Last Ride to Wintertown

by Wardown

Summary:

The past isn’t dead. It’s not even the past.

There’s a price on the head of Gendry Baratheon. Daenerys Targaryen is trying to put her family’s downfall behind her. The two are thrown together in 1880’s Wintertown, in the midst of a gold rush. The murder of Jon Snow’s past love brings him to the town. Ygritte and Gilly confront their own demons.

So, I decided to attempt to write a Western

In, Gillyflower, First of Her Name, Sploot set the gold standard for heterosexual sex in general, and Gendry/Daenerys sex in particular. I shall have to see if I can match that.

I have been very kindly nominated for a number of awards on the sub-Reddit,
R/ASOIAFFanfiction. Your support would be very welcome

Notes:

• For Sploot, chss, Morrika, the_samovar_is_hot, ValNotThatVal, ThatBishLizzie.

"Don't take no guts to kill a man when he's cuffed!" he sneered.

"Takes guts not to. Be too easy on ya. You'd die too quick. I know an old man who'd like to kill you, Tarly - the free folk way: slow. That's how I'm gonna do it: slow - but the Northman's way. First you stand trial. That takes a fair amount of time, and you'll do a lot of sweating! Then they'll sentence ya. I never seen a man who didn't get sick to his stomach, when he heard the kind of sentence you'll draw. After that you'll sit in a cell and wait, maybe for months, thinkin' how that rope will feel around your neck. Then they'll come around, some cold morning, just before sun-up. They'll tie your arms behind you. You'll start blubbering, kicking, yelling for help. Won't do you any good. They'll drag you out in the yard, heave you up on that platform, fix that rope around your neck and leave you out there all alone with a big black hood over your eyes."

Snow stood up. "You know the last sound you hear? Kind of a thump when they kick the trapdoor catch - and down you go. You'll hit the end of that rope like a sack of potatoes, all dead weight. It'll be white hot around your neck and your Adam's Apple will turn to mush. You'll fight for your breath, but you haven't got any breath. Your brain will begin to boil. You'll scream and holler! But nobody'll hear you. You'll hear it. But nobody else. Finally you're just swingin' there - all alone and dead." He couldn't help it, he actually wet himself, Sam Tarly, who feared no man.

"Enjoy what's left of your life Tarly." The man turned, then closed the door in him, leaving him all alone in the darkness.

Chapter 1: The Arrival

Hells on Earth! That was his first thought, as he rode into Wintertown, at dusk. Men didn't come to this place, unless they were blind optimists, or out of luck, or had made bad choices. Often, those went together. Gendry suspected that all three applied in his case. He'd failed as a farmer, failed as shopkeeper, and failed as a bank robber. So, here he was, riding into the arse end of the world, where all the planet's flotsam ended up. Wildlings, Northmen, Southrons, Easterlings, all hating each others’ guts, he had no doubt. But, gold had been struck, and that drew them like flies to a midden. He'd ridden past the squalid camps of the miners, up the Kingsroad. Perhaps one in a hundred of them would actually succeed in making their fortunes.

Of course, there were fortunes to be made. Bar owners, brothel keeps, proprietors of gambling dens, merchants who sold mining gear, beasts, and fodder, they all profited.

Thank the Gods he had a horse, and a pair of six-shooters, strapped to his waist. There seemed to be a permanent running battle taking place, in the Main Street, as drunken men took their boots and fists to each other. Still, they stepped out of his horse's way, sharp enough. There was one thing he was good at in life. Killing. Another reason for him to fetch up here. There were reward notices, everywhere South of the Neck, offering a bounty for him, dead or alive. Around him, men and women, screamed, hollered, laughed, jeered, pissed in the street, and fucked. "I can give you a good time, dearie", proclaimed one elderly whore, blue-veined breasts exposed to his view. Honestly, he'd rather fuck a porcupine! But, you can never tell what will light the fires in other men. He saw one buckskinned brute drop his breeches, and then start pumping away vigorously, with his right hand, as he leered at the drab.

The buildings largely matched the inhabitants. Jerry-built, wooden structures, leaning at odd angles. Looming over all was the ancient ruined castle of Winterfell. There were but two exceptions. The office of the Iron Bank was built in stout yellow brick, with iron grilles on the windows. A couple of guards stood on the veranda, surveying the carnage in the street. They looked ... capable; wary, alert. Ex-army, no doubt. The other was his destination, The Floating Log. A hotel, gambling hall, and cat house, all rolled into one. A place where he might even make a fresh start in life, and the Gods knew, he needed that, even if he was naught but a whores' ruffian. At least, it paid.

The ground floor of the building was brick. Then, three storeys in wood, solidly constructed. He dismounted, as an ostler emerged to take his horse to the stables. As he stepped into the entrance, he was met by a tough-looking redhead woman. Widling, he guessed, self-assured, dressed all in leather, and with the air of a killer.

"Yer guns, please, Mister." Well, that made sense. Drink would be taken, men would gamble, and they might easily reach for their guns, if they lost.

"When yer leave, I'll give 'em back. We've a pack o' killers working here. It's their job to make sure, every person who sets foot in this establishment, is kept safe. Yer don't like it, there's any number of shitholes down the street yer can visit. But, don't blame me, if yer gets yer throat cut."

He nodded and handed over his guns, making his way to a table. On every second table, men were playing cards, with piles of gold dragons and silver stags on the table. Sometimes, even nuggets. The place was clean enough though, which was a rarity, in these parts. He noted the sign for a separate smoking room, for those who must indulge. Another woman came to take his order. He chose the cheapest item on menu, rabbit stew. And, a beer of course.

"Is there a room for the night?"

"One left above the stables. Eighty stags for the night." The same as the meal. A high, but not outrageous, price. "Will you want company, for the evening?" He thought about that. He'd been without a woman for so long, honestly, he probably wouldn't know what to do anymore. And, money was tight. He shook his head. She returned a few minutes later, with the food. It was good, and he ate with some relish. As he looked about, he saw a handful of men standing by the walls, armed, and observant. Much like the bank’s guards. The owner of this place chose well.

”Mind if I join you? “ It was the red-headed wildling. She’d brought him another beer. “Name’s Ygritte.”

“Gendry”, he replied.

”Yer knows yer weapons, that's plain. Y’keep ‘em in good condition. I'd say yer've shot in earnest, am I right? Been in the army?” Gendry nodded.

"But, you're running from trouble. Miners, yes, they've got reason to come here. Ranchers, merchants, them too. But gunmen, they doesn't come here, unless they're running from trouble. Or lookin’ for it. Yer a criminal, aren't yer?” There was no point lying to this one. She saw right through you, he could tell. He shrugged.

"There's a price on my head, down South. But ... there were reasons. The Gods know I'm not a good man, but I'm not an evil one, either."

"Never said y’were. There's many fall foul of the law that're half-decent, at least. And some what wears a sheriff's badge - and they’re the blackest devils in hell. So, why did yer run?"

”It was a bank job. It went smooth as clockwork. I held up the tellers, made sure no one lost their heads, or got hurt. Reassured them even. But, we were betrayed. Half the gang were in cahoots with the sheriff and his men. They were waiting for us, five miles out of town. I was part of the other half. I shot my way clear, but killed two deputies. There’s a rope waiting for me down South.”

”Figures. Must’ve ‘eard that particcler tale, ‘alf a dozen times. You looking for work?” He nodded again.

She nodded, then remarked, "I'll speak to the President?"

”President?”

"The President of this township. The owner of this place." She left, and exited the room, returning about a quarter of an hour later. “Follow me." He did as he was bidden, ascending three flights of stairs, till they'd reached the top floor. Ygritte knocked twice on a red door, then opened it, and ushered him through, closing it behind him.

"You're a woman!" he exclaimed, as the President rose from her desk to greet him..

"So, they tell me", she replied, smiling. And, what a woman! Petite, with silver-blonde hair, exquisite features, and wearing a navy dress of crushed silk. A white-gold necklace, and pair of diamond earrings, completed her ensemble. "A drink? I usually take a sherry at this time of day." He nodded, feeling terribly uncouth. Truth be told, he wasn't even quite sure what "a sherry" was. She poured a large measure for them both, from a crystal decanter. "Please be seated", she remarked.

"My apologies ma'am, it's just I expected ...."

"A township President to be a man?"

"Well yes,"

"I'm the only one in the North. They let women vote in township elections, five years ago." Voting? He'd never bothered. "I prefer to steer clear of politics, but there was a lot of discontent with the way this place is run. Well, you've seen what it's like. Sewage running down the streets, mud for roads, non-existent building controls, water drawn from dirty wells. It's only a matter of time before the cholera returns. So, I was asked to run, three months ago, and I, and my candidates, we swept the board. Not that's everyone's happy about it. Still, we'll come to that in due course. Tell me about yourself."

So, Gendry gave her his life story, from the time he'd left the army, till the time he'd met Ygritte downstairs. As he talked, so he looked around. The decor matched the woman opposite, who he guessed was in her early thirties. Her desk was made of mahogany, with a green banker's lamp atop it. The rest of the furniture was made of the same wood. Bookcases, thick with leather-bound volumes lined the walls, and a plush red and black carpet covered the floor. She had this wonderful knack, Gendry thought, of making you think you were the most important person in her life, as she questioned him about his past. Even his name sounded like a caress, when it came from her lips. She spoke Common perfectly, but with a slight accent.

”This township is a vicious place,” she said eventually. “There’s two families, the Freys and the Tarlys, who are the worst. They murder with impunity, rob the miners, rape, when they can get away with it. Women are trafficked into their whorehouses, then “broken in” - I’m sure you’ll know what that means. They’re ruled by two vile old men, Randyll Tarly, and Walder Frey. “Old as dirt and twice as mean”, as they say in these parts. Now, the Gods know I’m no saint, how could I be to run successful businesses in a place like this? But, I do still have some standards.  Fortunately for us all, they hate each other, as much as they hate their victims.  But, my guess - and - it’s no more than that, is they’re just catspaws.  There are old families around here, the Boltons and Ryswells, especially. When I arrived here, we had a rarity, an honest sheriff. His name was Ned Stark, a descendant of the family that once owned the castle. But a year ago, he and his men were caught in an ambush, out in the Wolfswood. That was Bolton work, I’d swear. Unsurprisingly, we haven’t had a sheriff since then. They put a couple of minor Freys in the frame, no doubt they'd offended the old man, and they swung for it. These families hate all the changes that are coming.  They think they’re still in the Middle Ages. And they hate me above all. They think I’m a traitor to my class. When, we held the elections, they bribed heavily, and they still lost. That’s something they won’t forgive.”

”Why do they call you a traitor?” She hesitated, before answering.

"I come from a very old family, which no longer exists. That's all you need to know. I've not used the name I was given, in many years, but the old blood recognise one another." She sighed, perhaps for effect. "The time of nobles, and kings, and knights, is passing. They say there were mighty heroes, and giants, and direwoves, once, in these parts. Their time is so long past, it might as well never have been. We're entering a new age, the age of the common man (and woman). Of course, it's no such thing. It's the age of the banks, and corporations, and lawyers, and accountants, all claiming to rule in the name of the smallfolk, but all as ruthless and profit-seeking, as any robber baron. I could wish it were not so, but what's the point of wishes? I want to prosper in that new age - and maybe do some good along the way. Others, they can't accept what's coming."

"I've gone on too long. I'd like you to work for me, Gendry. You can sort out the terms with Ygritte. No doubt, the Freys and Tarlys will approach you, and probably offer you more than I will. But, they'll want you to do things that'll make your blood run cold when you remember them, in the small hours. And, they'd throw you under the bus, as soon as it served their turn. But, just remember one thing, Gendry.” She gave him a hard stare. “Once you're on my payroll, don't you ever try fucking me over! Don't you ever do that!" There was a decided chill in the room, charm now replaced with menace. Well, she hadn't got to where she was now, by playing nice, he realised.

He rose, before replying formally "I would never do that, Madam President." Then he turned, and left.

___________________________________

He's got a fantastic arse, was her first thought, as she watched him turn, then walk out of the door.  In fact, he was a most striking man, even in faded jeans and travel-stained leather.  She'd fucked the help in the past, and it had been fun at times, but sometimes, it didn't turn out so well.  She had good people working for her, and yet, she was just so lonely.  It was years since there'd been anyone in her life, truly.  In all likelihood, she'd die screaming one day, just as her family had, and she didn't want anyone else caught up in that.  The malice of her enemies, the jealousy of her rivals, and - it could not be denied - her own hubris, had brought her to this place.  She always kept a valise packed, with gems sewn into the lining, in case she had to flee. But, there was something about this man. He'd awakened a spark in her.

___________________________________

Chapter 2: The Dreadfort

Notes:

Warning; This chapter includes a non-explicit description of a rape and murder, and virulent misogyny.

“Savage Sam” Tarly feared no man, not even that old bastard who’d made his childhood a misery. His father was a holy terror, always free with his fists and feet, until Sam had learned to hit back. All had changed, six years back, when he’d met Ramsay Bolton, now his closest friend. “The Beast”, as he was nicknamed, had taught him well. Stop worrying about right and wrong, kill your own conscience, and the world will be yours. So it had proved. He’d killed, robbed, raped, tortured, under Ramsay’s guidance, to the point where he felt - nothing at all. Well, not quite. He’d thoroughly enjoyed beating the crap out of his own father. Oh, he’d left the old cunt nominally in charge of the Tarly gang, to take the heat if the Law ever came after them, but everyone knew who the real leader was, and took his orders.

He’d carried out the ambush that ended the lives of Ned Stark, and his men. Ramsay had told him what to do, and, best of all, the Boltons had put Petyr Pimple, and Perwyn Frey in the frame for it. He’d laughed to watch both men piss themselves, as they choked on the end of their ropes.

Life was good. Men feared him, and women wanted him. “Give me every inch of your fat, pink, mast”, the red-head whore Ros had cried out, a couple of nights ago, as she rode his cock.

Yes, Sam feared no man, save the one whose study, he and Ramsay had just been ushered into. They'd returned to the Dreadfort, the Boltons' ranch.  Roose, the family patriarch, stared at them coldly, from behind his desk. His eyes were like chips of grey ice, boring into your soul, and Sam was put in mind of some naked, clawed, creature, a nosferat stalking its prey beneath cold stars.

"Walton tells me that the pair of you have fucked up." Walton, nicknamed "Steelshanks", a hardened killer, and the manager of Bolton's ranch hands. "I wish to hear it in your own words. And, don't you dare lie to me. I'll know when you lie."

"There were these two wildling sluts ..." began Sam. Bolton held up his hand.

"Please. I wish to hear this from the organ-grinder, not from his his pet monkey."  Bastard.  

"Well, father", began Ramsay, in a wheedling tone. "We found two wildlings, in the Wolfswood. And, we thought we'd have some fun with them."

"You mean, you raped them?"

"Well, one of them. When we were done, well, I had to cut her throat. You know how it is?  Some of these wildling clans, they can turn real mean, if you take their women. It's always best when you have no witnesses." And, what a glorious fuck that one had been. Golden-haired, big tits, and she'd fought them like a wildcat, all the way.  She'd clawed and scratched, before they tied her hands.

"Thank you for that blinding glimpse of the obvious, Ramsay. I take it, you disposed of the body. "

"Yeah, we took her to Wu's." Mr Wu, an immigrant from Yi Ti, who owned a hog farm, on the edge of Winterown. Always be wary of a man who owns hogs, his father had said, more than once.  They will  go through bone like butter.

"Tell me what happened next."

"The other slut, we had her hog-tied, but she slipped her bonds, somehow,  And she got away, and ... she stole Sam's horse".

"And, this happened what, twenty hours ago?  You never thought to pursue her, to silence her for good? "

"Well, I did", replied Ramsay, "but she got away.  Look, dad, it's no big deal.  Yeah, Sam lost his horse, and that's a mighty fine saddle, but come on, there's plenty more horses and saddles out there."

Roose stared at them for a long time.  Sam felt as if there was a rat, scrabbling away, in the back of his mind.  "Sometimes, Ramsay, I wonder if you can truly be mine.  You let a woman escape, a witness to a murder and rape.  What happens if her menfolk come looking for vengeance?  What happens if she goes to the Law?"

"Dad, we've got plenty of killers of our own.  As for the Law, what law?  Ned Stark's feeding worms, so 're his men. Do you think the Law would even care about her? Not long ago, they were putting a price on the head of any wildling who came South of the Wall."

"Times change. You forget, we have a new township President.  She has some formidable gunmen on her payroll.  Ygritte the Red, Theon Greyjoy, Ned Dayne, Brynden Tully.  She's looking to get a new Sheriff elected, and - you should be aware - she's written to White Harbour, requesting that they send a Marshal. Even you must surely understand how dangerous it would be if a federal Marshal were murdered. They'd send in the army, next."

"For a wildling whore?" asked Sam, incredulous.

"They are now citizens.  A foolish notion, but there it is.  They even have a handful of representatives in the Legislature.  People who are quite capable of making a nuisance of themselves, over an issue like this."

"Come on dad, you're starting at shadows.  You can't be afraid of that flat-chested old dyke?  Prattling on about the "rights" of whores, and wildlings, and small farmers."  The township President had once turned Sam down flat, and with an offensive degree of bluntness, when he'd propositioned her, and there was no other man in her life.  It stood to reason, Ramsay had agreed, she preferred her own sex.  No doubt, she and Ygritte  spent every night eating each other out.

"Never fear your enemies, Ramsay, but respect them. Always. That is my rule in life, make it yours. No, find this girl who escaped, make an end to her, and dispose of her body." Ramsay began to protest, only for his father to cut him off. "Never make me rue the day, Ramsay, that I raped you into your mother's belly. Now, get out!"

________________________________________________

Notes:

Mr Wu is a character in Deadwood, who owns a hog farm. The local criminals make good use of the hogs.

The North proper is 1.1 m square miles, with a population of maybe 5m, of whom maybe 10% are Free Folk. There are no detailed records of population, North of the Wall. Perhaps 1m are immigrants, mostly from the South, but some from Essos, Naath, even Yi Ti.

There is widespread discrimination against the Free Folk, but they have been granted citizenship. The Free Folk can choose, either to be enrolled to vote, for a handful of their own representatives, on a separate roll, or to vote at large. Most men can vote at all levels. Women can vote in local (but not State), elections.

As per canon, wildling is a somewhat perjorative term, and free folk is more polite.

For the purpose of this tale, the Dreadfort is a day’s ride from Wintertown. White Harbour is 500 miles away. Steamboats use the White Knife, and the tributary that takes you to within 50 miles of Wintertown. The Kingsroad is gradually being metalled. A railroad runs up the coast from White Harbour to Hardhome, from White Harbour to Barrowtown, and from White Harbour to Moat Cailin. Another runs from Eastwatch to the Bay of Seals.

Chapter 3: Duty and Desire

Gendry agreed a salary of two dragons a week, plus board and lodging, with Ygritte. He took a room in a house belonging to the President, which was let to an amber-skinned seamstress, named Missandei, who it seemed, was friendly with her. She came from some far-distant island he'd never heard of, called Naath. He took his meals at the Floating Log. Six girls and one young man worked there, servicing the needs of customers, usually young men, but occasionally, women. A disgraced doctor came by in the evening, to check potential clients for the clap. "For the only thing they're leaving behind 'em is cash" was how Ygritte put it. The house rules were clear. None of the whores was to be forced to do anything they didn't agree to, and any punter who even thought about using violence on them, could expect a savage beating. Two nights ago, he and Theon had dragged out a vicious young brute named Joffrey Hill, who'd cut up rough when one of the whores objected to being flogged, and they'd worked him over real good, in the backyard. Theon had told him he'd kill him, if he ever returned. The whores worked on their own account, each of them paying the President a rent for using her premises.

"It's not the most respectable of trades" she'd told him, "but, it's a vice natural to men. Like gambling, like smoking, like strong drink." She had firm views about unnatural vice, by which she meant killing for hire, rape, robbery, trafficking of people, abuse of children.

As well as whores' protector, he spent time supervising the dining room and gambling hall, acting as bodyguard where necessary, and doing just about anything that needed doing. He'd accompanied the President, to the Iron Bank, where she'd deposited two thousand dragons, a fortnight's takings, from her various enterprises, which included letting out real estate, logging, and coal-mining. "I never have less than fifty thousand on deposit there, at any one time." That explained why they were ushered in to the manager, Tycho Nestoris, immediately, and he virtually grovelled before her. Afterwards, he asked her, wasn't she worried the place would get robbed. "I mean, I used to rob banks, once upon a time," he'd added. She'd laughed at that.

