Authors Note: So this is going to be a little side project of mine, updates will probably be infrequent but I plan to try working with it. The first chapter is the tale of the founding of house Steele and the final days of the Bolton-Greystark Rebellion. As always enjoy the story and I own none of this world excepting those characters which are original.
Eyron Stark let out a long breath as he watched the last of the Bolton warriors in the hall drop his weapon. All around Eyron Stark warriors and bannerman swarmed around the Bolton men, binding hands and gathering weapoons. His eyes swept the hall again, taking in the home of the house that had dared to rise against the King's of Winter, against the Starks. The hall was cavernous, nearly the size of winterfell's. The walls where plain grey stone, weathered by centuries, with naught but the occasional flayed man banner to adorn them. Smoke had long ago stained the rafters above black, and the only light came from thin arrowslits along the walls, as well as the massive doorway, the doorway who's thick oaken doors lay splintered beneath Eyron's boots. Combined with the dozens of bodies that littered the hall it was all a rather grim sight.
A man with the giant of the Umber's upon his shield came running up to Eyron, managing a ragged bow as he neared the king and the handful of loyal men who surrounded him. As the man rose Eyron saw the grim smile upon the warrior's lips, "We've found Lord Bolton your grace, him and that Greystark bastard both."
Eyron's mouth twitched in an equally grim smile, "Bring me to them." With a nod the Umber man turned and walked quickly deeper into the hall, proceeding through one of the doorways at the far end. Eyron and his guards followed him in without another word, leathers creaking as their bronze weapons scraped occasionally against stone. The walk was shorter than Eyron had expected, and lead to another barred door, this one ironwood bound with bronze. A score of men where gathered around the door, mostly Umber men, though there where a handful of Stark and Glover warriors. At their head stood three figures, two towering over the third. Jarick Umber was large even by the standards of his family, over seven and a half feet of muscle, his strength and anger unaffected by the white that occupied most of his beard. Standing to his left was the smallest of the trio, Galvin Glover, the lord of Deepwood Motte was not a short man, but he appeared so next to Jarick. The young lord had a rag wrapped around his brow that was stained with blood, but looked eager to break down the door.
Standing slightly behind the two was another large figure, Eryon had to search for a moment to find the man's name. Halvard, Eryon smiled internally as he remembered, the big man was a smith's son from Last Hearth, some said his father had been Jarick Umber's bastard, and looking the young man over Eryon couldn't rule it out. Halvard was closer to seven feet than six, with thick arms and a powerful build, his face would never be described as handsome with his badly broken nose and crooked jaw and it was so grim it looked like it should have been carved into a wierwood.
Eryon knew why the young warrior stood apart from the rest, he'd risen to favor as a sworn sword to Lord Jarick, and had gained fame across the north in the past months as the Bolton and Greystark uprising was dealt with. The blacksmith's son had personally killed both sons of Lord Bolton in single combat, striking one's head from his shoulders at the Battle of the Wolfswood and slaying the other during the storming of the Wolf's Den and the fall of House Greystark.
Eyron's eyes drifted away from the assembled men and to the great door, face going grim at the site of it and the thought of what must lay beyond. "They're in there? You're sure of it?"
Lord Jarick was the first to answer, "Aye your grace, saw the whoreson's enter and bar the door myself. They're in there" Eyron knew that the Umber lord had good reason to hate the men hiding behind that door. His brother, the lord of Last Hearth, had been captured by the Bolton's at the Battle of the Wolfswood and then flayed, his skin wrapped around the corpse of Lord Jarick's youngest son as a cloak, the lad had been chained to a weirwood and left for the cold to take him. Then Jarick's only nephew had been killed while attempting to take the walls of the Dreadfort not a week past, thrown from the walls by Bolton men.
