**This is not an alternate history but a story parallel to ASOIAF. Many of the events in the recent history are alluded but never gone into great detail so this is my take on what happens in those events from the point of the view of my two Original Characters. For reference, this story begins sixteen years before Robert's Rebellion.**
Lord Marten Severus, Warlord of House Severus, knelt in the sept, his proud gold-flecked blue eyes red rimmed from lack of sleep. Dressed in a simple black velvet tunic and trousers, he looked more modest merchant than the warrior he was. At two and twenty, he was broad-shouldered and muscular, his ash blonde hair tied back from the hard, gaunt lines of his face by a simple crimson ribbon. A stubble of beard graced his typically clean-shaven face, the wear of the previous three days bearing down hard.
Bannerman to the current Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister, he resided over his modest keep of Swordhall in the southern Westerlands. His title, the Warlord came from the Andals, given to the most successful of their warriors. Aegon the Conqueror knew of the prowess of the previous Warlords and allowed them to keep the honorific after the Field of Fire and gifted them their family bastard sword, Victory. Only the Warlord of Severus could wield the ancient blade, and Marten kept it a blood red sheath of leather in his hall.
"I pray to the Mother, deliver my wife from her sick bed and back into my arms. To the Smith, mend her so that she may well and healthy again, to hold our newborn sons in her arms. To the Crone, show me what I might to do help, anything at all." He whispered to the altars of the Seven. All the stories, he knew well; a man in dire need prays to the Gods upon which they take pity and answer his prayers. His loved one is saved and he rejoices and remains their faithful servant ever onward.
But no voice came from the heavens, no messenger from the Seven appeared like in the stories. So Marten prayed harder, ignoring his bloody knees. All knights bleed, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower had said on Bloodstone where the young Marten earned his spurs. Blood was the symbol of ultimate devotion and had since bled his share many times over. During the War of the Ninepenny Kings, Marten had seen and spilled his share of blood.
"Warrior, give me the strength to save my beloved. Answer me this call and I swear, I will devote myself your cause for all my days. Please, just…please, my wife." He prayed aloud, staring into the stone effigy of the Warrior, sword in hand. There was only silence, the candle light dancing on the seven stone walls.
He clenched his hands to a fist, his knuckles bone white. Marten had come into this sept as devout as any in the power of the gods, those who watched and rewarded the faithful. For the previous day and a half, he had spent praying on his knees to each and every altar, ignoring food and water so that his devotion might show. But no one answered, the altars stayed silent.
When he arose, he was different, changed. Without another word uttered, he stormed from the sept and back into his keep, the castle of Swordhall. Servants awaited in the dark stone halls, their eyes averted as their lord stalked the corridors back to the upper chamber. A large oak and iron door barred his way. With an almost gingerly touch, he pushed the door open.
The room smelled of blood, hot and heavy that overpowered the scented candles. In the corner, the midwife was silently praying and the servants took away the bloody sheets to be burned. It was night time and the moon was full and bright, the turn of the new month.
But none of that mattered, his duties, his lands, his sons. Only his wife and the love he bore her kept him upright and focused.
"Are…they…well?" she whispered, her breaths ragged and sparse.
"They are, my lady." Was all he could say without breaking down. Food had been left for him and gone untouched for days, prompting old Maester Eldon to act. Sleepwine had helped somewhat but the end, he knew, was near and wanted his full faculties for what lay ahead. Laboring for nearly a day and a half, she had brought the twins into the world, lively and squalling. In that moment, Marten loved the boys with all his heart.
The fire had subsided when his wife's breathing came labored and the blood would not stop. It was clear soon after; she would not survive the night.
"Raise them, husband. Love them…be proud of them." She coughed, pale spittle falling from her thin lips. Marten dapped it away with a kerchief and smiled, nodding.
"I...I promise, my love." He managed, the words heavy and hard to bear. It brought comfort to her and that made him smile, a little thing but it was the world. She closed her eyes, a sad smile on her lips.