"You've seen their guards. They're the best you can hire. But, that's not the half of it. Steal from the Iron Bank, and you enter a special kind of hell. You've heard of the Tongs, I imagine." He had. The popular press was full of stories about the wicked antics of Yi-Tish crime gangs, who ran opium dens, and kidnapped Westerosi women, forcing them into prostitution in the Far East. "They've got something similar out in Braavos. They make it a matter of honour to take the lives of people who steal from them or cheat them." He digested that bit of information. Thank all the Gods he'd never raided a branch of the Iron Bank!

Right now, he was splitting logs, in a lean-to behind the hotel, shirt off, under the approving gaze of Ygritte. It had taken her little more than a week, before she'd suggested he join her in bed, one evening, and thank all the Gods, she'd been good! Men were idiots who said that Free Folk (he now knew that was the preferred term) women had no idea how to go about it. Ygritte had been both vigorous, and inventive. He liked her a lot.

But, she wasn't the President.

He couldn't help it, but he fantasised about her endlessly. He could imagine her, splendidly dressed at some society gathering in White Harbour. He, her faithful bodyguard, would help her out of her gown, after it was over, and then, out of her smallclothes. Or riding through the Wolfswood, to see her emerge from some forest pool, where she'd been bathing. Or most scandalously of all, thinking of her working in one of the rooms upstairs, dressed in silk corset and suspenders, beckoning him into her bedchamber. Every fantasy ended in exactly the same way. Dammit! He thought about crushed ice, vinegar, waterfalls, as he swung his axe, desperate to still the growing tent in his trousers.

"He's good at this, isn't he, Ygritte?" Oh Gods, it was her! She'd seen him without his shirt on!

"I'm sorry, Ma'am", he stammered, reaching for his shirt.

"Nothing to apologise for, Gendry." Did she have to say his name? Just the way she pronounced it, with that slight accent, was a seduction! She smiled at him, before asking, "Can you throw a knife?"

"Well enough, I think."

"Good. Ygritte, could you please set up a target?" Ygritte went to do so. His employer brushed a loose silver braid back behind her ear, sending a shiver down his spine as he watched.

His friend returned with the target, and a throwing knife, setting it up about ten feet away.

"Okay, show me what you can do", instructed his employer. He threw, missing the bull by a few inches to the right.

"Again", and so he kept throwing, until he was hitting the bulls eye, more often than not. "I think he'll do" she remarked to Ygritte. He felt a moment's alarm, but she seemed to read his mind. "I'll never ask you to do anything that would make you feel sick to the stomach, Gendry. In the short time you've been here, I've seen that you're a good man."

"I'm a bank robber, Ma'am." She nodded.

"You were down on your luck, and you fell in with bad company. I've met men without a conscience. There are plenty of them in this district. I wouldn't employ such a man. And, not just because they'd turn on you, if the price was right. No, I'm not asking you to carry out a murder. But, I'm going to a meeting with a man I don't trust. I'll want you, and Ygritte to watch my back. I'd rather not use a firearm, if it can be avoided. Is that alright with you? The meeting's at midday tomorrow."

"Of course."

"Good. Ygritte will fill you in on all the details." She turned and left.

____________________________________________

Well, it was pretty obvious the young man was head over heels with her, she thought, as she returned to her office. And just as obviously, he was trying not to show it. Honestly, it was all rather endearing. And, she'd very much liked what she saw as he swung that axe. Flat, perfectly-toned stomach, broad chest, with just the right amount of hair, and strong, well-muscled arms. She could very easily imagine those arms wrapped around her, as she lay her head on his chest. She was honestly, starting to act like her fifteen year old self had, just before her life turned to shit. Caution, first, last, and always. She picked up the note that had been delivered on behalf of that weasel, Symond Frey, reading it over carefully, to see if she'd missed anything.

"Madam President,

It seems that you, and my family, are constantly getting under each other's feet.  Despite this, I consider that our interests ought to be in alignment.  More pertinently, I believe we have common enemies, in the Tarly Clan, and the Boltons.  You may or may not be aware, that the former are merely the enforcers of the latter.  The Old Man, Randyll, has no real power of his own.  It is his son, Samwell, as vicious a brute as this cess pit of a town could produce, that runs the show.  I would like to propose a meeting, at Mr. Wu's farm, at midday tomoroow, where I believe we may settle our differences, and decide how we will finish our mutual foes. 

I await, Madam, your esteemed reply.

Symond Frey."

 

She sat at her desk, and drafted her response.

____________________________________________

Gendry Baratheon as created by ChatGPT 

 

Chapter 4: Blood and Shit

The Hog Farm was as disagreeable as she'd expected. She nearly gagged at the stink, the moment she entered the great barn where they were kept in their pens. And as for the noise! The screeching, honking, snorting, grunting, sounded like the agonies of the damned in the fires of hell. She'd changed out of her usual high fashion, into an old leather jacket and pair of breeches, and thigh length boots. As she looked for Symond Frey, so she slipped more than once, on the slurry of shit and mud that coated the floors.

"Madam President, what a delight it is, to meet you at last." The man had stepped out from behind a pillar which supported the roof. He resembled a weasel, like so many of his clan.

"Well, Symond, you certainly know how to show a girl a good time."

"It's neutral ground. Nothing we say is going to be overheard, and I'm sure, neither you nor I will be put off by a little ordure, underfoot. After all, we've both spent our lives wading through it." Some more than others, perhaps.

"These are hard times."

"I don't disagree."

"My family aren't saints, I'll admit it. But, we did what we had to do to survive. We played no part in the the murder of Ned Stark and his men. That was Sam Tarly and his band, but Perwyn and Petyr got hanged for it. Of course, Tarly was only doing what the Boltons told him." And, you do only what the Ryswells tell you.

"In my experience Symond, rich and powerful men rarely get their hands dirty, in person. They operate through proxies, beasts in the woods, I believe the expression is. I had worked out that those two young men were innocent of that particular crime. Guilty of a whole string of others, but not that."

"Would you say you're in any position to judge us?"

"Where is this going Symond? I thought you had a proposal?"

"You could say that." The man sighed, then pointed at the nearest pigpen. "You know, I grew up with hogs. It was always my job to rise at dawn, and go out to feed them, whatever the weather. I hated the fuckers, still do. All they do is stuff their faces, then shit it out, the other end. Oh, and fuck each other. They go at it like rabbits. You know, they'll eat anything... even Township Presidents", he added, grinning.  So, that's it.  They may hate their rivals, but they hate me, a good deal more.

She looked up. From one end of the barn came a man, bearing a large cleaver in his right hand. Turning, she saw another, with a gun. sauntering towards her.

"This is pretty crude, isn't it, Symond."

"But, quite effective, I think you'll find. I must admit, you've turned heads since you arrived in this place. And, I admire spirit in a woman, I really do. But, you know what, Ma'am, you really are one fucking pain in the arse.  You and your stupid crusades.  Things could have been different, had you only had the sense to keep your head down.  You could have made your fortune, and left the rest of us in peace.  Instead, you'll finish up being shat out the arses of a dozen pigs."

She nodded as she saw Ygritte descending from the rafters, with the stealth so many of the free folk possessed, behind the thug with the knife. Swiftly, she stabbed him in the back, forcing him to his knees, then looped her garotte around his neck, drawing it tight in a flash. He fell to the ground, with her on top, knee in his back. She turned to face the other, who had stopped, a look of surprise on his face. That's when Gendry stepped out of the shadows, and whipped his knife between the man's shoulder blades. His gun went off as he fell to the ground, choking, and flopping about, the knife still sticking out of him. Symond stood frozen in shock, then reached into his pocket. But, she was faster, drawing her own Derringer, and pointing it at his chest.

"I really wouldn't if I were you." He held up his hands. "Funny, isn't it, " she began conversationally, "so often in life, you think you're holding a straight flush, when as it turns out, all you've got is a pair."

He was sweating now, then yammering "Look, this doesn't have to be the end of things. We can work something out ..."

"I tried to, remember, a few minutes ago."

She sensed that Gendry was behind her, as Symond now began to back away, turning to run, but only to find Ygritte, and now Theon, blocking his escape. Just as if he were gutting a fish, Theon stabbed him in the windpipe, and he fell to his knees, hands trying fruitlessly to stop the bloodflow. He coughed and spluttered, and finally lay still.

"What do we do with the rubbish?" asked Ygritte.

"I believe the hogs will eat anything", she replied. "Oh, and Gendry, drop your knife on the ground."

"Why Ma'am?"

"Look closely at the blade"

"I did. I wondered why a flayed man was engraved on it."

"And now you know. The old blood do so love their sigils."

;______________________________________

"Five dragons", said the horse dealer.  "That's my first, best, and final offer."  

"The saddle alone's worth twice that", replied Gilly, indignant.  

"I daresay.  But, neither horse nor saddle are yours, you're in a desperate rush to get somewhere, and the steamboat leaves in thirty minutes.  It's called leverage. Oh, and last, but by no means least, you're a wildling slut, who's got no business mixing with decent Northern folks.  Take it or leave it."

She took it, inwardly promising that she'd return, and gut this bastard one day.  Then, she walked hurriedly away, over to the steamboat office, here at Castle Cerwyn. She bought a ticket for White Harbour, for two and a half dragons, in Third Class, well knowing that her kind weren't allowed anywhere better on the boat. Then she boarded the vessel, terrified that brutes who'd raped and murdered Val would come riding up. She was under no illusions that anyone would come to her aid, if they dragged her off the ship. But, thank all the Gods, there was no one, and with a thunderous roar, they got underway, heading downriver to the capital.

Now, she could dissolve in floods of tears, as she mourned her dearest friend.

Chapter 5: The Reward

“How did you come to meet the President.” For once, Gendry was eating with Missandei, who’d cooked a delicious stew, for the pair of them, for lunch. She'd prepared a bath for him, on his return from the piggery, and he'd scrubbed himself clean. The deaths of Symond Frey and his thugs troubled him, not at all. They'd arrived at a parley, intending to commit murder. The hogs had devoured their corpses in minutes, clothes and all.

Missandei thought about her reply. "All you need to know is that I was a slave, and she set me free. Anything else, you'd need to hear it from her own lips. There's a price on her head, in some parts of the world. Whatever she wants to tell you, that's up to her." Slavery! That was some evil shit, although he knew it went on still, in various places in the world. He didn't follow politics much, but he knew that wars had been fought over slavery, in some countries. Guessing his thoughts, Missandei continued, "Thank all the Gods, the Seven Kingdoms are free soil. The law says that no escaped slave will be ever be sent back from this country; but they're sometimes kidnapped and shipped back. You can imagine what happens to them! A man like Sam Tarly? He wouldn't hestitate to sell me to a slave taker, if he knew my background, and thought he could get away with it."

"Is he the worst of them?"

"Gods no! There's his dear friend, Ramsay Bolton. He wouldn't sell an escaped slave, at least, he wouldn't sell a woman. He'd far rather rape her, and torture her to death. They say he organises "hunts" of young women, on his father's lands. Then, there’s old Walder Frey. He’s pushing ninety, and he’s taken a succession of young brides, so they say. I don’t suppose they’ve got any choice in the matter, and if he tires of them, well I’m told they just disappear. These people are monsters. Jeyne wants to bring the law to this region.” Jeyne Lothbrok was the name the President had adopted, although he knew it was not her real one. "And, she wants a fair deal for the smallfolk."

"She's an incredible woman."

"She is. But, she's made her own share of mistakes. Nobody's perfect."

"Will you stay in this town?"

"Probably. It was hard at first, but I make a fair living, now. Everyone needs clothes. " Missandei's home was small, but clean, and smelled of beeswax. Solidly constructed as well, although that was no doubt true of every property owned by his employer. They talked for a while, before he told her, he had to get back to his work, and she in turn, had a pile of clothes to mend. He thought about his situation, as he made his way to The Floating Log, and for the first time in ages, he realised he was looking forward to the future. He wasn't earning a fortune by any means, but it was a steady income, and there was nothing shameful about it. He had in fact, been approached by one of the Tarlys, a week previously, and had been offered substantially more than his current salary, as the President had predicted. But he knew full well that everything comes with strings attached. And, Sam Tarly's reputation in this town was a foul one.

He spent some time in the gambling hall, then helped out in the kitchen, as one of cooks was off sick. This was a popular venue, despite being expensive, and he'd worked out why. Nobody was cheated, and everyone got exactly what they paid for. The whores, too, were far better off working here than at other establishments in the town. There were rumours that, for the right price, you could do literally anything to a girl, in some other establishments. At any rate, if she was one of the free folk, or had no family. By early evening, he was ready to go home, when he bumped into Ygritte. She got them both a whiskey, and they sat down, talking over the day's events.

"Let's see if Old Man Frey takes the bait", she remarked. "E's got reason enough to 'ate the Tarlys and Boltons, already. If 'e thinks they done in Symond, I think 'e'll go after 'em."

"He might go after us, as well."

"'E might, but that was always a risk. Symond could 'ave got away with his life, but you know the tale of the scorpion an' the frog?" He shook his head.

"It's a tale the free folk tell the young ones. The scorpion asks the frog t' carry 'im across the stream on 'is back. The frog says "No way. Yer'd sting me." The scorpion says "but, I'd drown if I did that." So, the frog carries 'im over, and 'alf-way across, he stings 'im in the back. "Why did yer do that?" cries out the frog. "Now we'll both die." "I know", says the scorpion, "but I can't 'elp my nature." Men like that, they're cruel, stupid, and can't plan ahead. Not like our boss." True enough. She always seemed to plan about six steps ahead. The talked a bit more, before Ygritte said quite bluntly, "So, 're yer coming upstairs with me?" Well, he didn't need to be asked twice. Whatever his feelings for the President, there was little doubt that Ygritte was skilled at stoking what his Sunday School teacher had once called "the deadly fires of lust."

"Give me ten minutes", she told him. By the end of that time, he had to tuck his cock into his pants, it was that hard. He knocked on her door, and entered, to find she was reclining on her bed, wearing nothing at all, smiling wickedly. Gods, she looked good, red-hair unbound, one leg drawn up, showing off her ginger minge. Her body was perfectly-toned, her tits, firm and shapely. He made his way towards her, only to be told;

"I wants to watch yer undress; slowly."

He peeled off his shirt, as she watched intently. "Yer know, Tansy would fuck you for half price, so she told me. " Tansy was one of girls who worked there. "As for Satin, 'e'd do it for free. 'E likes men and women, both."

"Well, that's not happening", Gendry responded swiftly.

"Y'know, I could get him to join the both of us."

"Out of the question, I'm afraid". He dropped his trousers and pants, together.

"I like the sight of that... a lot", she told him. "Wait a moment." There was a peach in a bowl beside her bed. She cut it in half, removing the stone. "You did really well today, back at Wu's. I reckon yer deserves a reward. " She placed half the peach between her thighs. "Now, eat it all up, like a good boy should."

______________________________________

 

Chapter 6: Violence and Memories

Savage Sam was in a foul mood, by the time they reached Castle Cerwyn. They'd asked around, until they found an innkeep who'd confirmed that a wildling on a horse had stopped for a meal, on the way there, a day previously. She'd matched the description of the escaped whore. Hopefully, she'd still be hanging around there, and they could serve her the same way they had her friend, but for the past half day, they'd been riding through the driving rain. It had been fucking miserable. As they rode into the town, he'd spotted the horse that the bitch had stolen from him, in a corral, by the side of the road. He dismounted, with Ramsay, and one of latter's henchmen, nicknamed "Skinner." They called out for the horse dealer who emerged, smiling nervously. He knew the man, Jessup, a notorious rogue.

"Ah, Mr. Tarly, Mr. Bolton? How are you?"

Sam punched him hard in the face, knocking him down. Then he delivered a brutal kick, as the man grovelled on the ground. Ramsay gave him another kick, for good measure, then stamped on him.

"That's how I am, you fucking cunt!" shouted Sam.

"Please sir," begged the man. "I've done you no wrong."

"No wrong? You've stolen my fucking horse. A black mare. You've stolen the saddle too, I've no doubt."

"A black mare, and her saddle." Jessup rose to his knees. "Yes, sirs, I bought her in good faith, yesterday. From a wildling woman."

Ramsay drew his knife, the one he used to flay his victims, and enquired, "And, how much did you pay for horse and saddle? Lie to us, and I'll remove the skin from your face, piece by piece. I'll fry it crisp, and then I shall make you eat it."

"I...I paid five dragons."

"Five dragons! The horse and saddle are worth nearly a hundred. So, you knew this horse was stolen, and yet still you bought it?"

"The wildling slut was desperate. She needed to get on the steamboat for White Habour. How was I to know she'd stolen it from you, Mr. Tarly?" Ramsay exchanged a glance with Sam.

"Well, we won't flay you", said Sam, finally. At least, he'd got his horse back, mollifying him slightly. "But, in these parts, we hang horse thieves." Ramsay nodded, grinning.

"Skinner, fetch us some rope", ordered his friend. There was no shortage of stout cord in a horse dealer's.

"Pleeease ..." shrieked the dealer. He went so far as to clutch Ramsay's ankles, kissing his feet, before his friend kicked the man in the face. "I'll pay you. A hundred dragons!"

"We'll be taking everything of yours, anyway", said Sam, laughing. "You can't buy your life, with what's already ours." Skinner returned, and trussed the man's hands behind his back. Then he wound a length of rope around his neck and forced him to his feet, as the man babbled for mercy, pissing himself with fright, like the no good coward he was. Men show who they truly are, when they face death, and this one was just a mangy cur. Skinner dragged the man into the street, where three Bolton men sat on horseback, along with his younger brother, Dickon. They hooted with laughter, at the sight of the terrified man. Dickon leapt out of his saddle to lend Skinner a hand, as they pulled him towards a stout old oak that grew by the side of the road. There was a small crowd watching them, in silence, but no one was stupid enough to intervene. Sam smiled. These people feared him, and they were right to fear him. He nodded as Skinner threw the rope over one of the lower branches, before he and his brother hauled Jessup up, a couple of feet from the ground, before tying it around a root. He choked, kicked, struggled and then, on a whim, Sam whipped out a gold ten-dragon piece, flipped it in the air, then caught it. "Ten dragons at evens, says he won't last five minutes, Ramsay."

The Beast grinned, then said "Aye, I'll take that. Skinner, time him, would you?' And so they watched, as the the man's struggles rose to a crescendo, before gradually dying away, Skinner looking at his pocket watch. A pool, first of piss, then of shit, formed beneath Jessup's feet, as he choked. Eventually, the man was still, just swaying in the rain.

"Six minutes and twenty seconds", announced Skinner, and Ramsay crowed with laughter. Well, he wouldn't begrudge his friend ten dragons, so he tossed him the coin.  White Harbour, he mused.  What could that slut want in the capital?  Few wildlings lived down that way, and he'd have expected her to return to whichever bunch of savages she belonged to. She'd have little choice but to whore herself out. Down there, it was about the only occupation that would accept a wildling woman.  Still, she was gone, and he doubted she could do much harm, from five hundred miles away. Time to help themselves to Jessup’s horses and coin, before setting his premises alight.

_______________________________________________________

The President sat alone in her office, while these events were taking place, nursing her customary sherry.  As so often, she looked back on the events of her past.  On this occasion, she remembered the time she'd spent an hour under the baking Astapori sun, tied to a post, waiting for Cleon's firing squad to end her life. Back then, she’d been Daenerys Targaryen, strictly speaking, a royal princess. She’d led the city’s slaves in revolt, never once suspecting that some of their number would seek to overthrow her, in turn. She’d spent a week, in a stinking cell, underneath Grazdan’s Pyramid. She’d been surprised to learn she’d be shot, having expected a far worse death. She was even more surprised to learn of her reprieve. Her supporters had rioted, the morning of her execution, forcing the vile bastard to send her into exile instead. Within weeks, the city had dissolved into a welter of anarchy and murder, one of the victims being Cleon himself.

A prince therefore, being compelled knowingly to adopt the beast, ought to choose the fox and the lion;  because the lion cannot defend himself against snares, and the fox cannot defend himself against wolves.  Therefore it is necessary to be a fox to discover the snares, and a lion, to terrify the wolves.

