Chapter 1: Prologue: Posting Station
Chapter Text
Rare was the night that Ned would find himself at the Silver Tower – more frequent than not it was Tobirama in his bed at the Hibernal Tower. Yet it was on this night that, once they had finished, the exhaustion in his hip-bones and shoulders warred with the itch that spread across the small of his back and the rabbiting thunder of his heart echoing in his ears.
A sigh, before there was a swish of cloth and the small creak of hinges – a precaution, Ned knew, for Tobirama kept things in the Silver Tower. Things that would have featured in his nightmares, had Tobi not already found the darkness beyond the Wall and presented it before the lords of the North in an old tun.
A body pressed to his back. Ned would have moved – the Starks were bred for the cold – but his skin ran cool; as though the Others had crafted another corpse for the Stark to take as bride, had been a passing thought in his younger years. The calming touch along his shoulders started to knead into a stubborn knot, a dedicated bedmate and helpmate to the unfortunate shadow attempting to peer in, should they exist.
“Honestly, I was not informed for the need of travel when I took this post,” was the cool remark that filtered into Ned’s ear. “I would have thought my days passed in the training and education of young guardsmen, in between appointments at the Lady Lyarra, and standing at your side come the graduation ceremony.”
“Those would be the days – I made no promises of the nights,” Ned groaned. “Needs must, however, when the Realm and the North is threatened. It would take but a few sennights before we must decamp from home to rally the Realm – I pray it would be for this trip alone.”
“It would be the first, but not the last. This military threat would be focused on the North, but many a lord would seek either to stay away from war, or to cover themselves in vainglory, or… they will find something in the White Walkers.”
The words were spoken with the certainty of a man who had faced such a problem – presumably, humans were the same in any world.
“I understand, I really do, but… the brine?”
“It was this or honey.” He was amused, Ned could tell. “Ice only goes so far to delay decomposition in time to drag it before the Iron Throne – or the King’s temporary seat.”
“Runestone, dear. Ser Kyle extended the invitation, and Elbert would be there to discuss… any fosterages.”
The invite had come from Elbert, and old Jon. That the tourney also included the King was fortunate – Ned had no idea how they would ferry the living dead down to King’s Landing; the Vale was much more achievable in comparison.
Now if only…
“Must we to bring the entire graduating class of the Bitebay Lyceum, though?”
“There is a squire-only melee, and it would be a chance to see how other regions trained their warriors,” was Tobirama’s peaceable explanation. “Unless you wanted their maiden battles to be against wights?”
Ned shuddered at the far too descriptive thought.
“Barring certain accidents or disgrace, this class will form the foundation of the North,” Tobirama’s tone was profound now. “Better that they cut their teeth in peace far from home, rather than shed blood in wartime to defend the motherland.”
Here his tone turned light. “And, given what the lords of the North had to say of Southron summer knights, I think I would still bet on our cubs.”
“Please don’t say that in the Vale,” Ned begged. “Last I were in Winterfell, Lady Catelyn asked me how I had sired cubs – as though you had such an ability, rather than the fact that all the children in Bitebay recognises the pair of us on sight.”
“Oh, did you wish for cubs? You still have a bit of ploughing to do, I think I have just the-”
“It was supposed to be a jape, my dear.”
“The lady did not strike me as being of such character.”
“She did not – it was Lord Whitehill.”
“…the one whose daughter, with young Asher…?”
“Aye. I have no earthly idea how he lost his wits, the poor man. I believe it’s catching; Brandon asked when he would meet his nephews. As though it wasn’t more likely that I would get another niece or nephew come the year’s turn. I fear for if the King would ask me of such a thing. He is a king now, and kings are not like other men, much less Targaryen kings.”
Tobirama’s tone turned droll. “Yes. How very unfortunate that the king’s honours must be refused due to a lack of heirs of your body.”
“House Stark has no need for me to produce heirs, my dear, not with Bran and Ben.”
Ned forbore to mention if Tobirama would birth such heirs; it was not wise to court the gods’ whims, or Tobirama’s curiosity. It may become possible.
His lord father’s opinion on that possibility did not bear thinking.
“I see.” Here Tobirama was mollified. “Most likely, the royals will ask for a marriage – young Sansa, mayhaps.”
Ned paused, catching the dolour in his companion’s words. “I would think that a good match.”
“Lord Brandon is not of the same mind as Lord Rickard. The issue with the White Walkers may well drive a wedge within the North, and House Stark by extension.” A shift of thick wool, and a cold limb curled by Ned’s arm before a weight landed on his shoulder. “Who knows how long the potential war could be, what cost it would eke. The Court’s support changes with each monarch that takes the throne, recall; it could be moons, years, centuries – and whilst waiting for the threat, daughters would be sent into the viper’s pit of King’s Landing. Furthermore, if a daughter must be traded for an army, how could the king claim to be Protector of the Realm then?”
Ned turned, to find his nose in a thicket of white, leaning to kiss the brow. “The North will not, cannot, afford warring at this juncture.”
“Yet neither can the Stark of Winterfell afford to be caught in Southron politics.”
Ned gave a huff. “Brandon gave me the power to act as plenipotentiary… not that I would have a clue how to proceed, save for offering a Stark daughter.”
“I would think to secure food first. The Reach has a daughter – a daughter they would be most keen to be crowned as princess. Our young Sansa would be her strongest rival – unless we would move her out of consideration.” A hum came from Tobirama that penetrated his flesh. “Young Garlan Tyrell would be there – we could enquire his opinion before the matter is brought before the Lady Olenna.”
There was a faint whiff of mint – rare, since Tobirama tended to eschew strong scents until and unless he was messing with boiled bones or some mess with his studies. If Ned closed his eyes, mayhaps he would have in his arms that which made the North.
Chapter 2: Kyle Royce
Summary:
"Might be the boat back would sink afore the Wall, least all the young’uns would get a good lay-down.”
“Should that happen, I will personally find this Merling King to get you, Steward Tollett. The Watch still needs men.”
Chapter Text
“You could have mentioned it earlier, cousin. I would have brought along more men than our Strong Sam.”
Standing on the docks by Runestone’s port, Ser Kyle Royce stifled the yawn that threatened. “Apologies, Yohn. I know you would have your sons be introduced to the White Wolf.”
“I would sooner have them taken into the mountains,” fretted his cousin. No doubt in tourneys he was a fearsome sight, that though his hair was greyed and his face lined, Lord Yohn still looked as though he could break most younger men like twigs in those huge, gnarled hands. It was a far cry from the sight before Kyle now, where his brow was furrowed and his hands itched ever closer to the sword at his hip as the Winter Rose pulled into dock.
It was however Strong Sam Stone who first drew steel when a pair of feet thudded not two feet away from the Royce men.
“Lord Royce, Ser Kyle, good ser. Good morrow,” Lord Tobirama inclined his head, hands occupied with undoing a monkey-fist knot, whose loose end trailed back up the galley.
“So nice to see you, Tobi,” Kyle blithely ignored Strong Sam’s tightening grip. “Sam, put the steel away, he saved my life in King’s Landing. Now where’s that bread?”
“So I did.” The weighted knot clattered as what looked like a ballast stone was loosened from its hold, and the rope was tied to a nearby bollard before Lord Tobirama reached down and hauled, the galley immediately being pulled in. “My lords of Royce, my lord Eddard Stark of Moat Cailin.”
“Bronze Yohn has known me since I was fostered at eight name-days, my dear,” a clatter as a gangway was lowered and Ned Stark finally showed himself.
“Ned Stark,” Yohn cheered, though whether it was because of a familiar sight or that Ned Stark was now between them and the White Wolf was something for only the gods to know. “Have some bread and salt, welcome to Runestone.”
“Lord Yohn, I have actually brought a few more for your squire’s melee,” Ned gave an apologetic look as a few more cloaks and furs descended behind him. To them, he only spoke, “fall in.”
They had fallen in to form two rows of five abreast, the trooping of boots that shook the wharf beneath their feet. Then it stopped, as what felt like a wall of grey furs and hats of wool dyed green formed, and between them young and solemn Northern faces peered out.
Behind then Kyle could see passing sailors and other smallfolk gather and murmur in the sight that would have been spared for the tilts.
“Your squires, I take it?” There was a weakness in Yohn’s tone there.
“Students of the Lyceum of Bitebay, trained for the garrison of the Moat – and some, destined for Winterfell,” Ned inclined his head. “I am hardly knighted or meant for the tourney, Yohn.”
“A shame. His Grace has come to Runestone, and it would not be beyond possibility to show your mettle.” The bread and salt were presented with little decorum, duly accepted, and the youths – mostly boys, though one or two proved on a second, closer inspection to be girls – lined up to take their bread and salt. By the side Strong Sam eyed them, a speculative gleam in his eye as his gaze then flickered to the nearest guardsman in Royce livery.
