Time for another new fic. Sorry if it seems a little overboard. I changed the timeline a little, so bear with me. Thank you for the continued support, JIRO
A cold winter had set over Westeros, and a dangerously cold one at that. Sitting at a table dining on salted meat, the current Lord of Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy, heard footsteps approaching. The doors of the dining hall came flying open, and an ironborn soldier, smiling a filthy smile, teeth missing in places, chuckled. "Yer crazy sister is trying to kill the old man." he said, referring to Maester Luwin. Theon frowned. His sister, Yara, had arrived last night with the five hundred men he had requested. Theon stood, discarding the meat in front of him.
"Why?" he asked, irritated. He laughed. "She wants him to open some chest, and he says he can't." he stated. Theon cursed, and set out to find his sister. Walking through the halls of Winterfell, he knew exactly where she was. He thrusted the door to Eddard Stark's former office open. She held Maester Luwin against the wall, an axe pressed against his old, wrinkled throat. Theon called out. "Enough! He speaks the truth! I have lived here for half my life, and none in Winterfell have the key to open that chest but Ned Stark!" he called, pointing to the chest.
The chest was white, made of weirwood, showing it's importance. A heavy lock was upon it, and it required a key of impressive proportions. She looked to him over her shoulder, not removing the axe from the elderly Maester's throat. She smiled and chuckled, slightly unnerving Theon. "Oh really? And where would that key be now?" she asked, and Theon frowned. "He most likely had it on him when he perished. And besides, none but Ned Stark know what's even in that blasted case." he said. She frowned, removing the sharp blade from the wrinkled throat of Maester Luwin. She walked over to the chest, examining it's lock.
She swung her axe down, cleaving the lock from the chest. Shoving the lock away, she opened the chest to find sheets of parchment. She growled. "Theon, make yourself useful and read this." she said. Theon frowned, but complied. Walking over, he read the document in front of him.
"This document hereby states that the lands surrounding Barrowtown shall be given to Jon Snow when he comes of age. In the event the House known as Dustin becomes extinct, Jon Snow is to become Lord of Barrowtown itself. When this does happen, he will be legitimized as Jon Stark, so he may become Lord of Winterfell if need be." he said, placing the paper down, and grabbing a second one. "This second document states that the lands of Jon Snow are to be cared for and protected by House Phunraz. In the unlikely event House Phunraz becomes extinct, the lands will be sold back to House Dustin, and still be Jon Snow's inheritance." he said, and looked to his sister. They both looked at the stamp at the bottom of the parchment, seeing an odd house sigil. It was a field of green, and had a small dire wolf pup looking up, underneath a snarling cat, massive, powerful, golden and striped with white, black, and darker golds. The cat also possessed a slight mane, much like a lion. Theon looked to his sister.
"What house is this?" she asked. Theon frowned. "I have no idea. Possibly the house spoken of in the documents?" he said. She looked to him incredilously. "Is that a fucking statement or a question?" she asked. He set his jaw, grinding his teeth. She rolled her eyes, turning to one of the ironborn in the room. "You. Take a hundred and fifty men and claim those lands. Tell them we control Winterfell and if they resist, kill them all." she said, and the filthy soldier smiled, nodded, and set out.
Standing likely around the same height of Breinne the Beautiful, and bronze skinned, with long, braided dark brown hair, was Shango Phunraz. He wore a pair of leather trousers, and a light leather shirt. He wore no shoes, and was ankle deep in snow. He was roasting a quite large boar on a spit, and had no worries whatsoever. His mother, a Dothraki woman named Sundari, stood next to him. He felt something in the ground, his impressive sense of touch picking up on horses and riders. His mother, being a Dothraki woman, could tell there were horses coming, and just couldn't pinpoint how many. "How many are there? A hundred?" she asked, her accent thick. He shook his head, narrowing his eyes slightly. The unusual orbs conveyed knowledge of the number of riders.
"No. One hundred and fifty." he said. She nodded. "I'll go get your siblings and father." she said, and he nodded. She walked off, and he continued to turn the boar and season it. He had a pitchfork to hold the boar still on one hip, and a large, slightly curved butcher's knife to carve it on his other hip. He whistled, feeling the riders come through the open gates. They circled the property, their foul odor carrying throughout the lands. Shango frowned, but ignored them. His eyes shifted to the small cottage they lived in, where he knew his sisters would be. His brothers would be here with him, and his father would be as well. Humming, he ignored the ironborn man screaming of something pertaining to the Greyjoys.