The Umber lord had paid a dear price in this uprising, they all had. Lord Glover had lost a father and an uncle, both killed at the Wolf's Den by the Greystark heir. Eryon himself had lost his younger brother and three cousins, all skinned alive by Boltons, despite the fact the youngest was only a lass of thirteen. But today that all ended, the Bolton's would die. Eryon nodded to his bannermen, "Bring the door down"
Jarick nodded eagerly, hefting a massive maul over his head as his sworn sword, Halvard, swung a heavy longaxe off of his shoulder and flanked his lord. The two giant's began assaulting the door with a fervor, axe and maul began to splinter the heavy doors within moments. Finnaly with a great moan, the door on the left gave way, whatever had barred it clattered to the ground as the door swung open, its counterpart quickly following. From across the room that stood beyond, a chilling war cry errupted, and a flight of arrows lanced out at Eryon's men. One Umber warrior gave a strangled cry and fell, an arrow in his eye, though most of the projectiles skated off armor and shields.
Bellowing a cry of his own, Lord Umber threw himself into the room, maul swinging wide, Halvard and his men roaring as the followed him. Signalling to his own men and to Galvin Eryon charged in after them, a howl upon his lips. The sight that greeted him almost stopped the howl in its tracks. The room before him was not large, barely worthy of being called a hall, across it men in Bolton pink clashed with men in Stark greys and Umber browns. Yet what stopped him was the walls, no tapestries hung here, yet the stone of the walls was not visible beneath what did hang upon the walls. Skins, human skins. They covered every inch of available wall like trophies, skins in their thousands. Eryon's stomach turned in disgust so he let his gaze drop to the fighting men. Lord Jarick was in the thick of it, maul smashing aside Bolton warriors.
A glance told Eryon that the Bolton's had the numbers here, he counted nearly two score, compared to the score and a half that where with him. Standing at the opposite end of the room, bellowing commands, was a tall slim figure in heavy bronze ringmail. Lord Bolton if Eryon was any guess. Pointing to the rebel lord with his blade, Eryon screamed a challenge and charged, cutting down two men in his rush to meet the man who had shattered the peace of Eryon's kingdom. His personal guard of half a dozen men where close at his heels as he did so.
He made it nearly three quarters of the way to his foe when his party was blindsided. They had cut a swath through the Bolton men until another group caught them in the flank. Only four fighters, though all well armoured in bronze. They wore grey themselves, Greystark men, Eryon's traitorous cousin's warriors. Sure enough, at their head marched a stocky man without a helm, as he cut down one of Eryon's guards his face became clear in the king's mind. Grey eyes and a long face so much like his own, though his hair was a brown and greying and his jaw broader than Eryon's. Thalgrid Greystark looked even more grim than usual as he caught sight of Eryon, especially when the King of Winter strode to meet him.
Eyes hard the two kinsmen clashed, bronze rang on bronze as their sword's sought the others life. Neither man worried that winning would mean kinslaying, all that mattered was the foe before them. Eryon stumbled back, a long slash alongside his head leaving him dazed as his cousin slammed a booted foot into his knee, throwing him to the ground. Eryon watched as his remaining guards struggled to reach him through the renewed press of Greystark and Bolton men.
Thalgrid's somber face split into a grin as the older man stared down at his cousin, at his king. Down at the man whom he had rebelled against in his efforts to gain the crown for himself. A rebellion which had already cost the lives of thousands, the life of Thalgrid's only son and heir among them. The rebel lord raised his sword for the killing stroke with a smile on his face.
Only for the smile to dissapear in a fountain of gore as a heavy bronze axe took the top half of his head with a single swing. Eryon felt the blood and bone splatter across his face in a sort of trance. It took him several heartbeats to realize that a figure stood over him, a massive warrior swinging his axe in both hands, Halvard.
The sworn sword roared as he killed, his axe reaping a deadly toll on the Bolton's and Greystark's before him. Eryon watched as Halvard took a spear blow to the shoulder, only to take lodge his axe in his opponent's lungs, ripping it free and slamming the blunt side of the axe into another man's head with enough force to collapse his helm and the skull beneath.
