northmen stayed their blades as they found him. Jon ignored them in favor of the man kneeling before him. "Just like how you are doing now. I was told that the free folk don't follow titles or sigils, nor do they dance for coins or care about any lineage. All you care about is strength, and I have bested you, the strongest one of them. Will you still stubbornly cling to your pride? Or will you surrender and allow your people a chance to live?"

Mance Rayder looked resigned, yet there was still a hint of stubborn defiance in his eyes. "They would execute me for desertion."

"Are you so selfish that you would cause ruin to your people out of sheer spite? I can kill you now either way, and the rest of your people will kneel or die." Jon's voice was loud and clear for all to hear, but mostly for the Northmen in hopes of staying their hands. "Now, what would it be? Choose, for I have grown tired of this charade."

Mance stared at him strangely, then, as if seeing him for the first time. "Why bother? As you said, you could kill me now, and it won't matter. Even if I surrender, the others have their own pride."

"Pity." The king's eyes widened, and Jon chortled. "Yes, Mance Rayder, I pity your so-called free folk. You do not understand the joy of a good life or the necessity of law and order. You falsely believe being free to do whatever the fuck you want is a far better way to live than living for something greater, such as a future for yourself and your descendants. Now, will you swallow your fucking pride and accept my pity, or should I just lop your head off? My arm is growing numb."

"A future…" Mance Rayder chuckled and shook his head. "If only you were not a brother of the Night's Watch. I would have sworn fealty if only to see my wife and unborn child live and prosper. Ah, curse the gods for setting me on this path. Curse you, too, boy! I surrender."

Jon watched on as the Northmen processed the wildlings. Thousands of them lay dead, as not all surrendered even after Mance did, just like the former king claimed. Yet after Jon personally slew anyone who dared to challenge him, most tossed their axes and spears, and now, Jon found himself as the new King Beyond the Wall. Something that his brothers of the Night's Watch took a lot of pleasure in ribbing him about, though not before Jon insisted they agree to the oaths he gave the wildlings. They surrendered to him, not the Night's Watch or even the Northmen.

Surprisingly, they accepted his decision without much complaint, though the reason became apparent when Ser Denys Mallister handed him a formal-looking scroll that Jon read with shocked fugue.

"Congratulations, Prince Jon," he said with a crooked smile.

"Hah, as expected of the king's brother!"

Jon just blinked. The scroll…the scroll told him he was a Stark now. And that the oaths binding him to the Wall had been struck down, and he was now appointed as Warden of the North until Robb finished his war.

Bran was dead…Sansa had married some Essosi sorcerer…and the Ironborn had fallen upon the North like a plague—but his sister's new husband was fighting them off.

Too much had happened.

"It's good you're already wearing white," Mallister said, more irritated than angered. "Congratulations on being the first Brother of the Night's Watch to be released from his vows. Woulda been a bit unhappier if I wasn't promised seventy men-at-arms to join my Shadow Tower."

Jon wanted to open his mouth and say that he was a black brother until his death. That he had said his vows and would see them through.

But he had taken men under his banner. He had promised succour like a lord would and he had sought glory.

And…Jon was a prince now. A Stark.

A dream that had come true.

Jon closed his mouth and swallowed heavily.

"When the Watch is in an hour of need, you can count on my sword as long as I still breathe," he vowed. This one, he intended to keep.

"Good!" Mallister chortled, looking far less rankled than before. "Ned's get, alright. I don't know how you did it, lad, and I honestly don't care. Your wildlings can pass the Wall—as long as you keep them as well-behaved as they are, but know this—any misdeed rests on your shoulders, since they have followed you."

"I know," Jon rasped out. Would Robb have thought he was coming with thousands of wildlings under his banner?

"Many among the brothers will not be pleased you spared Mance. But the die is cast, and you accepted his fealty; to ask of you otherwise would be dishonorable, but others would not think the same."

"I know." Jon repeated. Lord Commander Mormont would not be pleased with this outcome.

Denys Mallister left him to his thoughts then, as they rounded up the surrendered free folk, separating them by tribe and clan. Jon stared in wonder at the giants; nearly two thousand of them, the last of their kind, yet barely a tenth of them were willing to fight.

They stayed close to the Thenns, who had so far managed to keep most of their forces intact, and they, along with another group led by a man called Tormund Giantsbane, managed to hold off the Northmen in their camps until Jon demanded their surrender.

"There you are, Jon." He turned around, finding two massive white beasts, both of them carrying an Earth Singer. "So what's the plan from here?"

Crown jumped down from his snow bear, Jon grabbing the little grumkin as he sat on his shoulders. Leaf shook her head as she patted Ghost's neck and calmly approached.

"I am not sure. Denys did not outright say it, but the Black Brothers do not want to deal with the surrendered wildlings. Even if I trust them all to behave, which I don't, I can't just take them all to Winterfell."

They were far fewer in number now that many of them had died or broken away into the Haunted Forest. Shy of thirty thousand was the final headcount, but only ten thousand of them could fight, and even then, half of them were spearwives. Then there were the two thousand giants and their herds of mammoths which would need large swaths of land to call their own; the giants had proven to be too useful to leave them behind, especially as they were willing to join him after he slew the Thenn chief, Styr, in single combat for being too stubborn to surrender. Strangely, his son, Sigorn, did not hold a grudge and was one of the first to bend the knee.

The Gift may be a good option for the giants and their mammoths, but ideally, the beasts would be kept North of the wall. Sadly, the giants relied far too much on them for their milk, cheese, fur, and meat to simply abandon them.

"I think it's easy, really." Crown hummed thoughtfully. "Just ask those black cloaks to watch over them, take those you trust the most, and head to Winterfell to show them who's boss. With your family's blessings, I'm sure you can settle them somewhere. I mean, thirty thousand isn't really that many people when you think about it."

"Indeed, but you must not forget our goal." Leaf narrowed her eyes at the far more excitable Crown before turning to him. "Your uncle should have finished constructing that port by now. They will not be able to survive for long if left alone. You will need your family's help to support them."

"And Sansa now rules from Winterfell." Jon sighed as he patted his unicorn before mounting it. "Let's go to Westwatch. I'm sure you want to meet the rest of your kin there, and I'm dying for a proper bath. Will you join us, Leaf?"

The elderly Earth Singer, who could still pass for a comely maiden even with her strange coloring and short stature, shook her head. "I need to check on Brynden. He had been silent for some time, but I will join you for a brief moment. It has been a long time since I've been south of the Wall."

Jon nodded and led the way to the bridge. Bloodraven had reconnected with him once he had returned to the Frostfangs but kept it brief. He merely informed him of the situation with the wildlings and helped him prepare his attack, but then retreated to the weirwood network.

He stopped Leathers along the way and checked the recruitment results with him. Even if the wildlings surrendered, they had to screen those truly savage ones who were unwilling to respect the laws of men from those who would. After making sure all was well, he continued on, but they had barely crossed the Bridge of Skulls and into the North proper when Jon felt something different in the air as they passed through the protections of the Wall. He did not dwell too much on it, however, though Leaf seemed to freeze and her large gold and green eyes widened.

"What's wrong, Leaf?"

The Earth Singer seemed to be breathing heavily, the slits in her eyes seemed sharper, and a blush seemed to form on her nut-brown skin that matched her hair in color. Jon glanced at his companion, but Crown looked just as confused as he, even as Leaf seemed to shiver, and a small smile bloomed on her face.

"Never better. I think I will send someone else to check on Brynden." The so far demure and sweet-sounding Earth Singer suddenly looked more like a predator as she stared far to the south, licked her lips, and grinned widely. "I sense someone far greater that I have to meet."

Jon still looked confused and looked questioningly at Crown, who merely shrugged, but perhaps the excitable Earth Singer was as innocent as he looked. Jon, however, recognized that look from the few feasts he attended in Winterfell.

Lust.

He wondered what kind of man caught the fancy of an ancient, eldritch woman like Leaf?

Notes:

With this, we close the chapter on Jon's adventure beyond the wall. Don't think he suddenly has a powerful force at his beck and call; he did end up killing most of the fighting men.

Next chapter, we will finally be back to Percy's POV. A whole chapter of it, and probably the next one as well.