A passage from a book which she wished she'd read, long before she ever thought of leading a revolt.  Well, now she was older, and hopefully wiser.  She had to be, surrounded as she was by both snares and wolves.

___________________________________________

Ramsay Bolton, as created by ChatGPT

Notes:

The quotation is from Chapter 18 of The Prince.

Chapter 7: The Past Isn't Dead. It's Not Even the Past

Notes:

Warning: Non explicit depiction of rape

"Captain, there's a wildling woman wants to speak to you. I tried to turn her away, but she's insistent. Says her name's Gilly." Gilly. Could it be?

"Send her in, Podrick." He rose from his desk, as she entered his office.

"Gilly." He held out his hand in welcome. Gods, he remembered her as an attractive woman, but now, she looked a complete wreck. "What are you doing here? And what happened to you.” She broke down in tears, before gathering herself. The next words were a gut punch.

"It's about Val. She’s been murdered." He sat down, heavily. "How?" he said, eventually.

Haltingly, Gilly described the whole foul, story. They'd been hunting in the Wolfswood, when a bunch of armed men had rode up. On Gilly’s urging, the pair had lowered their guns, and had tried talking their way free. A dreadful mistake, as it turned out. But, they'd been outnumbered, “an’ yer try tellin’ the Law that yer’ve opened fire in self-defence if yer free folk, an’ yer killed Northmen.” Not that there was any Law in that district, anyway, so she said. Then, Gilly had been tied up, while two of them proceeded to rape Val, and then cut her throat. At that point, he felt black bile rise in his throat. The thought of that poor woman's last moments simply made his blood run cold. She deserved so much better. Val, the high priestess of her people, his former lover, and the mother of his son. Val, who’d led the Free Folk in their last, doomed revolt, a decade ago. A beautiful, brave, young woman, the popular press had lionised her, during her imprisonment at Castle Black. Val the Dauntless, they’d called her. The press campaign, and his own intercessions, had likely spared her being sent before a firing squad. But, he should never have left her. He could have saved her life, had he remained by her side. Another sin to add to the weight he carried. It took him some time to collect his thoughts.

"How did you escape?" he asked, finally.

"They didn't tie me properly, thank the Gods. I slipped free, then ran for the nearest ‘orse. They opened fire, but missed, and then I rode ‘ard for Castle Cerwyn. I sold the ‘orse to some bastard who cheated me there." Gilly cried again, and he got up to hold her tight, though he was crying, too.

"Did you recognise any of the men?" he enquired at last.

"Yeh. The men 'oo raped her. Sam Tarly, a vile ‘un. They calls 'im "Savage Sam" in the district. But t'other's worse by far. Ramsay Bolton, the bastard son of a rancher. 'Im, they just calls the Beast. She stared up at him, tears replaced by cold, implacable, fury. "I wants ‘em given to her family. I wants ‘em strung up by their 'eels, and roasted over a slow fire."

Honestly, he wished he could agree. But, the ways of the Free Folk were deemed uncouth. Their methods of execution were seen as proof-positive of their barbarism.  In fact, huge efforts were underway to "civilise" them, following their final defeat. Lands had been confiscated, and the clans broken up, their members resettled in newly-built villages across the North, and told to earn a decent living as farmers and traders. Their language was banned for all official purposes, and they must use the Common Tongue. Of course, they hated it. Still, at least they'd been made citizens, and they had a vote. It was something. 

”Does Toregg know? Or Jarl?” His son, and the man who’d replaced him in Val’s life. Gilly shook her head:

"Not from me, at any rate."

"I need to go home. You'd better come with me."

"Yer don't think it'll 'arm yer reputation to 'ave me staying with yer?"

"Fuck that! Besides, what reputation?" His superiors had made plain that his military career would go no further, as a result of his involvement with Val. After leaving the army, he'd eventually joined the Marshals' service. He left his office with Gilly.

"Don't expect to see me for a while, Podrick," he told his deputy. Once he'd reached his home, a mile away, he'd told the maidservant to take the day off. Then, he and Gilly proceeded to get blind drunk. He remembered a part of their conversation, the following day, as he lay in bed, nursing a splitting headache. They'd talked over the events of the revolt. He'd expressed regrets over the reprisals that the government had carried out.

"Pretty words doesn't make it right," Gilly had replied. "But, what's done is done. You won, we lost, and that's the end of it. We 'as to build some kind of life for ourselves in your world, however 'ard. This city, it makes my 'ead spin. I've seen yer steamboats, and yer railroads. You've got cannons, and guns that fire 'undreds of rounds every minute. Old Mance, 'e said, every ten years, more people move to the North than the 'ole of the Free Folk. May the Gods bless poor Val, but she led us into a war what we could never 'ave 'oped to win, and she'd 'ave fought on till there was none of us left standing."

That was true enough. The surviving rebels had surrendered, after repeated defeats, but very much against Val's wishes. Yet, as a prisoner, she had made it plain, she was willing to be put to death, if it would satisfy her captors’ need for vengeance, and spare the lives of her followers. Her judgement might have failed her, but never her courage.

 "Y'weren't wrong to come here." He'd insisted on moving to White Harbour. Val preferred to remain with her people. "Val should've gone with yer. This place is the future, not some shithole village in the arse end of nowhere."

Two days later, he'd found himself in his chief's office, explaining to Jeor Mormont what had happened, and asking leave to bring justice to the murderers. He'd expected resistance, but far from it.

"The government won't like this. They won't like it at all. Sparing her life was a calculated display of clemency, a way of showcasing our superior values to the world. And, let's face it, many of the public were in love with Val. She was a beautiful heroine. An old fat man would have gone to the gallows, and no one would have batted an eyelid. But, not Val the Dauntless. These men have made us look like liars, in the eyes of the world. I won't shed any tears when they're dancing on the end of a rope, and neither will the Attorney General. Nail these bastards." The Chief Marshal was as much politician as police chief. He supposed it was natural that the man should look at this in political terms, rather than as a matter of justice. Still, it left a bitter taste.  But, a man lost in the desert must accept such water as he is offered.

"By coincidence, the President of the local township has requested a Marshal. There was a sheriff, but he was murdered in an ambush last year. I'll empower you to recruit Deputies. Oh, and one other thing.” He fetched out a print from a briefcase. It showed a good-looking, dark-haired man, in his early thirties.

”This one's a right charmer. His name's Gendry Baratheon, and he murdered two Deputies in the Riverlands. He fled through the Neck, and there's talk he was making his way towards Wintertown. Well, it's where all the scum of this nation fetch up, now they've struck gold up there. If you see him, bring him to justice. There's a gallows waiting for him down South."

So Jon Snow had a mission. To avenge his former lover, and to bring a vicious bank robber and murderer to justice.

Notes:

There is no one for one parallel with real world events. The treatment of the free folk has similarities with the treatment of the Highlanders, after 1746, and the treatment of American Indians, and the Maori (who were granted a vote for their own representatives), in the nineteenth century.

Policies of forcible assimilation were likewise adopted by Prussia, towards its Polish minority, and France, towards its Bretons, Italians, and Germans. Bismarck’s response to Polish MP’s who complained about this, was that it was much better than the mass killing/expulsions that would have taken place in previous centuries. Alas, he could not see the future.

In theory, the Free Folk now have the same rights as every other citizen. But theory does not match practice.

The treatment of Val by the popular press resembles that of the Rani of Jhansi, one of the leaders of the Indian Mutiny. Another possible inspiration is Veleda, the German priestess who inspired a revolt against Rome and was seemingly spared, following
capture.

In Last Train from Gun Hill, US Marshal Matt Morgan (played by Kirk Douglas), is married to a Cherokee, who after visiting her father, is raped and murdered by the son of a local rancher, and his friend.

Val’s tale somewhat resembles that of Ethne, the ruler of the dryads, in The Witcher. Geralt tries to persuade her to come to terms with humans, while she still has something to bargain with. Ethne will fight until none of them are left.

Chapter 8: Night’s Work

An angry debate was raging in the saloon of The Peach, a chop house, gambling den, and whorehouse, owned by the Freys, on the edge of town.

"Heh, Merrett "Muttonhead," when I want your opinion I'll ask for it. And, that won't be till the gout's reached my brain." Gods, how he hated the old man! Half blind, and nearly deaf, he still had a tongue that stung like a wasp, and he ruled the Freys with a rod of iron. "Blood must be answered with blood. They framed Petyr and Perwyn for that cunt's murder. And, now, they've left this behind them, to taunt us with," The old patriarch held up the knife, the sigil of the flayed man engraved on the blade.

"All I said father", Merrett repeated "is that maybe old Wu was meant to find this knife; that it wasn't dropped by accident."

"Of course Wu was meant to find it, you idiot! The Boltons and the Tarlys are sending us a message. Symond went to meet that bitch, and he disappeared. Ergo, that bitch is in league with the Boltons and Tarlys!"

"What was Symond thinking?" asked "Lame" Lothar.

"That's what I'd like to know" said his father.

"He told me, he had a plan to dispose of her", remarked "Little" Walder. The old man exploded in fury.

"And, the dolt never even thought to tell me! Well, he's not much loss. But you, you could have told me.  Gods above, but I'm surrounded by morons!  Our honour's at stake.  Time to strike back!"  And that, thought Merrett, would not be easy.  Five years ago, they'd wiped out another rival clan, the Tullys, by agreeing to wed old Walder's granddaughter, Roslyn, to their eldest son, Edmure.  Then, at the wedding, Lothar had put a bullet through the man's head, Roslyn had shot his sister, Catelyn, and they'd proceeded to massacre the rest of them.  A brilliant coup, but one that left them widely loathed in the region.  Barbrey Dustin, the matriarch who ruled the Ryswells, and the one person in the world who his father deferred to, had been most displeased by what she considered the crudity of their actions,  Do something like that again, she'd informed them, and she'd be obliged to terminate their existence, and find some other family to carry out her dirty work.  Since then, she'd kept them on a tight rein, ruling that it would be "bad for business" to retaliate for the two young men. 

"What does Madam Dustin say?" asked Lothar.  The one person who mattered most.

"She accepts that we must fight back", replied Walder.  "She says the Tarlys are our enemies' weakest link, so we go for them first."

"I'll enjoy putting a bullet through the guts of that fat bastard, Samwell" said Merrett, with feeling.  

"You?" sneered his father.  "You couldn't hit a barn door at five paces, let alone that sack of lard!  About all you're good for is catching the clap off some syphilitc whore."  Gods, would he never let it pass?  That had been twenty years ago, and now he had a wife and children of his own.  Admittedly, Walda was a fat little porkling who never stopped feeding her face, and as for that slut Amerei!  She only had  to meet a man who looked half-decent, and her legs would fly apart. ""No, you'll stand guard with the rest, while Lothar, Walder, and Olyvar do the wet work.  Even you can't screw up standing guard!"

Father, and the three he'd named, then spent an hour debating which of the enemy's targets they should attack. They settled on a brothel, halfway to Castle Cerwyn. "I want no survivors" declared the old man.

So, here he was, thirty six hours later, standing guard outside a brothel, just after midnight. There were guards on the premises, obviously, but Lothar had come up with a cunning plan. Three wildlings who worked for the family had slipped forward in the darkness, silent as weasels, like the rest of the buggers. There were stables adjoining the whorehouse. They were to set them ablaze, and then stampede the horses. Lothar might be pitiless towards his fellow men, but he loved horses, and he'd no intention of letting them die in the fire.

"Shouldn't we make this all look like wildling work? Just heard a rumour that Sam and the Beast raped and murdered a wlldling slut. They'll be out for blood." He'd suggested this to his brother, on the ride South.

"I heard the same rumour, and it ain't a bad idea Merett, but remember, we're sending a message. Oh, and remember, no survivors. If anyone escapes, you shoot them down without hesitation. You understand?"

"You trust me to manage that?" he'd asked, with some bitterness. his brother had clapped him on the shoulder, affectionately.

"I'm sorry the old man gives you such a hard time. Don't worry, when he drops off, I'll see you right."

So, now he waited, his heart in his mouth. How he needed a piss, but he had to keep his mind on the job at hand. Suddenly, he saw flames rising on the other side of the brothel, followed by the sound of screaming horses. There was uproar from within, and figures emerged on the veranda. That's when Lothar and the others opened fire with their repeating rifles. Gods, the three men killed like machines, with cold efficiency and a total lack of mercy. Then, they drew revolvers, and entered the building. He heard more shots, as he and the other guards moved closer. There were screams, and cries, now, which he heard above the sound of shooting, and then finally, just silence. Broken only when one young man burst out the door, trouserless, but gun in hand, making right for him. Oh, fucking Seven! He drew his revolver, fumbled with the catch, then shut his eyes, and emptied the chamber, with a great roar. When he opened them, he saw that he had a corpse lying at his feet, head half torn off. He couldn't help it, but he leaned over, and threw up. Killing didn't come as easily to him as it did to other family members.

He heard a groan, and looked up to see Olyvar and one of the wildlings, supporting Walder, under the arms, who was gasping in pain. Lothar walked up to him, explaining "poor Walder took a bullet in the hip. We'll need to get him to a sawbones." Then, "did you do this?" he pointed at the dead man. Merrett nodded. Lothar beamed with approval, then laughed. "Now this, 'less I'm seriously mistaken, is none other than Dickon Tarly. You can expect a good reward for this, brother." Then, he turned to one of the wildings and told him "Cut his dick off, and leave it in his mouth. We're sending a message. He's Dick-on no longer." They all crowed with laughter.

_________________________________________________

Gendry was in the President's office, the following night, when he heard an urgent knocking.

"Come in" said his boss. The door opened and Brynden Tully entered, a man he well knew harboured a bitter grudge against the Freys. He proceeded to tell them about a massacre that had taken place at a Tarly brothel, the night before, seemingly carried out by that family. They'd killed the guards, the whores, even the customers, and "I heard tell, they even got Dickon. Cut his cock off, too. They're bragging about it." Gods, this was brutal, and no doubt, would bring reprisals.

"And, so it begins", remarked his employer. He looked up at her, to see that she was smiling grimly, something which sent a shiver down his spine. It suddenly dawned on him, that this was in fact, the most dangerous person in the district. "We'll need to be extra vigilant, in the coming weeks," she continued. Tully left. There was a pregnant silence, before Gendry finally asked, "Is there anything else I can do for you, before I go home, Ma'am." She looked him in the eye, then rose and extended her hand.

"Yes, Gendry, I think there is something I’d like you to do for me."

Notes:

I’m going on holiday, so it will be a fortnight till the next update.

Chapter 9: A Rare Good Man

Gendry had to ask; the question that had troubled him, even as he’d enjoyed the best night of his life.

“Dany?” She'd revealed her true name to him, during the course of the evening.

“Uh-huh.” She stirred in his arms, only half-awake. They lay together in her vast feather-bed, a satin quilt covering them, her head pillowed on his chest. Her silver hair was unbound and draped across his torso.

“Does it bother you? What the Freys did, yesterday?” He regretted asking the question, immediately it came out of his mouth. Say one thing for Gendry Baratheon. Say he’s the dumbest cunt in the Seven Kingdoms. A dumb cunt who’s likely just killed off any feelings she has for you. The loveliest woman who's ever come into your life, and who’s just told you, she wants to hold your hand, in front of the rest of the world.

She tensed, then rolled away, to look him in the eye. He waited for her to tell him, in no uncertain terms, to get the fuck out of here, and never darken her door again.

"A bank robber, asking me about right and wrong? “ There was a pause.

“But ... you're right.  I ought to be upset about what happened.  Not, Dickon, or the guards or the brothel keep.  Not even the customers, they know well enough what the Tarlys are like.  But, the whores? Yes. Few women work willingly for those swine, I should think.  Another group of innocents to add the hundreds on my conscience.  You shot a pair of deputies, who, by all accounts, were no better than outlaws  - even if a Riverlands jury won't see it that way.  People from my background, we destroy thousands of lives, and then, we call it statesmanship. You're quite right to call me to account." He didn't know what to say in response, but fortunately, Dany leaned over and fastened her mouth on his, her hand slowly making its way down his body to where his cock was now standing to attention, once again.

He'd followed her out of her office, the night before, holding her hand, as if in a trance, into a drawing room, as elegantly appointed as the rest. A pair of maroon leather settees stood at opposite ends of the room, low tables in front of each. It was carpeted with the same fine red and black wool as the President's office. An aspidestra stood by the window, shuttered he noticed, for she took no chances of falling victim, to an assassin’s bullet. Glass-fronted cabinets displayed crystal and silverware. Gendry’s knowledge of art was confined to a single visit to the National Gallery in Kings Landing, but he suspected that the paintings on the walls were of similar quality and value.

She removed her hand from his, before asking, "Do you dance?"

"Terribly, ma'am", he replied.

"Well then, I'll have to lead." She walked over to one of those new-fangled phonographs, selected a disc, and placed it on the turntable, playing a popular dance tune. She turned towards him, untying the laces at the back of her dress, which then slid gracefully to the floor. She wore a white silk brassiere, with matching drawers and stockings, and scarlet and black garters. He almost choked with what his local septon had once warned were “dark thoughts.”

“I don’t really have the figure for a corset, no tits to speak of”, she remarked, artlessly.

“I think your figure is perfect”, he replied. Petite, where Ygritte’s was voluptuous. He decided, he liked petite very much, meaning no disrespect to the redhead.

She kicked off her shoes, then perched on tiptoes, and held out her arms. He stepped forward, and took hold of her left hand, as she placed her right in the small of his back, and so they danced. She had a faint scent of rose water about her person, no doubt some costly eau de toilette. Honestly, the scent, and the proximity of a beautiful woman in her small clothes, had the blood rushing to his head, and his cock straining at his breeches, something she was no doubt well aware of.

”Why don’t you remove my brassiere?” she finally suggested. Well, a gentleman must oblige - so he fumbled with the hooks, finally revealing her breasts, to his eager gaze. Well, they were certainly small - but very beautiful, pink nipples as hard as pebbles, as he ran his thumbs over them, while she gave a little gasp that drove him wild. She in turn, unbuttoned his denim shirt, with accomplished ease. She pressed a kiss to his chest, before twirling away, then ground her perfect arse against his groin. Thank the Gods he was no longer a schoolboy, for he'd have spurted in his pants already! He concentrated on imagining crushed ice and vitriol. Still facing away from him, she stepped out of her drawers, with practised skill, more adept than any professional.

"Amongst many other things, I've been a burlesque performer", she said, guessing his thoughts, before turning to face him. His gaze was drawn to her perfect, stockinged, thighs, and then to the glistening silver triangle between them..

"Your turn, Gendry", and once again, just saying his name was a seduction. He struggled with his breeches, and pants, nearly tripping over his feet, in his eagerness. "Ygritte wasn't lying, I see", she said, staring intently at his crotch. He could wait no longer, but scooped her up in his arms, turning towards her bedchamber, and somehow getting the door open, as she laughed with delight. Gently he laid her on the bed, as she looked up at him expectantly. There'd be time for a slower performance later, but right now, he needed her like he needed salvation. As he straddled her, so she took his cock, and guided him inside her, as eager as he was. She held him tight, kissing, and murmuring endearments.

"Promise me, Gendry, promise me" she moaned, after a few minutes. "Promise, you'll make me the next Mrs. Baratheon. Promise, you'll give me a brood of black-haired children."

"Gods yes", he cried, before seeing stars.

Later, she told him much of her life, first as royalty, then as the victim of revolution, and afterwards, as a revolutionary in her own right. She showed him the faint scars on her right shoulder, where she'd been burned with irons. Then, she told him how she'd clawed her way back up, to become a millionaire, and township President. He told her in turn, of his time in the army, where he'd risen to sergeant, and then of his subsequent career, of almost unmitigated failure.

"What do you see in me?" he asked finally.

"I see a good man", she replied. "There are so few of them, in this world."

Notes:

I don't think this quite sizzles like Sploot's or Chss' scenes, but I think it is quite sweet.

Dany's fondness for a brassiere, in preference to the traditional corset, is similar to her counterpart in Sploot's Forgiven.

Chapter 10: Deputy Gilly

Standing before a sacred heart tree, Gilly wept for Val, one last time, as she sang the Lament:

Shall the lady never walk the bright fields again,

Her hair as golden as the sun?

The horns of the God can hold the blue moon.