“We have a decent showing – if you would ignore the Freys,” Kyle assured the Stark lord. “Ser Stevron of the Twins had a Royce mother, old Walder’s first wife – assuredly not his last – and through him his sons and grandsons would count on Runestone’s hospitality to earn their spurs. Though none of the Frey girls have come, forgive me…”
Ned gave a start – though rather than being unaware of a girl amongst the… future guardsmen, it appeared as though he had been so used to female fighters that having that fact pointed out was a sharp reminder of the proper way.
From the lines of bodies one silhouette stepped out, knees bending in a curtsy as her braid of dark hair spilled out under her bonnet. “Wynafryd Manderly of New Castle in White Harbour.”
Yohn choked, but the surprise was not finished; the young Lady Wynafryd had tugged and along the line of her hand there joined another arm, and a scowling girl of barely one and ten name-days. Rather than curtsy, the other chose instead to sketch a bow, her eyes flashing with the sort of passion that Kyle would be glad to see in a squire but found it almost disturbing in a girl.
“Lyra Mormont of Mormont Keep, Bear Island… the North.”
Kyle nodded, accepting where he found the incongruity; certainly, against Ironborn and Wildlings even women had to take up arms, or die. “The She-Bear’s daughter! Certainly the she-bears would take the field. Though, I pray Lord Wyman has not found the need for his granddaughter to bear arms.”
“I attend as a trainee nurse under the Lady Lyarra Free Hospital, ser,” the young lady gave a small smile. “My lady grandmother is taken ill, and I would see to her in bed, and the ser thought some knowledge of healing would serve well. I would be there to attend the injured with a hot toddy and a roll of linen.”
Lord Yohn barked in laughter, that despite himself he was not immune to a lady’s charms. “Aye, certainly my boys would fall over themselves to be seen to by a lovely lass! We’ll put a few more guards in the infirm tent, yes?”
“I would think, my lord,” Tobirama spoke here, “my opinion on the defence of our people was made quite clear when I slew young Lyn Corbray. But more help would not be amiss. Tournaments are… a deadly affair.”
“Er…” Yohn Royce shifted, uneasy at the reminder of winter’s sweep at Highgarden. “Certainly… what is that?”
“The Night’s Watch,” Ned spoke up for the black brothers dismounting with rolled barrels, ship-board chests locked and chained, and many crates wrapped in wool, the largest being enough to stuff a knight in full plate. “The steward is a Valeman – a distant relation of the Lord of Grey Glen. Mayhaps we could speak in Runestone, my lord?”
Tobirama was speaking to the black brother in question: “I did tell you; the boat will not sink with you on it.”
“Only ‘cause the Merling King’s terrified of you, White Wolf,” the watchman spoke in gloomy resignation. “Figures they’d find out how to work the dead afore I’m gone – like as not I’ll be the first of the Night’s Watch. ‘Edd,’ they’ll say, ‘dying's no excuse for laying down no more, get on up, you've got the watch tonight’. Might be the boat back would sink afore the Wall, least all the young’uns would get a good lay-down.”
“Should that happen, I will personally find this Merling King to get you, Steward Tollett. The Watch still needs men.”
…
Kyle could not see Lord Tobirama’s reaction, but seeing the Night’s Watch brother stiffen from where he stood, Kyle doubted that the White Wolf was making a jape.
It was at the opening feast that night when their Northern guests showed their faces in the great hall of Runestone. They were not seen at first; Kyle only sensed their arrival by the pause of silence and a start and shock, for those highborn who had only heard by word of Ned Stark’s… paramour… and, more sensibly for those who had been present at Highgarden when winter descended, stark terror.
“My lords,” His Grace the King Rhaegar of the House Targaryen had murmured when the two lords headed their retinue of two black brothers and a few guardsmen and far too many young faces. The goblet he had been holding was set back onto the high table with a small stutter – to be expected, Northmen rarely ventured for tourneys, especially not the Quiet Wolf. “How unexpected a meeting, pray do not bow. It would seem that we would rest under Lord Yohn’s roof for these days of the tourney.”
Behind the King, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Jonothor Darry lowered their hands in preparation to draw steel, as though facing an imminent charge.
“Your Grace.” Lord Tobirama sketched a bow, with the grace of nobility so refined that Kyle could not bring himself to believe him a newly appointed lord. “Lord Yohn’s tourney offers a squire’s melee, and the young cubs would need to see the world. Would it that they would see for themselves the Knights of the Vale.”
His Grace parted his lips, no doubt to interrogate more, though a clatter of footsteps interrupted him.
“Tobi!”
“Prince Viserys, Lord Garlan, Lord Tyrion.” An incline of his head followed each pronouncement. “Such a pleasant surprise.”
“We’re here on progress!” the Prince Viserys was an eager young man, the shadow of his late and mad father banished as he stood in a fine doublet of black with the red three-headed dragon embroidered over his heart. “We’ve been travelling the Realmroads for moons, we’ve even found that patch in the Riverlands with… well, lots of potholes.”
“Prince Viserys, I would think Lord Hatake is well aware, as he was the one to suggest it,” Tyrion Lannister pointed out. “Your question should be, why the esteemed lord had finally descended below the Neck.”
“We have brought students for the squire’s melee, Lord Tyrion.” Eyes like carbuncles stared back at uneven Lannister eyes, that Tyrion Lannister even stared away first. “It would benefit that the young would broaden their horizons… and a tourney is rather costly, was my understanding.”
“Viserys,” the King called. “It appears that you have much to speak to Lord Hatake for. Lord Royce, mayhaps another place could be laid…”
Lord Royce Coldwater gladly gave up his seat – Coldwater Burn benefited from Ser Elbert’s push into developing the Fingers and the Northern tea trade, enough that Lord Hatake was a benefactor of House Coldwater. The exchange was polite enough, and the Vale lord had descended with a smile and a promise to visit Bitebay and its marvellous hot springs, though Kyle could not learn more before the feast was opened.
First there came a soup of beef with pearled onion and browned flour, topped with cheese; then came pickles and onions served with cheese slowly grilled over fire before being scrapped to blanket the morsels. Pancakes of thin-grated earth-apples topped with salty bacon marched in next, a hearty accompaniment to cutlets of venison wrapped around cheese to be breaded and fried, such that when sliced open, the cheese began to ooze out. It made that even after eating it, the trencher was soaked in cheese and would be a good feast for the almoner to hand out later.
The subtlety that closed the first course was a great many-layered ringfort of baked crusts with crenelations. Stuck between morsels of meat spiced in fine powders, tiny flags with the sigils of the attendants flapped, topped with the three-headed Targaryen dragon.
Throughout this the food came and went, though it was at the next course where the dish of eels in bruet was served that the King took a bit and sent most of the dish to Lord Hatake – the first of many, most of it consisting of fish. By then, though, it was clear that the high table was spellbound – or bound, as it were, by something that had followed Ned Stark.
Chapter 3: Lyra Mormont
Summary:
“Make no mistake that I keep to the vows as you would, Art, but I feel that we’ve been mistaken as to which brother is welcomed by the fair sex.”
Notes:
The plan was to release this chapter next week, but I'm about to work over the weekend and need comments for encouragement. Let's aim for 100 comments, with the 100th commenter getting a dedicated fic! - Armaria
Chapter Text
Although Runestone was strange to her, Lyra’s struggle out of the great hall and the Southron pansies took her to the lists; they had been erected in the centre of the outer yard. A three-tiered wooden viewing stand had been raised beneath the walls, so that Bronze Yohn Royce and the highborn would be well shaded on their cushioned seats. There were tents at both ends of the lists where the knights could don their armour, racks of tourney lances already stood at attention. When the wind lifted the banners for an instant, the smell of whitewash carried from the tilting barrier. Further in the distance, pavilions had sprouted up like mushrooms in the wake of a spring rain, bearing sigils and devices as the high and the low – or parts of them, at least – gathered to Runestone.
A huff echoed behind her.
“I just came out for some air,” Lyra turned, scowling before she saw that it was Asher Forrester who had come. “Sorry. Thought you were Jago.”
“Does Jago even have the time to eat? He had to stop Rolly from challenging that young centaur there and then, and you know how that one is – tough for a Reacher flower, tougher now that the White Wolf puts him through his paces.” Asher was taking a small sip from his costrel. “Not that I blame him; that one looks a cunt, and a runner bean at that. How does that make a squire is a mystery.”
“Do you like the taste of soap, Forrester?” Despite her agreement, the reflexes of a much-doted younger sister needling her elders did not escape her.
With the terror that could only come from having dined upon a cake of soap, though not by his will, Asher almost jumped, peering around like a hunted hart before he realised that the sun was but a red memory disappearing past the Mountains of the Moon, and the lords of Moat Cailin were still being held up by the King.
No part of him was bothered that somehow, the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men had been pictured in his mind as dancing attendance on the lords of the Moat.
