The Worth of Ash
Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to Game of Thrones or any related titles, characters, plots, settings, etc. Such elements belong to George R. R. Martin, HBO, and their assorted publishers and distributors. I own only the original elements of this story, the writing and publishing of which make me no money.
Prologue
Six years previous...
"I will send two bushels of firewood and two squares of peat with you," Ned Stark told the last man he was set to hear that day. There had been more supplicants than was common for Winterfell - especially when it was so bitingly cold in the forests - and he was weary. Catelyn was nearing her birthing time for their fifth child and he despised being far from her. The man's lack of response was grating on his nerves, and Ned's voice was rather sharp as he prompted, "I assume that will suffice until you can gather wood for your family."
"Yes, Lord Stark," the man mumbled, bowing shakily. "Very good of you, my lord. Most kind…"
Ned accepted the man's thanks with a stilted nod and gestured for one of the guards to come forward, trusting that the guard would give the man what had been allotted before sending him on his way. When the two had left Winterfell's courtyard, Ned stood and stretched the stiffness from his spine. He had been seated on the hard wooden chair for far too long, but he would endure worse if it meant his people were properly cared for.
"M'lord?" a hesitant voice asked.
Caught mid-twist, Ned glanced toward the open expanse of the snow-crusted courtyard and found an unassuming man standing there. His clothes were well-worn and threadbare, but obviously painstakingly clean. His rough-spun hat was held crushed in his fist as he stood waiting for Ned to acknowledge him.
"Supplications have concluded for the day," Ned said slowly, testing this new arrival.
"Beggin' your pardon, Lord Stark, but I fear this cannot wait."
The man's gaze had yet to lift toward Ned's own, but the Lord of Winterfell admired the quiet firmness in his voice. Partially cursing his own softness for his people, Ned Stark sat back down on the wooden chair. "Come closer, man," he invited. "Tell me your troubles and I will help if I am able."
The man gave a deep bow before edging closer to the stone ledge from which Ned's chair overlooked the courtyard. Finally, he lifted his eyes. "M'lord, I come to you full of fear. I live outside of Winterfell, north a fair distance. It is just me, my wife, and our daughter. I have no sons, no brother I can turn to."
The words rushed from his lips as quickly and violently as if they were carried on the steam of his breath. Ned held up a hand to silence the rush. "What is your name?"
"Desmor Asheworth, m'lord."
"Asheworth… Hailing from Ashford, perhaps?"
Desmor flushed darkly. "I am not sure, m'lord. We've lived here for longer'n most can remember. Just me and my family now."
"And what are the names of your wife and daughter?" Ned asked, seeing that the man was still tense and frantic. It seemed to do the trick, as Desmor's deep brown eyes warmed at the mention of his family.
"My wife's name is Milah and my daughter's Kyren," he answered. "Please, Lord Stark, I beg you-"
Ned gestured sharply and Desmor fell silent. "You need not beg, my good man. Tell me where the trouble lies. Why have you need of my assistance?"
"Wildlings," he whispered, then straightened noticeably. With shoulders pulled back and chin held firmly upward, Desmor explained, "I fear a group of wildlings has found their way into the forest near my house. I hear them at night."
Sitting forward slightly, Ned frowned. "You have seen their fires burning in the darkness? Found tracks?"
"No, m'lord, but I hear them."
"There are many strange and threatening sounds that fill the forests at night," Ned said carefully. His last desire was to insult Desmor Asheworth, but Winterfell was short of men at the moment. He could not spare men to chase down a herd of deer that a scared farmer and his wife thought sounded like wildlings.
"Please, Lord Stark," Desmor pleaded. "I need only a few men to aid me in searching the forests. Several of my sheep went missing yesterday. If they have already come so close to my house, I fear for the safety of my family, but I am unable to protect them myself."
Ned sighed. "I have few men to spare this day, but a hunting party is due to return at dawn. Tell me the location of your home and I will send them to you straightaway."