Chapter 43: Dark Apostle

Join me on Discord for story discussions, character portraits, and more! Discord code is vN7sTYhEp6.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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Percy

"Well, I guess this will be goodbye for now."

"Don't worry, Captain Percy! I'll make sure these wretches stay out of trouble and protect them from any vengeful fool." Kyle slammed his fist over his breastplate in salute before barking commands at the Ironborn accompanying him to the Moat. "Careful with those wagons, you squids! I don't care if you were a lord or a captain or a thrall before, but now that you have sworn yourself to Lord Perseus, I will make true soldiers out of you!"

Percy stifled a chuckle as his captain entered drill sergeant mode and oversaw the departure of the men. He caught Mark's eye, who gave a solemn nod. "Don't worry. I'll make sure Bennard and his crew are safe and sound. I wish you good fortune with your endeavor, Lord Percy."

With that, his second captain excused himself, taking most of the archers with him. Dawn had come and gone, yet the sun could barely be seen through the thick canopy of clouds. Percy watched the long column of men, horses, and wagons leave the war camp that had been their home for the past few days. If he squinted, he could see Cregan Karstark leading the procession far at the front at a far more leisurely pace compared to when he first arrived. Percy had given nearly all the horses to the man, leaving only two hundred commanded by Roose Ryswell with him, as well as the Bolton halberdiers.

Twenty of his personal guards remained as well, while the rest joined Kyle to the south, where Percy would meet them after he dealt with the Ironborn fleet. They might be Stark men, but Percy was confident that they were more loyal to Sansa—to him—than their own king.

The camp was far emptier now that most of the army and the Ironborn had left for Moat Cailin and to join the King at the Twins. It was not an easy decision, and Percy could tell that many of the lords were still wary of the Ironmen, but he assured them of their loyalty.

At least the four thousand Ironmen, who would populate the new town that had been built north of Moat Cailin as they joined their brethren in rebuilding the massive fortification, then garrisoning it, could be trusted not to cause any trouble. It was a temporary thing until Percy found a place for them to call home or until he took the Iron Islands for himself, something he both considered and dreaded.

Having his own land sounded great, but the Iron Islands were called a bunch of 'dreary, lifeless rocks.' Still, it couldn't be that bad, considering the Ironmen had lived on that archipelago for thousands of years, and something about living with the sea around him sang to Percy.

A pity, his ambition would be put on hold, for the Sunset Sea was the domain of the Drowned Rat and his many monstrosities. News had arrived of those water demons attacking the coasts, and the Northmen retreated even deeper inland; yet another issue for Percy to solve on behalf of his wife.

That King Robb fellow had better have some decent compensation planned for them or else…

He shook his head as he turned away from the column. The remaining two thousand Ironborn remained with Percy, and they too were ready to depart for the coast; half of them as his sailors and captains, and the other half as prisoners.

Everyone was still tired and wary from the long and restless march and the battle, but they couldn't remain here with the few supplies they had. Strangely, there were no true towns or cities in this region aside from Barrowton. Even the occasional village they came upon was empty and desolate, despite the North being vast and plentiful compared to other colder regions he knew. It couldn't just be because of Ironborn raids or the many cliffs that formed the North's coast, but perhaps those sea monster attacks were not as new as they seemed.

He shivered as a gust of cold wind came from the north, and Percy wondered if he was too underdressed for the weather; perhaps cargo pants and a bomber jacket were not ideal for the winter weather. Or the little winter, as Percy began calling it, rather than the silly summer snow the locals thought it to be. It had gotten colder a couple of days ago, and it had snowed through the night. Already, the ground was covered in white, though little patches of grass could still be seen.

Seeing the snow, Percy recalled another place he had called home for the longest time.

Oh gods, what he would do to walk through Central Park in the dead of winter again!

He missed New York, missed the hustle and bustle of the big city, missed his friends and his mother, and even the grumpy and mercurial gods. Hades, he would kill for a can of cola and a slice of pizza!

At least he managed to make hot dogs and burgers, even if the hot dogs were just sausages and the burgers lacked proper dressing and condiments. Gods, he should have dragged Meera from Sansa's side. That girl was an unexpectedly good cook who somehow managed to recreate some of the recipes he remembered with the few ingredients allowed. Or even Wyman's chef, but Percy doubted anyone could rip him away from the Merman lord.

He wondered how his mother would react if she knew all that he had been up to. Would she be proud of Percy's actions? He never thought he would be a cold-blooded slaughterer. Hundreds—if not thousands—had died by his hand. Worse, Percy thought he would lament the death and misery he inflicted and witnessed more, but he had gone over most of it easily enough. What was it that Rachel once accused demigods of being?

Sociopaths.

Percy chuckled as he headed to his tent; demigod instincts were hardwired to make them survive and ignore distracting things such as guilt or queasiness when heads rolled and blood splattered. Percy had never had to rely on them back home because he rarely fought humans, and monsters tended to turn to dust. Apparently, according to Poseidon, that was not always the case, as fighting monsters in the past was a far more gruesome and bloody affair until Olympus managed to connect their essence to Tartarus to keep them away longer.

It did not work as well as they expected, as the monsters now reformed in perfect health and lacking any scars or wounds they suffered…That explained why the Minotaur did not lack its horn when Percy had met it again in Manhattan.

Alas. It would not do well to dwell on the past or a world he would never see again.

Percy sighed as he inspected his surroundings—the camp was mostly dismantled by now. The Northmen left nothing to waste, as every single wooden stake or piece of canvas was stripped down and taken with them to the Moat. Sociopaths…considering this was a medieval world where life was as cheap as dirt and death was always just around the corner, perhaps being a sociopath was not too bad. As long as he found a cause to ground him and allowed Percy to stick to the morals that his mother raised him on, he should be fine. Fighting to free his wife's home and for a future for their children had to be the greatest of causes.

He never relished killing or hurting people; in fact, the main reason he brought the Ironborn to his side was because he was unwilling to kill so many who had surrendered. Killing a foe in battle was one thing, but those who were helpless and had laid down their arms…

Even if they deserved it, it did not sit well with him to so easily wave his hand and kill thousands of people.

Inflicting death and destruction came easily to a demigod, especially to one with his powers. Percy feared a day would come when he would not feel a thing if he wiped out an entire city with a thought, just because it was convenient or because he didn't like their food.

Would Sally Jackson approve of what he had become? Percy hoped she would look at him favorably, considering the madness of this world and the gods in it.

Would she approve of his love life, though? By now, Sansa should be in her fourth month of pregnancy, and Percy eagerly wanted to return to his wife and hoped he would not stay away too long. It had taken some time, but Percy had come to terms with the fact that he would be a father, and now the idea of fatherhood excited him rather than worried him. He could hardly wait to hold his sons and daughters, raise and train them to be the best in their craft, and find a place in this world for them. Percy could envision it: his son and his two sisters fighting side by side against their foes, flinging lightning bolts and fireballs, controlling water and the wind, and shaking the very foundations of the earth!

Sansa's words about him siring a new race of humans had at first made him think she was mad, but now it excited him to no end, especially after he slept with Wylla; there was something about the taboo of sleeping with a woman who was not his wife and intentionally aiming to sire children on her that made his blood sing. It was even hotter when his own wife approved and egged him on—Percy would never have even thought of cheating on his wife or betraying her trust, but when she herself was the one encouraging him for it…

Still, never had Percy thought about women in such a way before; he was far too busy fighting for survival or finishing school without getting expelled to wonder what a real kiss was like, let alone sex. To touch and hold them, to marry them, and acknowledge that new responsibility of being the head of a family. It was sobering and made him feel far older than he was.

This world was mad, yet he and his progeny would need to be even madder to not just survive, but thrive.

Would Sally Jackson approve of him having more than one lover? Probably not, but Percy had already accepted that what he would do in this world would most likely be heavily frowned upon in his old one. At least, he was certain his mother would approve of all the grandchildren she would have…even if she would never see them.

He shook his head to rid himself of such broody thoughts. Percy thought back on Wylla; he did not doubt that she would soon carry his children as well, and he could hardly wait for the day she gave him blue-haired babies. It would be glorious!

Sadly, that day was still far away, most likely a year or so if she turned out to be less fertile than Sansa.