When the Huntress shoots Him, he dies,

How can we, the children of time, ever live

If this one has died?

How can we, the children of loss, ever learn

What our friend has left behind?

When the sound of vengeance is heard in the wood,

The children of earth will cry.

When the God of Justice comes into the fields,

The children of blood must die.

The Mance, Val's father, a priest himself, had performed the funeral rites. The ancient rituals of her people, that’d let her spirit pass to the Otherworld, even if her body had been destroyed. She, Jarl, and Captain Snow, had searched the woods, but they'd found no trace of her. She choked back her fury, knowing that her friend's body had been desecrated in some way, by these scum. There'd be a reckoning, she'd sworn it to the Gods. Those who'd known the priestess stepped forward to deliver a eulogy. Eventually, Val's father nodded to Jon. He and Gilly had arrived at the settlement, five days ago, to break the dreadful news. There'd been rumours of Val's murder, of course, but the circumstances had remained a mystery. Most painful had been breaking the news to Toregg, although there had been no need to tell him precisely what had taken place. For a boy to learn that his mother had been raped, Gods above! Gilly of course had been made welcome, in spite of her news, but Jon Snow ... well, he was an enemy, despite having once been Val's lover, but he'd at least fought them cleanly, during the war, which couldn't be said of some of his comrades. Her people didn't love him, but neither did they hate him. He was ... tolerated.

"I loved Val", he began. "I fought against her, but she had the stoutest heart, the greatest courage. And, she gave me a son..." he was plainly struggling not to tear up. "She was good, and kind, and brave. And, all we can do ... is remember her for the great woman she was, and to emulate her." He bowed his head, as her father nodded. There was a long silence, before the old man spoke:

"She awaits us now, in the gardens of Annywn". Their paradise.

They held the wake, in Jarl’s house, a stout brick farmhouse, the finest in the settlement. Gilly knew her friend’s husband would have scorned any direct payment from Snow, but he and Val had accepted money from him, for Toregg’s upbringing. Val had also recieved a pension from the Government in White Harbour, keen to prevent further trouble. They’d taken reprisals over the revolt, but they weren’t total bastards. Just mainly.

Well, not all of 'em, actually. Some months ago, a very beautiful woman had rolled up in the settlement, in an expensive carriage. Jeyne, she called herself, but she was a foreigner, and Gilly’d guessed that weren’t her real name. She'd told 'em she was running for election as President of the Township an' the free folk all had to register to vote. There hadn't seemed any point, but the woman had argued that the only future for her people was to agitate, and vote. To begin with, they'd laughed at her. The Mance, who was nobody’s fool, had pointed out, they were a tenth part of the North's population. Why would the other nine parts take any notice of them?

"Because politicans are like whores", she'd replied. "Give them something, in this case, your votes, and you'll get something in return." That had got them laughing with her, and before long, they'd been listening intently. She’d spent a lot of time with them, going from family to family, finding out what they wanted. It turned out, she was very rich, and she'd spent a lot of money among them. Mance had said it was only polite to vote for her in return, and she'd been elected! One of ‘em, Tormund, had even got into the council!

Obviously, “Jeyne” wasn’t doing all this, just out of the goodness of her heart, nobody does that. Gilly had a shrewd idea she hadn’t made her fortune, without stepping on some peoples’ toes. But, what did that matter, if she made good her promises?

She snapped back to the present, to hear a couple of them discussing if they should go to war themselves, against the Boltons and the Tarlys.

"We'll burn them out of the Dreadfort," remarked Sigorn.

"The fuck you will!" said Gilly. "Don't you remember what 'appened, when we last went to war?" There was angry muttering at that. "Besides, there's a better way, if we use our 'eads." She nodded to Jon, who'd talked it through with her on the journey.

"Believe it or not, the law's on your side." he remarked. That was met with a predictable chorus of jeers.

"Tarly and Bolton have embarassed the Government in White Harbour.  They want them to swing." 

"Embarassed?", remarked Mance, with some scorn.  

"I like it no more than you do.  This should be about straightforward justice, but no matter, for once, the government favours you.  I'm empowered by them to enrol any citizen of the Seven Kingdoms as a Deputy, in order to bring them to justice.  That includes free folk." They responded with scepticism. "I need men who can keep a clear head in a fight. Being a quick shot, well that does no harm, but it doesn't mean much, next to being cool-headed. A man who'll keep his head, and not get rattled under fire, like as not he'll kill ya." He looked at Mance.

"I'm too old, Sigorn, you're too green, Jarl, you're too quick-tempered, and you need to stay alive for your son." Both men looked annoyed, but they accepted the old man's leadership. "Councillor Tormund's the man you want, and ... Gilly here."

"A woman!" exclaimed one. She had to admit, she was surprised, but no question, she was cool-headed with a gun.

"There's no law against it" replied Snow. "Very well, I'll enrol Tormund and Gilly as Deputies."

Which is how, two days later, Gilly found herself, with the Marshal, and Tormund, in the study at the Dreadfort, sitting opposite Roose Bolton. This was one evil bastard, she was sure of that, but she must look him in the eye, however much he made her skin crawl. The funny thing was, he was not at all rude, or aggressive. But, there was something about him, what sent every alarm bell ringing.

"The gravimina are serious ones, indeed," he said in his soft voice, little more than a whisper.  "Tarly, I know to be a man of evil repute in this district.  But, my bastard?  I have never heard allegations of this nature made against him.  Still, I fear his blood is tainted.  Bastards are born of lust and sin, after all.  He will not inherit this estate.  My wife will shortly give birth - to a son, I trust.  Still, I have some affection for the young man, and it would sadden me to learn that he was party to an act so vile.  He is absent on business, but I shall notify you, upon his return.  You make for Wintertown, I presume? "  Jon Snow nodded in response.  "Send word to me of your whereabouts, so that I may contact you."

After they had left, and were riding off, she pondered their conversation.  Roose Bolton must surely know what kind of  reputation his son carried.  He might be willing to sacrifice that other piece of aurochs-shit, but the Beast was far too useful to him. He was fobbing them off, she was certain.

Notes:

Jon echoes Bill Daggett in Unforgiven, with his comments about a cool-headed man being a lot more useful in a fight than a man who's quick on the draw.

Chapter 11: Ill Tidings

"I'm having five thousand, deposited in your name, with the Iron Bank", Dany informed him. Five Thousand! He nearly fell off his horse. Once or twice, he might have had three or four hundred, on the rare occasions when times had been good, but five thousand!

"You don't have to do that", he stammered.

"I want to do it" she replied. Then she leaned over and murmured, “Just the same way, I want to suck your cock.” Gendry blushed to remember telling her she didn’t need to do that, either. It hadn’t stopped her from doing it, though.

They were riding through the Wolfswood, with Brynden and Ned Dayne, towards one of the President's logging camps. There'd been a light snowfall, but the day was crisp and clear. The woods smelled of pine, and they teamed with pheasants, rabbits, and muntjaks. He wondered if there'd be time to hunt. "You need to get an idea of what I own, what businesses I run, "she'd told him. "One day, you might be inheriting everything." By the Seven, he hoped never to see that day come!

"Obviously, it won't do for you to work as a guard, from now on. You'll have to be a manager. That means, you need to know the ropes. I know that you read, but have you ever kept a set of books?"

"Yes, I have. I ran a shop. I realised quite soon, I was losing money hand over fist."

"The important thing is that we should all learn from our failures." He doubted if his lover had ever failed in business, but her other stories, about her brushes with death, in the East, had made his blood run cold.

"What about Missandei?" he asked, changing the subject. "She's defenceless, right now." It was true. He'd been living with Dany in her quarters, this past week. Every day brought another reprisal killing by the Tarlys and Freys. Rhaegar Frey had been found dead, just this morning, a mile out of town on the Kingsroad. Or rather, his head had been found, hanging from a tree branch. The Gods knew where the rest of his body had been dumped. But, sooner or later, one clan or the other, or both, would turn against Dany's people. She chuckled.

"You think Missandei's a damsel in distress? She left her "owner" writhing on the ground with his own dagger in his belly. She knows how to use a blade or gun, well enough. But, I take your point. Ned, can you board with Missandei, for the time being?" The man nodded in response.

”You’ll need her to take your measurements. I’ll want you to have a couple of frock coats, for work, and then, you’ll need morning dress for our wedding.” He couldn't help but laugh.

”What’s so funny?”

”The thought of me, dressed like a banker or attorney.”

”You’d best get used to it.”

”Is there a septon to wed us? I was raised in the Faith, even if I’ve barely kept to it”

”Not that I know. Most people round here, as far as I know, worship their own set of Gods, in front of Weirwoods. I’m authorised to wed people, as President, in any case. Still… We could always exchange our vows over the Seven-Pointed Star, and sing hymns, if you like." It was some years since he'd entered a sept; honestly, for a man like him to attend would have just been rank hypocrisy. Still, it seemed that his Gods were the generous, forgiving, kind, after all. For reasons that escaped him, they'd gifted him this wonderful woman, who doted on him, again, for reasons he scarce understood. He'd been granted a second chance in life.

"Who do you worship?" He asked.

She looked at him thoughtfully, before remarking "I don't know. My Gods are cruel, vengeful. They demand blood sacrifice. We have a god whose name translates as “Our Beloved Lord, The Flayed One”, in your language. Men and women are skinned alive, in his honour. The priests even wear their skins. Our rain god welcomes the tears of children. The priests rip off their fingernails, to make them cry, before cutting their throats. Oh, and the sun god’s a real bastard. I’ve stood atop his pyramid, while a few feet away, the high priest ripped the heart from a living man. Like as not, in time of real crisis, I’d have been the one stretched out on the altar, waiting for a knife in the heart; a princess is a rare gift to the gods. Those gods do not deserve the worship of any man or woman. I've no idea if the Gods of this land truly exist, or not. But, they're kinder than mine, at any rate."

From anyone else, he might have thought it a tall tale. But, not from her.

"Some say the Free Folk burn men alive, in wicker effigies, and drown them in bogs, in honour of the Gods."

"And, that's a nasty lie, like so many things they say about them. The Free Folk worship the same Gods as most Northmen do. I've no doubt that once, they did these things, but you're talking about hundreds of years ago.  And, no doubt, the Northmen did exactly the same."

They finally reached the camp. A stout wooden pallisade surrounded it, with a pair of guards looking out from a watchtower. The workers were busy as beavers, chopping up tree trunks, into regular-sized logs. The camp lay on a stream which eventually flowed into the White Knife. Too shallow to navigate, but quite easy to float the logs downriver to the sawmills. She showed him everything, the foundry, the offices, the cookhouse, the accomodation for the staff, even the backhouse. Sewage went into the stream. "This is where the real wealth of this district lies", Dany told him. "Not just logs, but pine resin, and amber, as well. Oh, and there's good land around here, too. It's cattle and sheep country. How do you think the Boltons and Ryswells got so wealthy? But, it's the gold that draws people here, like flies to a midden. The miners live in squlor, and most of them leave far poorer than they arrived. But, a tiny few make their fortunes."

All in all, a fascinating day, he thought, as they rode back. They'd even had time to stop, to shoot a few pheasants, which they'd roast tonight. Only for the mood to sour, upon their return to The Floating Log. Ygritte joined them upstairs, and her news was disturbing. "The Federal Marshal's arrived."

"Well, that's good news", remarked Dany.

"Well, yes an' no. You know Val, don't you?"

"Who led the revolt. We are slightly acquainted."

"She were raped and murdered. An' 'e said Sam Tarly and the Beast did it." He saw Dany bow her head.

"That's evil news. Obviously, I'll give him every assistance."

"That ain't the 'alf of it. "E's got a warrant for yer arrest, Gendry. They wants to 'ang yer, down in the Riverlands."

The Seven are playing with me, after all.

Notes:

Dany's gods are those of the Aztecs, Xipe Totec, who let himself be flayed, so that his blood might fertilise the earth. Tlaloc, the rain god, the sun god, Huitzlipochtil

Chapter 12: Dodging a Bullet

“Tell me everything”, demanded the President.

Ygritte had finished removing a drunkard from the premises, when the Marshal had entered the dining room, followed by his deputies. One, of course, she recognised, Tormund, the councillor. The other, she didn’t, an attractive, dark-haired woman, obviously free folk. And wasn’t that fuckin’ weird? Two free folk deputies, one of ‘em a woman!

”Ow can I ‘elp yer?” she enquired.

"My name's Jon Snow. Tormund, I'm sure you know. And, this is Gilly. A friend of Val's."

Val. Gods yes, she knew of her! A religious maniac who'd led a suicidal revolt, years previously. Ygritte had no great liking for the Northmen, but the way she saw it, they'd got the guns and they’d got the numbers, and her own folk, they hadn't got neither, and that’s all there was to it. The Gods smiled on results. Of course, the Northrons saw you as a dog turd, and would try to fuck you over. That’s just how it was. And, there wasn’t no point looking to the law for justice, it didn't exist. But starting a war you couldn't win, that made no sense neither. No, what you do is bide your time, then settle your own accounts, when the chance presents itself. She'd put away quite the number, over the years, who'd thought they could fuck with Ygritte the Red, and then get away with it, just because she was wildling scum. In Gendry's shoes, she'd not have fled North. Oh no, she'd have gone to ground, then hunted down those treacherous cunts, one by one.

Then she'd met the President; what called herself Jeyne Lothbrok, what was really Daenerys Targaryen. Dany had given her a fresh chance in life, after several years riding with various gangs of outlaws, years spent heading ever closer to that last walk, one cold dawn, ‘fore you dance your final hornpipe, on a rope’s end. How Dany had done it, she couldn’t fathom, but she’d hired some mouthpiece in White Harbour, who’d worked out something what he called a plea bargain. It meant that Ygritte got a five year sentence in the State penitentiary for manslaughter, with all murder charges dropped. And then, she was let out after thirty months, for good behaviour. No doubt, a lot of money’d changed hands.

Well, she owed Dany, and on occasion, the two of ‘em had kept each other warm in bed, on cold winter nights, something she’d got quite used to in gaol (she knew how to defend herself, but no question, you avoided a lot of unwanted attention, once the other inmates knew you had a steady prison girlfriend). Now, she knew that her friend was mad for Gendry, and he wasn't half bad-looking, neither. Very good in the sack, too. She'd have no objection at all, to joining the pair of 'em, in bed, if she were asked.

"I was once an army captain, now a Federal Marshal." She nodded. She reminded him of someone... the same long face and grey eyes.

"You ain't related to Ned Stark are you?"

"The Sheriff who was murdered last year? Not that I know."

"'E were an honest man. Respected in the district. Well, thank the Gods you're 'ere. No doubt yer know some about the swine what run crime in these parts. Turns out, they're now at war with one another."

"I heard of that, but there are two in particular I'm looking for. Samwell Tarly, and Ramsay Bolton."

"Two worse bastards, you won't find in this neighbour'ood, I can tell yer that. That pair are the best of friends, they work 'and in glove." She saw the man exchanging glances with the other two. The one called Gilly spoke.

"We called on 'is dad, Roose, a right creepy bastard." She'd never met the man herself, but she'd heard enough about him to agree with that judgement. "Said 'is bastard 'ad nothing to do with the murder and rape, but we figured 'e was lyin'."

"What murder and rape?"

"Val's."

"Fuck me."

"Yes", continued Snow. "They're the prime suspects. I want to take them back to White Harbour, where they'll be tried and hanged. There's a lot of political interest in this case. Val was ... a big fish. "

Best not to say what she thought of Val, not that that justified what those cunts done to her. "We'll do all we can to 'elp yer. Tarly, they calls him "Savage Sam", 'account of the fact 'e's a murderer, a robber, an' a rapist. Everyone knows that. Like as not you'll find 'im, down at the 'Ouse of Joy. It's down the other end of town. A whore'ouse, what lets you fuck children, opium den, gambling 'all, any vice, you name it. 'Is family runs it. Now this Bolton, they calls 'im, the Beast. ‘E’s worse. ‘E’s got a right charming ‘abit. 'E likes to flay 'is victims, alive. Send 'em both to 'ell for me. Will yer want to stay 'ere?" Snow nodded.

"I warn yer, though, there's another crew, just as bad, the Freys. There's this old pervert called Walder in charge, must be ninety, and still fucks like a rabbit. Right now, both gangs are at war. Yer needs to watch out."

”I’ll bear that in mind. Oh … and I’ve got a warrant for another charmer. His name’s Gendry Baratheon. He’s wanted for a double murder, down in the Riverlands.” Thank all the Gods, she was a practised liar, after all these years. Stammering out a denial would have given the game away, but keeping a poker face could be just as dangerous.

"Gendry Baratheon? Yeah, I remember that one. Nice looking lad. Came in 'ere about six weeks ago, and stayed a couple of nights. Reckoned 'im for an outlaw right off, 'e 'ad that furtive look. But, 'e'd got some mining gear, an' 'e said he'd try his luck panning for gold. If yer lookin' for that one, most likely you'll find 'im, somewhere down the Kingsroad." Silently, she willed Brynden Tully, who stood behind the bar, and kept a rifle to hand, to do nothing stupid. Shoot a Marshal, and she knew, all hell would break loose.  Thank all the Gods, Brynden was a cautious man.  Her friend picked well.  

"We're busy right now, so you an' Tormund will 'ave to share, Mister Snow.  Yer can share with me, Gilly."  

________________________________________

"That was quick thinking, Ygritte", remarked Dany, after she'd told her story.  "We've dodged a wide bullet, just about.  Tormund, thankfully, lives up in the free folk settlment, with Gilly.  He only comes into town for council meetings, and he's not met you", she nodded at Gendry.  "But, the problem remains, and our options are limited."

"Yer can't kill a Marshal."

"Not unless I want to lose everything I've built up.  Besides, we want those two bastards sent to the gallows. I wonder ... could he be bribed?"

"'E didn't seem the type.  Straight arrow - o' course, some o' them are bent as corkscrews."

"I'll make enquiries about his past record."  

"Dany, I'm a danger to you", said Gendry.  "I'll keep running, North of the Wall, if I have to."

"You'll do no such fucking thing, Gendry", she replied with some warmth.

"No, if the worst comes to the worst, we can fight this legally.  I'll need to see the arrest warrant.  I retain attorneys in White Harbour, the very best.  The Iron Bank can telegraph them all the details. They'll need to apply to the courts to extradite you from this State, back to the Riverlands.  Those two Deputies were very clearly mixed up in all manner of criminal activity, and I'll make further enquiries into that.  You've got steady employment, and we can put up whatever bail the judge might demand.  And, some of those judges are very keen on receiving "campaign contributions."  But, that's a last resort.  For the time being, we'll have to keep you under wraps, in a safe house."  

 

Notes:

Anyone who might be surprised that Ygritte's lawyer could get several murder charges dropped, in return for a plea to manslaughter, and that Ygritte would be out in thirty months, should look to the career of New York lawyer, Roy Cohn. Amongst other achievements, he got John Gotti out of gaol in two years, after he carried out a hit on a rival gangster, in front of a bar full of witnesses. The hit was ordered by Carlo Gambino, at that stage the most powerful Boss in the USA, who no doubt paid a very large sum to ensure that Gotti was treated leniently.

Chapter 13: The Capture

"'arder, Sam, 'arder!" moaned Shae, as she rode his fat pink mast, while he pawed at her perfect tits. She cried out as she reached her climax, just as he flooded her cunt with his seed. He lay back, satisfied with his performance, as she recovered her breath. "Oh Gods, Sam, no wonder the girls fight over you! There's no one 'arder, no one so long-lasting." She bent forward to kiss him passionately. Well, she owed him, big time. Slavery might be against the law, but he'd bought her, just the same, from her father, a half-caste named Craster, in settlement of the gambling debts he owed to the House of Joy. Turned out, the old goat had loved sticking his cock inside her too, since she was twelve, and honestly, he could hardly blame him. Shae was blonde, lithe, big-titted, only fifteen, and very eager in bed, quite happy to suck him off, or take it in the arse. A pity that Talla didn't look like her. Of course, she had to go to work with the other girls, and if some punter wanted to enjoy a little rough stuff with her, he'd let him, for the right price. He reckoned he'd keep her for a while, as a mistress, till he got tired of her. She could always be sold off to Eastern traders, when the time came.