"I see them, Marten…so handsome. Knights, they are…and so proud…" her head rolled to the side as her last breath escaped her lips. Marten squeezed her hand tightly, hoping it would bestir some life in her. It was no good, she was gone and Marten was alone. The tears flowed and he sobbed, not caring that for his lost composure. He was the Warlord of Severus and he could not prevent his wife's passing. He had failed in his duties as a husband.
The squalling of the twins filtered down the hall, endless and tormenting. Hammering at his ears and mind, their cries beat at his heart like hammers on a barred door. Even the hushing of the midwife could not calm them, it was so fierce. Not bearing to let go of his wife, he allowed to carry on well into the night, the passage of time mattering nothing to him.
When the servants came to take away his wife, Marten could not say. They were swift and silent, draping a thin veil over her and wrapped it several times. Then came her banner, the pale shooting star crossing a white sword on a purple field. The Daynes of Starfall were an old and ancient Dornish House, famed warriors and wealthy. They had met by chance at the Maidenpool tourney, and the spark was there for all to see. Betrothed and married within the year, the same year the War of the Ninepenny kings had begun.
Ten thousand westermen, sailed to the Stepstones and a young squire named Marten Severus was among them. Close friends with Tywin, they had fought alongside the crown Prince Ayres II Targaryen. Bloodied and seasoned by war, they returned as knights and hailed as heroes. It was not until after the conclusion of the bloody Reyne-Tarbeck revolt that Marten, now the Warlord of Severus returned home. A year later, his sons had followed.
They lay the great banner reverently over her and carried his wife out. When the twins had fallen silent, he could not say either. His own banner, black and crimson split field beneath the white skull and sword hung over the mantle, a thousand years of history on the rich cloth. Victory or death, were the words of his House, hard and unforgiving. This had not been a battle of swords and spears, but of man against the will of the gods.
This would not go unanswered.
He left the room that smelled of blood and incense. Out in the hall, the servants and men at arms bowed in silence at the passing of their lady. Stalking down the hall, he stopped at the boy's room and looked in and saw his newborn sons in their cribs, freshly scrubbed and wrapped in clean sheets. Only their tiny soft breaths would be heard.
Without a word closed their door and headed down the long hall.
His knights and men at arms draped their colors in black, and hoisted the banner of Starfall in the yard. Torches lit the ground and the great stone pyre awaited, the smiths in their leather aprons at the ready. Gingerly, the honor guard carried his wife to the pyre and placed her on the top tier and stepped off. Septon Crasch addressed the somber party.
"So we live and so we must pass on, into the next—" He was cut off when two knights seized him roughly. Crasch protested as he was dragged to Lord Marten, his face a mask of stone.
"You will leave this night, Septon. Do not return whilst I or my sons rule here."
"M-m-my lord, please! Have I offended you?!" he stammered. Around his neck, he wore a small crystal on a leather thong. Tearing it from his neck, Marten crushed it under his boot heel.
"Your gods have no place here old man. See him off my lands." He dismissed with a wave of his hand and the knights dragged the begging septon off into the night. Grabbing a torch from the ground, he approached the pyre wordlessly. Behind him, the smiths drew a long piece of unforged steel from a folded black cloth. Marten pressed the torch to the pyre, igniting the oils and the flame spread. The flames licked at the tier and his wife's shrouded corpse.
When the fire was roaring, the smiths pressed the steel into the fire, muttering incantations in High Valyrian. As a boy, Marten had been schooled in languages and could speak the tongue of Old Valyria as well as any Grand Maester. Glowing white hot, the steel was pulled and taken to the forge where it was beaten and folded, beaten and folded more. It would be hours before the work was complete but that was of little consequence.
Now he would mourn his dear wife, the flames burning away both the shroud and the man who had so fervently prayed to the Seven his whole life. As the flames rose into the night sky, he made his way back to the sept that had remained deaf to his prayers. He ripped his sword from its sheath on his hip and swung for the nearest altar, shattering the Mother in two. From there, he made his way through the small sept, hacking and hammering the altars into pieces, roaring as he did.
The steel was ruined now, its edge chipped from biting to the stone.
"You took my beloved. That is the last you shall ever from me." He spoke to the shattered effigies and left.