He suddenly paused in surprise; a year…He had been in this new world for nearly half a year now. The Westerosi kept a weird calendar that made surprising sense: thirteen months of twenty-eight days, with an extra day to celebrate the end of the year. Today was the tenth day of the twelfth moon; he had been here exactly five months by his old world's reckoning, yet it felt as if an eternity had passed. So much stuff happened, and so much more needed to be done until Percy could finally rest with his wife and people in their new home.

That he did not yet know where that new home would be did not matter; Percy trusted that Sansa would figure something out with her brother. He would prefer not to worry about the future too much; as a demigod, having a future where he lived past twenty was a dream come true for many.

He walked past the thousand Ironmen led by Victarion Greyjoy as Roose Ryswell formed them into two columns to prepare for the march. All of them had their legs shackled together, and their hands bound with ropes that connected to each other. If one of them somehow managed to cut away at the sailor knots that Percy personally tied, they would still fail to escape unless they managed to drag along all the other nine hundred and ninety-nine reavers.

That was if they could dodge Roose's lancers before they struck them. Percy had no reason to be merciful or kind to them; he offered them his protection, yet they refused. They spurned him and his father's mercy in stubborn defiance as they clung to their false god and foolish beliefs. Still, he ensured they were clothed in enough wool and fur to survive the day-long march to the ships; the Night's Watch needed warm bodies, not corpses, to man the Wall.

He met Victarion's gaze for a heartbeat; the Iron Captain might be defeated, but he still held his head high. A part of Percy was impressed by the loyalty shown to his brother, but ultimately, he had made his choice. Besides, a thousand other Ironmen were awaiting Percy's command, even if he did not look forward to chatting with Greydon Goodbrother, their chosen commander.

The man took every chance to try to convince him to marry one or two of his sisters.

As he spied the eldest of the Goodbrother triplets forming his men into a column, a voice called out.

"M'lord Percy!"

He turned to find his maid hurrying from his tent. Percy frowned as he noticed a wheelhouse parked outside of it, with Larence standing uneasily with a group of servants. Percy had quickly learned that having a single maid and one squire were not enough to see to his needs, so Raya and Larence quickly gathered a temporary team of servants from the freed Northmen to help with the work.

"What is it, Raya? I thought I called for my tent to be packed."

"Begging your pardon, m'lord, but you have a visitor." For some reason, the girl looked aggrieved, but Percy was more concerned about who would visit a military camp. Or why his men allowed them through.

"Very well, you can stay with Larence while I see what this is about."

He didn't wait for the girl to reply, even though he should have asked for more information. Too late to question it, Percy entered the tent, closing the flap behind him, only to freeze at the blue-haired beauty waiting for him inside.

"Hello, Percy."

"Wylla?" He hugged his lover tightly. "You're a sight for sore eyes, but what are you doing here?"

"Is it wrong for me to check to see if Sansa's husband is all safe?" Wylla pouted and squeezed his arms. "I waited patiently for you to summon me from Barrowton after word arrived of the battle's outcome, but I had to hear about it from Berena instead. So I came with the ship that took some of the Barrowmen home. What took you so long? Did you tire of my presence?"

The minx's big blue eyes were wide and wet, but Percy could practically hear her laughing at him in her mind. Still, he kissed her deeply, enjoying her touch even through her heavy furs as she eagerly reciprocated, glad that he had closed the tent's flap behind him.

Still, Percy reluctantly pushed his lover away.

"We shouldn't do this—there are many eyes in the camp," he said tightly, trying to ignore the tightening of his pants.

Wylla looked more aggravated than anything else, but she eventually nodded reluctantly. "It might damage Sansa's prestige," she murmured. "Let us speak of other matters, then."

"The aftermath of a battle is not really a pretty sight. I was not planning on lingering here anyway, and, as you can see outside, you arrived just as we were packing up." Percy looked around his tent, finding that his maid and squire had followed his orders. His cot was rolled up, all his belongings were packed in his chests, all ready to be loaded on the wagon. Only his suit of armor remained on the mannequin with his shield, though he doubted he would wear it in this weather. "Let's talk outside and let Larence and the others finish packing up. Wouldn't want to invite any gossip."

He led Wylla outside, noticing that the sun had managed to break through the clouds, bringing a bit of warmth. Percy could have willed the clouds away, but they would have instantly returned the moment he let go of his control; he might as well grin and bear it rather than attempt to fix everything, especially as he would rather not bother his father. Poseidon was busy acclimating to the sudden surge in power that having five thousand new worshipers brought him. It was not much, but it was a start, and hopefully, his father would become strong enough not to need the faith of worshipers to sustain him.

After all, no one in America worshiped the Greek Gods anymore, yet they had already planted their roots deep enough that they did not need supplication from the masses.

They stopped by the small crowd of servants outside, all lowering their heads except for his squire, who waited expectantly.

"Carry on, Larence. Everyone is waiting on us now. Pack my armor as well." Larence Snow nodded and urged his helpers to hurry. "Raya, bring the picnic box and follow."

"Yes, milord."

Percy nodded approvingly and led Wylla to the cliff overlooking the river, noticing a dozen Manderly men-at-arms following from a polite distance. He waved them away, and they only reluctantly remained behind after Wylla told them to; diligent guards were appreciated, but Percy did not like an audience as he met his lover. They might not have tried to hide their relationship too much, but they wouldn't be blatant about it either.

Besides, what better protection could Wylla have than himself?

His lover glanced at the young girl following them with a wicker basket in her hands, holding the lunch that he had prepared for the journey, before smirking at him.

"My, have you missed a woman's touch that you have already picked my replacement?" she wondered loud enough for his maid to flinch. "A bit too young for you, my love. Not nearly as curvy as you like them. You girl, how old are you?"

"F-Four and ten." Came the uncertain reply, and Percy deadpanned at the girl. "Nearly four and ten. Three more moons until then."

"I thought you were eleven. One and ten," he explained at her confused look. "You should eat more, Raya. Drink your milk and eat lots of meat and veggies, girl; otherwise, you will always be a twig even if you exercise."

The girl nodded, a small smile blooming as she lightly blushed, though he could tell she was disappointed; he had no wish at all to lead her on, especially as he knew it was just hero worship. Not to mention, Percy really did not like the idea of any kind of relationship between what was essentially master and servant. At most, he would treat the girl as the sister he never had, at least until he made sure she learned a craft and married a good man.

It was strange to think that when he was thirteen, he was fighting titans and monsters that would make the ones of this world look like puppies, yet here, it was more common to seek marriage at her age. Then again, he was barely two or three years older than her, so perhaps Percy had no right to act like a wise old sage.

Sometimes, he felt far older than merely sixteen.

"Oh, so you are even closer to my man in age than I thought! Hmm, now that I look closer, you certainly bloomed as a maiden and comely enough to—ouch!"

Percy pinched his lover's side, causing her to yelp and glare at him with a pout. "Don't even joke about such a thing, you incorrigible girl. I would never betray Sansa's trust, and the only reason we are together is due to her approval."

"Ah, but she did give me approval to seek any woman worthy of you." Wylla's eyes shone with mischief. "Oh, woe is me and my dear sister wife. Sansa had warned me about how insatiable you were, yet it was too much. How could I satisfy a beast like you on my loneso—OW!"

"Calm down, girl." Percy slapped her butt, making sure there was a mist following them in case anyone was looking. Wylla glared at him, this time without a pout, at least until he smiled warmly at her. "I missed you."

Wylla blinked before her face heated up, and she fiddled with her fur scarf. "I missed you, too."

"Raya, you can leave the box here and go help the others," Percy said once they arrived at the picnic spot. "And not a word of whatever you hear."

"Of course, m'lord." Raya blinked and nodded seriously. "Your secrets will follow me to the grave."

They watched as she hurried back to the camp and saw Larence directing her to the wagon where they packed his chests. While he trusted she would not gossip, perhaps he should exercise more caution…not like he could control what Wylla said, however.

Percy waved his hand, sending all the ice and sleet away, leaving a dry field of graying grass, and motioned for Wylla to sit. The grass felt like a comfortable carpet, and with a thought, Percy ensured it would remain dry until they were done. He pulled out two cheese and ham sandwiches from the picnic box along with a skin of wine that he shared with Wylla.