He rolled away from her. "Go get me a whiskey, Shae", he commanded. Like his friend, Ramsay, he'd "hit the mattress", after fighting broke out in earnest with the Freys. Gods, the pair of 'em had taken savage revenge for the murder of Dickon. Bolton had chopped the head off Rhaegar Frey, and they'd left it hanging from a tree branch, by the side of the Kingsroad. Then they'd taken that fat bastard Hosteen, and flayed him alive. Ramsay had come up with a most amusing plan; capture old Walder alive, take him to a sawmill, and then sever him lengthways, like a tree trunk. But, at that point, he'd had told them, they both had to make for safe houses. "You don't need to know where I am, but I'll send messengers to you. " And so, for the past week, he'd been staying at a cottage about ten miles out of town, with Skinner standing guard, and Shae attending to his manly needs, and running errands. From time to time, word reached him from Ramsay, and yes, it seemed like they were winning the war. Time then, to turn on that fucking bitch, Jeyne Lothbrok; he'd a sneaking suspicion she was working behind the scenes with the Freys. Before she died, he and Ramsay would give her a good, hard, fucking, just like that golden wildling cunt, before handing her over to their men.

He suddenly heard the wildest commotion downstairs. A sound like the front door being smashed in, a shout from Skinner, then gunfire. Fuck it, the Freys.  He leapt out of bed, even as Shae stood frozen, glass of whiskey in her hand, and reached for his revolver.  Only for the bedroom door to come flying open, and then, he found himself staring into the twin barrels of a shotgun, wielded by some bearded, red-haired giant.  "Don't even think of it" growled the man, a wildling by his accent, "I'd shoot you down like the rat you are."  Instinctively, he raised his hands, desparately trying to think of a way out.  A dark-haired woman came into the room, pistol in one hand, and a pair of cuffs in the other.  

"Onto the bed, face down", she commanded.  Meekly he obeyed.  She yanked his hands behind his back, and cuffed him.  He heard a third man speak.  "Samwell Tarly, my name is John Snow.  I am a State Marshal, and I am arresting you, on suspicion of the murder and rape of Val Mancesdottir.  You are not required to say anything at this point, but anything you do say, may be used in evidence against you.  Now, get up."  The man hauled him off the bed, and he stood up, stark, bollock naked.  

"How?" was all he could ask.  And then he saw the smirk on Shae's face.  "You fucking bitch!" he roared, lurching towards her, only for the red-head to stick his shotgun in his chest.  "Whoa, easy now, cowboy", said the man, grinning too.  

"Get his trousers on, Tormund, and you, Tarly, sit down on the bed." He did as ordered. The giant put his legs into his jeans, and hauled them up. The man was laughing, then remarked, "a pecker that tiny, it's no wonder your woman gave you away. Mind you, she told us you're a pervert, and I'm sure a thousand dragons will come in handy."

"Gods yes" he heard Shae. "I've dreamed of this moment. I wants to go White 'Arbour, and watch this wanker swing."

"Enough of that", said Snow. "Put a jacket over him." Tormund did so. "Now, move it Tarly." They left the room and entered the sitting room, where Skinner lay groaning, bleeding from a stomach wound. Another man stood guard over him, who he recognised as Ned Dayne, but wearing a Deputy's silver badge.

"We'll send someone to fetch the three of you", said Snow to Dayne. Then they went outside. There were four horses tied up outside. Snow took out a rope, looped it around Sam's waist, then tied the end to his saddle. “You walk, back to Wintertown”, he said, bluntly. Then, they all set off. The others rode behind Snow. She heard the woman speak, "You try anything stupid Tarly, I'll put a bullet in yer arse." He believed the vicious bitch would, at that. He was puffing and blowing like a carp, by the time they reached Wintertown, three hours later, round about lunchtime. People stopped and stared at the sight of the procession, a couple of them his own men. But, none dared intervene. No, he had to use his head. Eventually, they reached the Floating Log, where another wildling bitch, the red-head Ygritte, was waiting for them. She called out, and President Jeyne came out to the veranda, giving him a long, hard, stare.

"We can keep him down in the cellar, before you take him back to White Harbour", she remarked. Proof positive that she was in league with his enemies. So, that's where they took him, down where the drinks were kept. The woman removed his cuffs, then one manacle was fixed to his right wrist, another to his right ankle, and chains attached to rivets in the walls. They left, save for Jon Snow, who stared down at him, long and hard.

Time to start boxing clever.

"Mister Snow", he began. "If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's this. Every man has his price. Every woman too. Shae's price was a thousand dragons. What do you want?"

"You mean, how much do I want?"

"Exactly. Two, three, thousand, I could get you that kind of sum, within the hour. "

Snow squatted down, his eyes boring into Sam's. "Your kind of rat always reaches for its moneybags, when it's cornered. There's one thing I'll settle for, and one only. Your life."

"For a wildling whore, come on!" He noticed a look of real anger on the other man's face, and then he suddenly remembered who this man was. Gods, this man was Captain Snow, who'd fathered a child on the woman! "No one forced you to fuck a wildling', he blurted out. "How was I supposed to know she was your woman!"

Snow lunged at Sam, gripping his throat till he saw stars. Then, he mastered himself, releasing him, and breathing heavily.

"Don't take no guts to kill a man when he's cuffed!" he sneered.

"Takes guts not to. Be too easy on ya. You'd die too quick. I know an old man who'd like to kill you, Tarly - the free folk way: slow. That's how I'm gonna do it: slow - but the Northman's way. First you stand trial. That takes a fair amount of time, and you'll do a lot of sweating! Then they'll sentence ya. I never seen a man who didn't get sick to his stomach, when he heard the kind of sentence you'll draw. After that you'll sit in a cell and wait, maybe for months, thinkin' how that rope will feel around your neck. Then they'll come around, some cold morning, just before sun-up. They'll tie your arms behind you. You'll start blubbering, kicking, yelling for help. Won't do you any good. They'll drag you out in the yard, heave you up on that platform, fix that rope around your neck and leave you out there all alone with a big black hood over your eyes."

Snow stood up. "You know the last sound you hear? Kind of a thump when they kick the trapdoor catch - and down you go. You'll hit the end of that rope like a sack of potatoes, all dead weight. It'll be white hot around your neck and your Adam's Apple will turn to mush. You'll fight for your breath, but you haven't got any breath. Your brain will begin to boil. You'll scream and holler! But nobody'll hear you. You'll hear it. But nobody else. Finally you're just swingin' there - all alone and dead." He couldn't help it, he actually wet himself, Sam Tarly, who feared no man.

"Enjoy what's left of your life Tarly." The man turned, then closed the door in him, leaving him all alone in the darkness.

Notes:

The dialogue at the end is taken from Last Train to Gun Hill, a great Western with Kirk Douglas and Anthony Quinn.

Chapter 14: Fucking Dice

"They've taken Sammy-Boy!". Damon "Dance for Me" interrupted her, without preamble, as she was throwing dice at one of the gambling tables. The fuck?  Well, she knew what they all had  to do. She excused herself to the gamblers, then rose and turned to him.

"Okay, we go in, kill every mother's son of them, then we burn The Peach to the ground. And, we make that cunt, Old Walder, watch it, before we string him up."

"'T'ain't the Freys as took him.  There's a State Marshal arrived, an' captured him .  Seen him an' his Deputies, bold as brass, draggin' our Sam, down the street behind, behind him, like he's some kind of dog on a leash.  I coulda' shot them down on the spot."

"An' yet, you did jack shit, you yellow bastard!"

"He's a Marshal, Talla, with Deputies, what can I do?  We don't want th'army comin' down round our ears." 

"Where is he then?"

"They took him up to the Floating Log. "

"I knew those bitches had to be in on it, somehow." She walked out to the backyard of the House of Joy, to clear her head, from the thick smoke of cigars. Despite the fighting, men still came in to drink, gamble, fuck, and smoke poppy. Well-guarded as this place was, no one had made an attempt to attack it. But, she'd thought Sam was safe in that cottage, with his whore, and Skinner. Had either of them betrayed him? She'd need to have a little chat with each one of them, and find out just what happened. Still, first it was time to pay a visit to the Floating Log. She stalked up the main street, with Damon and three of her crew, people stepping aside sharpish, as they recognised them. They walked up on to the veranda of the enemy's building.

"Who's the owner of this shithole bar?" she hollered.

The red-head wildling bitch sauntered out, flanked by a dark-haired woman she didn't recognise, but who wore a Deputy's silver badge, and Brynden Tully, a man she knew to be very dangerous. But, you don't show fear, that was the first and last rule she'd learned.

"Yer knows damn well who the owner is, Talla Tarly. Yer wants to come inside, yer 'and over yer guns, simple as that."

"Ygritte the Red you call yerself. But, what I heard is, they called you "Sugar" in gaol, because you gave it real sweet to all the bull-dykes inside. You must really love the taste of pussy."

"Jealous?"

"Of a wildling whore?" she snorted.

"Tough words an' 'ard stares - they've never won no fights, Talla. But, they've lost plenty. I'd go 'ome if I was you, an’ sober up.”

"I ain't drunk, Ygritte, and I promise you, my Sam-Boy won't be leaving this town."

"Your Sam-Boy is a raping turd, an' 'e'll swing fer it", remarked the dark-haired woman. Another wildling whore, it seemed. Talla reached for her gun.

"Jus' try it, Talla. Go on. I'll put ya down like the mad dog y'are," said Ygritte. Gods, how she wanted to put a bullet into that lovely face. The face of the wildling girl she’d crushed on one Summer, in their classroom. But, that was water long under the bridge. And she knew, she, her own self, might be quicker on the draw, but the other had the cooler head. And, cooler head in a fight, wins nine times out of ten.

”Don’t say you weren’t warned, Ygritte! You and “Madam President.” She turned on her heel, and walked back. Her mood was foul by the time she got back to the Tarlys' whorehouse.

"The President's got a close friend, Missandei, a seamstress. She's the colour of shit, an' I daresay she smells like shit, too." she said to Damon. "I want her captured, and brought here. We'll send her back, piece by piece, first an ear, then a toe, then a coupla' teeth, till her high and mightiness releases our Sam." Damon nodded his agreement. Then it was back to the dice table, where the three degenerate gamblers awaited her return.

"My apologies gentlemen, I was interrupted". They threw dice in turn, for the next half hour, she steadily winning, two of the others steadily losing, and the third making a profit. And as they played, so they drank, And as they drank, so the losers' own moods grew steadily worse. She'd won three hundred dragons, before finally remarking "Time to call it a day, gents, perhaps?"

"The House always seems to win. Why's that, I wonder?", asked one, Joffrey Hill, a lowlife, stupid and suspicious. The Tarlys had used him as a thug on occasion, but he was too stupid to rise any higher.  What a profoundly idiotic statement? Of course the House wins. That's how the House makes its money. She felt her throat constrict, and reached down with her left hand for the hatchet she kept strapped to her thigh. Somehow she mastered herself. Joffrey, and his companion, another prick called Slynt, continued to play. And, they continued to lose.

Joffrey put down his last fifty, before rolling the dice again. "Six and three" he cried, triumphantly, as if he'd achieved something. She rolled six and five.

"The House wins, I'm afraid." The other's face darkened with anger.

"I think your dice are loaded Talla?" he sneered. She felt herself actually growing cold with fury. It took her a while before she could even speak.

"You think what, Joffrey?" It came out in a whisper.

"You deaf or something? I think your dice are loaded."

She felt a jab in the side, to see Slynt, before that one added "I say your dice are liars." Enough!

She jumped up, whipped out her hatchet, then buried it deep in Slynt's forehead. He fell back over his chair, screaming, axe still sicking out of him.  Ignoring that fucker, she drew her Colt, and shot Joffrey through the throat, as he stared at her open mouthed, a spray of blood drenching a party at another table, close by.  She turned to the third, a look of abject terror on his face.

"Apologise," she screamed.  "Apologise to my fucking dice!"

 

Notes:

"Apologise to my fucking dice" comes from Best Served Cold, by Joe Abercrombie. It's a hilarious revenge black comedy.

Chapter 15: A Satisfactory Journey

"The House recognises the Honourable Minister President."

Tyrion Lannister, the Attorney General, sat behind him, listening intently, as the head of government rose to address the Assembly. His party held but a bare majority. There were many thorns in their side, to right and left. None sharper than the handful of deputies who represented the Free Folk. Eight seats out of two hundred and fifty were reserved for them, and four more had been elected at constituency level. Had it truly been wise to enfranchise them? But what was done was done. A small minority of the Deputies they might be, but their leader, Magnar Sigorn had proved adept at forming alliances of convenience with opposing parties.

"Gentlemen, before turning to the matter at hand, allow me some time, to outline the history of the North's relations with the Free Folk. For hundreds of years, the Northmen and the Free Folk have been at odds - although we must also acknowledge, there have been lengthy periods of peaceful co-existence, and considerable intermarriage between the two peoples. I consider it would be otiose to attempt to apportion blame for these conflicts. Ethnic strife is rarely a matter of black and white. There are inevitably, faults on either side. One side can pick a year, an event, which, they will say, justifies their hostility, only for the other to go back to a further event which they say favours their own claim."

"Conflict erupted once again, and I trust for the final time, a bare decade ago, when Val Mancesdottir incited rebellion, a rebellion which was put down with sufficient, but not excessive, force."

"The Honourable Minister-President knows full well, that his government practised barbarities, which remain unpunished", said the Magnar, now on his feet. There were shouts of angry denial, but also a measure of agreement, not just among the Free Folk. He's right, of course, but we have the guns and the numbers, and they don't.

"Following the end to this conflict", continued the Minister-President, "the Government resolved to act with humanity towards the rebels. In an earlier age, the defeated population would have been expelled. But, we recognise such a course as barbaric. Far from it. The Free Folk were enfranchised, and placed on an equal footing with the rest of the Northern population. They strove for the same legal and constitutional rights that are guaranteed to Northern subjects. The freedom of movement the Free Folk gained in the right of association, the press, and constitutional matters, however, in no way contributed to increasing good will toward the North or cooperation with it. On the contrary, we see only a sharpening of national antagonisms, that is, a one-sided sharpening from the side of the Free Folk. The peculiarity of the Northern character contributed to this development in many ways. The Northrons' good nature and admiration for all things foreign, a kind of envy with which our countrymen regard those who have lived abroad and who have adopted certain foreign allures, and then also the Northern tradition of battling their own government for which they were always certain to find willing allies among the Free Folk." There was a low rumble of agreement, on the benches behind them, more angry muttering from the opposition.

" I fear that the struggle for existence between the two nations, which are allotted the same hearth, goes on unabated, one could even say, continues with strengthened forces. The era of peace has not been an era of reconciliation and accommodation on the side of the Free Folk; and the peculiar thing is that in this struggle it is not, as is often believed abroad and as our optimists think, the Northern population that is the victor, but the other way around. The Free Folk population makes indubitable progress. And we ask ourselves how this can be so, given the allegedly great support which the Northern element has received from the government. Indeed, gentlemen, this perhaps instructs us that the support given the Free Folk by the opposition is stronger than that which the government can render according to the current constitution. But the fact is that the Free Folk can say of themselves: Vexilla regis prodeunt (the banners of the king go forward). This is beyond doubt." 

This is a fine piece of sophistry.  We didn't kill them, granted, but we took their lands and resettled them, and we treat them as an underclass.  Not that any of it matters.  I have been made an offer that it would be foolish, perhaps even fatal, to refuse.. As his leader went on, to describe the murder of Val, and the steps that would be taken to bring her murderers to justice, so Tyrion's mind wandered back to his meeting, two days previously.

He held all the cards, surely. He must do. Lord Bolton had travelled five hundred miles by steamboat, to meet him, and he, Tyrion, was the minister, not his petitioner. Yet, there was something about this man. Something that made you feel you were nothing, to a man whose forebears had wielded power for more than a thousand years. Something that made you fell it would be most unwise ever to get on his wrong side.  He remembered a saying once attributed to the Boltons:

A naked man has few secrets.  A flayed man has none.

There was a perceptible chill in the air, as the man entered his office.  "Your excellency, how kind of you to receive me."  He inclined his head slightly.  Then, "this is my factor, Walton."  He nodded to his companion, a middle-aged man, dressed in a three-piece suit of brown tweed, with silver watch chain, like a prosperous farmer.

"Please be seated, my lord.  You telegraphed that you had information, relevant to the murder of Val Mancesdottir".

"Indeed.  You may rest assured that I have my sources, and they are reliable ones.  I am sure that you are well aware that Samwell Tarly, a man of most unsavoury character, is the prime suspect."

"But, not the only one."  Your own bastard, I believe.

"Indeed not.  I can give you other names.  Dickon Tarly, his brother, now deceased.  Talla Tarly, his sister.  A man called Damon, nicknamed "Dance for Me", and another named Skinner.  You have sent a Marshal, to Wintertown.  I believe I could assist in their apprehension. If needs be, these miscreants could perish, whilst “resisting arrest.”

"That would be most welcome. But, there is another, under suspicion. Your natural son, Ramsay."

"My bastard. Let us give things their proper name, without resorting to euphemism. Yes ..." he sighed, "I know the young man's blood is tainted, as a boy he was wild, but he is innocent of this offence, I assure you."

"That is surely for a court to decide, my lord." The other man stared at him icily.

"This case will not come to court, sir."

"Justice must be done, my lord, without fear or favour. I am afraid I cannot give way on this point."

Bolton gave a thin, mirthless, smile. "A noble sentiment. Truly, the world would be a better place, if more men shared your principles. " He rose, "Yes, a noble sentiment, considering that you stand to lose ... everything, really."

He felt a shiver run down his spine, as if a rat were crawling along it. "To what do you allude, my lord?" he asked casually.

"Why, to your corrupt business dealings, what else? Walton", he inclined his head to the man, who holded him a slim folder. "Oakenshield Copper; you will recall, no doubt, that you served for several years, as a non-executive director. Yet, you, and two of your colleagues, defrauded the shareholders, siphoning company assets into a separate company under your control, before declaring bankruptcy."

"I believe there is a mistake."

"No mistake, Mr. Lannister. My attorney has examined the relevant documents in detail. And here", he passed Tyrion a sheaf of papers "is a record of your involvement with the White Harbour Shipping Corporation. There is ample evidence that you were the prime beneficiary of a most unsavoury smuggling operation. I almost blush to say, that your name, and the words "Income Tax evasion" appear in embarassing proximity to one another. " Oh Gods above! The man had him by the balls.

"I hold considerable sympathy. I understand that a political career is expensive, and that the family fortunes of the Lannisters have declined in recent generations. Truly, I sympathise. Disappoint me, in this matter, however, and you will find that my sympathy has been forfeited. Do I make myself clear?"

"As crystal."

"Good, I wish us to be friends. Perhaps I can offer a spoonful of sugar to make the medicine more palatable. The murderer Gendry Baratheon is believed to reside in this district. I believe that I could give reliable information, as to his whereabouts. You will capture that man, together with the Tarlys, as notorious a gang of cutthroats as you could find. Indeed, you will be a hero. But, you will leave Ramsay out of it. Is this understood? " Tyrion could only nod. "Then, I believe our business is done. I have some business to conclude with my banker, and then a boat to catch. Good day, sir." The man nodded, then left with his colleague.

When your tits are in the wringer, what else can you do but smile and nod?

As he dined in the steamboat's first class restaurant, that evening, Lord Bolton congratulated himself on a good day's work.  The Tarlys, well they had proved useful in the past, but now their usefulness was at an end.  Of course, the Freys remained a problem, but he had little doubt that Ramsay could recruit other beasts in the woods, to take their place.  And, the banker had recommended a number of sound investments, which he would now make.  Altogether, a most satisfactory journey, he thought, as he sipped on his vermouth.

Notes:

The Minister-President's speech is adapted from Bismarck's address to Polish deputies in the Reichstag, in 1886.

Chapter 16: The Catspaw and The Beast

"You weren't in the revolt, were you?" asked Gilly.

"Too busy murderin' an' robbin', an' ridin' with outlaws", came Ygritte's response. " 'Sides, it was a damn-fool idea from the start." It was early morning, and the pair lay side by side in the bed they'd been sharing since she came to Wintertown. "I'm not like you, Gilly. My family moved here, 'fore I was born. I grew up with the Northrons. Even went to one of their schools. An' quickly found out, they wasn't going to be beat. Too many of the bastards."

"I loved Val. I believed in her. An' she believed in 'herself. Yer can't convince others, till yer've convinced yerself. Losing shattered her. I think she'd lost her faith, by the end."