"You! Surrender these lands now! It's useless to resist, you serve the Greyjoys now! THe Starks are nearly extinct! We killed the little shits and their mongrels, and we hear The Freys took care of Robb and his mutt." he said, and Shango frowned. He knew the things he was saying, but the first thing irritated him. If they killed Bran and Rickon, they would be harshly dealt with. He continued to ignore them, wanting to finish his boar. The scent was soothing, and would soon be ruined. The man frowned, and continued to frown. "What's wrong? Can't speak? No wonder. Some petty Lord likely took your tongue out for speaking out. That'll teach you to listen to your superiors." he said, laughing.
Shango was becoming increasingly irritated. He looked to the cottage, then the stables, and finally to the forest. The man leapt from his steed, and walked up to Shango. "Aye! I'm talking to ye. You should listen when someone talks to ye!" he said. Shango turned, looking at the man. He clamped his filthy mouth shut, shocked at the sheer size of the being in front of him. He was larger than most men, but was in possession of catlike features, giving him a youthful look. He possessed eyes of ice, white scelera surrounding a freezing ice blue, and large pupils of midnight black. The man looked to his forces, who seemed weary as well.
Shango hummed. "You Achlarat. A foul one at that." he said, his voice gravelly. The man frowned. "What did you say to me?" he yelled, drawing the sword on his hip. Shango hummed, then saw another man hop from the saddle and close in, sword in hand. Shango pursed his lips, then moved with force. Drawing the pitchfork from his hip, he slammed it into the face of the ironborn warrior, through the eyes and into the brain. He was killed instantly, and Shango pulled the pitchfork out. He turned, slitting the throat of the other man not on horseback. He stumbled back, shocked at the speed Shango possessed. Shango ducked under the blade of a rider, and jabbed upwards with the pitchfork, burying it to the hilt in the skull of a horse. The animal fell and the rider stumbled off, finished quickly with a knife to the throat.
A second rider came from behind, but a huge, heavy arrow made of metal flew through the air and buried itself in his chest, flinging him from his horse. Two more riders who were side by side came at Shango, but a golden blur came by. With dark blonde hair and deep brown eyes, and smaller than his older brother, Haakon Phunraz grabbed the strap on the chest of the horses and pushed, roaring. The horses came off all fours, and were pushed over. The armored riders were crushed under their horses, and Shango laughed as arrows pelted the riders from afar. Shango looked to the top of the cottage, where his three sisters, Manoush, Katerina and Cilka rained brutish arrows down upon their foes. Shango deepened his voice and let out a call, and the stable doors exploded open.
Two horses came out, thick, powerful Dothraki warhorses. On top of one was his mother, who threw him an Arakh, the Dothraki sickle blade. She wielded her own, and cleaved the head from a ironborn soldier who fell from his horse. On the second was his second brother, and Haakon's twin, Vasili. The bronze skinned, black haired warrior wielded his own Arakh, as they all did. Another head was cleaved. Five footsoldiers came at Shango, who leapt forward with his sickle in hand.
He ducked under the swing of an axe, rolling around and burying the point of the sickle in the side of his foe. He ripped it out, tearing a large chunk of his flesh away, forcing him to his knees. He swung the sickle, colliding with the blade of a second soldier, his force cleaving the other blade in half. The shock allowed an arrow to pierce his chest and force him to the ground. Stomping the corpse, he thrust his bare foot into the chest of the third, making him stumble into a fourth, where another arrow pierced the both of them, like a shishkabob. Using the inside of the sickle's blade, he came down, cleaving the fifth man in half. Rolling around the corpse, he continued to the fray.
A handle of black came up into a small blade, only inches long. It split into two, much like an axe. The side closer to the weilder went into a small axe like blade, less than a foot long. The other side was the more devastating side. It was heavy and massive, and curved like what we call a katana. It was orange , but the sharper than dragonglass edge was silver, and wavy. Wavy in such a way that it looked like Valyrian Steel, and as thick as the branch of a weirwood tree. This was what Reek, truly Ramsay Bolton in disguise, before Maynhard Phunraz cleaved him in three, saw. Two pieces were near each other, and the third piece was shredded from him, and in a mushy pile upon the floor. He lifted back up, and spun to cleave the head from a horse and the legs from a rider.