"So, what's with the girl?" his lover finally asked. "I was not entirely joking back then. Men have needs, especially men at war, especially extraordinary men like you. While I would not like it, I would understand if—"

"I already said my piece. My heart belongs to Sansa, and Sansa alone can control whom I share it with," Percy warned, holding his gaze until Wylla nodded, though he noticed a demure smile blooming as well as a slight hitch in her breathing.

Damn, girl, you like it when I'm dominant, huh?

Percy hid his amusement as he handed her a sandwich while he bit into his own. "Raya is just one of thousands of children who are suffering from the silly wars that plague these lands. She lost all of her family when the Ironborn passed by that fishing village where your ship is docked. Still, she has a lot of steel in her spine, and she impressed me when a reaver took her hostage, but she remained stubbornly defiant. Besides, I needed a maid to care for the things that would be too much to ask Larence to do, especially as the retinue I painstakingly gathered from all over the North is either in Winterfell or Barrowton."

"Ah, that is true. I'm afraid I left the staff back in Barrowton to help them recover, and Sansa needed the rest for Winterfell." Wylla chuckled awkwardly. "Still, it's true that you have been running your squire ragged. How did he fare in the battle?"

"Very well."

"Have you decided to knight him?"

"And lose my precious armor polisher? I think not." They chuckled for a moment. "Truth be told, he deserves to be knighted, and not just him, but many others who have proven themselves in battle but are of common blood deserve to be rewarded."

"It's not wise to knight any random warrior with a strong arm, even in war," Wylla warned. "And don't forget that Larence needs to be knighted by the war's end; either under the auspices of the Seven or as a Barrow knight, it matters not. How you train and raise him will make a difference when we petition the king to let him inherit his father's name and land. Sansa is already planning a suitable wife for him as well, so make sure he does not stray into any random harlot's bed."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I wasn't talking about knighthood for the commoners, though. Never mind," Percy rubbed his brow before taking a bite of his sandwich. "Let's eat. I doubt you even slept last night if you just arrived."

"True, I haven't broken my fast yet." Wylla bit into her sandwich and hummed in delight. "I missed your cooking, Percy."

"Thanks. Made them earlier for the road. Besides, I wouldn't call this cooking."

"Still tastier than the hard biscuits that are common when travelling. I miss that wheelhouse you built for Sansa."

"Perhaps we will use it again once this war ends and travel all over." Percy snickered as he noticed how similar this was to having an RV and travelling cross-country. "Maybe I will have someone cook for me this time."

"Yes, that would be for the best." Wylla giggled, and they ate in silence for a few minutes. At some point, she leaned her head on his shoulder as they shared the wineskin while watching the river rushing below them. "So, how did everything go, Percy? And why do I see many of the Ironborn walking free?"

"Well…" Percy explained to her what had happened in the battle as well as the past few days. Wylla listened patiently, only asking for clarification on some matters, but did not interrupt much. Finally, once he was done, she remained in silent contemplation for a long moment. "What do you think? Was I right about keeping them alive?"

"Normally, I would say no, but can you guarantee their loyalty and obedience?"

"Absolutely, those who swore to my father would not dare break their vows. A few of them are opportunistic hypocrites whom I am keeping a close eye on as we head to the coast, while the rest are those too stubborn to convert. Their fate would be the Wall."

"And how did the men react to you claiming you are a son of a god?" Wylla stared at him intently. "You and Sansa had told me about it before, but I still find it difficult to believe. I'm sure the Ironborn would be even more reluctant to believe you, let alone the Northmen."

"It helped that I made quite the show for them." Percy chuckled, and his lover squinted her eyes in curiosity but eventually shrugged. "Regardless, it doesn't matter whether they believe me or not. My father is in communion with the Ironborn, and he assures me they are genuine, that many of them truly could be reformed, and their lifestyle was more a result of their harsh home and not knowing any other option. Give them a chance and they will be a great asset."

"And if they betray us?"

"Then I will kill them myself." Percy's voice grew cold as a gust of wind fluttered their clothes. The mere idea that those people whom he offered his protection would betray him incensed him. If there were even a whisper of treachery, there would be no mercy.

"Very good. I take it the rest of the Northmen were just as surprised by your powers?"

"Well, some of them already suspected I'm more special than just a random sorcerer." Percy snickered as he recalled something else the horses told him through their gossip network. "But a surprisingly vast amount of them think Sansa summoned me through a weirwood by the power of some Stark magic and has me under her thrall. As long as I serve a Stark and fight on their side, they can accept practically anything."

"Oh, but Percy, there is no doubt in my mind that you are under Sansa's thrall." Wylla's eyes turned into crescents as she smiled slyly.

"Can't deny that." They laughed and remained silent for another moment, just enjoying each other's company and watching the world go by. "We will need to leave soon. Will you need an escort back to the village?"

"No, I think I will stay with you until you finish with the Ironborn matter." Wylla's lips twitched upwards as she stretched her arms. "Sansa's orders are absolute; I must stay by your side whenever possible. Especially with those Goodbrother triplets trying to sell you their sisters. The Iron Islands would sink before I would let you marry some pirate's get."

Percy burst out in laughter as he stood and dragged his lover up. "Welcome to the caravan, then. Can I count on you to take over the management of the little club I formed?"

"Naturally, I would not have it any other way. Perhaps I will take little Raya under my wing as well. I lack a handmaiden now that I have left Berena in Barrowton. Not to mention, adopting a young orphan into my budding household would be a good idea. Unless you plan to collect more strays from the wild?"

"Who knows? We will have to wait and see if there is a surprise waiting for us by the coast. Now, let's get going. It's a day's march to the Saltspear, and I would rather make it before evening."

Wylla hooked her arm through his own and together, they made their way back to the waiting army. He helped her up on her wheelhouse before he mounted Blackjack.

Then, they were off.

The Saltspear

Percy frowned as he watched the distant ships anchored far away, almost halfway to Cape Kraken, while a small port held a handful of them. He sat atop Blackjack on a hill where only he and his companions could be seen; the rest of his small army had yet to catch up.

Nevertheless, they had already been seen by the Ironmen, who were on high alert and had fallen back to their ships. Percy had let the scout who saw them go, for it did not matter even if they set sail. The little settlement they built had no walls and was completely open to an attack from inland, especially a cavalry charge. The only reason they had not sailed away was thanks to Greydon, who was holding the Goodbrother banner.

Percy glanced at the sky, finding he had at least two more hours before sunset. They had made excellent time as they traveled the ten-mile journey in less than eight hours. Even with the shorter days, that left them enough time to get the skeleton crew of the fleet to surrender, but he would rather not spend the night on any of the ships.

Just watching the waves gave him an ominous and alien feeling that Percy never imagined he would have when describing the sea. By all rights, the Saltspear was part of the North, surrounded on all sides by the Barrowlands, the Neck, and Cape Kraken. Every instinct of his being as the Guardian of the North clamored to assert his dominance over the gulf.

And yet, his instincts as the son of Poseidon warned him that this was a corrupted sea. A foul influence emanated from it and would need to be purged. No doubt the Drowned God's doing.

"We will camp here for the night. Bring Victarion over." Percy paused for a moment, deciding to err on the side of caution. "And bring my shield as well."

"Yes, my lord." Larence wheeled his horse around and shouted orders to set up camp.

Groans of relief sounded out as those on their feet collapsed from the heavy pace he had them go. Percy spied Wylla swiftly taking control of the camp followers. Soon, tents and pavilions were raised, and a perimeter was drawn with stakes and wagons.

Larence hurried back to him with his shield, which Percy strapped to his back. "Good lad, now go and guard my tent."

His squire looked reluctant. "A squire's duty is by his master's side."

"Not this time, Larence. I need you to guard my tent and the others." Percy stared at him pointedly until his eyes widened and he finally nodded.

Percy watched him rush back to his tent just as Victarion Greyjoy approached them, led by one of Greydon's brothers. "It is time."

The man nodded solemnly, and with a small retinue of the Ironmen loyal to Percy, they approached the port, leaving their horses behind. His most loyal men were the Northmen protecting the rest of the captives, as well as Wylla; he alone was enough to deal with these fools.

"Any chance you had a change of heart, Victarion?" Percy broke the silence as they approached the village.

