Chapter 1 – The Lost Wolf
It has been so long since I have felt the harsh bite of the Northern cold.
By the Gods, how I have missed it indeed.
Gael Stark had not been near Westeros in almost fifteen years. Yet, now was the time he was finally returning home, to his family. Only the Old Gods knew how they had managed without him. He had only heard of the Rebellion through the grapevine in Essos. It had scared him when he heard of his little brother running into battle alongside Robert Baratheon against the damned and incest-maddened Targaryens. He was too young for war, he should have been messing around much like he had done in his younger years without that damned trauma.
The cold ocean winds had began to throw themselves against Gael's skin, and he would have shivered if he weren't so used to it. Travelling across the Narrow Sea had hardened him, as well as many other things had done too. The weather had become an inconvenience to him, as had many men who often thought themselves his better. He humbled them with steel, and now he was beginning to age to the point where he had to think.
Perhaps steel was not the way to live any more for him, perhaps he should have laid his blades down and made himself comfortable when he returned to Winterfell. 'Home….' He thought. 'I should have come back long ago…'
He was filled with regret, for what he had done and what he had not done. He had not been what a Stark should have been, instead he turned himself into a common soldier instead of the lord that his family needed him to be. The Ashen Roses were his family, not by blood but by battle. Winning their trust by succeeding as mercenaries under the employ of contractors, often times even the Iron Bank of Braavos. He often asked himself the question of whether what he had been doing was worth it. He should not have abandoned his family, and the worst thing was the damned saying his father would always repeat to him and his siblings whenever they argued or quarrelled.
'When the snows fall and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives...'
That was what he had done, he had abandoned them to be left to fester in his own pain. That one moment in his youth that forced him to run away, to never look back at his home and do something so insanely selfish that he could not even bare to go back home to face his family after. The Old Gods would probably never forgive him, but at this point in his life he was never expecting such forgiveness in the first place. He had done too much to deserve such a blessing.
His hands fell from the wooden fencing of the ship to his leather belt, readjusting the material to secure his sword and parrying dagger. That odd feeling returned, the feeling of that missing ring finger on his right hand. A punishment for being such a raging beast that was soon beaten out of him, his finger ripped from him. The winds blowing against the black patch that covered his absent right eye, another form of punishment meant to break him again. His hands left his belt, tapping the fence of the ship twice before they arose to run through the black and greying hairs upon his head. Sighing, he looked out to White Harbour as his fleet of ships approached the largest of the Seven Kingdoms. The amount of sailors and dock-workers were clearly surprised to see the amount of ships arriving, and soon began scurrying to make way for the oncoming fleet of ships.
He had taken to calling the ship The Sea Wolf. It wasn't any regular warship or longboat, but a whaling ship bought from the Ibbenese. The largest ship Gael had ever seen, and now modified to be as effective as a veteran warship or dromond. The large steel wolf served as a figurehead and ram, giving the ship it's namesake. As the ships got closer, Gael's gut began to twist just that little bit. Tensing, he turned to see his crew working to stop the ship when it came to dock.
"Sails in! Slow as much as we can!" Gael yelled as he approached the rudder. "Wrap up warm, boys! You won't like it when your hands drop off from the cold!"
He could just about hear the agreeing and shouting of the men as they slowed the ship down to a stop. The gangways were used and it was not long before the realisation had hit Gael. He had returned to The North. The cold winds had slowed, but remained ever-present. He kept himself quiet as he watched the crew organise the ship before they soon filed off the ship for some rest and recuperation. They knew well enough that they would be staying here for a while, so he allowed them to have some comforts. What kind of commander would he have been if he didn't?
'A bad one, most likely. A better commander is one that is respected and loved, not one to be feared. Although I suppose that my look does that well enough…'
The other ships were slowly approaching whatever docks were available, decreasing in speed until they had all stopped entirely with their crews departing for the nearest inns, taverns and whorehouses. There was no surprise there, they were all mortal men and they all had whims and needs. Even Gael had them, even if they were that of a right proper lecher. No ordinary woman would look at him like a normal person, and having to pay for a woman's company was where he would usually have drawn the line. Since the day that had caused him to leave, he realised that sometimes a woman's touch was necessary, even if the prerequisite for that touch was a few dragons and stags.