“Best get away from the soap-people before they catch you,” Lyra sniggered at his full-body shudder. “T’ would be more embarrassing only if you threw the melee.”
“If I did, I would toss myself to the lizard-lions ere my shameful return to Ironrath,” the young Forrester’s dramatic lament drew only a snort from Lyra. “I can only imagine that the lizard-lions were brought for that purpose.”
“The beasties would much prefer the lusty ticks in the Neck, than the hard ironwoods of Ironrath,” Lyra rolled her eyes even as she started to walk for the gates of the outer yard. “D’you have some coin? May as well see what… little gifts we could get for the folks back home, whatever Tobi calls the things he kept sending back while on progress. I remember that Jago would show off his sand-silks all the time, what happened?”
“His brothers and some ink, like as not – the curse of elder siblings,” came Asher’s airy response. “Mayhaps the youngest she-bear would be the terror to end us all, gods knows mine own little brothers are hell on my old leathers.”
The meadow right by the outer yard walls would have been the commons for the smallfolk by Runestone, but now the mirage had swept in, the song of a tourney causing a second town of silks and canvas to spring up overnight, larger and fairer than its elder sister of stone and wood. Stalls along the edge of the field sold many things: fruits, leathers, earthenware, stone-work, spices, and all manner of other goods. Many a jongleur wandered amongst the crowds to ply their trade… as no doubt many a whore or cutpurse would, so Lyra kept a hand on her coin.
Asher had no such doubt; sausages sizzling over smoky coals pulled his custom, as did the horn of ale that washed it down. A Tyroshi merchant next earned his coin, stroking his forked blue beard as several knives of good steel were sold.
Lyra trusted more in the steel that came by way of Salt Quay and her mother’s own mace, so she turned instead to purchase goods that would never be found far in the North or eked from Bear Island – candles claimed to be from Wickenden, good-spun thread, a good lambswool she found that was claimed to be from the Eyrie, dyes alleged to come by way of Oldtown, some spices for the cupboards of Mormont Keep, a good-forged pair of scissors.
“Will ye not have them bodkins, lady?” the smith wheedled after coin was exchanged, teeth bared to show the stains of sourleaf. “Good Vale steel, why I’ve never–”
“Mayhaps later, good man. Good morrow.” Lyra nodded, the manners from a year or so under the maids of the Silver Tower rearing their head.
She found Asher under a tree with two hedge knights, a deck of cards in hand as they were dealt by the light of the smoky fire, settling to watch the game – or the slaughter, as the hedge knights clearly lost the count somewhere with their wits addled by drink and the continuing list of rules that popped up. She was hidden by the great tree whose roots she had rested in and the veil of night, such that she could hear the words spoken next.
Lyra heard footfalls on the steps, the scrape of boots on sand and stone. “…rather a surprise, the northerners…”
“The northerners are not the concern; it is Ned Stark’s man!” the second voice was low yet fierce. “You know naught of him, Jon.”
“I know that Oswell would be here by the sun’s rise on the morrow, Art. Three would suffice.”
Lyra closed her eyes, focusing to quiet her breaths into her jerkin and all the force in her ears, the better for her presence to vanish.
A bitter chuckle. “Would it that I were eighteen- no, twenty years younger. I would have gone to the Moat in a heartbeat – then we would not fret, for I would have learnt from the monster himself.”
“Let no man doubt that this generation stands foremost amongst those who wielded that blade, brother. You have seen the squires; any promising ones?”
“I saw a multitude of blue towers and bridges,” a sigh. “If there were promising knights amongst them to begin with, they are not made of the true steel, unlike your ploughman. You would have better luck asking Ser Denys at the Bloody Gate of his interest.”
“The Arryns may look well to give one of their own to the White Swords, but Ser Denys is no Fireball – already a boy and a girl were blessed to his lady wife. I doubt the Vale’s darling will part with them for a white cloak.” Here, the knight called Jon’s tone coloured with amusement: “Ser Elbert would not treat his cousin ill, but Ser Denys’s lady wife might not be so keen to attend a chapman’s daughter as liege lady.”
“One gets the feeling that Ironoaks regrets letting Ser Elbert free of them.” Art remarked.
“Would it that Lord Benedar would let his nephew shared with old Lord Jon marry his nieces from his sister, their claims would be united. Alas, there is no tidy knot to account for five living daughters, even if a fair few had taken holy orders. Cracks form in the Mountains, our liege can see it – why else would he have come north and within a stone’s throw of Moat Cailin?”
“Mayhaps he wished a dip in the hot springs, Jon.”
“Aye, and a wolf of his own, Much as the maid with the laughing purple eyes would not mind-”
The sounds of song and laughter drifted across the grass, but the mood was sombre behind Lyra, even as she watched Asher turn card-tricks and his pouch swell, if only a bit – he was on short coin, as his card-mates were.
A clank of steel meeting flesh, and a yelp resounded.
“Thank the gods you did not finish the jape,” the man named Arthur hissed back. “She is thankfully distracted with the Spider’s death; I will not inform her that the Quiet Wolf had deigned to descend south of the Neck, and pull her from the Keep. Nothing good comes when a Stark goes south, I agree – whether it be for my sister, or for my liege.”
“Aye, there is a…” A shiver, and then a scratch. “…well, words and wind, and he is… away, but one wonders… there was your sister, there was Jaime’s sister, there was the mother being quite courteous to him, and then no doubt old Walder has offered his fair share of nubile Frey maids. Not to mention Gerold's grand-niece. Make no mistake that I keep to the vows as you would, Art, but I feel that we’ve been mistaken as to which brother is welcomed by the fair sex.”
Lyra frowned lightly; she did not like it, that the Southrons had to speak aloud what would be evident. Of course the Quiet Wolf had his own charm; he had bedded a wolf of his own, had he not?
“Make it both. Prince Oberyn japes that he would bed them, were it not that his paramour was heavy with child and the White Wolf is… possessive.” Art’s voice was long-suffering. “You have seen it by the Fingers, I take it? Hard to miss something sixty feet tall, ‘specially with the Stark features.”
“Gods damn it all, for a brief moment I thought giants were true, forsooth,” Lyra heard the knight named Jon swear. The brief memory of a large, sixty-foot carving by the cliffs of Oldcastle came to mind, and she thought she could understand the brief buffet of shock and awe such a sight would engender. “Small wonder the Sunderlands and the Borrells sent what must’ve been their entire rookeries up to the Eyrie and Runestone – if we asked, would the White Wolf answer?”
Lyra could have answered as well as any resident of Bitebay and White Harbour – that only the gods knew the rules by which the White Wolf played by, for the only certainty lay in that Lord Eddard was something to have bedded that. And, that the wolves were joined in troth, and cursed be they who would tear them asunder.
Like the chapbooks that Lyra was kept well away from would print lurid descriptions of them. Not that she had ever seen them.
“The answer would be beyond our comprehension,” Art groaned. “The same would apply were we to ask his decision to lead a troop of younglings in the Vale. Do you know who came?”
“The little birds may be in the wind, but squires gossip as well as washerwomen. Their leader’s a Cassel – Ser Martyn’s eldest, the age fits. The girls- the ladies are from House Manderly and Mormont; the young lady Manderly came as part of her training as a nurse, and all knights worth his steel knows the Mormont she-bears swing their maces with equal fervour once they’ve met the oldest She-Bear in the melee. The rest of them are trained in the arts of war, yet they carry themselves like smallfolk – like as not the sons of Moat Cailin’s men, who by the grace of birth under the White Wolf attained a lordly, no, princely education. Our liege had oft asked on his brother’s travails up and down the Realmroads with the young companions, and the suggestions derived are quite evident in their effectiveness to the Realm. The same, if not more, would be expected for his heir… I had thought our troubles done with once the Spider is gone, but…”
A hiss from Art. “I had heard the rumour… the Northron children, even the girls, look to take well at soldiering. One would think Lord Hatake’s menagerie to be not just of lizard-lions, but the students he had taught. I pray that our new master of whisperers would not hare off north to throw his Sand Snakes at the Moat – it would be too cold for the Dornish.”
For a heartbeat a burst of pride filled her chest, and Lyra Mormont shuddered in the barely-cool Vale night as she pulled the greyed cloak of the Lyceum tighter around her. Runestone was ablaze in torchlight, a beacon between mountain and sea in the hand of the Vale towards the Narrow Sea, enough to dazzle her sight.
“If you would say so, Art, the White Wolf already has three superlative pupils – even if he only had them for a while.”
“But he has not brought just men and servants,” Art pointed out. “Add that he is a danger on his own…”
It was a struggle not to scoff at the Southrons. Their retinues swelled with grooms and cooks and serving men to attend their masters, but in the North even the lords packed light, and the White Wolf most of all – compared to the wheeled trunks that the students packed for their own use, and their discipline to keep their cabins clean on their own, somehow his own luggage amounted to one pack basket and a bedroll.
This count certainly did not include weapons.