After a moment the sound's of fighting died, and the few remaining Bolton warriors dropped their weapons in surrender. As his last remaining shieldman helped him to his feet Eryon saw why, Lord Umber held the Bolton lord of the ground with one hand, massive hand wrapped around the traitors throat and maul ready to crush the man's chest like a beetle. Even with the blood streaming down his face and obscuring his vision Eryon could see that both of Bolton's arms where broken, one with the bone jutting out through his armor.
The loyal men raised a cheer as the last of the traitor's weapons fell to the ground, and Eryon clapped a hand upon Halvar's shoulder as the young man cheered louder than all the others. Then Eryon jerked his head to Jarrick, the Umber lord nodding as he tossed Bolton to the ground. Only for the elderly lord to be quickly grabbed by a pair of Umber warriors, none to gently if his muffled screeches where to be any judge.
Eryon sighed in relief as he stared at the courtyard of the Dreadfort, storming of the castle was nearly a week past now and his men had just finished burning the dead. Nearly two thousand men from across the North had fallen taking the fortress. Eryon had also ordered the burning of all the skins they'd found at the castle's heart, declaring that all who died at the hands of the Bolton's deserved a proper rest. Most of the prisoners had already been released, sent back to their homes and farms, though a number of the minor lords and personal shieldmen of Lord Bolton had either been sent to the Wall or executed for their crimes and betrayals. Lord Bolton was to meet his fate today, executed before the weirwood of his own godswood by Eryon himself.
While he'd waited for the past week for the day he would execute Bolton Eryon had spent his time dividing up the newly open lands that had belonged to Bolton's vassals. Warriors and younger sons who had shown courage, loyalty and skill in the uprising where offered minor castles as well as tracks of land. He'd already raised and created House Kraise of Elk's Ford, House Gimble of Stonewood, and House Hull of Saltcliff this morning alone. Yet Eryon had kept the Dreadfort itself and the dominion over all these new houses until today, he planned to announce that lordship tonight at the feast celebrating their victory over the Bolton's and Greystark's.
A knock on his door and a man peering into his temporary chambers alerted him to the time, it was nearly dusk, time for Lord Bolton to die. Solemly Eryon collected his sword and cloak and strode out of his chambers. His new shieldmen falling into line behind him, guarding his back, despite the fact that the only men still within the castle where warrior's who had helped storm it.
The path to the godswood took him through some of the corridor's where fighting had been thickest, despite the best efforts of his men bloodstains and the smell of rot persisted in these areas, and Eryon looked on sadly at the places where so many of his warriors had fallen. When finally he reached the godswood Eryon breathed deeply the fresh scent of ironwood and weirwood sap, of oak leaves and the smell of the newly arrived spring.
Dozens where already gathered here, mostly the newly raised lords though Stark warriors and the handful of lords who remained made up many of their ranks. Jarick Umber stood at the head of the crowd, his remaining son, as well as his grandsons, gathered behind him as they awaited the death of the man who had slain their kin. Galvin Glover was off to one side, still nursing the wound that had nearly cost him his foot in the final fight with Lord Bolton. Eryon saw others too, Lord Karstark, strong as ever despite the arm he'd lost in the war, the young Lord Mormont, who's father had been boiled alive by oil in the taking of the Dreadfort. As well as others.
Standing before them all, missing one arm from a wound that had soured and with the other clad in a crude cast, wearing the tattered remains of his furs and under armor, was Lord Bolton himself. Now, after a week of imprisonment in his own dungeon the Lord looked much older than Eryon remembered. The elderly man was still slim, though he looked shorter than before, with a drawn face and shaggy hair. Yet the old man looked defiantly on as Eryon approached.
Eryon nodded at the man's defiance, it was to be expected after all, he knew his house would end today and would not go sniveling and begging. Eryon could respect that at least. Finally reaching the lord Eryon stopped, signaling to his men to force Lord Bolton to his knees before the stump of an ironwood.
