Ch. 1 The Arrival
AC 288
It was quite frigid the day that they came to Winterfell. The thunder of plated marching shook the very foundation of the great keep. Arms were called, women and children ushered into any form of shelter available. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and father of four stood amongst his men upon the ramparts of his keep. Before him, beyond the walls of his allegedly impregnable keep, stood a veritable ocean of armed soldiers. A breathtaking number of these troops stood seemingly identical in appearance. These men, all resplendent in orange and black brigandine tunics, barbute helms, faces covered by cloth, bore kite shields and long-swords. However, despite the legions of these men, they were not the source of his fear; scattered amongst those men, stood armored giants, encased in steel and iron. Many of them rivaled even the Mountain in size; a number of them, those baring pole-arms and halberds, even surpassed the Clegane. Those who mimicked the Mountain in height, carried girthy swords, some even larger than the Stark's ancestral sword Ice; others, bore flails and crude kite shields. Thinner, hooded warriors, wielded two short-swords in either hand. Behind them flew banners of orange and black; a sigil, the likes of which Eddard had never before seen, a sword dividing half a skull on the left and half a great-helm on the right. Eddard was soon flanked by his master-at-arms Ser Rodrik Cassel, and Maester Luwin.
"Gods help us." Maester Luwin muttered fearfully.
"I don't they can." Ser Rodrik replied coldly.
"Quiet." Lord Eddard demanded.
The army halted, both the gargantuan knights and the comparatively diminutive foot soldiers stood still. It was only then that Ned noticed something: the enormous force appeared weary and bedraggled. The many of the titans wielding pole-arms and great-swords clutched onto them for support. The great legion slowly parted, giving way to four figures, only one of which was carried by a horse. The largest one, wielding a golden halberd, led the horse by the reigns; the other two, one hooded carrying short-swords, the other a flail and shield, followed closely. The closer the four came to the gates of Winterfell, the more the horseman became visible. Lord Eddard, along with many standing along the wall, was taken aback upon seeing that the figure. Just barely managing to remain conscious on his mount, head hanging low, was nothing more than a child, no older than his son Robb! Mutters and whispers ran throughout the men manning the wall. The giant came to a stop, planting his ornate weapon into the ground, bringing the horse and rider to a halt as well.
"We are the knights of the Blackstone Legion! And this-" The goliath bellowed, gesturing to the child on the horse, "-is our young lord Azrael Blackstone; son of Apollyon, former Warlord of the Blackstone Legion!"
More mutters and whispers filled the air; no such force had ever been heard of, and word of one of this nature would surely have been spread. Questions cascaded about Ned's head however, the enormous man spoke once more.
"My name is Holden Cross... We have traveled far. Our Lord… begs… for anything that you may spare. We are low on provisions and have many weary and wounded."
Regaining his senses, Eddard regarded them with suspicion.
"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. You ask for my hospitality, with an entire army at your back?"
Eddard could see that many of the 'Blackstone Legion' were growing restless. 'Holden Cross' turned his head to the boy's bowed head and the two seemed to converse. Eventually, the man turned back to regard Lord Eddard.
"Lord Stark, these people are more than just an army, they are a people. Our home, Ashfeld, is no more; taken by foreign invaders. We have no intention of conflict, we only wish to find a place that we may call home!"
Upon hearing this, Ned grew even more suspicious. They may have been fatigued, but their sheer numbers alone would be enough to raze Winterfell to the ground. Yes, they claimed to have no intention to fight, but that may have only meant that they wished to take the castle through his unconditional surrender.
"If anything, at least help the boy! He's been wounded and has grown ill!" Holden begged anxiously.
At this the boy's head shot up in surprise, finally giving everyone a clear view of the young lord. He seemed young, about the same age as his own son Robb. His dirty blonde hair seemed unkempt and frazzled. His skin seemed deathly pale, were it not for the dark layer of grime that covered him. Piercing yellow eyes shifted to his protector. The most jarring attribute about him however, was the bloody bandages located in the center of his stomach. While the wound had been bandaged, it was dreadfully apparent that the child received no further treatment. Upon seeing this, Ned's eyes widened. Instincts gained by being a father himself, compelled him to snap his head back behind him.