With all of the good of being a mercenary captain, there was always the bad. It just so happened that the bad happened to be more related to Gael's person than his business ventures. He had merged his Ashen Legion with that of the Company of the Rose. He didn't know whether to regret the rash decision or give himself the pat on the back, because he had simultaneously doubled his manpower and resources, but also turned his company into a small army. He had killed a long-lost cousin to take control of them.
'Artos Stark, son of Galen Stark, rightful Lord of Winterfell. Died 298 AC at the hand of Gael Stark, his cousin in the Free City of Braavos. Sliced across the chest by sword and strangled by hand. Poaching bastard…'
It was when the late Artos Stark had revealed himself that Gael had caught on to who he was and who his men were. The Company of the Rose, a group of Northerners who fled the North after Torrhen Stark, the King-Who-Knelt, ended up kneeling to Aegon the Conqueror. None to happy with it, they left the North in order to live as free men. Perhaps Artos Stark was not the wisest of men to lead them, if he was dim-witted enough to wager his men over a fleet of ships which Gael had rightfully conquered. Then again, neither was the silly Pirate King who had thought to invade Gael's home.
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"Pirate King Kaan, it is in my own good conscience that I cannot allow you to take those ships and invade Westeros." Gael had spoken, two weeks prior to arriving at White Harbour.
"And why should I allow some burly Westerosi cunt to tell me what to do? Where is your Iron Throne and crown? Are you a king? Prince? No? Then fuck off! I will raid and invade, pillage and plunder wherever I deem it fit to do so!" The Pirate King Kaan had shouted back from the deck of his war galley, sword in hand as his greasy hair slapped across the side of his face. "Go on then, fuck off! Before I gut you like a fish!"
That had not gone down too well.
"Then gut me then! You little Volantene shitbag! Or do I have to come on to your ship and string you against the masts as a warning to other men like you! Don't invade the North, or you turn into a trophy for them?"
The Pirate King Kaan had growled at the Northerner's words, shouting something in Bastard Valyrian before he unsheathed his falchion and charged from the deck of his ship down to the docks of the Free City of Braavos. Gael stood, surrounded by his own men before he noticed the Pirate King being followed by his men. It was more pathetic when Gael thought about it, how instead of just talking like civilised gentlemen that they were they would fight over this. Even if the bloody Pirate King that he called himself was too 'manly' to take an insult, he had to bring his men into it as well. A pair of taps on his shoulder, and Gael found himself faced with his second-in-command, Asher Forrester.
"This doesn't seem like one of your best ideas, Gael." Asher muttered under his breath as his hands fell to his axe and dagger. "Seems like one of the worse ones, if I'm being fair and honest."
"We'll be fine, Ash. Don't even worry that scarred face of yours." Gael whispered in reply.
Asher grumbled. "You're one to talk about scars."
The Pirate King Kaan soon stopped right in front of Gael and his company of men. Gael had Asher and nine others behind him, Kaan with about twenty. Outnumbered two to one, Gael knew that they didn't have the numbers and so went about it a different way. He drew one sword and stepped away from his men, giving them a look to make them back off. He gave the sword a small twirl, watching as it spun in his grip before he caught it. The Pirate King and his men stopped in front of him, the outlaw leader baring both blades at the Northern commander. "You are a fool, if you aim to fight me and my men by yourself." Kaan gloated.
"Then I appeal to your sense of showmanship and good sport, as would be befitting of a Pirate King such as yourself, King Kaan." Gael announced. "Fight me as a true Pirate King would, one to one. Show our men who is a true leader."
"I have nothing to prove to the likes of weaker men." Kaan replied, slowly taking his stance with his blades.
"So you would refuse my challenge then, in order to save your own skin? Is that what you are doing? I never thought a Pirate King would be such a craven, and so afraid to show how a real man fights."