"Does it matter?" the Iron Captain rasped, stubbornly holding his gaze. "You have already offered your mercy, and I rejected it…even if the prospect of a more benign god to follow is tempting."

"It's not just about following a god who understands and is sympathetic, Captain," Greydon replied. "He promises an afterlife to his chosen ones. A true one."

"You still call me Captain?"

"Aye, it is not too late, Captain. Renounce the demon who held us in his yoke and accept the one true God of the Sea."

Percy stared in slight shock at the near-fanatical worship in Greydon Goodbrother's eyes. Even his brother mirrored the worship, which confused Percy more. To be honest, he had held reserves over House Goodbrother ever since he learned the origin of their name, yet perhaps he was unfair in his judgment.

Victarion, for his part, remained silent, refusing to either accept or reject the invitation.

"Goodbrother, what are you doing with a Greenlander in tow?" one of the sailors shouted from the ship's prow once they were close enough. "And why the fuck is the Iron Captain in chains?!"

"You recognize me, so heed my command, Sargon Botley," Victarion called back. "Surrender the ships to their new master. We have lost."

Several whispers and mutters came from the five ships moored on the makeshift dock. Percy frowned as he realized they did not sound as surprised as they should be.

"So it is true, then. The Damphair was right!"

Victarion froze at the title. "Aeron is here? Where is my brother?"

"Why should the Drowned God's high priest bother with traitors like you?" Sargon Botley roared out, spewing a slew of curses. "He warned us that you have turned craven, refusing to join him in assaulting Barrowton, and that the Drowned God had forsaken you when you surrendered to the heathen."

Victarion glanced at him, but Percy did not look amused. He touched the trident hanging on his belt, causing the defeated captain's eyes to widen. "Damn you, you know nothing! Surrender now, or you shall all perish. Where is my brother? Bring him here and I—"

"I'm here, brother."

An ominous voice rang out as squelching footsteps heralded the arrival of the strangest man Percy had seen in a while. Aeron Greyjoy was thin and tall with a beak of a nose and very long and messy hair tangled with seaweed. Yet something was very wrong about this man, this…creature.

He was nothing like a human. Not a living one.

Aeron Greyjoy looked like he had spent a lifetime under the sea, but the water never let him go. His skin was pale, bloated, and waxy, stretched tight in some places and sagging in others, like softened leather. A cold, bluish-gray hue stained his flesh, the color of drowned things—bloodless and water-saturated. His lips were dark, almost black, and drawn back slightly from the gums as if forever mid-breath or mid-scream. His eyes were clouded with a filmy, milky sheen, unfocused and eerie.

Percy unsheathed his trident and instantly had it stretch to thirty feet as it pierced through the heart of the man. The Damphair did not even flinch, though a wide grin tore through the algae and barnacles on his face as he grabbed the trident tightly.

"That's my brother, you—"

"I don't know about your brother, Vicky, but this has been long dead," Percy grunted as he tried to pull away, but the monster did not budge. "This is but an undead thrall of the demon you used to worship."

Victarion Greyjoy stared in shock even as his brother chuckled ominously. The sound was echoing and obscene, grating heavily on Percy's ears.

"You have come to your death, heathen." Damphair tried to pull his trident, only to frown as it would not budge. "Perhaps you truly are more powerful than I first thought."

"Lord Percy—" Greydon and his brother called out as he unsheathed their swords, only to hide behind their shields when the sailors loosed arrows at them from the ships. The rest of his men surrounded him with their shields, though Percy noticed one particular reaver angling his way to his blind spot under his armpit.

Already, huh? Perhaps I should have worn my armor.

"You shouldn't have come here, heathen. Now die!"

Many more arrows were loosed at them just as a shout came from behind him.

"This is for killing my father, you—"

Scoffing, Percy stopped trying to pull away the trident, and his hand latched out like a viper, grabbing the blade about to stab him. He clenched his fist, crushing through the steel even as he tore his palm open, then grabbed the traitor's face, his eyes wide in shock, before he gripped tightly.

The sound of a head squelching like a ripe melon froze everyone around him. Even the Damphair looked intrigued, while Victarion grimaced heavily.

"Damn you, Lenwood."

"Enough of this farce." Percy gripped his trident with both hands, the blood and brain matter making it slick, but with a thought, his hands were clean and dry. Then, he lifted with all his might.

His feet sank into the stony shore, but he roared out as all his muscles bulged in exertion, and impossibly, the entire ship that the Damphair stood on was lifted from the sea. Screams of shock and terror came from the few sailors on the ship, while even the Drowned God's apostle looked surprised.

Not more than Percy, as he finally realized how the creature could resist him. His lower half was somehow fused to the deck—no, the entire ship.

"Take cover!"

Not waiting for the men to react, Percy slammed the ship into the one beside it, crushing both ships into splinters while the sailors screamed and gurgled in death.

Willing the trident to retract, Percy was about to finish off the rest of the ships, surrender be damned, only for an unholy roar to rip through the port as something sprang out of the destroyed ship. Something hideous, large, and with many, many tentacles.

"Aw, fuck off, you Davy Jones rip-off!" Percy couldn't help but growl as the ship-sized kraken wannabe roared at him, but the next moment, it did something unexpected.

It roared again, but this time, it was a shrill screech carried across like a thunderclap. Something pale lifted from the ground, something that screamed in terror as it flew to the monster's gaping maw and disappeared down its gullet.

"By Poseidon, was that Lenwood?" Gormond Goodbrother muttered only to flinch as the monster roared again and sent a tentacle flying at him.

Percy huddled behind his shield and took the heavy blow with a grunt. A terrified shriek tore out from the camp.

Wylla!

"Fall back to the camp," he shouted. "I will handle things—"

A choking sound came from beside him, and Victarion Greyjoy collapsed to his knees as he stared in disbelief at the monster his brother had become. He gasped and slowly turned to him, eyes full of regret.

"You were right." A pale thing, his soul, slowly but surely tore from his body. "May Poseidon accept my fealty in death even as I denied him in life."

Percy's eyes were wide with shock as a veritable cloud of souls came from behind. The prisoners, those who were too stubborn to accept him as their master and Poseidon as their god. Suddenly, the kraken screeched again, its tentacles flying out to grab the sailors in the two remaining ships and shoving them into its gullet, just as the cloud of souls joined them.

Victarion collapsed, dead on the ground. Whether his soul was consumed or he found salvation with Poseidon, he did not know.

"Fall back!"

His men didn't argue and scampered away, only for many tentacles to crash where they stood. Several were crushed, yet their souls were instantly whisked away to the east, away from the demon's insatiable hunger.

Percy sliced the tentacle that had crushed Greydon Goodbrother. The eldest of the triplets stared at him in contentment even as his brother shouted his name. Before Percy could do more than urge Gormond to run, something grabbed his ankle, and he was whisked into the sky.

For one moment, Percy saw the setting sun in the distance before he looked down and found the Saltspear rushing below him. The sea felt unwelcome and vile and filled him with disgust.

But not as much as the kraken that seemed to have tripled in size, waiting for him.

 

Notes:

The Drowned God strikes!

Percy feeding his blood to the Ironborn finally came to bite him. Their loyalty to him turned fanatical…and so did their hatred.

Chapter 44: Halepis

Join me on Discord for story discussions, character portraits, and more! Discord code is vN7sTYhEp6.

This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.

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Percy wasted no time, shrank his trident to a dagger, and held Aegis in front of him as he plummeted towards the kraken just as it swung a massive tentacle at him. Not waiting for it to blow him away, Percy swung Aegis with all his might, just as the tentacle was about to strike him. His shield's sharp edge tore through the rubbery muscle halfway before it was stuck, but it allowed Percy enough leverage to climb on the tentacle, pull the shield out, and dash down the limb towards the head.

The monster roared, and more tentacles whipped his way, but his dagger grew into a long sword, the wings of the trident forming a crossguard. Percy spun and jerked out of the way of each limb, and his sword lashed out, cutting those who came too close into ribbons with each swing. The black blade glistened with blue ichor, with the golden lines shining bright underneath, as if excited.