"Look, I'm sorry for what 'appened to 'er, and I hope that cunt down in the cellars swings for it, but all that Val did was get a lot of good people killed, for no reason. Like it or not, we 'as to play by Northern rules. "

"President Jeyne said similar, when she stayed with us. Said we've got to use our votes, an' make allies. Said the Northmen are always divided into different parties. Some of them will cut deals with us."

"She ain't just a beautiful face, Gilly. She's got a brain."

"I worked that out." Gilly was silent for a bit. Then, "I've gotta find out what Tarly did to Val's body."

"Yer think that turd will tell yer?"

"I could make 'im." She'd gained information from unwilling prisoners in the past, at the point of her knife. Ygritte rolled over to look her full in the face.

"Yer a Deputy now. That means, yer can't touch 'im. E'll 'ire a mouthpiece, an' if 'e's any good, he might get Tarly set free, if yer've questioned 'im sharply. I'd 'ave swung, if it weren't for the President hiring a mouthpiece for me. Doesn't know how they does it, but they've got their ways. Money taks, an' Tarly 'as money."

"Then I'd gut 'im, nice an' slow."

"Yer would, and like as not, yer'd be the one swingin' for it."

As it happened, Tarly made it very easy. Gilly and Tormund went down to the cellars, later that morning, to bring him his meal, and to empty the bucket he'd been left to shit into. He always seemed to shit tons, like a thirty stone hog, thought Gilly, with distaste. He stunk like one, too. He'd been down there a week. He was rude, cocksure, and actually, she eventually realised, quite stupid. A vicious brute, who thought himself clever, but was really just the Beast's catspaw.

"You know, you'll never get out of here, alive", he began. "You'd be better off letting me go, and running for your lives. My people will hunt you down."

"Yer talk a good game, Tarly", replied Tormund, "but, there's a nice hempen cord waiting for yer, along with yer friend, the Beast." Tarly laughed.

"You've no idea what kind of hell the pair of you've entered. Yeah, perhaps we do have to step lightly around Captain fucking Jon Snow, but even State Marshals can fall over the side of boats, get thrown by horses, die of a bad belly. But you two? A pug ape doesn't become a Deputy simply because you stick a silver badge on it. No one'll give a toss about a pair of dead wildlings. You'll end up being shat out the arses of Wu's pigs, just like Val was." She felt a cold rage inside her.

"Yer did fucking what?' she hissed. Tarly sniggered again.

"Yeah. We chopped her up, then fed her to pigs. You know what, they go through bone like butter!"

Instinctively, she reached for her gun, but Tormund took her hand. "That's an admission. We want 'im to be tried, found guilty, and 'hanged." She saw the sense of it, but Gods, it was hard not to empty her revolver into this bastard's sneering face.

"I won't be going to trial", said Sam, smugly.

"Yer can't let 'im get to yer, Gilly", said Ygritte, when she told her, later. "I'll take over feeding and slopping 'im out, if I 'as ter. " ____________________________________________________________

About this time, Ramsay was swigging wine from a skin, as he watched the deer roasting over the spit. An experienced hunter, he'd been camping out in the Wolfswood, with a couple of his father's retainers. He liked it out here, a man pitted against nature, living off his wits. The day was clear and crisp, a light covering of snow on the ground. He awaited Sam's sister, Talla. She was as stupid as her brother, but useful, for the time being. He thought back to the time he'd first met Sam at the House of Joy, six years ago. The man had been abject, terrified of his father, but still vicious, mean, and lecherous. Ramsay had put those qualities to good use. He'd peered inside his soul, and found it black as pitch. So, he'd encouraged him to indulge his appetites. To take pleasure, as he himself did, from murder, rape, and torture. There was a natural order to the world. There were the predators, men like Ramsay. And then, there were the prey. He liked Sam, and would have saved him if he could, but if he wanted to survive and prosper, Sam would have to be given up to the authorities. A pity, but that's a choice that makes itself. There were plenty of other Sams in this world.

He heard the sound of approaching horses, and stood up, cocking his rifle. You could never be too careful out here. He smiled, to see his man, Yellow Dick, approach him, along with Talla.

"The venison is nearly ready. Let's eat. Have some wine." He tossed a skin to Talla, once she'd dismounted. He'd fucked her a couple of times, but to be honest, he'd been drunk on both occasions. Sober, she looked no better than her brother did. He knew she hankered after him.

As they ate, so they talked.

"You know Missandei. The Naath bitch?" asked Talla.

"I know of her. A seamstress."

"Yeah well, she's a dear friend of the President's. I reckon, if we kidnap her, we can trade her for my Sam Boy." This was about the stupidest idea Ramsay had heard of. As if a Marshal and his Deputies would just relase a prisoner in return for a hostage! No. He trusted his father to work out a deal, up in White Harbour. It would cost Sam his life, probably Talla as well, and ... another. Still, best to play the game for the time being. He pretended to take her plan seriously.

"It's a good idea to take a hostage .... but Missandei? She's not important. What if I said, there's someone who means a lot more to her?"

"Who?"

"She's got a boyfriend. His name's Gendry Baratheon, and I've got a man who'll betray him to us?" He saw her face light up.

"And, you'll trade him for Sam?"

" ' Course I will Talla. My closest friend. I'd give my life for his." She grinned with relief. And if you truly believe that, my dear, I have a bridge across the White Knife I'd like to sell you.

Chapter 17: The Betrayal

"Head first or as you are?" Merrett Frey found that he’d shat and pissed himself with terror. The Beast lived up his nickname. His mocking question was framed as politeness.

"Please, ..." was all he could say, in response.

"I didn't quite catch that.” The monster pretended to cock an ear, before remarking, “Well, I suppose it'll have to be feet first, then."

Merrett's arms and legs had been pinioned. A rope had been attached to a girdle fastened around his chest. Someone began turning a winch, hoisting him up into the air. He felt more piss running down his legs, but he just couldn't help himself. They'd burst into the safe house he was staying in, shot his wife, then dragged him off. He hoped to all the Gods that Amerei and Walda were safe. He'd been tied onto the back of a horse, and then they'd ridden off in the night, bringing him to this tallow chandler's workshop, a couple of hours later. Oh Gods, he knew his end would be dreadful! The crane from which he was suspended turned, swinging him with it, and now he saw how he would die. Beneath him was a huge cauldron, ten feet high, and filled with boiling tallow. The disgusting stench of it filled his nostrils.

"Dickon says "hello" from hell, Merett, you fucking cunt", hollered a young woman. He looked down to see Talla Tarly, a look of hateful happiness on her ugly face. Why, oh why, could he not have just fled, the moment that the war began? He could have made a fresh start in a place like White Harbour. But, the old man would have pursued him to the bitter end. "Heh, Merrett Muttonhead, all you're good for is clatching the clap from some two-bit whore", he heard him say, from some part of his mind, in these, the last moments of his life.

"I've got a plan for your dad", he heard Ramsay call out. "We'll capture him, then we'll saw him lengthways, like a tree trunk." If only he would. "I might have kept you alive long enough to watch ... but, honestly, this is just too much fun. You know what? When I do something like this, it actually makes me grow hard. I'll need a woman once this all done with."

"One of Wu's sows, maybe?  At least they're better-looking than Talla!", he found he had the courage to say.

"Oh, you really shouldn't have said that. There are good deaths, and there are bad deaths.  We can prolong this, you know."

"Teach him the meaning of suffering", he heard the girl scream.

There was a sudden lurch, and he plummeted down, stopping just short of the boiling tallow. The stink was sickening, as was the heat. Only his head was above the lid of the cauldron, now.

"I think you can do the honours, Talla", said Ramsay.  She ran over to the winch, released it, and Merrett Frey entered his own personal hell.

_________________________________________________________

The following morning, Gendry was pounding metal in the forge at the logging camp that Dany had brought him to, a few days previously.  It turned out, he was good at this work, and as he hammered away, forgining iron railings, so it helped him vent his frustrations. His luck had turned for the better, once Dany had made clear she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. Like him, she was a fugitive, who quite honestly, had had more brushes with death and torment than he cared to imagine. But, she'd built a new life for herself as a millionaire. She was beautiful, clever, gifted, and altogether, out of his league. But, nonetheless, she'd chosen him. Only for his past to catch up with him, in the shape of a State Marshal, bearing a warrant for his arrest. Honestly, if he fell into the hands of that man and his deputies, he wondered if he'd ever get to trial. Plenty of people got shot while "resisting arrest", and nobody would care about an outlaw from the Riverlands.

They'd smuggled him out here, and here he'd stay, until his pursuers were satisfied he wasn't in the neighbourhood. They were welcome to take Tarly and the Beast back to a hanging in the Northern captial. Well, if Dany intended to make him a manager of this place, it'd do him no harm to find out how it worked, at every level. Sensible businessmen after all, got their sons to start off doing menial chores, long before they thought of handing their companies over to them. Of course, not all businessmen were sensible, and there were plenty of failsons, brought in at the top, who made a hash of things. He wrapped a thick cloth around the end of the orange railing, then plunged it into a vat of cold water, producing a cloud of steam, as it hissed. Then, he picked it up, once it had cooled, genuinely proud of his handiwork.

That's when he heard the sound of a gun being cocked, directly behind him.

"It's best you come quietly, Gendry", he heard Theon say. Theon!  They'd drunk together, enjoyed the favours of Ygritte and Tansy, together, and they'd beaten the crap out of arseholes like Joffrey Hill, together. He remembered old Marq Piper, a member of his gang, once telling him. See, your murderers come with smiles, they come as your friends, the people who’ve cared for you all of your life. And they always seem to come at a time that you’re at your weakest and most in need of their help. 

"Put down the railing, Gendry, put your hands in the air, and turn around slowly."  He made to comply, then quite suddenly realised, Theon didn't want him dead, or else he'd have pulled the trigger already.  He wanted him alive. He wanted a reward for his capture, either from the Marshal, or one of the rival gangs.  And, that gave him an advantage.  He remembered something else, advice from his company commander, in the army.  Never fight rashly, Gendry, but once you've made up your mind to strike, never hesitate.  Quick as a cobra, he whirled on his heels, swinging the railing at Theon's head.

Notes:

"Your murderers come with smiles" is taken from Henry Hill in Goodfellas. It's entirely true of Mafia life.

Chapter 18: The Aftermath

The blow that Gendy aimed at Theon's head would have cracked his skull, but he ducked it, just in time.

"I'm warning you", he screamed, and this time, Gendry struck at his arm, catching his wrist. Theon cursed in pain, before dropping the gun, which went off, when it hit the ground. Then he turned and fled from the forge. Gendry heard the sound of more shooting from outside. It seemed that Theon was not working alone. Obviously, he must be in league with either the Freys or the Boltons. He picked up Theon’s revolver, then gingerly peered past the door, to see what was happening. The first thing he saw was a pair of dead bodies, men whom he recognised as loggers. A large group of horsemen had forced their way into the encampment, and were firing at will. Seemingly, they were lead by an ugly, and rather overweight, young woman. There was still resistance, however, and men were firing at them from the mess hall, across the yard. He saw one of the horsemen reel in the saddle, struck by one of the defenders. "Kill them all, but Gendry Baratheon, remember, him we want alive", screamed the woman. Well, he wasn't venturing out into that maelstrom, but he wasn't going to leave the others in the lurch, either. Think, Gendry, think.  There was a back entrance to the forge, so he'd slip out, and try to lend assistance to the others.  Only for some cunt to come bursting through the back door.  It was the easiest thing in the world to shoot him in the chest.  He hooted, just like an owl Gendry thought irrelevantly, then dropped to the ground, before he rolled over, groaning.  

"Please, spare me", he gasped, as Gendry approached him.

"Tell me what this is all about, and I'll spare you."

"We're trying to make a trade.  You, for Sam Tarly. And, Talla wants revenge on your paramour.  She's holding Sam-Boy prisoner, up at the Floating Log.  The Marshal's going to take him back to White Harbour, to be hanged." Gendry doubted if State Marshals were interested in trading prisoners like that, but during the short time he'd spent in Wintertown, he'd worked out that the Tarlys were a pretty stupid family. The Boltons who used them, on the other hand? Yes, they were very dangerous.

but

"Is Talla Tarly the woman out there?"

"Yes, his sister."

"Ugly, isn't she?"

"Just like her brother."

Gendry nodded, then shot the man, once, through the head.  He couldn't say that he actually liked the idea of lying to him, but the man was an enemy, and no doubt he would have come after him, had he recovered. There was no honour among thieves, as he knew from his own experience.

He had an idea in mind. He emptied the remaining bullets from Theon’s gun, and pocketed them. Then he drew his own revolver, and picked up a lighted taper. He ran out the back of the forge. A covered passage led up to the stables, and he hurried on his way. There were about a dozen horses, in their stalls. First, he unbolted the stable door, taking care not to alert the Tarlys to his presence. Then, he set about his plan. He found an empty stall, and tipped the contents of an oil lamp over the straw, before setting light to it. The horses of course, were terrified of the fire, and began to whinny in panic, but he kept his head, unbolting each stall in turn. The building was starting to fill with smoke, and the horses were now screaming in panic. In turn, they began to bolt, fleeing from their stalls, and barging through the stable door. He ran after them, firing on the attackers, who were thrown into confusion, by the terrified horses. Some of the attackers had dismounted, and a few were knocked down, including, to his great delight, Talla Tarly. Men were coming out of the mess hall now, shooting at the attackers in earnest, even as she struggled on the ground. She glared up at him, eyes blazing, saying just one word,

"Cunt", before he shot her through the mouth, and blew the back of her head off. The attackers had plainly had enough, turning tail, and riding back through the camp's gateway, pursued by fire from the victorious defenders. One man fell from his horse, even as the others fled.

"Find Theon Greyjoy", he shouted. They spent the next hour, hunting through the camp for the traitor, but he'd made good his escape.

 

____________________________

I've fucked up.  That was the one thought that kept going through Theon's mind as he rode for Wintertown.  He was a simple man, of simple tastes.  His employer had paid him well, but Ramsay Bolton had made him a most generous offer.  He'd run up gambling debts with a bookmaker who, it turned out, was a catspaw of the Beast's.  They'd met in a cathouse that was owned by the Boltons.  Ramsay had told him quite bluntly, that he disapproved of people getting into debt. The Faith had Seven Commandments, but the Beast had an eighth so he told him.  

"Thou shalt never borrow money that thou cannot repay."

The bookmaker was a friend of his, and out of the kindness of his heart, he'd bought the outstanding principal from him.  This meant that the money was owed to Ramsay now.  He'd pointed that interest was running on the principal at four per cent a week, compound, and if it wasn't paid, he'd start collecting parts of Theon's body in settlement.  Alternatively, the debt could be written off, if he delivered up Gendry Baratheon, and he'd get five hundred gold dragons on top. Well, this was one debt that would have to remain unpaid. He'd failed to catch Baratheon, and even if Talla succeeded, Ramsay was not the forgiving kind.   No. He'd leave Wintertown, and never come back. He was tempted to gallop, but it was a good ten miles, and the last thing he wanted was to have his horse foundering on him. He rode hard for about three miles, then slowed to a fast trot. He didn't want to appear in a panic, either when he got back there. 

Too late, he remembered that his boss's lover had served in the army, and wasn't likely to panic, when you pointed a gun at him. He'd no idea whether Talla and her raiders had prevailed or not, but he knew it would be only a very short time before word of the attack got back to his employer. If the President found out what he'd done, well, his dismissal from her service would be sudden, violent, and permanent.

He reached the Floating Log, and took his horse round to the stable, affecting a casualness he certainly didn't feel. Ygritte was waiting for him, in the entrance. "We're taking some money over to the Bank, lend a hand, would you?" He racked his brains for some excuse, but there wasn't one. Keep calm, Theon, and you'll get out of this in one piece.  He picked up a pair of leather satchels, full of coin, and set off for the Iron Bank, with Ygritte and Brynden Tully.  As usual, the manager, Nestoris, was on hand to grovel over them, although he apologised for being short-staffed that day, and could the three of them please carry the money bags down to the strongroom, if he led them there. They descended a flight of stairs, before making for the depository, which was guarded by a steel door. Nestoris rapped his knuckles on it, before telling them;

"Six inches thick. You'd need dynamite to break in." He unlocked the door, then pushed it smoothly inwards, on perfectly oiled hinges. After they'd entered, Nestoris pushed the door to. He put down the moneybags, then turned to find Ygritte had drawn her own revolver, and had it pointed at him.

"I think you've got a pretty good idea why we're 'ere Theon. Yer ain't the only traitor, in this town, an' we know yer ‘ad a little chat with the Beast. Care to tell us what it was all about?"

He turned to the banker. "Sir, you can't allow a man to be shot, inside your own bank. That's against the rules."

Nestoris smiled. "I regret sir, that the Iron Bank cannot be of assistance to you, in this matter. Good day." He turned, and exited the room.

"Yer 'ad yer chat with the Beast, and now yer'll 'ave one with me and Brynden."

"I'll put it to yer straight, Theon. There are good deaths, and there are bad deaths. Be honest, an' I'll make it quick fer yer. Fuck me about, an' Brynden and me'll blow yer kneecaps off, an' that's just fer starters. The thing is, no one'd 'ear a gun going off down 'ere." So, he confessed the whole sordid tale. It was almost a relief to get it off his chest. Ygritte remained impassive, till he'd finished. "Figures. Okay, turn against the wall, and put yer 'ands above yer 'ead." Should he fly at her, try to seize her gun? Brynden was watching him, and just smiled sadly, shaking his head. If anything, the man was a deadlier shot, even than the red-head.

He did as he was bidden.

"For what it's worth Theon, I'm sorry it were you," said Ygritte.

"We liked you, Theon", said Brynden.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry too", Theon replied.

Then, her bullet took him in the base of his skull.

Chapter 19: Tough Times

She'd fucked them; of course she had. Honestly, Ygritte was a fierce beauty, with a finely-toned, muscular, body, gorgeous tits, a glorious mane of red hair, and a real hunger for sex. And as for Satin, the male whore, well he was just breathtaking. Golden hair, piercing blue eyes, and a body like a god. Gilly'd wanted them both, an' it turned out, they'd wanted her too. They'd taken turns to eat her out, the previous night, before Satin had given her a good, hard, seeing-to, at the same time as Ygritte rode her face. It was a very long time since she'd so enjoyed herself.

It was of course, very stupid for the Deputy to a State Marshal to have done such a thing.

Jon Snow would dismiss her on the spot, if he knew what had taken place. For all she knew, she might have committed a serious criminal offence.

Satin had left their bedchamber, and Ygritte remained fast asleep, her head on Gilly's shoulder. Ygritte, who she knew to be a murderer and an outlaw, who'd evaded the gallows only by the skin of her teeth. Ygritte, who she suspected, knew far more about the whereabouts of Gendry Baratheon than she was letting on. Ygritte, who was chief enforcer to a woman, who for all her qualities, was as dangerous and ruthless as any Frey or Tarly. The difference was of course, that the President was a lot more intelligent than any of that lot, and was at least making a difference to the lives of Free Folk, women, and the smallfolk. The gangs lived only to sate their appetites, and were seemingly hells' bent on destroying each other. She had a very strong suspicion that Jeyne Lothrok (not that she believed that was her true name for one moment), was behind their war with each other.

She shifted away from Ygritte, who woke, yawned, and then grinned at her.

"You are, without a shadow of doubt, extremely gifted with yer tongue, Gilly." She blushed at the compliment.

"I think what 'appened, last night, it were a mistake, Ygritte. I'm meant to be a fuckin' Deputy."

"Yeh, there is that. Deputies ain't supposed to fuck male 'ores, and murderous bitches like me. What'd yer do, if Jon Snow wanted me brought back to White 'Arbour ter be 'anged?"

"Why'd he want ter do that?"

"Don't fuck with me, Gilly. Yer knows what this district is like. 'Ain't no one, round 'ere, as clean 'ands, 'cept maybe Missandei, the seamstress, an' everyone knows she's a saint. Yer knows damn well Talla Tarly led a raid on my boss's camp, and got shot down like the mad bitch she is. Or was. An' I think yer knows why she led that raid, and that means Captain Snow knows why."

"Yer boss is protecting that Gendry, ain't she? Snow spent two hours yesterday, questioning her, an' he told me she spent that 'ole two hours lying to 'im about it. Oh, 'e can't prove nothing, but even the dogs on the street knows it."

