There was food and drink aplenty. Foods I'd never tasted before, even some I'd never dreamed of in my wildest of ventures. Men of all loyalties, from the North to the Riverlands sit in a circle around our fire. Telling tales of Whispering Woods, and of the glory of the Young Wolf. Each of us with a cup in hand, raised to the King's honor. Sloshing wine back and forth, ushering off squires to fetch more.
It was like this for as far as the eye could see. Fire blazing around us, filling the tents with laughter and song. Tonight was the night for it too, we'd marched miles just to arrive here. Now all of the North's armies got to sit down, and finally rest. Drink a bit as well! As I said, tonight was the night for festivals, as King Robb, the Tullys, and the Freys sealed their pact.
I myself was one of those soldiers, not a true northerner have it, but I wore the Bolton flayed man upon my chest with pride, just as any northerner would. During their march south, I'd happen to join up with one of the troops. And have fought in quite a few battles with these Northmen. And let me tell you, they can be as savage as the south would portray them when they consider their honor stained.
"Saven Southron!" A heavy hand slapped my back, causing some of my wine to splash over the side of my goblet. I glanced at the intrusion, he was a big Northerner. I liked him, and was proud to call him friend.
"Ruck!" I gave a grin as we slammed our cups together. Ruck let out a laugh through that brown thicket on his face, a hearty laugh for a hearty man.
"So Southron, what brings you to the Stark tents?" Ah, you're probably wondering why they call me Saven Southron. It's not a surname, no, simply a title. When some Southron sellsword came up the King's Road taughting a sword on his hip, the northerners laughed at me. I took that amusement and shoved it down their throats in the first few battles I participated in. Showing my skill with the blade, while most of them preferred a battle axe of some kind as they're weapon of choice. Ruck was actually the first one to take a liking to me, he'd even given me a few lessons of my own on the art of wielding an axe. I believe I've taken to it pretty well, for that was the second weapon that hung at my hip now.
"I'd come to see some old friends," I chuckled and took another swallow of wine.
"May the Old Gods watch you!" He clapped me on the back, and staggered off into the crowd to laugh and drink with the men.
"You as well!" I called to his back, and made my way towards the Bolton's main camp. The pink and black standard of House Bolton swayed atop the tents.
As I entered the tents, the gloom struck me as strange. Don't get me wrong, working under Lord Roose can dump quite a bit of gloom on a man. But the lack of joy in these tents could be cut with a knife. Men dressed in the flayed man's colors cleaned their weapons, and sharpened them. Some of my brothers-in-arms were even loading their crossbows. You could imagine how strange this struck me.
One of the crossbowmen had got up and started to push his way past me. I reached out and wrapped my fingers around his elbow. He wrestled his arm away, and gave me a look of disgust.
"What do you want, Southron?" The look peeled from his face, dripping into that muddy accented voice.
"What in seven hells is going on? Why aren't you boys at the festival?" I asked, genuinely curious at this oddity.
"Lord Roose's orders." He shook his head as if it was obvious, and rushed off.
This only added to the flame of curiosity growing in my head. I glanced around to the other men, asking for reasons. I got the same reply from the lot of them.
That's when I heard it... The Lannister song. The Rains of Castamere cutting shrill through the tents. As if all the minstrals had decided to start playing it at once, in perfect tune.
I turned on my heel in the direction of the sound. A strange song to be playing at a feast in the North's honor.
In half horror, half amazement I watched as the giant tent in the center of all the camps went ablaze. I could only see the peaks of it above the other tents, but the flames swallowed it in seconds. Wolfing it down as if it was straw. Before I could blink the thing came crashing down.
Where the Rains of Castamere had played, screams of agony and battle cries now substituted. From the tent line came a man running, he had a messy mop of red hair.
"THE FREYS ARE ATTACKING! THE FREYS BETRAYED-!"
He never finished that sentence. An arrow splintered from his chest, knocking him flat on his back.
Ripping the longsword from my scabbard, I turned in anger on the Boltons.
"What the fuck is going on!?" I demanded. None of them paid any heed to me, as they rushed forward into the fighting.
I stood in the Bolton camp alone now. Watching in a strange mix of terror and disbelief as the Boltons and Freys began to clash with the other North men.
Footsteps arose from behind me, along with a commanding voice. Obviously an officer.
"You, soldier! Get out there and show them what it means to betray Lord Bolton!" I felt spit fly out, and land on the back of my neck.
In a fury I didn't even know was building in me, I whipped around and slammed my blade through the officer's chest. The shock only kicked in once the business end of my sword erupted from his back, dripping red gore with his life's blood. He slumped forward on my blade, the shocking light in his eyes gone dim. I kicked the corpse off, and stepped over it.
With one last glance over my shoulder I caught the blur of a horse racing by. It's coat as black as midnight. The beast stood taller then a grown man, with eyes the color of the flames behind it. It held two passengers. The first; a young girl slumped forward in the saddle. The second; a strange being with the head of a snarling dog. I caught only the slightest glance of that hellish face, but it couldn't be human. The sparrows say the Stranger rides a pale mare, but I believe the Book to be wrong. That was him. The Stranger, dragging death beneath the twins as he rode to escape the chaos around him.
Shaking my head in disbelief as I made my way to the stables. As I saddled the brown mare, I heard the regretful song that broke my heart.
Above the clash and clang of the battle. Cutting through the screams, and even stamping out the crackling of the fire.
A sorrowful howl sheared through all of it. Within four minutes it made an abrupt cut-off.
I needed no more evidence. The King in the North was dead at the hands of these craven Freys and Boltons. To think I had traveled the country side with such traitorous bastards. I spat on the ground, cursing their families to all seven hells as I climbed into the saddle.
Digging my spars into my horse, I left the flaming massacre that was to be a wedding. Now it ran red with the blood of the North. Swearing to have my revenge on them all. I will watch the Freys die screaming. That I promise you, in the name of the Old and the New Gods.
I entered the surrounding forest at a gallop, reaching up to my neck. I undone the simple clasp there, and let the pink and black cloak rip away in the wind.
I'm not sure where I'm headed. Or how far away from the Twins I've made it. I rode the entire night with only one thought coursing through my mind.
Revenge for King Robb. He was a brilliant man, I would go as far as to say I owe him. And on that I will avenge his death at the hands of such cowards.
The North may remember, but the South never forgives.
So my first chapter of my first Song of Ice and Fire story. Hope you guys like it so far, if it gets positive feedback, I'll do my best to continue. I have quite a plot planned out for it.