Percy could have sworn he heard something whisper in his mind as he stared at his blade before another tentacle struck him. He lifted his shield swiftly enough, but the sheer weight sent him reeling. It was only the blade stabbed into the tentacle he stood on that allowed him to keep his footing, and even that was almost yanked out of his grip. Percy swiftly sliced at the offending limb but had to retract his blade as another tentacle threatened to grab his ankles; once bitten, twice wary and all that.

Judging by the gaping maw of the monster, it was clear what it was aiming for as it consistently tried to grab him rather than strike him. And how many fucking tentacles did it have?!

A curse tore from his mouth as he glanced at a tentacle he had cut earlier and saw its flesh twisting and wriggling back into form. Of course, it would have a healing factor! The damned thing was so massive that half its body was submerged, yet the visible part was larger than a castle's walls.

More tentacles sprang up from the sea, and Percy prepared to dice them into calamari. Suddenly, he flinched as the tentacle he was on abruptly dipped and, for a few seconds, he found himself hanging in midair. His instincts screamed at him to dodge, but knowing that was impossible, he did the next best thing, just as two more tentacles sprang to catch his legs.

He twisted his body and, with the same motion, using all the dexterity he could muster, swung both arms at the same time. His sword sheared one tentacle clean through, while his shield bit into another, stopping it in its tracks long enough for his blade to follow up and cleave through the limb. Not stopping for a breath, Percy used the severed limb as a platform to jump away from more attacking tentacles. The monster was growing even more frustrated, and Percy hopped from one tentacle to the next, cutting any limb that came close to catching him.

He was barely a dozen feet from the monster's maw, and Percy could almost imagine the hundreds of souls it consumed screaming in agony deep in its gullet. This was his chance. He prepared to extend his blade into a trident and pierce through one of its many eyes. The creature was truly monstrous, with its many eyes and countless limbs; even its tentacles had eyes on them!

Just as Percy was about to strike, something gleamed from the creature's maw, and he hastily placed Aegis before him, blocking what looked like a massive barbed tongue that erupted with a crack.

Damned thing was so fast it broke the sound barrier!

He grimaced as the heavy strike sent him reeling and unbalanced, but before he could cut the offending limb, it swiftly retreated into its maw. Countless tentacles seemed to go mad as they tried to strike him, and he knew he would not be able to dodge or cut them all. He sliced and blocked and parried, all the while he tried to fall to the sea and try to come up with a new strategy, but the tentacles were relentless.

Finally, one particular tentacle managed to grab his shield and pull it and his arm away, even as the sharp edge dug into its flesh and fresh blood burst out. Percy barely managed to cut it away before another tentacle flew towards him, and he knew he would not be able to dodge, let alone deflect it. And he was still midair!

Percy willed the sea to climb to his level so he could step away on it and—

The sea didn't listen.

"Fucking piece of—"

The tentacle slammed into his hastily presented shield like a baseball bat and sent him flying deeper into the Saltspear. He skipped on the water a few times before finally managing to stop himself and sink into the gulf. Percy groaned as he felt the aches in his body, but what surprised him was that the aches were fading despite his apprehension of this sea. Opening his eyes, he saw some fish swimming curiously nearby; they seemed normal enough, and Percy could feel the water far better than when he was on the surface.

"What are you looking at?" He grunted at a dolphin; it was different from the few he met in the Shivering Sea. It had a longer snout, and its eyes were sharper, though they hid no small amount of cunning as well.

"A human. A human who is somehow not getting wet despite being underwater. Oh, and he can talk to me. Joy, I'm going mad, aren't I? And that trident…ugh, the gods must be walking among us again, or maybe the world is ending?" The dolphin rolled its head before swimming away, leaving Percy gawking as he heard it muttering about being too young and pretty to die.

Okay, that was quite the normal interaction with the denizens of what he assumed would be a demonic sea. Percy stared around, finding several schools of fish going about their day, occasionally looking at him curiously—no, not at him. They were looking at his trident. He held up the weapon that he had claimed from the hands of a dead god, and the fish followed it as he moved it from left to right.

Huh. Cool.

"So, do you have some kind of secret in you?" Percy's gaze flicked at the dark blade of the trident, and he nearly dropped it when feelings of glee flooded his mind. "Okay, that was weird as hell."

Percy took a deep gulp of the sea, finding that it was not as vile as he had first thought. Or no, there was still something queer about it, but as he stayed more in it, he realized that he was acclimating to it. And his trident was seemingly helping him. Slowly, the murky waters seemed to clear, and Percy noticed how saltier the sea was than the Bite.

"Makes sense. The Salt Spear." Percy stared at the weapon in his hand that seemed to drink in all the murkiness and vileness that the Drowned God had infected this sea with. "Halepis!"

Brine Edge…or at least that's what he meant it as, but Percy couldn't help but chuckle at its other meaning: Severe Headache. The name just came to him, and he could almost imagine Halepis tilting its metaphorical head before it shook from happiness in his hands. Suddenly, Percy could feel the sea around him in a way he could not when he was on land. He now understood why the sea refused to listen to him earlier; unlike the Shivering Sea, the Bite, or the Narrow Sea, it had been under the thrall of the Drowned God for too long and did not acknowledge him as a son of the sea.

But with Halepis, the symbol and weapon of the Merling King, in his hand, the sea was quick to shrug off the yoke of its overlord. It helped that it was surrounded on all sides by the North, and Percy's influence from the land could be felt even from here. While the influence of the Drowned God could still be felt, it was quickly receding further to the west, even as a repugnant roar echoed from the depths.

"Roar all you want, bitch. The Saltspear is mine," he declared, not hiding his glee.

Percy quickly brandished his blade at the sight of the kraken barreling towards him with speed. All the fish swam away in terror at the sight of the monster, and only a fool would fail to notice how incensed it was.

"What's wrong, Davy Jones? Did I take away your toy?"

The monster roared again, sending its tentacles flying at him, but Percy was now in his element. He grabbed Aegis and, with the help of the currents, sent it flying with a roar. The thin streak of silver near instantaneously covered the distance between them and cleaved through three of its tentacles before shearing off the top of the monster's head and continuing to fly into the distance.

The sea rumbled from its roar of agony as blue blood poured like a flood, even as the monster was once more healing itself, though Percy thought it was not as fast as earlier. Not wasting his chance, he torpedoed towards it, Halepis turning into a winged spear once more. The weapon morphed far more easily now, quicker than a thought and without tiring him at all. The kraken was still alert enough to see him coming, and tentacles were swift to bar his way, yet Percy easily swam around them. No, to call it swimming would imply that he did any sort of effort. The sea eagerly moved him as if he were flying.

Percy did not feel any friction or tension from the water. No pressure, no weight, not the slightest bit of hindrance—it was even easier than if he were floating in the air. Dodging the tentacles was as easy as breathing, and before the monster knew it, Percy was below it, aiming his trident upwards and willing it to extend as far as it could go!

When dealing with an enemy that seemingly healed from every wound, take it away from its home ground.

Halepis laughed in his mind as it flew into the creature's belly, pierced through it clean through until the winged blades were lodged into its skull. Percy blinked. He did not think it had a skeletal structure. The spear lifted the kraken for hundreds of feet, breaking through the surface of the Saltspear, sending several boats reeling, and going even further until Percy finally willed it to stop. He couldn't help but laugh along with his weapon as he sent its butt all the way down to the seafloor. The Saltspear was shallow, and after two hundred feet, Percy felt it lodging itself into the ground.

"Damn, that was awesome."

Satisfied, he raised his left hand, and the Saltspear shifted, hurling Aegis back to his hand. He willed the sea to bring him up, and in a few heartbeats, he had broken through the surface to find himself surrounded by the Iron Fleet. Yet, the Ironborn were far too busy staring at the grotesque monstrosity that squealed in pain as Halepis skewered it like a kebab a hundred feet above the sea. Without the sea nurturing it, its wounds were no longer healing, and soon its struggles became weaker and weaker until it could not even move anymore.

"T-The Drowned God's Apostle!" a voice quivered from one of the ships. "I-It's not healing."

"Did the heathen defeat it?"

"No! That's impossible. The Damphair promised us ultimate victory and that the Drowned God is invincible at sea!"

Percy chuckled before jumping on board the closest ship and was met with scared flinches and eyes full of terror. "I suggest you surrender."

"Die, heath—" before the sailor could even charge him with his seax, Percy waved his hand and the entire ship came to life.