Over the Narrow Sea and by the pier, a gull’s wheel and cry heralded a snatch of food, a tussle. Tides pulled in, and bare rock hinted here and there the runes, by which House Royce remembered by since the dawn of days.
As Lyra headed back to the shared chambers at Runestone, the wind picked up, blown through the Mountains and down the Vale proper out to whip words away to the Narrow Sea and beyond; behind it lingered a chill that, even far south as she was, Lyra held back at the familiar shiver of Northern cold. The Southron warmth weakened it, but enough had lingered that Lyra’s back was straight as she knocked on the door before her.
The door opened.
“I heard… something. Mayhaps the White Wolf would hear of what I would speak, Mistress Cicely.”
The woman stared back with the knowing eyes of one who had had the green-dream, or so the saying went. “He would. Speak then, Lyra Mormont. Speak now as one of the Silver Tower, the Wolf’s ears.”
Chapter 4: Garlan Tyrell
Summary:
“Just Garlan, you have… earned every respect.”
Since the man had saved his brother’s leg and yet smacked his father into one of Highgarden’s walls, this statement was entirely truthful from a certain point of view.
Chapter Text
In another time, Garlan would have longed to see his lordly father and fair mother in the stands.
This time, he was just thankful that his father was half a continent away from the first man who had physically smacked him into a stone wall – breaking Valyrian steel in the process. Sometimes, it seemed that Lord Tarly would dearly have loved to do the same.
“Just be thankful that Rhaenys and Connington were left behind,” Prince Viserys mercifully decanted a goblet of warmed hippocras for Tyrion, and then for Garlan. “They would have most of him – what Lord Eddard does spare, that is.”
“My prince, my love – my wine.” Tyrion dodged the buffet aimed for his head with barely a splash of the hippocras escaping the goblet. “Come now, Prince Viserys. Jealousy does not become you. What will your royal mother say?”
“She will advise washing you out with soap, my lord,” the prince snipped back. “For myself, I could consider a better prescription – those northern wolves with Tobi look as though they wake with the cock’s crow, and chew through the stringiest cuts of meat raw. Mayhaps Ser Darry would let you at them.”
Tyrion’s gasp could match the best mummers and fools. “The brave Kingsguard, stepping aside to let Northern heathens at me. Garlan, my gallant friend, come defend me!”
“Yes, yes,” Garlan waved him over. “Have at it, there. I imagine that, from the Sunset Sea to the Narrow Sea, everyone has heard your mummer’s farces. I, for one, await the day when Ser Gerion sees his nephew and the prince tumble tricks.”
“Would that my lord father would appreciate the company I keep,” Tyrion downed the goblet, and took over the flagon to make as the cupbearer. “A prince, a gallant squire, a Kingsguard! A retinue for a lord!”
“You are a bigger man than you look, and I am proud to call you my friend, Lord Tyrion,” Garlan acknowledged. “Now, I ask of you, to turn your sharp mind to that which our friend the prince wonders, of why the Northmen have come.”
Tyrion flushed at the words, hopefully at the earnestness of the words rather than any bibulous effects from his libation. “Well, if I must,” he clicked his tongue. “It was by Lord Hatake’s words that we were fostered with our prince – the effects were quite salubrious.”
Viserys sketched a rather performative bow, a prince amongst the students.
“There would be those that claim exposure to an upjumped Wildling only stifled the natural Targaryen nobility,” and here Tyrion’s tone dried faster than the sands of Dorne at high noon. “Only if they have never met the man, I concede. But the Realm is vast, and the world larger than we had imagined ever ere the blinkers were lifted from our eyes. We who have some correspondences north have gained much, but we would have gained what would have been due to us by manner of birth. Yet of the northron pages and squires they brought, save for the two ladies and one fierce fighter, most would be beneath our… connection, I daresay.”
“Yet talented men are oft born in circumstances they cannot control,” Viserys hummed. “Humfrey the Mummer, Samgood of Sour Hill, Victor the Valiant… mine own family owe their lives to the late Ser Duncan the Tall. The Crown needs good men.”
“And I imagine the North would like that royal fosterage that had been implied ever since yourself and the Princess Rhaenys had wished to visit,” Tyrion chuckled. “But it would be churlish to conclude that; Tobirama is a man whose method has results. Granted, the results are not as expected…”
“Which was why the Queen Mother had us going around the Realm, yes,” Viserys beckoned. “With Tyrion getting lost in the Citadel library, Garlan gallantly defending us from marauders and midges-”
“-they certainly preferred Valyrian blood-”
“-and then dragging Grassy Vale into its obligation to maintain its part of the Roseroad. Whilst drunk, I might add,” Viserys concluded, with not a small amount of pride. “And now my royal brother and I stand under the same roof – were it not for my nephew in the Red Keep with my Goodsister who has taken poorly, the male half of House Targaryen would be all at Runestone, afore my visit to old Uncle Aemon at the Wall. I would not stand out – my cloak is already black, after all.”
“I am certain Prince Oberyn would do well as master of whisperers,” Tyrion defended, though it was clear his heart was not in it.
“Think now!” Tyrion changed the subject with about as much subtlety as charging joust. “We share a roof with the northern wolves and Eddard Stark. The White Wolf keeps his distance from sweet summer boys like us, but the wintry lord would not escape the implication… though it does occur to me that as a negotiator, Lord Eddard would be a suitable deterrent. The Arryns are due on the morrow, Renly will come from over the sea… the marriage market can only improve from there. Assuming that your balls don’t freeze off at the Wall, that is.”
The smirk slid off of the prince’s face. “…Ah.”
“Aye.” One green eye and one black one peered out from under a lank fall of hair so blond, it seemed Valyrian-white. “Mine brother is unfortunately labouring with my dear father at Casterly Rock, my prince, so I shall quite freely bet on a Stark bride intended for your nephew. My own family are not in the tilts this joust, after all.”
So roused was Garlan in his wondering, that by the time the first sleep had ended and the watch had begun, only the press of his bladder woke him. The piss may have gone on and on from what little light he could squint by, but the relief in the aftermath after closing the chamber pot almost left him a bit moon-touched in the head.
Garlan would not blind himself to his family’s ambition; the house that would not reach for higher power were they able to, did not exist yet. Yet it had not eluded him that the Reach and Dorne had been historical enemies – the Blackfyre rebellions had found fertile ground when Dorne joined the Realm, after all.
A half-Dornish crown prince marrying the Rose of Highgarden, sounded… not ludicrous, but rather unbelievable.
Compare then, the alternative: a daughter of House Stark, who was also grand-daughter of House Tully; her aunt was the Lady of the Stormlands; her uncle, a ward of House Arryn. What Sansa Stark’s dowry lacked in funds, the Crown no doubt had the coin; what influence House Targaryen had lost over the years, would be returned with interest at the Tully queen that had been promised since the Unlikely’s reign.
With the Stark bride, so whispers at Court said, that the King had not forgotten.
It was only due to his own excellent physicality that Garlan woke with the dawn lacking the eyebags that would have hinted at the disturbances of his mind. Alas, it only left him alone in the light of morning – Tyrion had swaddled himself in the bedclothes, and Viserys had been summoned a while ago to his royal brother, or so an apologetic servant said. Having cleaned up himself, Garlan headed out of Runestone.
The outer yard of Runestone had formed into rings, enclosed with men and wood and space. Men swung wasters, men swung maces, women swung polearms-
Garlan paused mid-stride, blinking the sun from his eyes.
The young northron students, or so the word passed, were identifiable in their greens and greys, though the greys had stripped off with their furs to show light hunting greens. The polearm he had seen was wielded by a young girl, her tan braid swinging with the force of her polearm topped with a curved blade, where a trident sigil flashed. Her movements were fluid, the polished steel catching the morning light to cast dazzling reflections, ladylike yet lethal. Garlan could not help but stare, fascinated by the combination of strength and beauty that warred against the protests of un-chivalrous acting in his mind.
Then a flash of white caught his gaze, and much as a moth drawn to flame he approached the wayside where Lord Hatake had lowered himself, bright eyes fixated on the song of steel.
“Erm, my lord?” Garlan hoped. “Mayhaps… the lady would allow us men to fight. It would be a cur to let the defenceless be hurt.”
Lord Hatake’s eyes barely flickered away before he turned back to the spar. “Mayhaps you should hazard a look to the other fighter.”
Garlan turned his head to see Lady Manderly’s opponent, and immediately froze when he spotted Lady Lyra Mormont with a throwing axe in hand having locked arms with Lady Manderly. “…Ah. I see.”
Small wonder that nobody had intervened then; one female warrior was a rare sight outside of Dorne, two was extraordinary spectacle – even if Lyra Mormont swung the axe with the viciousness Garlan would have expected more of, say, his uncle Garth Greysteel.