"Open the gate!" he ordered, before turning back to the army before him, "Only you four may enter. We have much to discuss."
O
And much was discussed. The Lawbringer, Holden Cross, spoke of the boy's mother, Apollyon, and her vision of an age of war. He spoke of the Wardens, the Lawbringers, the Peacekeepers, and the Conquerors. He spoke of the Vikings of Valkenheim and Samurai of the Myre, the foreign hoards which invaded their home, Ashfeld. He told of how the boy rallied what soldiers they had left during the battle that took his mother, how he guided his people through cursed valleys in their escape. Holden told of how they had found themselves lost within woods fraught with forces beyond mortal comprehension, and eventually found themselves before Winterfell. Ned listened, only interjecting to ask an occasional question. In exchange, Ned told Holden of Westeros: of the generation long seasons, of Old Valyria, of the Targaryens, of Robert's Rebellion, and of the Old Gods and the New.
"And how was the boy wounded?" Eddard asked.
A pained expression washed over the Lawbringer's face in remembrance.
"During the assault, an Orochi confronted Apollyon-"
"-The boy's mother?" Eddard asked.
"Yes. The two fought and somehow, the Orochi managed to defeat her. It was at this point Azrael came in… poor lad… He watched as his own mother was cut down right in front of him. Tried to fight him, but a boy of six against an experienced Samurai? Kid didn't stand a chance… Eventually, we found him stumbling through the battlefield screaming for us to retreat. What could we do? It's the son of Apollyon! So we obeyed and...well… you know the rest."
Ned nodded in thought. To think that a boy of six had to endure such a thing…
"How is he?" Holden asked, concern lacing his voice.
"Fine. The maester says he'll be walking within the month. For now he's resting in our guest quarters." Ned comforted.
"That's good, we'd be lost without him." Sighed Holden, relieved.
"I'm glad to have had been of aid. But I must ask, what now? From what you have told me, your people have no place to call home." Inquired Ned.
"Well, that's for the boy to decide. If he were his mother, then he'd have us wage war with all of the Seven Kingdoms. Fortunately, despite his age, he's incredibly wise. He'll probably have us either bend the knee to you or your king, or he'll have us roam around fighting for the highest bidder; odds are it'll be the former. But none of that matters until he wakes up."
O
Upon Azrael's awakening, it was agreed that the Blackstone Legion would bend the knee and become one of Stark's bannermen. The decision was initially received with a level of discontent, however it was swiftly crushed upon learning that they would be provided lands and a keep. Soon enough, the Blackstone Legion was reborn as House Blackstone, led by the young Lord Azrael. The keep provided was known as Moat Cailin; a strategic lynch-pin of defense of the North from any southern incursion. The only issue was that it was in ruins, and allegedly had been for thousands of years. To the surprise of many Northern and Southern lords, House Blackstone accepted the decrepit lands with unforeseen enthusiasm. There was much talk of how the honorable Eddard Stark bestowed a keep to what they saw as little more than an army of sell-swords.
Many of these misgivings were eventually assuaged upon the victory of the Battle of Seaguard during the Greyjoy Rebellion; in which Lord Azrael sent his most trusted Lawbringer Ser Holden Cross, to aid the Tully's bannermen, the Mallisters in their defense. That victory however was only the preamble to a much grander statement as the knights of the Blackstone Legion aided the family that they had sworn fealty to during the Siege of Pyke. During the final assault on the Pyke, it was surprisingly the seven year old Lord Blackstone who had charged through the breach first, followed closely by Thoros of Myr and Jorah Mormont. His greatsword, Craven Saint, forged in what the Blackstone had called, Damascus Steel, weaved through the Ironborn lines with unparalleled skill. It was then that an unspoken consensus amongst the other lords of the realm was made that House Blackstone was one not to be trifled with. King Robert had never seen such a spectacle. He had heard that his old friend Eddard had gained a new and mysterious vassal, but to see true nature of these foreigners was something else entirely. The towering warriors carved through the Ironborn almost casually, occasionally spouting taunts in an odd language none but them could understand. In the end Balon bent the knee, and his son was taken to be fostered by Lord Stark himself in Winterfell. The Blackstone Legion returned to Moat Cailin in high spirits, knowing that they had made their first mark in this new world.