Ygritte got out of bed, and Gilly couldn't help but admire that pair of slender, muscled, legs that went right up to her neck, and that tight arse.  But, never get distracted, Gilly, for next thing, she found herself with a long knife pointed right 'twixt her tits, with her lover on the other end of it.  Ygritte looked a good deal less friendly, now.

"Honestly, Gilly, I likes yer, I mean, I really likes yer. No fuck that, I fancy yer, something rotten.  I'd rather not 'ave ter do this, but I will if I 'as ter.  Yer won't be the first lover I've 'ad to put away in the line of business, an' I daresay, yer won't be the last.  Yer've got some 'ard choices to make.  Now I 'ear word 'as come from White 'Arbour.  Turns out, Ramsay Bolton is "innocent", and charges against 'im is to be dropped.  They'll let that cunt Sam Tarly be 'anged, but not Ramsay Bolton, who you knows, and I knows, is guilty as 'ell. Why do yer think that is?"

She mustn't panic. Ygritte plainly had feelings for her, else she'd be bleeding out right now. "Some'ow, 'is father's pulled strings. 'E's one creepy sonofabitch. 'E claimed this Beast is innocent, but we knew it were a lie. 'E calls him bastard, as if it makes 'im a dog turd, but, I reckon 'e's very useful to his dad. I doesn't know what those strings is, though?"

"No, nor does I.  Captain Snow per'aps knows.  Per'aps the President does.  Whatever, someone 'igh up wants the Beast to go free, and Gendry Baratheon to be a scapegoat.  Now, tell it true, Gilly, what's this Gendry to you?  'As 'e ever done yer any wrong?  Ramsay though?  'E raped and murdered yer best friend.  'Im, yer can 'ave with our compliments, regardless what fucking White Harbour wants.  But, if yer insists on going after Baratheon, let me be blunt.  Yer ain't getting out of this town in one piece." She knew very well that the redhead meant what she said. It occurred to her that Theon Greyjoy had vanished very suddenly, and she wondered if Ygritte had had anything to do with that. Whatever, she was at the mercy of a dangerous and deadly - and admittedly, very hot - woman, and when it came down to it, what did this Gendry matter to her? Supposedly, they wanted him for murder in the Riverlands, but that was hundreds of miles away, and everyone knew, the so-called justice system stunk.

"Honestly, Ygritte, I wants justice for Val. That's all." Ygritte lowered the knife, though she still looked wary.

"Good. We all wants justice for Val, and we'll make sure yer gets it. But, don't you get any funny ideas about putting a bullet in my back. I'll always be one step ahead of yer." She could believe that too. Everything she'd heard about Ygritte suggested that she was, if not the fastest shot, certainly clear-headed, deadly, and accurate. The kind of person you might get one shot at, but if you take that shot, you'd best not miss, for you won't be getting another.

"Now, get yer gear on. It's time fer yer favourite task." Her heart sank. "Yep, it's time for us to muck out Sam Tarly."

Chapter 20: The Storm Breaks

"I've told you all I now about Gendry Baratheon", the President had said to Jon, repeatedly, from behind her desk. It was, he thought irrelevantly, quite a sumptuous office. For two hours, he'd been grilling her, trying to find out what she knew about the man. And, for that whole time, she'd been lying, of that he was quite certain. The question remained. Talla Tarly, now deceased, and her raiders, had attacked the logging camp which was owned by the woman sitting opposite him. And, it was clear, from interviewing the prisoners, that they'd expected to find Baratheon on the site. So, just why had they thought he was there?

"Misinformation. Unfounded rumours. People will tell all sorts of lies in a place like this." That had been her answer. And, it was a ridiculous one. But, so far, he had no way of proving her a liar. He could have placed her under arrest, of course, but that would have left him in a very precarious position. She had offered him all manner of assistance, including keeping the loathsome Samwell under lock and key, and providing Ned Dayne as a deputy. Save for this. Eventually, he thanked her, before returning to his chamber, to ponder the matter.

He was joined at breakfast, the following morning, by his deputies, Gilly and Tormund. Ygritte, the red-headed sharpshooter, sat down with them, for a time. She and Gilly seemed to have become very close friends, which he supposed was natural, both of them being Free Folk, even if Ygritte had been raised among Northmen

"We've just 'ad a load of fun, Gilly and me, mucking out that fat fuck, downstairs. Gods, 'ow 'e stinks, and 'ow 'e shits! A pregnant sow would be cleaner!

"Ladies, please! Too much information!" said Tormund, staring pointedly at the pile of sausage, beans, and fried tomatoes on his plate. Ygritte cackled like a magpie.

"One thing though", remarked Gilly. "'E's starting to worry that Beast Ramsay don't give a shit for 'im. ‘E’s a coward at ‘eart, fer all ‘is bluster. I reckon 'e's starting to wonder, just 'ow that ‘empen rope is going to feel 'round 'is fat neck." She grinned at that happy prospect.

"Odds are he won't hang," replied Jon. "I've had word from White Harbour."

"Someone pulling strings on 'is behalf?" asked Tormund.

"No, but it seems some of our politicians think hanging's uncivilised."

"So, what the fuck?" asked Gilly, a look of fury on her face. "They goin' to give 'im a nice bowl of raspberries, with some cream on top?"

"I wouldn't say so." It was Jon's turn to smile. "No, he'll be electrocuted. They'll shave him bald, and put a kind of metal bowl on his head, with wires attached. Then, they'll strap him down in a chair, and fix another wire to his leg. Then, they'll flick a switch, and he'll be electrocuted until his heart stops."

Gilly frowned. She'd probably no idea what electricity was. Ygritte simply remarked "What a fuckin' waste of time. Still, I guess it'll work. Some guys round 'ere 'ave their own dynamo-generators. Sometimes, they fuck up, and get a shock that kills 'em."

"I'd rather be hanged, if I was on Death Row”, replied Jon. "It all sounds pretty hit and miss. When people get fried, I’ve heard, sometimes their eyes'll pop out, or their skin bursts, or they go on fire. Sometimes, they don't even die the first time, and they have to repeat the process.”

“If it ‘appens, it’ll still be too good fer that wanker”, said Gilly. “The Free Folk ‘as a different way with murderin’ rapists. We calls it the Blood Eagle.”

”I know all about the Blood Eagle”, replied Jon, hurriedly. In the late rebellion, the Free Folk had behaved mostly decently to their prisoners.

Mostly.

Some Northmen, deemed guilty of murder, rape, and other specially heinous crimes, had been sent to Val and her acolytes, who had sacrificed them on altars, before Weirwood trees. Some had been disembowelled, their entrails hung up in branches. Others had had their ribs smashed apart, and their lungs spread across their shoulders, in the shape of eagles’ wings. The Northmen had taken cruel revenge.

"So what are going to do about the Beast, then?" asked Tormund. The trickiest subject of all. He'd received word from his superior, that the case against Ramsay Bolton was to be closed. Obviously, money had changed hands, or some other favours had been called in. Roose Bolton was one of the most powerful men in the entire North, and a dangerous man to cross. For all that he might express disdain for his natural son, Jon had learned enough about the man to know that his father found him extremely useful. One of the "beasts in the woods" that powerful men employed, to avoid getting their own hands dirty.

"I'll be dismissed, if I arrest Ramsay Bolton."

"I saw 'im rape and murder Val, Jon" replied Gilly with some heat. "Are yer saying that yer career matters to yer more than getting justice done, for the woman yer loved?" They'd had this argument the day before.

"No, Gilly. That won't happen. If I'm sacked, well so be it." He'd reached that conclusion overnight, after he'd thought things through. "But, I will have to tread carefully. A vicious idiot like Tarly, or one of the Freys, they'd take their chances shooting me down, and then the army'd get sent in. A man like Roose Bolton? He'd opt for a death that looked like natural causes, or perhaps, I'd just vanish. The North's a big country, and people disappear all the time." They were silent for a time, pondering the truth of this.

He heard the door to the saloon banging open, and there, standing in full view, was a most striking, dark-haired man, who very clearly resembled the posters of Gendry Baratheon. "Oh, fuck me", he heard Ygritte mutter. There was a sound of glass breaking, and he looked around to see the President, dressed immaculately as ever, in grey velvet and matching bonnet, and looking as if she'd just seen a ghost. She'd plainly dropped the wine glass she was carrying.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl, as it so often does at these moments. Jon considered his options. Clearly he had a duty to arrest this man. Just as clearly, and the knowledge came to him in a blinding flash of clarity, Gendry Baratheon and the President were lovers - why else would she be so desperate to cover for him? But, what if he did place a pair of cuffs on him? Would he even leave this town alive? Ygritte was watching him closely, and he had a strong suspicion, her right hand was placed just next to her gun, underneath the table. The man behind the bar, the one called Brynden Tully, was staring at them very intently, as well. You get a sixth sense about these things, and Jon had a very strong feeling that the man had a loaded rifle under the counter. Could he even rely upon his two deputies, if push came to shove? Both had good reason to wish to bring Bolton and Tarly to justice, but did Baratheon mean anything to them? He looked up at the President, who had a face like stone. For a long moment, they all stared at each other. Then, he heard a commotion.

A dark-skinned woman came barging through the entrance. He'd seen her before, Missandei the seamstress. "The Beast's in town, him and his boys," she cried out. "Word is, he's killed Old Man Frey, and set his cathouse on fire. And, he's coming for you too, Dany."  Dany?  Who the fuck was that?  

"Well, that settles that, then" remarked Ygritte.  "If the Beast's coming for us, Captain Snow, yer goin' to need every killer yer can lay her 'ands on.  And, there ain't no gunman in the world, better than Gendry Baratheon, right 'ere.  Yer can ask Talla Tarly about that. Leastways, yer could if this one 'adn't put a bullet down 'er mouth."

Chapter 21: The Face of Battle

Ramsay'd had enough. Talla Fucking Tarly was meant to have captured Gendry Fucking Baratheon, with the aid of Theon Fucking Greyjoy, and the pair had screwed it up. She was now dead, with the back of her head blown off, and Theon had gone to ground somewhere. Well, he wouldn't escape Ramsay's justice, but first, it was time to finish with his enemies.  The Freys were near-beaten, no match for his own ruthlessness, and it was now time to finish the old man, and then, that bitch Jeyne Lothbrok, for good.  No doubt, he'd face a very unpleasant interview with his father, in due course, but Father was a millionaire, several times over, and it was about time he put his money to good use, buying off politicians and law officers in White Harbour, and getting them to look the other way.

He'd selected a score of killers, three of them free folk.  He despised their race in general, but there was no denying it, they had some skilled warriors among their ranks.  

As he rode, he thought about Val.  Cutting her throat had been a mistake.  He ought to have kept her as his personal whore. It would have been fun to break her in, to have her begging for his cock, because she knew it's what he wanted to hear. As he grew older, he'd begun to understand, as his father did, that there is far more pleasure to be derived from shattering a victim mentally, making that person yours, than there is from mere physical torture. 

He knew an Easterner, Genshed, who ran a brothel in White Harbour, and had a fearsome reputation.  A former slave-dealer and torturer's mate, he'd bragged that he could drive a child mad with fright, without ever laying a finger on it.  Those in the know had confirmed the truth of the man's boast.  He'd asked the man about his work as a torturer, saying it sounded like fun.  "It was a living, but frankly, it bored me rigid", the man had replied.  "I was a hot irons man, but you know what the problem was?  My bosses would stop, once they got their confessions.  They wouldn't let me play the games I like."  Along with his father, the old slave trader was about the only man in the world that he respected.

They'd ridden into town at dawn, then stormed The Peach, killing Lothar, who was probably the last effective leader among the Freys, among several others.  One of his own men had been killed, another injured, but those were acceptable losses.  They'd found Old Walder, cowering in a broom cupboard, having shat his breeches.  They'd tied him up, and Ramsay had doused him in lamp oil. Then, they'd set fire to the brothel.  Time now, to settle with the silver whore.

____________________________________________

Honestly, if the army had recruited women, Ygritte the Red would have been an officer in no time, thought Jon.  She was in charge of security, at the Floating Log, and it was just taken for granted, by all those present, she'd be the one giving the orders, calmly and authoritatively, with no sign of panic. Even the President obeyed her.  She'd offered to fight, only to get the reply,

"Yer've never used anything bigger than a Deringer.  If it comes ter fighting at close quarters, join in, but right now, I wants yer, ter take the 'ores, an' the staff, up ter yer quarters, and ter keep them out of 'arms way.  Satin, take a horse, and ride hard for the logging camp. I want every man what can use a gun on 'is way 'ere. Missie, I wants yer, an' a couple of others, up on the roof, with buckets of water, 'case they use fire arrows. Brynden," she called out, and as Jon had guessed, he was holding a shotgun, "bolt the doors, and fasten the shutters. The rest of yer, follow me."

She led them down a corridor, to a safe, which she unlocked. It contained rifles, and ammunition, which she handed out to them. "Gilly, Tormund, I wants yer in the rooms overlooking the stables, in case they come that way. Ned, Gendry, an' you, Captain, take station on the first floor, looking out over the street. " He took his rifle, a single shot Martini Henry, rather than a repeater, but still deadly accurate. I'll stay down 'ere, with Brynden. An' listen. We're all fighting in self-defence. There ain't no rules now. We kills 'em, or they kills us, an' I ain't going to die today."

"What do we do about Piggy?" asked Gilly, reasonably enough.

"Okay, Gilly, run down to the cellar, and wrap a length of chain around the cunt, with a padlock. An' be quick about it."

”An’ remember what I’ve always told yer. Bein’ quick on the draw don’t no ‘arm, but keepin’ a clear ‘ead under fire’s a damn sight more important.

Jon ran upstairs to take station, in one of the hotel bedrooms. He counted out thirty rounds, placing them on a low table beside him. Then he opened the window, and peered out cautiously. Main Street, usually thronged with people was deserted. Clearly, they knew what was coming. Thank all the Gods he'd been in action. The waiting, honestly, is the worst part, the part where your skin crawls, and you fear what's coming. He'd learned to control that fear, and no doubt, so had Gendry, in the next room. And, then he saw him, one of enemy flitting in and out of the shadows cast by the buildings, rifle in hand. He sighted his own gun on him, waiting for the moment, only for a shot to ring out, and for the man to scream, clutching his shoulder and dropping his weapon, before stumbling down an alley. Gendry was clearly every bit as good a shot as Ygritte had claimed.

And that of course, is the problem.  No man who knew how to handle a weapon was going to come quietly, and everything he'd learned of the President, during his stay in this town, showed her to be a woman of steely determination. No way would she meekly hand over her lover for execution.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Dany hammered on the doors, of the whores' bedrooms, chivvying them upstairs, along with the early morning staff.  She made sure they carried every vessel they could, filled with water. When she had them in her quarters, she did her best to reassure them.

"The fighters we have downstairs, they're the best, every one of them, a crack shot.  And help is on its way. Now tell me, which of you knows how to use a pistol or knife?

"Pretty well any whore knows how to use a knife at least", replied Tansy, an attractive strawberry blonde.  "Otherwise, you'll end up dead in some alley, when you meet a man like Joffrey Hill or Sam Tarly."

"Good. If they break in, don't hesitate to fall on them. And remember what Ygritte's always said about knife work; "Go in low, and fuck 'em up. " Dany took out a pole, then reached up to open the skylight that would give access to the flat roof. There was a step-ladder in her chambers, which Missandei clambered up, along with another of the whores, big-breasted Myranda, as she and the others passed up the water vessels. In the end, she decided it was best if she took up station on the roof. She laughed inwardly, at the shock on the others' faces, as she casually stripped off in front of them. Only Gendry and Ygritte had ever seen her in her smallclothes, and a grey velvet dress and bonnet were no attire for a fight. No doubt, they’d faint if she told them she’d been a burlesque dancer in Barrowtown, performing before drunken, leering miners, at one point. She took off her stockings, then put on a pair of jeans, and leather jerkin, then told Tansy, "you're in charge down here."  There was a furious exchange of gunfire, from below.   Yes, the sooner she was up on top, and able to see what was coming, the better.

She climbed up to the roof, squatting down next to Missandei, and peering over the parapet.  A sudden shot rang out, striking a chimney, two feet to her right, and they ducked away.  

"Fucking cunts!", she muttered. Missandei laughed.

"I remember when you'd prefer to die, rather than utter such an expression." It was true, the pair of them went back a very long way.

"Royalty aren't meant to swear. But then, I'm not royalty any more."

"One day, you'll take it all back." A nice idea, but hardly practical at a time like this. Or ever, in all likelihood. "Remember Meereen?" said Missandei. She did. They'd been holed up in the Great Pyramid, under fire from the Sons of the Harpy, who'd launched a revolt, aimed at taking control of the city. They'd failed, but not completely. The price of peace had been her own exile from the place.

"There were hundreds of those bastards." She'd learned later, they and the slavers had reneged on their end of the bargain, and they'd been massacred in their thousands, by the enraged freedmen. That country remained in a state of anarchy, even today. Some people wanted her back, so she'd heard, but she'd made a new life, under an assumed name, and she'd no wish to return. "What's a pack of thugs, compared to them?"

That's when the first of the fire arrows came flying over the parapet, accompanied by more shots from below. Myranda grabbed it, then chucked it back over the parapet. Then, the flaming arrows came thick and fast, and before long, there was no time for anything other than dousing them with water.

Notes:

Genshed is a memorably horrible villain, in Richard Adams' novel, Shardik. He is as described here.

Chapter 22: The Fight Continues

"I knew my people would come to the rescue", Sam crowed, a broad grin on his face. She could hear the sound of gunfire coming from above. "I'd run away, if I were you. Or stay. I'm sure we'd all enjoy taking turns with you. I wonder, are you as good a fuck as Val was? "

Gilly kept her temper, just about, as she wound the chain around him. "I wouldn't kid yerself, Sammy-Boy. Cap'n Snow tells me, they've got a new-fangled way of killin’ people in White 'Arbour. They calls it, the electric chair. Sounds a lot worse than 'angin’ ter me. They ties yer to a chair, and then they fries yer, slowly, with electricity. Either yer'll fry, or me an' Ygritte, we’ll come down 'ere, and we'll shoot yer kneecaps off, then yer ankles, then yer bollocks. Takes a real long time for a big hog ter bleed out." She snapped the padlock shut, turned her back on the bloated walrus, and went to join the fight.

Gods, how she hated that fat fuck! If the enemy beat them, she'd still make sure that creature got his, before she died. She joined Tormund in a back room, overlooking the stables. "Never thought I'd be a deputy, fighting under a Northern marshal. War makes strange bedfellows, I guess", he remarked. That it did. She wondered what Val was thinking right now, if she could see them, now. She remembered, clear as day, the evening the revolt had broken out. Great circles of fire had been lit, by the priestess and her acolytes, on the sacred mountain Black Hag, in The Lonely Hills. Thousands of worshippers had gathered, invoking the Gods to lead them into war, Crom Dubh, Lugh, The Morrigan . As they chanted, sang, and prayed, so great arcs and curtains of light, green, red, violet, had appeared in the night sky. "Look Gilly, the Gods are coming", Val had cried out to her, awestruck, as she pointed towards the sky with her staff.

Well, Val would be avenged today.

Then, she saw him, one of her own kind, slipping over the fence into the yard behind the stables, nimble as a weasel. One of her own kind, plainly, for no one could move as smoothly as free folk. She felt the hatred and fury well up in her, like black smoke. Whatever loathing she might feel for the Northron oppressors, was as nothing, compared to her contempt for those of her own folk who willingly served a man like Ramsay Bolton. "He's mine", she whispered to Tormund, before carefully sighting her rifle, and then firing. The man shrieked, and fell to the ground, writhing, as her bullet took him in the abdomen.  Good, let him linger.  A man could take a whole week to die, from a stomach wound.

Quite suddenly, the gate to the backyard burst open, and two men rushed in, firing wildly with pistols, while from the entrance, another two covered them with rifle fire. Gilly ducked, as a bullet whistled over her head, reloading, then firing back. Tormund had dropped one of the men at the gate, then cried, and fell back, struck in the right shoulder, and bleeding badly. Fuck, that left just her, intact. Judging by the whinnying sound the horses were making, the other two had reached the stables. The back door to the hotel was bolted and barred, and would take an age to bring down. But, a set of stairs led up from the stables to the rooms above. That's how they'd come, most likely. She wrapped a cloth round Tormund's upper arm, as he moaned, staunching the bleeding, as best she could.  It was knife and pistol work from now on.