“Bear Island would see violence from the Ironborn or the Free Folk. The men would be off fishing; the wives they left behind had to defend the home, or else be carried off,” Lord Hatake’s explanation was matter-of-fact. “Young Wynafryd will be her father’s heir; in a time hopefully long past now, after Lord Wyman and Ser Wylis, she will be Lady of White Harbour. Her husband may defend her birthright and children, or he may well usurp her once the heir is born; or he may die in battle, and she would need to defend the home. To cast her fate to fickle chance once we are gone is not what I would intend for her.”
Having followed Tyrion once or twice through the histories and what-could-have-been of his speculations, Garlan had the sudden thought that ill-fated Rhaenyra would have had a very different life had she met this man.
The tussle ended when Wynafryd Manderly finally managed to smack her… fellow shieldmaiden into the ground, employing the polearm as leverage to kick the throwing axe away. “Yield already, Lyra, we’re holding up breaking fast!”
“Seven name-days, little ones are all the same,” was the bland statement from Lord Hatake as he straightened his legs, dusting blades of grass off of his knees. “Will you join us, young Lord Garlan? I would have a word with you.”
Once he had said it as such, the token protest died on Garlan’s tongue. “Just Garlan, you have… earned every respect.”
Since the man had saved his brother’s leg and yet smacked his father into one of Highgarden’s walls, this statement was entirely truthful from a certain point of view.
The Northmen broke their fast under an elm tree, which boasted a decent view of the port of Runestone. The grey-green cliffs of the Vale contrasted with the blue-green waves of the Narrow Sea in the distance, with greedy gulls thankfully far away. A self-boiler piped hot water out into mugs that were filled first, giving a tea so thick that it painted the wood cup Garlan was proffered a dark umber. Once diluted with hot water and adulterated with a sweet preserve of blackberries, Garlan saw its appeal; it went well with the oatcakes and green cheese that was given, cutting the greasy white-meat to be filling yet cleansing the palate.
“I thought it would be strawberry season,” one of the Northern boys remarked.
“The strawberries at Winterfell are cursed.”
“Excuse me?!” Garlan stared at the speaker, Lyra Mormont.
“Young Lyra, please do not speak when eating,” Lord Hatake’s words calmed the ruffled children who had been abuzz with her words – from anyone else Garlan would have named them as liars, but the appearance of earth-apples and wolf-peaches before the Three Singers gave him pause.
“The strawberries have simply grown bigger.”
…the clarification only invited more questions.
Despite being young, the North in their blood showed itself once they started speculating on the foods of Winterfell’s glass gardens; where others of the Reach or the Vale would have willed sweeter melons or pumpions, Garlan only gathered the wish for a safe and plentiful harvest.
“I find that food will do well in the North – dumplings over flowers, that is,” Lord Hatake remarked. “Though I acknowledge the Reach has fine gardeners. How is Willas? I recall he had grown a lovely fern recently.”
“Willas had turned to horseflesh and dogs… though his bedside fern is alive, yes.” Garlan was unsure of where the conversation was going.
“Though it seems that there is no flower of his prize.” Lord Hatake’s eyes glittered. “I would think a winter rose would flourish in a summer garden. They have different charms, as my lord Eddard says, being the rare flower born to Winterfell.”
A winter rose, of Winterfell, and a summer garden… Garlan’s hand clamped onto his cup, well aware of his palms slipping. “That would be… quite the prize. Some care would be… needed. Mayhaps I should… write my grandmother in this? The gardens… have been her domain for long.”
“Aye, please do. I would think our winter rose a most worthy prize.” The words, though light, seemed laden with intent. “Why, even a dragon may wish to lock it away.”
Chapter 5: Arthur Dayne
Summary:
What happened to the poor Septon, subjected to such a horror?
Chapter Text
“Oh yes, this was what I braved the Bloody Gate and all the mountains for – to step aboard a Northern death-trap.”
“The Northern death-trap is not aimed at you, Oz,” Arthur mumbled into the sea-breeze, rolling his eyes at his white brother’s jape.
“No, merely aimed to finish what they started years ago.” Ser Oswell Whent had undone the scabbard belt, opting instead for dirk and knife, with an arbalest and a quiver of quarrels strapped to the thigh over his brigandine. If anyone else saw the White Bat like this they would scarce have believed their eyes.
“If they had wanted to finish it, they would not have brought children along,” Arthur reasoned. “Think bright thoughts, Oz – mayhaps you could get one of the little northerners in a white cloak. The big one there looked quite promising.”
The two Kingsguard exchanged looks, and then beheld the Winter Rose once again, some great beast moored by Runestone where its occupants had decamped into the keep proper with a skeleton guard. By the bollard, black brothers milled around a barrel in which a small fire burned, a self-boiler parked next to it as they drew cups of hot decoctions for passing sailors while gossiping like so many fishwives.
They were to be envied, having no idea who the ship belonged to.
“…are you sure Gerold and Jon are enough?” Oswell fretted. “We should have brought all the Kingsguard…”
“Barristan and Lewyn cannot leave the Queens and the children,” Arthur huffed. “Would two more Kingsguard make a difference against the White Wolf?”
“…fair point.” Oswell lamented. “How is it that the Dornishman is reduced to the voice of reason now?”
“Here is another reason – the White Wolf’s intention are inscrutable, but Eddard Stark’s word is there, and he took guest right,” Arthur huffed. “Runestone in particular would play the gracious host, especially with Lord Yohn boarding as well.”
Both of them forbore to mention any suspicion of three knights led by a ponce of Valyrian origin, or any inclination Eddard Stark may have to hurt their king now.
“If I end up at the bottom of the Bay of Crabs, it was nice knowing you,” Oswell shot a pithy comeback as they spotted their King approach down the wharf, with their white brothers flanking him.
Quite possibly, masking their intention to throw themselves behind the King and yell for the other White Swords to take him away in a blaze of glory to die in the line of duty. Certainly, Arthur would have done the same if his King ended up with his back open to the White Wolf.
“Your Grace, my lord of Royce, I thank you firstly for your time and this opportunity for our students of the Lyceum,” the quiet wolf’s prattle sounded, for once, practised instead of the discomfort that seemed endemic to all Northmen who came down south of the Neck. Though in his case, it seemed that the Southron Court suffered every time Ned Stark came south of the Neck since he turned a man grown. “Trust that we… did not intend such a turnout.”
Arthur grimaced when, on boarding the gangway aboard the Winter Rose, his was the back that ended up to the White Wolf. Even beneath the white cloak and ring-mail Arthur thought he could feel the force of the stare, a weight almost physical to pass through his flesh and bone to tear out the heart in his chest. Although with a turn of the head, he was…
…gone.
“Lord Hatake is not here.” Arthur prayed that his voice was steady.
A pause, and Arthur would swear to the Seven that his King’s voice was simply diverted by the wind that blew across the Bay of Crabs–
“Lord Hatake has boarded the ship, good ser.”
Arthur walked the rest of the gangway, explicitly not thinking of the height of the ship to the wharf and the fact that seven accomplished fighters – the King, Lords Eddard and Yohn Royce, and four Kingsguard including himself – had not seen or heard or even sensed his departure or arrival. From the way Yohn Royce was leaning against the gunwales of the ship, he had attempted the same and, like so many people who had finally faced the legend of the White Wolf, failed.
The King spoke when they had reached the ship’s quarterdeck: “Lord Eddard. I understand that you have requested an audience with the Crown, on your lord brother’s behalf with the Night’s Watch.”
The rattling of rope and wood caused Arthur to tense, yet it showed itself to be a huddle of black brothers, hauling chests and boxes and rolling a large tun to rest next to the Stark.
“Moons back, while Tobirama was at Bear Island in a routine assessment of the shipyard, there was a raid from the folk beyond the Wall,” came Eddard Stark’s narration. “My man thus followed them past the Gorge and beyond the Wall.”
Those poor Wildlings, to face again the monster they thought they had sent south.
“On the course of his investigation, he learnt from self-claimed over-chieftain and deserter-turned-King’s witness Mance Rayder regarding the circumstances of increased Wildling raids,” Eddard Stark’s rumble was deceptively obsequious here, Arthur knew now. “A Wildling contact of the Night’s Watch, named Craster, was caught attempting to give a babe over to be enslaved for war. After Tobirama expressed his views on the trade of humans as chattel, the… business partner… decided to resort to violence.”
And died, Arthur concluded.
“Enslaved for war,” Yohn Royce spat. “Damned slavers have come seeking chattel all the way north now?! Do we know which Essosi would do this?”
“As it were, Tobirama caught some,” Lord Stark then turned to a smaller box, and after unlocking its unwieldy locked lifted out… a glass jar the width of a kite shield, its lid covered in paper scribbles, and its belly filled with liquid, to show where a head sank near the base, a bearded man whose head likely rested in brine.
That is, were the head not moving, its eyes twitching and blue-white in brilliant undeath as its tongue and broken, blackened teeth scrabbled to find purchase against smooth, thick glass to launch itself against the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.