Cordage and lines, sheets and barrels, all of them seeming to grow a life of their own as they flew towards the dozen or so sailors, knocking them down before swiftly binding them. Not wishing to waste time, Percy directed the ship to sail away towards the coast, where he knew his men were in a fight of sorts.

He worried about Wylla and the rest, but he knew he had to make sure that the demon was truly dead and that the Ironborn were no longer a threat before he returned to shore. Many prayers flooded his mind, both from his retinue and the Ironborn who had sworn fealty to him, and while they were indeed in danger, Percy instinctively knew that the best way to save them was to deal with the demon.

Satisfied that the ship would sail on its own, Percy jumped to the next ship but did not waste time offering surrender. Abusing his powers over ships, it did not take more than ten minutes before all one hundred ships had their skeleton crew bound in ropes, and the ships were sent to shore. It was not something he could do easily, as even now, he barely had any control over the ships, and some of them would surely run aground or strike a reef. Especially as the sun had already set, and he could barely see the shore anymore.

And that was with the Saltspear helping him along, as Percy could feel the onslaught of exhaustion threatening to take over.

His wounds had not yet healed, and his bones ached, and his innards still felt tender. Percy was sure he had cracked several ribs, and even with the sea healing him, it took time for the bones to heal. He coughed out a globule of blood and grimaced as he touched his side. One of the broken ribs was poking through his lungs.

Percy gasped as he felt a slight drain to his powers just as a particularly frantic prayer reached him. He gritted his teeth as he realized who was praying for his aid, but Percy also recognized that there was nothing he could do, even if he rushed to the shore with all haste.

Even if it meant he would have to leave Wylla to fend for herself, Percy had faith in her and his men.

He shook his head as he turned back to his eldritch foe. With the Ironborn dealt with, Percy could focus on the monster that still wheezed despite being impaled by his spear.

Fucking hell, that sounded all sorts of wrong.

"Now, what to do with you, Aeron Greyjoy?" Percy willed the sea to form a column, and he sat on a throne of salt and water and seaweed as he glared in disdain at the demon before him. "I can simply keep you here for all eternity as you feel endless torment—this sort of demonic possession does not come without cost. How about you surrender those souls that nurture you and pass on from this corpse you are possessing?"

"D-Damn you, h-heathen!" a weak voice gurgled from the creature, yet it was still full of indignant rage and pride. "I should have recognized that cursed blade. I would have beaten you if not for—"

"Ah, so it was the Drowned God himself I was speaking to, not one of his lunatics." Percy blinked in surprise before his smirk grew wider. "Spare me the pathetic excuses, Grey King. I do not need a magical blade or shield to beat you."

With a thought, Percy accessed a part of his power he rarely used. He raised his hand and narrowed his eyes as he could feel the lifeblood still inside the monster respond to his call. The kraken recoiled in terror as he forced its blood to flow the opposite way, down to its heart, or one of its hearts. It really was more of a squid than a monster, despite all the extra eyes and tentacles.

As Percy felt the monster's blood flooding its heart, a searing migraine struck him, but he endured. Smirking, he formed a fist, even as the kraken's many eyes widened before screaming in agony as its heart burst.

"What will it be? Surrender the souls, and I know that you will be able to return to whatever hellhole you were in."

The Drowned God was unwilling, yet when Percy formed another fist, it screeched in rage before suddenly falling limp.

A voice echoed in the wind, oozing with malice. "You may have won this time, heathen. But I will be better prepared. Aeron was but one of many apostles, and I have far more dangerous ones. Soon, I will have you before me and feast on your flesh and soul!"

The ill wind turned into a hurricane, but Percy grunted as he waved his hand, banishing it westward into the Sunset Sea. Once he was sure the demonic ancestor of the Greyjoys was gone, he let out a long, tired sigh, sagging in his throne of seawater.

It was a bluff…and it had worked. Percy lacked the strength to move, let alone fight further or repeat the stunt, not with his head throbbing and ready to burst from pain. Forget him even using this in battle; the moment he focused on controlling an opponent's blood, even a squire could bum-rush him and kick him in the groin.

Percy wiped the blood pouring from his nose and watched as the many souls trapped inside the creature burst out in waves of light that lit up the night sky. They seemed confused, lost, and unsure. Some of them looked to the west, as if expecting something, but quickly seemed to realize how they had been abandoned by their god and bowed to him in relief.

"Thank you, Perseus." He did not know who it was; it could have been Victarion or any of the other souls who were trapped in the demon, but they all seemed grateful.

"Should have taken my offer earlier. You are free to go now. May you serve my father well if he takes you. If not, then may you prove to be better people in your next life."

The souls looked chastised, and one by one, they flickered out of existence. Percy sighed and groggily stood atop the wave. His head was swimming, and he could tell that the Saltspear was the only thing that kept him going. The battle was not even that long, but it felt like he had been fighting for weeks. He could go all day and night in a normal fight, but his struggle against the kraken took too much out of him.

Or perhaps it was claiming this sea? The Saltspear was now his, not Poseidon's, but his own. Percy could feel everything in the sea, all the way to where it met the Sunset Sea. A few things at the bottom of the sea intrigued him, but for now, he needed to return to shore.

But first, what should he do with this massive carcass?

Earlier, at the camp

Wylla knew something was wrong when all the captive Ironmen suddenly screamed in agony.

"What the devil is wrong with you, Tris?" A loyal captain, Baelor Blacktyde, who had converted to the Seven when he was a ward in Old Town and followed Percy due to a vision from the Father, grabbed a young man from House Botley.

Many of the captives continued to scream and convulse unnaturally on the ground. The loyal Ironborn tried to hold them down, but to no avail. Wylla stared at the scene before her for a moment before snapping her fingers at Percy's squire.

"Prepare for battle. To arms, boy, TO ARMS!"

Many of the men stared at her strangely, but her men-at-arms were instantly by her side as she continued to call for anyone who would listen to grab a weapon. Percy's personal guard quickly followed suit as she fell back to his tent by the mouth of the Barrow River. She called for the servants under her command to surround the tent with carts and arm themselves.

Larence Snow echoed her call as he rallied Percy's army to his side and called for the Ironborn to abandon the captives.

And not a moment too soon.

A bloody wail broke through the night, even as a monstrous roar echoed from the coast. Wylla turned to where one of the captives savagely bit a guard's ear, causing the screaming. The Ironborn gurgled like a beast as he tore off his guard's ear and struggled madly against his bindings, until another Ironman stabbed him in the heart.

The man did not flinch and continued to struggle until it finally tore out of its bindings.

"What devilry is this?!" Baelor Blacktyde breathed harshly as he stared at the young man he had stabbed in the heart, yet still continued to struggle. "This isn't Tristifer. A demon has possessed the boy!"

"Gather yourself, damn you! And you call yourself Ironborn?" Roose Ryswell shouted atop his horse as he led his horsemen and the Bolton halberdiers to form ranks around the small camp. Several of the Ironborn answered his call and quickly joined their ranks, and soon, they were all lined up for battle, despite their exhaustion.

All the while, the captives continued to scream and struggle, their eyes gleaming an evil red, until they finally tore through their bindings and dashed towards them, growling like drooling beasts.

"Loose," Ryswell called for his archers, and dozens of arrows flew true, striking the mad men in vital spots, yet they did not slow down at all. Roose's eyes widened as he called for another volley, but with similar results. "Bloody sorcery! Archers, fall back. Riders dismount. Pikes and halberds to the front!"

Wylla watched as the men abandoned their horses and waited with bated breath until the army of madmen crashed into lines of spears, pikes, and halberds. Her eyes widened as she saw them push themselves through the blades, ignoring how they pierced through their bodies, caring only to grab the men behind the weapons before savagely biting or clawing at them.

Their foes felt no fear or exhaustion as they clawed through steel armor and boiled leather, failing to do naught but tear their own hands to shreds. Yet through sheer numbers and savage brutality, they managed to bring their men to the ground and reach through the gaps of their armor.

Helmets were torn off as the beastly men gouged eyes, bit off ears, and tore noses. Gorgets were pried open, exposing the necks beneath.