The Pirate King Kaan did not even allow his opponent to take stance before he had charged him in order to end the fight as quickly as possibly. Short and precise slashes were thrown in order to keep Gael away and always on the back foot. Of course, being on the back foot meant allowing the Pirate King do all of the heavy lifting. His steel blade was thick, chunkier than some other blades Gael had seen in his travels. It was not a usual cutlass that some seamen utilised. Yet, that also meant that Gael was able to put his general skills to use. The weapon was like a longsword, and fighting against a man with a longsword was Gael's bread and butter.
It was with the Pirate King Kaan's horizontal slice meant for Gael's head that allowed the elder Northerner to take advantage of the King's skill, or lack thereof. He had left his stomach open to attack, and with one slick manoeuvre his blade had been thrust through the man's stomach. He felt the blood of Pirate King Kaan drip over his shoulder, fresh red droplets falling from the man's mouth over his shoulder and into his leather shoulder-pads.
The Lost Wolf quickly relieved his blade of the body it was impaled, shoving it forward to be presented to the late King's crew. He did not order his men to charge the pirates, and instead sheathed his blade and approached the first mate of the former Pirate King.
"You will tell every man in Kaan's fleet that they now serve me, and if they don't like it, tell them to leave or to be strapped to the masts."
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"Gael, you coming or what?"
"Hmm?" Gael murmured upon Asher's call. "What's the matter now?"
"The Manderlys aren't letting us into the city. Something about being unregistered to dock in the port." Asher replied as he approached the captain. "Said we either need to work out a payment fine or do one, basically."
Gael sighed, and realised that of course he was probably going to be fined for showing up uninvited. Then again, not everyone decides to kill a Pirate King and then take their ships to return home. It was not as much a common occurrence as Gael had hoped for it to be. Clearly, House Manderly of White Harbour had not been expecting them either. Gael rubbed the itch just above his missing eye and then took off the ship, with Asher following behind him as they disembarked from The Sea Wolf. The older man led his second to the front of the group of sailors and mercenaries who had been stopped from entering the city by the soldiers of White Harbour.
"Out of the way men, Captain's sorting this out for us!" Asher shouted, loud enough for the fighters to start parting and creating a path for the eldest Stark to get through. He could soon see the aquamarine shields of the soldiers, the pearl white and green mermen emblazoned on the shields. The soldiers had blockaded them to the docks, steel tridents in the steel grips. "You are gonna sort this, yeah?"
"Asher, just keep the men calm and collected and we will be allowed in the city in no time at all." Gael whispered to the young second-in-command before he approached the soldiers. "What seems to be the problem, lads?"
The tallest guard of the detail seemed to be the leader, as he replied to the old Stark. "White Harbour does not allow unregistered ships to just dock in empty ports. Especially amongst reports of a small pirate fleet coming from the Free Cities. As a precaution, we cannot allow your company into the city without either paying an unexpected docking fine, or you can take it up with Lord Manderly considering the size of your fleet of ships."
Gael squinted at the guard. "Lord Wyman Manderly, am I correct to assume?"
"Aye, Lord Wyman Manderly."
Gael nodded, before placing his arms away from his blade. "I believe I may be able to come to an agreement with the Lord of White Harbour. If I may ask, would you please take me to see an audience with him?"
The lead guard nodded, and ordered two of his men to follow him as he escorted Gael to the keep of White Harbour. Another contingent of guards had arrived to make sure the mercenaries of the Ashen Roses did not break out into total rebellion as Asher managed to organise the men back on to the ships as they waited for the allowance of them to enter. The guards were silent as they walked through the largest city in the kingdom of The North, with crowds of men and women steering clear of the trident-wielding guards. Merchants and traders were plying their wares to those who wandered too close to the stalls. Soon, Gael had caught sight of the large white brick that made up the home of House Manderly.
Upon the doors opening to the inside of the keep, the trio of guards continued to escort the mercenary captain through the halls and entries of the keep. Newly-lit candles lightened the hallways so that Gael could see where he was going with his one good eye. The flames reflected off the clean steel armour, something that could not be said for Gael's first set of armour, that was most definitely broken and sunken in the pit of Slaver's Bay. Leather and small amounts of chainmail was much more suited for the sweltering heat of Essos. Upon returning to Westeros, Gael soon knew he would have to change back to his furs, cloaks and steel armour if it came to it.