An incisor chipped into the glass with a tink, that caused King Rhaegar to step back – aided no doubt by Lord Yohn and four Kingsguard throwing themselves between the King and the actual monster.
“Seven hells, Ned!” Lord Yohn cursed.
“I have it, Your Grace, my lords.” Faster than the cracked glass, Lord Eddard Stark – he fully deserved the title just for holding the jar, Arthur doubted whether any knight could have done it – had set the jar back into the chest and locked it, keys jangling from a metal ring in his hand as he passed the rocking chest into the White Wolf’s care.
Upon the handover the chest ceased movement – though, Arthur was admittedly preoccupied with Lord Eddard moving to unlock another chest, with another jar. This one held a hand churning in foamy brine, its flesh fallen off to reveal knobs of white bone as its fingertips drummed in a constant beat against glass, like some demented crab in a trap, that rolled to show the tendons and the gleam of white wrist-bone.
“In the process of moving Mance Rayder and the prisoner to Winterfell, a few accidents happened that involved local carrion, a few animals and some hitherto undiscovered corpses,” The White Wolf’s blasé recount cut in then. “The corpses would continue putrefaction and decomposition in the process of movement – in the cold North it would be less an issue, but in the South they would spread rot and sickness. The North has called the banners in preparation to reinforce the Watch; however, the neglect and lack of resources over several centuries is not easily contained.”
“…wait,” Yohn Royce shook his head, as though in a dream. “S- I mean, Lord Hatake. Was this what you needed Septon Lucos for?”
“Aye. The Seven-Pointed Star did mention that a pious man cannot be harmed by them.”
A strange look crossed the lord’s face, something between dread and hope. “…did it work?”
“…he is physically safe, though the good Septon shall have to defend his lord’s aspersions on his piety once he awakes from the Maester’s prescribed sweetsleep.”
That was… a very roundabout negation for a Northman. And, what happened to the poor Septon, subjected to such a horror?
“They will march on the Wall,” the King murmured, his eyes fixed on the chest enclosed in long fingers. “Another Long Night, greater and more terrible than the first... the banners must be called.”
“Not yet.”
Arthur frowned, and then his eyes widened when he realised that the words had come from the White Wolf. The White Wolf had spoken against the King, the lord of the realm.
“The North is under threat, and you would have us belay arms?” Rhaegar frowned.
“We have no way to assess the enemy strength across a landmass equal to mayhaps the entire South put together,” came the cool assessment. “Given the lack of sophisticated roads or maintenance thereof until Prince Viserys started his audit of the Realmroads, not to mention what economic or political burdens would be needed, the sheer scale would be monumental. Should such an army be mobilised, the speed of the march from so far south would be hindered by the roads – it was for that reason that Cregan Stark arrived last to the Dance of the Dragons civil war. Even should the army arrive in time, the Watch would have to feed and house them, likely within the castles along the Wall – all but three of which are near-derelict, and one of them cursed. Coordination of such an army would be near-impossible; not to mention, every fallen soldier herein could be brought to bear against their former comrades.
“The dead do not eat or sleep, and in the cold they have effective immortality. Should the Realm mobilise now, mayhaps you would find a few wights, a few more like Craster’s business partner-”
Lord Eddard hid a cough, echoing the thoughts of many a man present here when referring to the wights’ master as something so prosaic.
“-but they have waited so long, what is the span of a man’s life? A memory?” A shrug. “The coffers? The patience of the levies?”
Arthur sucked in a long breath between his teeth, recalling once more the assessment of the old veteran Barristan. This man has certainly been in war – a veteran of it, a leader of warriors and armies, a planner of war material and master of scouts in the shadows. The enemy is not human, mayhaps beyond human ken, but a response had already been developed in his mind.
“…the development of the North, was it to raise more funds for the Watch?” Rhaegar finally peered up from the White Wolf’s hands to regard the White Wolf in the eye.
“The raising of an army over a thousand days, is always meant for one crucial moment,” eyes like embers glowed. “There are a number of things which would be required, but chief amongst them is a royal pardon for Mance Rayder. We would need the man alive to lead the Free Folk past the Wall.”
Yohn Royce bristled, though he gave a glance to the scrabbling hand. “I feel that such a topic is best debated, my lord Hatake.”
“Lords Benjen, Umber and Karstark have taken to expand the New Gift for accommodating them at present, my lord,” came the gentle rebuke. “The Others would make undead of them all should they be left up there – an army with no need for maintenance or baggage train, no need for logistics, no need for sieges, no need for parley or negotiations or politics, no need for restriction of age or sex or species, even. Quite simply, death itself. No need to give it more weapons.”
Nearly everyone seemed to stop breathing.
“So, what do we say to death?” The tip of an incisor bared with a curve of his lip. “Not. This. Day.”
Despite the speech restoring some colour to his King, as they saw Ned Stark once again lock up the rest of the… boxes and chests… which seemed to be packed in flammable straw and wood and surrounded by lanterns… and several black brothers of the Night’s Watch… Arthur shuddered. They may be used to wriggling heads and limbs pickled in brine; he was not.
Not just yet anyway.
Chapter 6: Oswell Whent
Summary:
“Hey, Art. How fond are you of your cousin?”
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Hey, Art. How fond are you of your cousin?”
From behind their king, his fellow White Cloak sighed. “What did Gerold do now?”
Oswell grinned, for next came the King’s mutter of “Oh gods” that had Arthur leaning out of the royal box to scan the melee grounds. Oswell could tell when Arthur had finally seen that sight – the idiot Gerold Dayne and a few more squires in Dornish colours, circling for the Northern students amidst a host of squires.
By his side, fellow Riverlander knight of the White Sword, Ser Jonothor Darry, hid an ill-stifled snigger. “How old was your cousin again, Art, nine-and-ten?”
“His name-day just passed, he’s reached a-score now,” Arthur’s dull admission belied all the frustration that he no doubt felt seeing a cousin, even of a lesser branch, attempt an elaborate form of suicide. “Either he wins, and it gets out that the Daynes would be bullying squires much younger than themselves, or he loses, which shames our family. My apologies, Your Grace.”
“Granted, Arthur. You may have to make your excuses to your relations at High Hermitage,” so said His Grace King Rhaegar of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms… “I would however note that your cousin may be well outnumbered for the squire’s melee, that it may be another year before he earns his spurs. Come now, sers, there must be a prospective Kingsguard within this pile of squires.”
“If reputation comes into play, sire, I fear we can discount a fair few,” the stalwart White Bull contributed. “Most of the Reacher squires have been through Highgarden or had a relation pass through, and word of Mace Tyrell’s cuirass stuck in a wall would have spread. Even if the man himself is not on the field…”
Oswell Whent hummed with great feeling. The terror of facing students from a man capable of such feats would be daunting even to hardened knights, never mind to these youths fighting before the King’s grace.
“The Stormlanders would side with the Northmen, but those are fair few,” Ser Gerold continued. “As for the Vale, a great majority are congregating around the Northerners, but a fair few – mostly around the Corbrays – would recall that the White Wolf did slay one of theirs. Mayhaps if the Arryns or Belmores had squires… though I am curious of the Sunderland boys, I had thought the Sistermen held no great love for the Northmen.”
“No doubt they saw the stone titan of Ned Stark’s head from clear across the Bite, and decided,” Oswell japed, ignoring how the bones of his foot started twinging in phantasmal reminder. Sometimes there was no way to be a good knight and a Kingsguard at the same time – that is, until all of them were thrown into the Blue Fork with great alacrity, after which the path was illuminated with stark clarity.
A shift, and good old Jon – good old Jon, not old Lord Arryn in one of the stands below who looked like he had just escaped the horrors aboard the Northerners’ ship – turned around to converse with one of the servants that had followed the King’s retinue. “Lord Caswell, requesting audience with the king’s grace. He claims that the Northmen entered the son of a blacksmith of Bitterbridge, that the boy would no doubt sully the sacred oaths of steel and valour.”
“…if he means that boy in Northern colours who has just sent a haymaker into his weedy boy’s face, he could use some training,” Ser Gerold was leaning out now to peer down. “But he’s shown more of the true steel than the other green boys so far – or I should say, as expected of the White Wolf, he has a hand in teaching warriors. The two older boys, quite puissant – a bit wild, but some polish and knocking around would solve that.”
“Call in Lord Caswell. We may as well hear what calumny he intends to press on the boy, and thus keep him from the White Wolf’s temper,” so the King decided. “Arthur? How is your cousin?”
Oswell just saw his Dornish friend groan, raising a hand to shield his eyes. “He just got beaten to the ground by the two Northerners – Jago Cassel and Asher Forrester.”
“No doubt the Cassel is Martyn Cassel’s boy,” their Jon comforted once he had turned around from passing on the King’s message. “It only proves that he could be the next master-of-arms at Winterfell or the Moat.”