Go in low, and fuck 'em up;  the wisdom of the world, in seven words.

_____________________________________________________

Ygritte waited with Brynden in the saloon. A brisk exchange of fire came from above and from outside, with bullets hitting the shuttered windows, ineffectually. She felt some fear, of course, for only a fool or a madman feels no fear, but she'd faced death a sore of times in the past, and viewed it now with considerable detachment. Either they'd win, or they'd die, and that was all there was too it. Better to die like this, rather than dancing on the end of a rope, pissing herself, which is what she'd been headed towards, before she met the President. She didn't begrudge her and Gendry falling for each other, they seemed well-suited, and she knew, from personal experience, that each of them was good in the sack. She wasn't the marrying kind, she knew full well, but, if Gilly and Satin both came through this, she looked forward to sharing a bed with the two of them, for a time.

She was glad Brynden was down here with her. Solid, capable, and absolutely loyal, unlike Theon Greyjoy. He'd betrayed them over gambling debts, and that was some kind of stupid. The President would have paid them off, had he only approached her. Still, some men are too proud to seek help, but not too proud to commit murder. She'd given up, trying to understand other peoples' morals. Morals were like to chafe at the best of times, and right now, they couldn’t be worse. But Brynden now, he might have had every reason to join the other side. The Freys had murdered his family at a wedding after all, and those bastards were enemies of the Freys. But, your enemy's enemy ain't always your friend. He'd come to hate the gangs generally, not just the Frey family. There was an ominous silence now, from outside. Some spider sense told her that something very unpleasant was about to happen.

"Get behind the bar, Brynden, an' take cover, something's about ter 'appen". He did as he was bidden. She backed away too, upending one of the tables, and then kneeling behind it. Swiftly, she checked that her revolvers were loaded, before laying them on the floor, beside her. She sighted her rifle, very carefully on the door. Quite suddenly, there was a loud explosion, blowing the door to pieces, splinters flying round the room. A cannon, or grenades! She neither knew nor cared, just aimed carefully at the first thug who came rushing through, hitting his leg, and sending him sprawling. Clear-headed as ever, she dropped the rifle, then picked up a pistol, aiming calmly as she knelt, firing into the mass.

________________________________________________________

Thank all the Gods for Ygritte, thought Brynden, as he rose from behind the bar, rifle in hand.  He'd had nothing to live for, he thought, once the Freys had murdered his family.  He'd intended just to kill as many he could before they got him, but she, and the President, had persuaded him, revenge is a dish best eaten cold.  And, by all the Gods, they'd wreaked revenge on Freys and Tarlys alike.  Some moron came charging through the remains of the saloon door, screaming wildly and brandishing a pair of pistols. He had a mouthful of rotten teeth, he thought irrelevantly, before he shot him through the head. He dropped his rifle, drew his revolver, and fired into the oncoming crowd, in the face of a hail of bullets. He glanced at Ygritte, seeing her on one knee, calmly picking her targets. He'd known she was good, but now, she seemed to be killing like a machine. And, then, quite suddenly, he felt as if he'd been hit by an iron bar , right in the middle of the chest. Strange, there was no pain, but he was just lying on his back, behind the bar. He heard the sound of men, rushing down the stairs, towards the saloon. Friend or foe? He couldn't focus.

He glanced up. Standing above him, was the demon himself, Ramsay Bolton, a grin of hateful happiness on his face. The kind of grin that would send kids on bikes skidding into fences.

"What a wonderful day this has turned out to be", said the Beast, just before he pulled the trigger, and Brynden knew no more.

Notes:

Black Hag is a mountain in the Cheviot range.

Chapter 23: All's Well That Ends Well

Gilly heard the fuckers come tearing up the stairs, before they burst through the door, into the upper room. Kneeling to fire, with both hands, as both Ygritte and Jon Snow had told her, she dropped the first, before the other emptied the barrel of his own gun. A couple of shots thudded into poor Tormund, as he lay groaning, and a third took her in the wrist, making her drop her revolver. With her left hand, she drew her dagger, even as the cunt, threw himself on top of her. Over they rolled, her trying to ram her dagger into his guts, him punching her, and trying to wrench it from her grasp, while her wrist played merry hell. He was fat, and his breath stank of stale porter and onions. Finally, he kneeled to get astride her, raising his fist to smash her face in, and she saw her chance, plunging the knife up into his fruits. How he shrieked, rolling over, and clutching his groin! She rose, panting, and her leg nearly gave way, suggesting he'd done some mischief there. But, he was no danger now. She picked up the gun with left hand, put it to side of his head, and pulled the trigger. She took stock. Tormund was dead, and her wrist was broken, and bleeding. She sat down to recover, as she panted.

_________________________________________________________________________________

All hell had been let loose in the saloon. Ygritte had done dreadful execution on the enemy, but she'd taken a bullet in the thigh. Fortunately, it'd gone right through, without breaking the bone, but her leg was bleeding profusely. She sat on her arse, her life, running away from her, looking for a tournaquet. She was out of ammunition, too. The Bastard approached her, grinning, four of his boys in his wake, the rest dead or injured.

“Ygritte the Red, the wildling slut", he sneered. He held a Colt in his right hand, and drew a long knife with his left. "I'm going to enjoy carving you up. I'll start with your eyes, nose, and ears, then your tits, before moving on to the rest of you."

"Not so fast, Bolton", cried Jon Snow, who'd emerged from the stairwell. He opened fire, but missed, hitting one of the boys in the abdomen, instead, before the Beast shot back. Snow's gun must have been struck, for it flew from his hand, hitting the ground, as Ramsay laughed. He pointed his gun at the Marshal.

"You’re a dead man, Snow, but you know what, I'm a sporting man. I'm going to give you a chance. Do you recognise this? " He sheathed his knife, then pulled a gold watch from out of his pocket. "I think you might do. I found it on your whore, after Tarly and I had finished with her." She saw a look of fury on Snow's face. "You gave it to her? It plays a pretty tune." He placed it on a table, then opened it, and the chimes began to play. "When the chimes end, you reach for your gun, and take your chance."

"It's not like the Beast of Bolton to give his victims a chance", muttered Ygritte, through gritted teeth.

"But, it's very common for cats to play with mice", replied the man. Time seemed to slow right down, as the chimes played, and her enemy waited patiently, a sardonic grin on his lips. Her mind seemed to be wandering, and she forced herself to concentrate, just as she heard a rifle being cocked. Gendry stepped into the room. He pointed the gun at Ramsay, even as one of the Boys raised his pistol. Gendry shook his head, before remarking "I can shoot your Beast down, like the syphilitic dog he is. Or, we can make this a fair fight. " Ramsay glanced back at his men, gesturing for them to back off. Jon Snow picked up his gun, and both men waited for the chimes to end.

The moment they did, each one fired, but this time, Snow’s aim was true. His bullet took his enemy in the stomach, while Bolton’s missed. Gendry fired too, the bullet flinging the Bastard’s boy against the wall. Two only were left standing, dithering, before she heard the sound of horses. Satin!

”Sounds like the cavalry’s here, boys.” They turned and fled. She heard a groan, and looked up to see the Beast on his knees, about to shoot. Only for his head to explode in a spray of blood and brain, as Gendry fired again. How he’d reloaded so fast, the Gods alone knew.

Snow came over, and helped her off with her jeans to check the wound. Then he hurried to get the shirt off a dead body, fashioning it into a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding. Now, it was Daenerys who appeared, who took one look at her, then said she’d summon the doctor.

________________________

The fight was won. Yet, the saloon was a wreck, strewn with dead bodies, broken glass, spilled drink, and hazy with gunsmoke. Jon sat down, exhausted, at one of the tables. Ygritte had been carried off on a stretcher. The President, Jeyne or Dany, joined them, hissing with pain, from a cut to her face. Gilly was with them, wrist bandaged. Last, but not least, was Gendry. He poured for them all, as they sat in a silence, that might easily be called pregnant. Satin walked over, and rested his hand on Gilly’s shoulder. It suddenly occurred to Jon, just as it had at breakfast, that he was heavily outnumbered, Federal Marshal or no.

"So wot 'appens now, Jon?" asked Gilly finally. "Yer've got a warrant for Gendry's arrest, but you an 'e, yer fought side by side against the Beast of Bolton, an' 'is men. Yer've seen the way 'e shoots, an' I don't think he's goin' back ter the Riverlands ter face the end of a rope. Not unless he wants ter, an' 'e ain't fucking stupid. Not to mention, Ygritte told me, ‘e saved yer life." Taking them on would be suicidal, but his duty as a Marshal was still clear.

"Tarly." He remembered that creature, hopefully securely chained.

"You can have him, with my compliments, Marshal", replied the President. "It seems to me, you could be a Northern hero after this. The man who killed or captured the two worst outlaws in this township. Bolton was the aggressor, so you’ll face no comeback from your superiors. I know a newspaper editor, in White Harbour. His name's Beauchamp. He writes pulp fiction about the paladins of the frontier. Very popular by all accounts.”

Jon had heard of him, and thought his tales were wildly exaggerated, but there was no doubt of his books' popularity. “I'm quite certain, he would welcome the opportunity to publish your story, and I could ensure he'd be generous with the royalties."  If we let you leave, was the unspoken comment at the end.  He made up his mind.

"I heard a tale about Gendry Baratheon.  He stayed a few nights in this very hotel.  Then, he left, to try his luck as a miner, down the Kingsroad.  There was a bad accident, an explosion in a gold mine.  The poor guy was killed.  They never even managed to recover his body."

"Yeah, I heard something similar" remarked Satin.

"That's the tale I'll tell, when I return to White Harbour."

"What other tale could there be?" said the President.  He finished his whisky, rose, and nodded. "Well, I'll need to collect Tarly.  I'll be riding down to Castle Cerwyn, to catch the steamboat.  Perhaps you could lend me a couple of men, and a spare horse for that creature."

"Of course. Well, Captain Snow, it's been a pleasure to host you, but with the best will in the world, I hope we won't meet again. Have a pleasant journey” She rose, to shake his hand, and then he turned towards the stairs to the cellar, to collect his prisoner.

___________________________________________________________________

A fortnight later, Daenerys Targaryen, and Gendry Baratheon exchanged their vows over an opened copy of the Seven-Pointed Star. They'd agreed it would be wise for Gendry, now officially dead, to adopt a new name, as she had done. Missandei, Ygritte, Satin, and Gilly all witnessed the signing of the register, before they, the whores, and several dozen of Daenerys' employees got riotously drunk, and most of them danced the night away, until the Sun rose. She would serve two terms as Mayor, bringing a gas main, metalled roads, and a sewerage network to the township, and establishing three new schools and a hospital. The prosperity generated by her business ventures, and infrastructure projects, enabled her to keep the rates at an acceptable level. Roose Bolton knew better than to cross her, seemingly taking the death of his bastard philosophically. Gendry kept his promise to give her black-haired children, with two girls and one boy.

Gilly, Satin, and Ygritte moved in together, and so far as is known, they still love one another. Missandei's business as as seamstress was highly successful, and eventually, she moved to White Harbour, where she prospered, and married a merchant in dry goods.

___________________________________________________________

As his life drew towards its close, Sam Tarly faced the bitter truth that he'd avoided for years. He was, actually, a coward. He'd thought himself brave, when he’d had a band of violent men at his back, but now, he was all alone. Men show who they truly are, when they face death, he'd boasted. And, wasn't that the truth? Jon Snow had been right. He'd done a lot of sweating, while awaiting trial, a lot of sweating during it, and a lot of sweating, now that his world had shrunk to a cell on Death Row, eight feet by six. And, all the time, he thought, not about how that rope would feel around his neck, but how it would feel to be fried. His mouthpiece had done his best, but the evidence against him, for murder, rape, and robbery, had been overwhelming. Snow, Gilly, Shae, and many others, had given evidence of his numerous crimes. The verdict had been inevitable. It had taken the jury barely an hour to find him guilty, on all charges. Likewise, the sentence had been inevitable, to be "taken from this court, to a place of imprisonment; and from there, to a place of execution, and there to be electrocuted. May the Old Gods and the New have mercy on your soul." Alone in his cell, he'd wept, raved, and prayed, to Gods he'd never believed in. Please, give me a second chance.

If only he was given a reprieve, or a means of escape, he'd turn over a new leaf, he really would. But, the Gods were silent. They always were. Just the once, he'd attended a service in the prison sept. The Septa, Unella, had addressed them, with relish:

Think that a man in the seven hells cries only one single tear in ten hundred millions of years. Tell me, how many millions of years must pass before he fills a little basin with his tears? How many millions of years must pass before he cries as many tears as their were drops of water that the deluge? How many years must pass before he has drowned the heavens and earth with his tears? Is this eternity? No. Turn all the earth into little grains of sand, and fill all the skies and the heavens with little grains of sand. After each hundred millions of years, one grain of sand is taken away; oh, what a long, long time it would be before the last grain of sand was taken away. Is this eternity? No. After such a long, long time will the Seven still punish sinners? Yes. After all this their anger is not turned away, their hand is still stretched out.

How long, then, will the punishment of sinners go on? For ever, and ever, and ever! Perhaps at this moment, seven o'clock in the evening, a sinner is just going into the seven hells. To-morrow evening at seven o'clock, go and knock at the gates of the sevens hells, and ask what the sinner is doing. The devils will go and look. Then they will come back again and say, the sinner is burning! Go in a week and ask what the sinner is doing; you will get the same answer -- it is burning! Go in a year and ask; the same answer comes -- it is burning! Go in a million of years and ask the same question; the answer is just the same -- it is burning! So, if you go for ever and ever, you will always get the same answer -- it is burning in the fire! He’d actually wet himself, as she went on and on, detailing the punishments meted out to sinners, in the next world. She’d pointed her long bony finger at him, before proclaiming “in that place of woe, the tenderest parts of thy nether regions shall be made into food for all! Devils shall feast on thy pillar and stones.”

There was a noise at the door to his cell, and it swung open. Was it time for him to die? Surely, they'd have given him some warning. It was the Deputy Governor, with a couple of guards. "Well, Tarly", began the Governor. "I'm afraid, the Minister-President has turned down your appeal for clemency. Your execution is scheduled three days hence. Septa Unella will be along shortly, to offer you some spiritual comfort."

They turned and left, leaving Sam to scream into his thin pillow.

Chapter 24: Epilogue: The Duke of Death

Daenerys lay abed with Gendry. It was the anniversary of their wedding, a wonderful, riotous, occasion, where the liquor had flowed like water, and they'd danced until the Sun rose again. Poor Ygritte could only watch of course, as she'd taken a bullet in the thigh, and she was walking about on crutches. Still, she'd seemed happy enough with Satin and Gilly, with whom she now shared her life. A strange arrangement, yet a woman who made her living, in part, by appealing to mens' vices was in no position to judge.

She turned to kiss her husband on the forehead, waking him up.

"You kept your promise to me."

"How so?"

"I believing I'm expecting."

"Thank the Gods." He took her in his arms, kissing her passionately for a time, until they heard someone hammering on the door. She sighed, but got out of bed, put on her silk dressing gown, and went to see who it was. As she opened the door, she saw it was Tansy, the whore, who handed her a package wrapped it brown paper. "It came from White Harbour, Madam." She took it and walked back to the bed, unwrapping the paper. Inside, was a book, with a lurid cover. It showed a Federal Marshal battling a grizzly bear, which had been on the point of savaging a big-bosomed, golden-haired woman, who was in a swoon.

The Duke of Death, she read aloud, The Adventures of Marshal Jon Snow, Avenger of the Wildling Princess, by W. W. Beauchamp.  It ran to about a hundred pages.  Typically for the author, it was a mix of fact, exaggeration, and outright invention.  Almost single-handedly, it seemed, the then Captain Snow had put down the revolt of the free folk.  Like all the Northern soldiers, he had fought with the utmost chivalry, against foes who were brave, but savage and undisciplined.

"As far as I know, he fought a clean war", she remarked to Gendry. "But, I know for a fact, many of his colleagues did no such thing." She read on. Upon meeting the captive wildling Princess, Val Mancesdottir, he had been smitten by her beauty and her courage. "Yet, her chastity, as with that of all the captive women of the Free Folk, was a sacred charge unto him, and the brave men who served alongside him. They guarded them as they would their own mothers, wives, and sisters."

"True so far as he was concerned, but he told me he had three of his men court-martialled for rape.  He wanted them hanged, but they ended up getting a couple of years in gaol between them, and a dishonourable discharge. I suppose it was something. A generation before that, they'd have got a promotion."  Captain Snow had courted Val, and eventually the two had wed, to the great rejoicing of both peoples, helping to reconcile the Northmen and the Free Folk.  She had borne him a child.  

"They weren't ever married, were they?" asked Gendry.

"Of course not, but no publisher is going to get the censors to permit a novel, that has a Northern army officer fathering a child on a woman of the free folk, out of wedlock. As to the rest, it was treated as a considerable scandal. He was forced to resign his commission, and while he lived with Val, the Free Folk tolerated him, but they never loved him." Sadly, continued the author, they had drifted apart, "for Val was a huntress who loved the wild, and the forests, while Captain Snow had a sacred calling, to bring the outlaws who infest the North to justice." He had become a federal marshal, a task which involved rescuing women, (all beautiful, and many of them with ample, and heaving bosoms), and children from outlaws, savages, and grizzly bears.

The tale moved to the present, where Val was subjected to "a criminal assault, and foully murdered", by Ramsay Bolton and "Savage Sam" Tarly, two of the vilest outlaws in the North.  With her dying breath, she had assured them that Marshal Snow would avenge her death.  Her companion Gilly had escaped, and made her way to White Harbour, where Snow had sworn an oath of vengeance against the murderers.  "Bolton's offence was the worse, for he was the son of one of the noblest men of the North, Lord Roose.  Oft-times, his father had sought to turn his son to the path of honour, decency, and righteousness, yet Ramsay broke his heart."

"Some people, it's unwise to offend", Daenerys remarked drily. Marshal Snow had come to Wintertown, and there he had brought the rogues to justice, with the aid of Ygritte the Red, Gilly, Tormund, Ned Dayne, Brynden Tully, and President Jeyne, herself."

"I saved his life, and I shot Talla Tarly," remarked Gendry.

"Officially you're dead, darling. You died in a mining accident."

"With an oath and a curse, Talla Tarly drew her Colt, and cried out, "You have taken my Sam-Boy, and for that Jon Snow, you will die today."  

"Miss Tarly, I have no desire to harm a lady, even the sister of an outlaw.  Lay down your weapon, and I promise, you shall have a fair trial."  But, she fired her pistol, and the Marshal shot back, striking her in the bosom, and fatally wounding her.  "Oh Marshal Snow", she cried out in her last moments, "I see now I have lived a most wicked and sinful life, and I must beg the Gods for forgiveness. " He knelt beside her, and took her hand, and together, they prayed that the Gods might accept her repentance."

"In fact, her last word was "Cunt", just before I blew the back of her head off."

"It's called artistic licence, Gendry." They both laughed at that.

"Ygritte the Red and Brynden Tully fought with the utmost valour, but they were overwhelmed, and the noble Brynden was slain.  Ygritte lay injured on the floor, and the Beast of Bolton advanced upon her, with evil, slavering lips, promising to commit the wickedest of crimes against her, and even a fate worse than death.  But, Marshal Snow strode forth, and commanded him, "Surrender, you monster, or I swear, by the Old Gods and the New, this shall be the day that you die." The Beast drew his gun, but the paladin shot straight and true, ending his wretched existence."

The tale concluded with the trial and execution of Savage Sam, and how he had gone to the electric chair weeping, and begging for mercy.  "For he was no true man, but rather, he was a coward and a cur."

"I have no doubt,  that last part was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.  Beauchamp was one of the witnesses to his death", she concluded.

She turned and kissed her husband again, this time more passionately.  "I'm the luckiest of wives".

"And I, the most fortunate of husbands", he replied, as they started to make love, once again. 

 

Notes:

Beauchamp's account should be considered enlightened for its time. He does at least acknowledge the heroism of the Free Folk, Val, Gilly, and Ygritte, whereas many Northmen still take the view, the only good wildling is a dead wildling.