"'Tis very generous of you, m'lord, but it will not be soon enough. They could attack today, this very night…"
Ned stood and Desmor dropped to one knee. It made Ned's stomach twist like a dying snake. "Rise." The man stood slowly, meeting Ned's eyes with desperation in his own. "Desmor Asheworth, I, Lord Eddard Stark, give you my word that my men will ride to you ere noon tomorrow. Should they be late, I will gather my best men and personally ride to your aid. Before darkness falls tomorrow evening, any wildlings will be gone from the forests surrounding your home. I give you my word."
He offered a hand to Desmor and the two men clasped forearms in a show of solidarity. Desmor bowed his head over the gesture and said softly, fervently, "Thank you, Lord Stark. You truly are the protector of Winterfell and its surroundings."
"Ride well, Desmor Asheworth, and take heart. You and your family will be safe."
With a pleased smile, Desmor departed from the courtyard and Ned moved into the halls of Winterfell. Though his focus was soon claimed by the crackling fire, the warm stone walls, and the attentions of his extremely with-child wife and their young children, a part of Ned's mind remained with Desmor and the particulars of his problem. In all likelihood, the men would search the next day and find nothing more than the tracks of a wild animal, but there was always the chance of a wildling group. If that were the case, he should very much wish to go along. Robb and Jon were nearing the age to take part in such a mission, and they should both learn first-hand how to care for their people.
Late that night, some distance north of Winterfell…
Milah rolled closer in her sleep, twining an arm around Desmor so that her cool hand rested directly against the spot above his heart. Desmor pulled it by the wrist up to his mouth, pressing a kiss into her palm before returning her hand to his chest.
She inhaled softly, shifting so that she was sitting up in bed. Her light hair fanned around narrow shoulders as she frowned down at him. "Desmor, my love, why are you not asleep? 'Tis late."
He smiled at her. "I am sorry for waking you, wife. I worry for our safety. I confess, I've not slept a wink all evening."
"Ned Stark has already spoken for our safety," Milah reminded him. "His men will arrive tomorrow and I am certain you are determined to accompany them into the forest. You must rest."
"How did I ever deserve such an intelligent woman for my bride?" Desmor asked, laying a smacking kiss on his wife's upturned lips.
She laughed, but chided, "Hush, Desmor! You'll wake Kyren."
Desmor glanced across the small room at the shapeless huddle of their sleeping daughter. "She has lived ten years, my love. I am certain that she has learned to wake and fall asleep again at some time during all those years."
A sharp snap! rang through the room in the laughing silence of the pair. In a moment, Desmor had leapt from the bed and was fumbling for his battered sword in the dim light of the dying fire. The door burst open, allowing chilled fingers of winter air to comb through the dwelling as a number of fur-clad figures scurried inside.
Desmor leapt at the wildlings, shouting all the while. They fought with crude weapons: mostly clubs and rough-hewn axes, but there was one among them wielding a shortbow. It was that man Desmor attacked first, chopping and slashing at the wildling until he lay twitching on the floor. One other male, he kicked into the embers of the fire before slicing his throat. The smoke from his clothing and the scent of charring blood filled the home, and it became more difficult to battle the wildlings.
Just as he thought the attack might turn in his favor, Desmor turned toward a fear-filled shout from Milah and was treated to a view of her throat opening like a second mouth beneath her chin. He screamed, rage and pain filling the noise as he launched himself at the wildling in question. It was a dark-haired woman he killed with ease, but Demor never saw the four additional figures filing into the room.
As Desmor lay on the floor, blows falling from every direction, his eyes fell upon his daughter's bedroll. It was empty. His brown gaze flicked around the room between the feet and fists of the wildlings. Finally, he saw Kyren's eyes shining back at him from the smoke-filled rafters and relief filled him. His daughter was alive. She could very well survive this attack. With that welcome thought, Desmor's mind slipped to a more pleasant place, one filled with quiet and the joy of Milah's peaceful smile.
Author's Note - I apologize for the shortness of this particular chapter, but I will be publishing a couple more before the updates slow down. Thank you for giving this story a shot! If you happened to form an opinion already, I would love to hear it. Otherwise, I'll see you all tomorrow!