As soon as they reached the door to the main hall, the tall guardsman looked down at Gael. "You will treat Lord Manderly with the utmost respect, mercenary. Do otherwise and you won't like what happens."
"Of course."
Gael muttered in return as the guards opened the door. The main hall of the White Harbour keep had been coated with fine paintings and tapestries, that often included the green merman on House Manderly's sigil. What Gael could not miss as well as those horrifically coloured tapestries was the rather obese and bearded figure of Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbour and Warden of the White Knife. The large Lord was tucking into a large chicken drumstick before he set eyes on the old friend he had not seen in twenty years.
"IS THAT GAEL FUCKING STARK? GET HIM OVER HERE, RIGHT NOW!"
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Winterfell, like most days, was rather quiet in the morning. There was still that regular winter chill in the air, but the men of the North had learnt to ignore it since the dawn of time. The words of House Stark were 'Winter is Coming' and for them, winter might as well have been every day. The cold chills and harsh winds bothered those who were from the other kingdoms, even when they wore large layers of clothes and skins.
Even the children had become ignorant to the cold and it's attempts to make them uncomfortable. The young Brandon Stark had woken his elder brothers in order to get them to help him with his archery. As the second true-born son of Lord Eddard Stark, he may never have gotten the chance to become the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, but it did not mean that he could not be a famous warrior like Ser Arthur Dayne or Aemon the Dragonknight. He would become famous, named amongst the best warriors ever known since the conquest of Aegon Targaryen, or Aegon the Conqueror.
As the keep came to life and by extension, the settlement of Winter Town below the keep, more and more people began to wander and work around the castle. At first, it was just Robb and Jon that were helping him with his archery. Soon enough, Theon Greyjoy, one of Robb's friends and his father's ward had appeared. Bran began to wander if he would have been better if he had gotten Theon to help him. Jon was much better with a sword and Robb was so skilled with a lance he tended to use it more than anything else. Theon was the only boy that he could talk to that knew how to use a sword as much as he knew how to use a bow and arrow.
He had been working hard all throughout the morn, Bran was desperate to start working with an axe or a mace. He didn't know what it was, but the bow and arrow was definitely not his weapon of choice. Whenever he nocked another arrow, loosing it at the target, he either missed it completely to watch the arrow bounce off the wall or he got one of the outer rings of the target.
'Knock, draw, loose. Knock, draw, loose.' Bran thought to himself as he took one more arrow out from his hip quiver. Nocking and drawing it, he took a deep breathe and focused on the centre of the target. He needed to be better, otherwise he'd be stuck like that forever. As soon as he let the arrow go, Bran could feel a strong gust of wind raise the bow in his arms, and the arrow soon flew over the target and over the stone wall that protected them from the outside world.
As soon as the arrow left his view, he could hear the gasping and wheezing laughs of his brothers and Theon. Jon had turned away from his half-brother, planting his face into the nearby wooden pillar that held up the balcony of the castle above as he tried to contain his laughing fit. Robb had turned to laugh into Theon's shoulder, as Bran's brother kept his laugh hushed as the older boy from the Iron Islands attempted to erase the smirk on his face. Bran felt ashamed, useless even. He'd never become a knight at this rate, even if he were blessed by every god that there was, old and new.
It was his father's gruff voice that quieted the older boys, even though he had the smile on his face. "And which one of you boys were a marksman at ten, eh? Keep going Bran, you'll get there eventually."
Bran smiled up to his father, his mother stood right beside with her arm wrapped around her husband. Catelyn Tully had been coddling him for so long, and she still did. She never wanted to see him practice with weapons and get hurt. She hated seeing him get hurt, especially when it left bruises and scrapes on his face and wrists. Yet he was growing up, and he wanted to be a knight more than anything else. He wanted to help his brother rule his armies when they grew up, and he needed to be better with a bow to do that. Bran grumbled, kicking at the dirt beneath his feet before he took another arrow from his quiver and nocked it, readying it for release.