As the warrior's did so Eryon took an axe offered by one of his men, setting the but of the weapon on the ground he raised his voice. "Lord Rodger Bolton, you have been accused of treason to your liege, murder of your fellow lords, the burning their lands, and flaying. It is under these accusations that I, Eryon Stark, King of Winter, Lord of the First Men, Lord of Winterfell, Defender of the Neck and Lord Protector of the Realm, strip you and your family of your lands and titles and sentence you to die. If you've any last words m'lord, say them now."
Lord Bolton craned his neck to look up at Eryon, eyes still bright with defiance. "My son's died because of you King Stark, your cousins died because of you, may you be forever cursed as a kinslayer and a coward. Your name will be forgotten by those who come after, but the North will always remember the red kings of the Dreadfort!" The old man's words where shouted with venom and force, and he finished his rant by spitting on Eryon's boots, an action which earned him a backhand from one of the guards.
Eryon shook his head as the old man was hauled back upright, blood dribbling from his lips. "No m'lord, you killed your sons and my cousins, you started this war which has left so many good men dead. My name may be forgotten one day it is true, but the North will always remember the name of House Bolton as the name of oathbreakers and traitors." With that Eryon nodded to his men, who forced Lord Bolton's head down so his head rested on the stump. Eryon waited a heartbeat before swinging his axe up and around, then slamming it down onto the traitors neck, severing his head in one easy blow and lodging the bronze axe deep in the stump.
Lord Umber was the first to cheer at Bolton's death, and many others soon followed, despite the solemn nature of the gathering. With the execution done Eryon released them to prepare for the feast. He spent the next two hours before the celebration praying and cleaning Bolton's blood from his hands and face. When the feast actually commenced Eryon sat quietly and watched over the crowd of his bannermen as thy revelled in their victory, eating, drinking and singing.
The feast was well underway when Eryon rose to his feet and began hammering upon the table with one armoured fist. Men slowly quieted as they awaited the word's of their king. Eryon raised his drinking horn to them and bellowed so all in the crowd could hear, "We lost many a friend taking this castle and these lands, Mormonts and Glovers, Umbers, Flints and Wulls, Hornwoods and Reeds, highborn and low. But we stood united against those who would take the North for themselves. We broke the house that has flayed our friends, neighbors and countrymen for generations, and the bards will sing of this forever!"
Men roared with approval at that, slamming their fists on tables and raising glasses in salute. Some began a chant in the rear of the hall, "Eryon! Eryon! Eryon!" But Eryon raised his hand once more to silence them. Once more the hall went silent.
Eryon's eyes scanned over the massive crowd for a moment before he continued. "But now this castle lays without a lord, without a man who can be trusted to stay loyal to the crown instead of rising against it. Many among you have proven yourselves worthy of such honor, but I can only give it to one man. One man who has shown himself to be loyal and a great warrior. He who slew both of the heir's to house Bolton, who saved my own life by crushing the skull of Thalgrid Greystark!"
As he said all of this Eryon caught movement from the edge of his vision, men where shoving a burly figure through the crowd, the last one to shove him was Jarrick Umber, the immense old lord pushing Halvard up onto the dais on which Eryon stood. The young warrior looked confused and terrified as he looked up at Eryon.
"Halvard. Kneel." Halvard kneeled without a second thought as Eryon turned back to the crowd. Though he spoke only to Halvard. "Do you swear to uphold my laws? To bear my banners and to faithfully serve me and my sons? In your name and the names of your children?"
Halvard stuttered slightly as he spoke up, "A-aye m'lord, I swear it, by the gods"
Eryon laughed and offered Halvard a hand, "Then rise Lord Halvard Steele, Lord of the Dreadfort" Once more the men across the hall began cheering again, once more a chant began, only this time it was a different chant, a chant for the new lord raised from the commons.
"Steele! Steele! Steele!"