Men died in their dozens as nothing seemed to work; stabs to the heart did nothing. Cutting off their heads seemed to work for a moment, but then the bodies continued to shamble aimlessly, looking for an enemy to kill.

She could hear Roose Ryswell screaming orders for the men to aim for the heads, but Wylla could tell that it was not enough. Whatever eldritch magic had taken hold of these corpses did not care whether they lacked a head or limbs; they still attacked.

"My lady, please fall back." One of her grandfather's men warned as she tried to take a better look. "Lord Wyman would have my head if anything happens to you."

Chastised, Wylla allowed her dozen guards to surround her as they held their weapons tightly, waiting for any foe to break through.

"Gods of spring and stone. Father and Warrior have mercy," the servants whispered around her in worry as the men slowly but surely were being overwhelmed. One of the servants, a boy her age, whispered to the others, thinking she could not hear him. "Shouldn't we leave? We have all the horses here and—"

"Don't be foolish! Leave and go where? Besides, I am not abandoning Lord Percy's charge no matter what," Raya growled as she slapped the craven. The girl lit a torch from the campfire and glared at the others. "If these wights don't want to die, then I say we burn them. Let's see if they can bite us when their flesh has melted off their bones and their teeth rot off."

"Well said!" Larence clapped from where he approached, bloodied but well. He had a score of other men with him, all of them lighting a torch as he grabbed the torch from Raya's hands. "Ser Roose had the same thought, and we will use some of the pots that Lord Percy's engineer had left behind."

"Torrhen, join Larence with your men." Wylla commanded her guard captain, but he still looked reluctant. "I will be safe here."

Her guards exchanged one last look before nodding grimly and grabbing more torches. With that, the squire and the others rushed back into the fray. Their dead were mounting as spears and swords proved useless against the wights; what an apt name her precious new handmaiden had called them. Only the most heavily armored warrior was safe, but sooner or later, even they would tire and be brought to the ground, and the monsters would find a gap in the armor.

Yet even as she watched the men toss the few clay pots holding Bennard's substance into the crowd of wights, followed by several torches, she could tell it would not be enough.

The smell of burning meat was overwhelming, yet the wights still advanced, except now they were on fire. The monstrous things felt no pain, and while Wylla could tell the fire was burning them to ash, it was slow, too slow. They crashed into the defenders once more and spread the sticky flames as they attacked with even more fervor.

Wylla grimaced as she knew the screams of burning men would haunt her sleep for a long time. The men were wavering, and the line was breaking. Roose was nowhere to be seen, and Larence was barely holding the last of the line with Torrhen and her guards as they stabbed madly at the wights' legs, crippling their ability to charge and forcing them to merely shamble forward.

Soon, they would break through and kill them all.

'What should I do? Where is Percy?'

Just as she thought of her lover, a commotion could be heard from the rear of the attacking wights. Jumping on one of the horses, Wylla could see by the lights of the setting sun the honor guard who had escorted Percy to the coast attacking the wights from the rear. For one precious moment, they managed to buy them a reprieve, but she knew they would be overwhelmed if nothing was done.

'If only Percy was here.' But Percy was not here, most likely busy with a terrible foe, judging by the previous primal roar. Wylla wished she could do something, but she was only a weak maiden.

'Someone help us!' A name was whispered in the wind, and Wylla flinched. It was the Ironborn. They were chanting something.

"For Poseidon and his hallowed halls!" a captain roared loudly, spittle flying with every word. "Die already, you twice-cursed fools! DIE!"

Poseidon. Would he answer her prayer? How should she pray to him? Wylla only had a simple wish for the god of the seas. To destroy her enemies. But something Percy mentioned rang true in her.

'Give us the strength to defeat our enemies.'

A hum reverberated in her mind, and a wise and powerful voice replied. "You already have the strength. My son's touch is on you. You need only grasp it."

Wylla blinked. The wights broke through, and Larence and a pocket of her men were surrounded. All of the defenders were being picked apart, and she stared as the wights charged at her like rabid beasts. Realizing she was on the verge of death, Wylla hurriedly called for the horse to calm down just as it was about to rear.

"Easy now!"

"Easy? Are you blind, girl? Those things stink like death and look hungry. I'm out of here."

"Just give me a chance."

It was then that Wylla realized she was speaking to the horse, but she did not have a moment to wonder at her sudden ability before it reared up. Instinctively, she jumped away from the horse with more agility than she ever thought she was capable of. Just in time too, for the wights crashed into it, about to swarm it until several other horses galloped into them, sending them flying.

"Get out of here, lady. Boss would skin me if something happened to you."

It was Percy's horse, Blackjack. Even her little filly was among the herd. Before Wylla could reply, the horses charged into the wights, trampling them under their hooves before relieving some of the downed men.

"Milady!" Raya was by her side as Wylla stood with a groan. "We should run. Or at least jump into the river. Maybe we can swim to the other side."

The river…Wylla did not know what came over her, but she could feel a tug in her belly as she thought about the river. Poseidon said she had Percy's touch on her, and she was confident he did not mean it in a salacious way.

She inspected her surroundings. The servants were either fleeing or fighting for their lives. If Wylla wanted to save them, then now was the only chance. She turned her gaze to the river and wished for it to come to their aid. The fast waters of the Barrow River seemed to stutter for a moment before they ignored her. Ah, she was too weak…or too meek.

Wylla glared angrily at the river and raised her hand. "Come here already, you stupid stream!"

Almost as if it were waiting for her to command it, the Barrow River suddenly changed course as it rushed towards them. Endless waves of water were suddenly at her command, even as Wylla felt her stomach lurch and hunched over. A wight was suddenly before her, but Raya pushed her away only for it to grab the girl by the neck and choke her.

It screamed savagely as it prepared to bite her handmaid's neck, just as another wight dashed towards Wylla. She knew what she needed to do. She had seen Percy doing it so many times and so effortlessly.

Wylla willed the river to crash into the camp. Like a hammer of water, it swept away all of the wights, pulling them off anyone they were attacking or feasting on, while leaving the defenders behind. The corpse attacking Raya was nowhere to be seen, lost in the river as it swallowed more and more wights, even as Wylla collapsed on the ground from the sheer agony twisting in her guts.

The pain! So much pain! Did Percy suffer this every time he used his powers? She could feel warm liquid pouring down from her nose and eyes, as well as a sense of extreme weakness. Yet she would not falter. With one last shout, Wylla forced the river to return to its natural course, taking with it all of the undead monstrosities.

"Milady Wylla!" She could feel Raya beside her as she collapsed. "Let's get you inside the tent and rest. You saved us all!"

Wylla tried to reply, but only a pained cough came out as she greedily gasped for air. Her body was weak, and she couldn't even lift a finger, let alone reply. Yet she could see the men recovering from the onslaught of the dead. They were wet and battered yet stared at her with awe and gratefulness.

"A witch is on our side," a battered Baelor Blacktyde murmured, and it was echoed by many, yet none of them looked at her with fear; only awe.

"As expected from Lord Perseus' salt wife." One of the Ironmen chuckled only for a bruised Larence to kick his shin.

"Don't question the honor of a lady you—"

Wylla stared in confusion as Larence froze, and his eyes widened as he stared at the river. She struggled to sit up with Raya's help, only for her eyes to widen in horror as she saw the wights stumble back out of the river.

"This is madness." Roose Ryswells muttered, holding a broken arm, while blood flowed freely from the gaping hole that was his left ear. "We must dice them to bits. Grab axes and…"

His voice trailed off as the wights suddenly stiffened before collapsing like dolls with their strings cut. Their red eyes faded away to their original color, and soon, hundreds of corpses washed out of the river.

Wylla had no idea how, but she knew Percy had somehow saved them. With that thought, she finally allowed the pain and exhaustion to claim her, and darkness consumed her vision.

Notes:

Halepis comes from the Ancient Greek words Hals (salt) and Lepis (blade or edge). I'm not sure if it's even the proper wording for it, but it sounds cool enough.

I didn't give Percy a divine weapon just so he could use it as a discount Monkey King's staff.

"What is dead may never die, but rises again, stronger." I am taking this phrase to a whole new meaning. The Drowned God can use zombies. Joy.

And Wylla gains a smidgen of Percy's abilities. There are several reasons for that; her being Percy's lover and Poseidon approving of her are easy to guess.