The rider hit the ground, and a metal arrow flew through his throat. He perished quickly, allowing Maynhard to move past him and cleave two grounded men in one swoop. They fell in two, and he noticed the lack of opposition. Few men remained, and the arrows easily cared for them. Grunting, Maynhard looked to his sons and daughters, then to the remaining men. Five men on horseback turned and fled abreast, and the warrior house frowned. A roar was heard, and a flash of black and silver. A roar, and then blood. In a black cloak, a blade weilding figure swung a massive greatsword, split into three points at the tip, much like a trident, cleaved through all five men and their horses, then five arrows finished the legless men. The blood was flicked from the sword, which was placed on a massive sheath upon the back of the cloak. The figure walked forward, conveying an ancient power and knowledge.
Cleaning the weapons off on the clothing of the dead Greyjoy men, the family hummed with a foreign happiness. The girls reclaimed their arrows, and the boys grunted as they looked at the hundred and fifty dead men. Walking back to their family, they watched the cloaked figure, like a massive reaper. They all stood abreast, and the man stopped in front of them. Clawed hands covered in golden fur and heavy bones. The massive hands came up and peeled the hood from the body, revealing an ancient face. Hard features, a broad nose, slits for pupils, and heavy fangs of an almost ivory tone were set onto a face older than time itself. Maynhard nodded his respect. "Father." he said. The massive man grunted. Long black hair of a thickness Westreos natives could not possess, and a beard as thick, giving the appearance of a balck lion's mane. He grunted, and made a deep noise low in his throat, and from the bushes came a woman.
She had long white hair, and black sripes through it. Light black hair covered her bare arms, appearing as though she was striped. Icy blue eyes portrayed as ancient of a knowledge as the male in the cloak. Maynhard nodded to her with just as much respect. "Mother." he said, and she nodded. Both were larger than average, and they stood next to each other. The cloaked man inhaled. " I see you made a special meal for our arrival." he said, turning to the blood soaked boar on the spit, the fire put out. Shango chuckled. "Of course. But we weren't expecting Greyjoy forces to attack us." he said. The ancient man nodded. "Very well then. Gather the horses and put them in the stable. Pull the armor from the bodies and store it somewhere. Weaponry as well. We'll make sure this place stays safe now that you have more forces." he said.
Inside, they had rinsed blood from the boar and began to dine on it. They had enjoyed wine from the cellars, and the finest breads from the grains on the lands. Heartily did they dine, and the only sounds other than their dining was the neighing of the horses on the lands. When the dining was done, the ancient man sighed. "We must do what our honor binds us to do." he said. Shango frowned. "What is that?" he asked. The ancient man laughed. "Me and your father helped build the Stark family. Infact, I was the one who pulled Brandon The Builder from his mother's womb. It pains me that a family I helped become great is so devastated." he said.
Manoush frowned. "How bad is it?" she asked. He sighed. "Eddard is likely dead. Catelyn is a Tully, and was revived by a necromancer. She leads the Brotherhood Without Banners, and is not trustworthy. Robb Stark was killed in an ambush by Roose Bolton. Sansa Stark Lannister is married to The Imp, and likely miserable as all hells. Bran and Rickon are either dead, missing, or hiding in the crypts of Winterfell. Arya is missing, and was last seen in Braavos. Jon Snow is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, so we have no issue there." he stated, taking a large bite out of the boar. Haakon frowned. "Braavos. How did Arya get across the Narrow Sea?" he asked.
The ancient man shrugged. "If my contacts are correct, she was brought there by Jaqen H'ghar. He's a former Lorathi criminal who escaped. He's quite dangerous, and likely took her to The House Of Black And White. If she becomes a Faceless Man, it'll be so much more difficult than before to find her. She can change her face, and if Jaqen trains her, than she'll be able to change her face at will." he said, frowning. Vasili shrugged. "So. What does our honor entitle us to do?" he asked. The ancient woman laughed a lyrical laugh. "Why, we take back Winterfell."