“Eldest of four boys,” Oswell could not help but correct. “And the youngest Jory survived mumps.”
The ensuing silence endured, even throughout Lord Loreon Caswell’s vituperative diatribe against the blacksmith’s son he so abhorred, and yet by the very act of indictment had raised his foe’s profile before the royal grace. Much used to such an exchange of jabs between any Blackwood and Bracken in the rare time both would be at Harrenhal, Oswell tuned him out, secure in that his fellow brothers would raise the hue and cry, as his mind wandered to monsters and the Realm’s guards.
The current round of Kingsguard were said to be the most dangerous thus far; yet, what many forgot was that men aged and died. Their Lord Commander, Prince Lewyn Martell and old Barristan the Bold were all a mite long in the tooth, and their Jon was just chasing behind them. Oswell would not begrudge young Jaime the youth’s honourable discharge under strange circumstances and subsequent reappointment as heir of Casterly Rock and the Westerlands, but two young Kingsguard were hardly enough to manage the duties when their elders started to flag.
Their friend and King had proposed an expansion – a knightly order of a royal guard composed of forty-nine, with the lead seven to assume Kingsguard vows whilst the rest served the royal family’s needs. That announcement would have come much later once Connington would deem it decided; however, Ned Stark and his pickled wights had made the security of the family and the Realm much more pressing. Really, once the wights and the circumstances thereof were revealed, Oswell could hardly fault how Lord Wyman had sent his granddaughter to take lessons in weaponry.
Still watching as young Rolly of Bitterbridge made a heroic though somewhat futile stand against a group of older, bigger squires, Oswell pondered in contemplation.
Following the legerdemain of arranging shifts to have the night free, and swearing up down and sideways to the Lord Commander that he would take all precaution ease up Gerold, he can’t smack me any harder than Art’s idiot cousin, Oswell managed to locate outside of Runestone’s great hall where the squires dined.
While the Runestone did not allow for flamboyant dishes – unlike every rumour of peafowl being served, the high table still served capon, for instance – what the squires got was, while fitful, more expected of a rich merchant’s household than the usual fare of highborn sons: a good meat and vegetable pottage with crisped sops of staled crusts, slices of boiled pork in a rick black sauce, little hard cakes filled with raisins, and when Oswell arrived, the Northern contingent was being feted with a cheer all around for somehow conjuring a sweetmeat: a dark, densely sweet rye bread that everyone topped with their choice of butter or clouted cream to close the meal.
“Ser Oswell,” the White Wolf deigned to throw a glance in his direction at last, though Oswell had no doubt that the man was well aware of his presence the moment he even stepped into the yard where they dined. “Would you join us? It is just as well that the Lady Catelyn bade me to bring a gift to you.”
“Cat did?” Oswell took a place at the table, willing himself to act normally under the less-blatant and overtly blatant stares of many a squire. “Oh, well… ooh, shorties! If she announces each babe with a round of sweetmeats I imagine my tunics would need refitting, never mind Lord Stark’s.”
“Lord Brandon is very well, as is Lord Rickard,” the White Wolf demurred even as with a deft twist of a serving knife a slice of the rye bread was served to him. “This was baked in the hot springs by the One Night Inn, have a try. Lord Brandon sent many a raving until I wrote the recipe for Old Nan.”
How does he do it, Oswell wondered as he masticated the bread offered as though it were guest right and he were under hot pursuit. We just saw the wights and none of the White Swords can work an appetite, yet here is the White Wolf, giving out sweetmeats with nary a care. Or is it that he is simply a greater monster than what ghouls lie in Winter’s dark heart?
“Rolly, pour a measure for the ser if you would,” the White Wolf was instructing the young son of a blacksmith that Lord Caswell had been disparaging in at least half the rant he made in the king’s grace this day – in between recommending his son for the Princess Rhaenys, of course. “Ser Oswell, this is a student of the Lyceum named Rolly, late of Bitterbridge in the Reach.”
“You have much promise,” Ser Oswell told the boy, who beamed.
“That is high praise, coming from Kingsguard.” The White Wolf’s flippant tone caused the boy Rolly to blanch, and a low groan of awe to echo amongst his Northern fellows with a smattering of applause.
Oswell changed the subject: “I would think that you have taken a… diamond in the rough, to be polished to a shine. It is… hard to rise in life, but the North has found a promising warrior.”
“Not at all. Rolly wishes to be a knight, you see,” so came the explanation. “Would it that his sword arm guide him through, yet it is his horsemanship that I fear make deterrent to earning his spurs. Lord Yohn has kindly offered the use of his stable and yard, but the North do not hold experts of light cavalry as much of the Stormlands do – or I daresay, the Crownlands.”
“There I have a proposal,” Oswell finally found the chance. “The Kingsguard still lacks people, and I believe it is viable that he could be… educated South.”
Red eyes regarded him steadily. “And by whom, for he is neither highborn nor well-connected. Gerold Dayne had quite nearly planted a training waster into his eye this morn were it not the older boys intervening.”
Oswell hoped his mummery of a groan showed how he felt about Gerold Dayne then. Barely a man grown, and the boy was now giving himself airs and calling himself the Darkstar – as though he was any lord or champion to have covered himself in glory.
“Envy is a terrible thing, and the Dayne boy has grown up in the shadow of his much-vaunted cousin. It would not be an aspiring knight who does not seek to be the Sword of the Morning and wield the sword of Dawn. For the Andals, that is,” Oswell hastily corrected, recalling that the White Wolf had once faced Arthur under the cover of secret night – and the outcome was unexpected to say the least. “And yet they would test what they do not know.”
The White Wolf proffered a flagon, almost patronising as he leant forward to refill Oswell’s cup. The hiss directed at Oswell, though, was the Stranger’s call made true: “And the fact that you would mention this at the same table as many of House Frey, it would not serve an end?”
Oswell hoped that his answering smile masked that he had no intention of drinking the cup. “The squire’s melee is concluded – the actual one is not. Lord Yohn has not made any restriction on its entrants. I presume, if you acted quickly, you could silence every protest that would arise once the King would have the prince sent over.”
A grin that was more like a grimace was Oswell’s only warning, before the White Wolf set down the flagon and grabbed his own cup. “Students. On the morrow I shall have other matters to attend, yet it appears that Ser Oswell has very kindly offered himself for your training the next morn! Have all your blunted weapons at the ready! For tonight, we toast your temporary instructor!”
Oswell grimaced and answered the toast, trying not to ponder on how many bruises he would have by noon on the morrow, or how much the White Wolf wished to tear Oswell’s throat out using his teeth. The things I do for loyalty.
Notes:
Okay, the whole conversation between Tobi and Ozzy Whent above involves a lot of double-speak which basically boils down to Ozzy Whent suggesting that Tobirama just enter the melee to slap everyone silly and thus silence every competing lord who would want to foster the Crown Prince.
Course, soon those competing lords would be offering giant-Ned-head weight in gold for Tobi to take their kids.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
- Armaria
Chapter 7: Ned Stark
Summary:
Ned tried not to look too uneasy when he gave well-merited applause as old Bronze Yohn shook off the bodily shock – that or the existential shock of wights, he knew not.
Chapter Text
Ned did not know how to comfort old Jon – not then, when his old foster father stumbled off the Winter Rose like the Others had come to collect (they clearly had); nor now, when he looked at how Tobirama smacked around the brave knights of the Vale in a serious melee.
Old Jon was not the only one; Septon Lucos had stood as far as possible from the dear man when giving the opening prayer, running off once the dedication to the Father Above was complete. Lord Yohn had also just been borne aloft his shield out of the melee – thrown out upon his shield, quite literally. Ned tried not to look too uneasy when he gave well-merited applause as old Bronze Yohn shook off the bodily shock – that or the existential shock of wights, he knew not.
Palming the vial of fast-acting heart relief pills Tobirama had prepared in anticipation alongside the vial of smelling salts, Ned gave his old foster father what was a hopefully reassuring smile. “He will be your grandchild’s prospective master-of-arms.”
The last time Ned had seen that look on old Jon, Tobirama had arrived along the High Road at the Bloody Gate with Ned – and twenty-five heads from mountain clansmen in tow, along with all the abandoned horses. “You cannot be serious, Ned.”
“Come now, Uncle,” Ser Elbert comforted old Jon as Ned’s hands rose to proffer what medication they had had the foresight to pack along. “Old Tobi has some… very forward ideas, some that Beryl would take a keen interest in. And our Toby would be just across the Bite, which by the sea route is far safer for the nonce. Our boy would receive an education worthy of an Arryn heir.”
A soft cough. “A thousand pardons, my lords of Arryn, Lord Eddard,” Lady Anya Waynwood stood proud before them now, never wavering despite the chaos below the stands. “I would imagine that the future Warden of the East is best fostered amongst his future banners. My lord Jon, I would think an older, active boy, would be best to learn the martial prowess of the North, and then return to elevate our own martial studies. Why, were darling Denys twenty years younger, he would have himself sent to the Moat – as many squires would be lining up for it.”
Ned gave her a frozen look, trying not to think the worst of her words. Tobirama’s previous analysis on the prospective Belmore-Waynwood struggle brewing out in proxy behind old Jon’s heirs echoed in his mind.
“Aye, but young Toby Arryn had his place marked from birth since Lady Beryl came down to birth him at the Lady Lyarra Free Hospital,” so Ned said instead. “He will foster between the Moat and White Harbour – Septon Hoarfrost at the Sept of the Snows would see to his spirit well enough, House Manderly does follow the new gods. A good knight can have a fine master-of-arms, but a young lord would need to broaden his horizons rather than stay cooped in the Eyrie.”
“On that I quite agree,” Elbert directed a look at Ned, but followed the implied conversation. “Beryl and I have discussed what we hoped for young Toby, when the King is young and… there is time.”
Ah, yes, for Elbert was the next Warden of the East, and he had just seen the wights. Putting aside that Ser Elbert had a Belmore mother, and Ser Denys had married Lady Anya’s eldest of several nieces from old Jon’s late sister, or the prospective succession struggle thereof the Vale may boil down to...
No. Ned had fostered amongst the two young falcons. The lords beneath and behind them may be some faceless unknown morass of grasping game-players, but the two men would concern on the survival of the North, and thus make a bulwark between the Vale and a host of wights.
Said wights, which would be due to be shown… in a few days, by Tobirama’s plan. Show a Southron a wight and he could argue about it all day – hint at the presence of wights, and fear itself would frame the tale they sought to spin, must spin. Brandon would have said something about the family had been reduced to those lowest and basest of all creatures, but Ned was unsure whether he meant mummers, or those playing the thrice-cursed game of thrones. Either way, he would bear forward.
“You will keep a place for young Alby, Ned,” Elbert pressed. “I would have him be the next Winged Knight.”
Tobirama had thankfully allowed the wights to be shown in shifts beforehand to the lords of the Vale, after Ned’s strident insistence that exposing the wights before all and sundry was just asking for more piously inclined knights to call for a crusade north.
Lady Anya had yet to board the Winter Rose, else she could not have said the following words:
“Is that… safe?”
In answer, Ser Elbert pointed down below to the melee ground. Across the yard of Runestone, the vaunted knights of the Vale were now scattered across in the great bedlam of plate and steel and flesh. At its centre, Tobirama had just stepped forth to a shaken master of games, to enquire of calling the melee – there was a prize, but from the great crescendo of murmurs rising, that was secondary to the fact that the legend of Tobirama probably gained songs this day.
“I would certainly feel safe, knowing my son is in the care of a man who himself is a host.”
Upon being shown the wights, Lord Uthor Tollett of the Grey Glen had agreed to help in Tobirama’s ‘introductions’, as somehow those trips to the grisly cabinet of the Winter Rose were referred as.
In exchange, Ned only had to suffer a glass-turn through young Andrew Tollett going through a new and severe case of hero-worship, when the boy was admitted into his household as a squire. Young Andrew was not the only boy present – but even assigned with cup-bearing duties as the new squire he was, he earned looks of envy from every lord that dragged their lordlings to glad-hand the lord. Ned had thought that he ended his fostering rather well-liked, and that had increased along the Vale’s northern coast since tea plantations and terraced farms carved into the mountainsides were established around Coldwater – but he had not thought it a major thing.
Especially when the next lord had some unfortunate history with them.
“Lord Lyonel,” he greeted the new lord of Heart’s Home, the old lord having abdicated in the wake of his second-born son’s fatal trial by combat – if Tobi stabbing the blaggard through the eye could be counted as a trial save as one that failed the late Lyn Corbray’s intellect – to focus on his remaining family’s moral culpability.
“…my greetings,” Ned added in the face of the still-living brother of late aforementioned Lyn Corbray. Like as not Lord Lyam had not attended to avoid sharing sops with his son’s executioner.
“Lord Eddard,” Lyonel Corbray bowed his head, having guided along a woman who led along a pale little boy. “Might I introduce my lady wife, Gemma late of House Torrent, and my firstborn son Garnet Corbray.”
“Enchanted.”
The sickly woman gave a wan smile, and the look in her eyes told Ned her tale – all mothers who carried their children to the Lady Lyarra, or in one case attended his court to beg treatment, had that self-same look.
“My lord.” Said look was now directed at him, and Ned discreetly did not look at her desperate eyes as he stood in greeting.
“My lady,” Ned acknowledged with the polite gestures of greeting, lowering his head merely to bend over her hand rather than kiss it. “You have a lovely boy.”
“My Gar is my pride,” the lady beamed as her hands tightened on the boy’s shoulders. The small raven and heart stitched into the boy’s tunic fluttered as young Garnet Corbray beamed a smile, then a rather consumptive cough that had the lady swoop down with a scarf and bear the boy away with sincere contrition.
“There is much that was… unsettled, in the wake of Lyn’s death,” Lord Lyonel began. “Garnet does not know his older uncle – and I fear the Stranger will take him, as he did.”
“The children belong to the gods in their first years of life,” Ned recalled some of Tobirama’s… beliefs, so he would refer to them. Else it would be a very cruel god to have a child born upon the world, and then taken back out of envy or charm, and leave the mortals to grieve the lost child. “Mine own brother had lost a babe – miscarriage.”
Lyonel Corbray shifted in discomfort. “Surely the cause was determined.”
“Tobi said it was an effect from an ague a few years back, but since then, with Tobi’s advice my Goodsister had had easy births.” Although Ned had no idea why Tobirama regarded his Goodsister’s birth as that long and harrowing fight to the death in the seven hells that no maester wished to recall, when mother and child had come out alive – something about a biting fox, though Ned had yet to get the full story.
Now much assured, Lord Lyonel gave a thoughtful hum. “It would seem that Lord Hatake is much better placed than the maester of Heart’s Home.”
“I am certain your maester is very learned, my lord,” Ned assured him. “The healers at the Lady Lyarra would speak that a change in location can be good for one’s health – mayhaps Runestone would do very well.”
“I would think the Lady Lyarra Free Hospital a good place – Lady Melantha Greyjoy is an acquaintance of House Torrent, and she has spoken on many charitable efforts and the carry-out of physic. Mine own son and wife would recover well, I would think.”
Ned felt his brow knit together, as it had been doing with increasing frequency when boys younger than ten name-days were being offered to the second – possibly last – foothold of the North against wights and Walkers. “Before I promise anything, mayhaps my lord would like to board the Winter Rose. There are… some things to be discussed…”
Ned had barely seen off Lord Lyonel who wobbled away on shaky legs, when on the pier of Runestone he was accosted by three bronze boys.
“Lord Ned!” the tallest of Lord Yohn’s boys bowed his head. “We have heard tell of your days in the Vale from our lord father. I am his eldest Andar; these are my little brothers, Robar and Waymar. Our Waymar is rather a free spirit, and he would seek an honourable pursuit ranging in the Night’s Watch once he has come of age.”
In any other case, Ned would be rather thankful that Bronze Yohn would send his boy for the Night’s Watch over the Citadel or the septs – though mayhaps it was the boy’s own inclination to the hunt or discipline thereof. Yet, with this time being in the wake of introducing Bronze Yohn to that which was formerly Craster the incestuous scum Wildling, Ned understood where Bronze Yohn may have found some reluctance to let his youngest boy face the horrors beyond the Wall. If the night be dark and full of terrors, one of them could at least sleep soundly.
“I presume Lord Yohn has… considered a path.” Ned delicately reached.
This was answered when the youngest boy scowled. “But he was the one who said I would join the Watch! I have seen the Black Brothers, and the Wildling – erm, Lord Hatake? The Wall needs good men if they are so fierce!”
“Trust me when I say that Tobirama is a man of his own.” Ned dreaded to think of Wildlings and whatnot – Mance Rayder had oft enthralled the dungeon guards of those rumours from north of the Wall. Ned had already stuttered through something that the King-Beyond-the-Wall interpreted as a marriage offer from one of Craster’s brood, and Brandon had somehow gotten progressively green at the speculations of Ned’s bed sport, mayhaps in some strange fraternal rivalry to prove the Wild Wolf.
Lady Catelyn had wobbled everywhere the last he had seen her.
“Father said, we could request to board your ship – to learn, he said,” Robar Royce said. “Although… I am certain he may have emphasised some things. But we are training for war, and we would not have people regard us as craven. For we remember.”
Ned just stared at these sweet summer children. They are… not brave, Tobirama would say. Ignorant. One could only be brave in the midst of fear, and with fear there needed certain knowledge – information that, should the boy ever come north in a black cloak, would keep him alive.
“Do know, that you may never sleep soundly again.” Never had Ned’s feet felt so heavy as he turned towards the vault of the Winter Rose.
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