"Don't think too much, Bran. Just relax your bow arm and don't be so tense when your holding the arrow." Jon whispered to Bran as he held the arrow tightly.
Jon was so tall, and despite not being older than Theon, he was even taller than him. Bran never understood why Jon couldn't be called Jon Stark instead of Jon Snow. To him, it didn't matter whether Jon was a bastard or not. He was as much a brother to Bran as was Robb was, or even Rickon despite how much of a baby he still was. He was lean yet muscled, and the jet black hair framed his face. Bran couldn't think of why he always looked so sad when compared to Robb, who always had a grin or smile on his face like Theon had done. Robb took more after their mother, with the bright auburn hair and bright blue eyes of his mother whilst Theon looked like one of the commoners in the Winter Town. Pale and lanky, not as much muscle as Robb or Jon and he always wore more cloaks and capes to keep himself warm. His hair was dirty and he always looked rough, compared to everyone else.
It was when Bran had fully prepared to release the arrow he held, it was when he saw the thin shaft of an arrow zoom from behind him and plant itself into the centre of the target. It was a clear bullseye, and when the group of boys turned to see who had fired the arrow, it was not a shock to see their youngest sister, Arya, with a bow in her hand. With dark hair and the grey eyes of her father, the young Arya took a cocky bow before Bran dropped his bow and charged towards her. She in turn dropped the bow and ran away, with the older boys yelling and jeering for their younger brother to get a hold of their sister to see what would happen next.
"Go on, Bran. Get her! Quicker, get her Bran!" Robb yelled as the two young children ran from eyesight.
It was as the three older boys began to clear up the archery section of the training grounds, before Ser Rodrik Cassel had turned up behind them, with two scrolls in his hands. The master-at-arms had for some ungodly reason decided to tie the long strands of hair up underneath his beard. Eddard nodded, and soon the knight approached his lieges and bowed quickly before he began to speak. "We got two ravens in the night, My Lord. One was from Castle Black and the Night's Watch, the other was from Lord Wyman Manderly."
"And what do the Night's Watch want now, Ser Rodrik? More men that we cannot give them since we have been sending them prisoners every month?" Catelyn replied, incredulous at the thought of sending the men who manned The Wall even more supplies than they already gave them.
"No, Lady Stark." Rodrik replied curtly. "There was a deserter, he was on patrol beyond The Wall and then never reported back. An outrider patrol from House Umber caught the deserter trying to sneak past Last Hearth. I think we all know what has to happen now."
"Aye." Lord Eddard murmured under his breath. The sentence for deserting the Night's Watch was death and everyone knew it upon taking the Oath. His gloved hand raised to itch his growing beard before it dropped down to his side. Grabbing his wolf-skin cloak, he continued. "Tell the lads to saddle their horses, they'll need to see this."
"Do you have to take them?" Eddard's wife asked, taking a hold of her husband's wrist before he left. "They have seen this before, they do not need to see it again."
"The boys are growing up, Cat. Jon, Theon and Robb are all old enough to go to war if they need to, they need to get used to it. Speaking of which, Ser Rodrik, tell Bran to get his horse ready as well. It's time for him to see it for the first." Eddard muttered regretfully. He didn't want to expose his children to how cruel the world was, but the North was a harsh place as much as anywhere else and they needed to see it.
"Ned, please. Ten is too young to be seeing such violence. Let it wait, at least a few months." Catelyn begged, her grip tightening and moving to her husband's hands. "Please, my love. Let it wait."
"He won't be a boy forever, my dear. Besides, Winter is Coming."
Catelyn's tight hold fell slack, and she soon let go of her husband's sleeve. His shoulders raised up and down as he walked with Ser Rodrik down to the stables to get to the horses. The giant yet dim-witted stable hand that was Hodor managed to get Eddard's light brown mare without issue whilst the Lord of Winterfell saddled her himself. It was when he got himself saddled that he turned to the master-at-arms once more. "You said that there was a letter from Lord Manderly, what did it say?"
Ser Rodrik held the letter out to his liege. "I think it might be better if you read it yourself, my lord." He replied.
Eddard took hold of the letter and broke the aquamarine seal to read the scrawled writing. Apart from the occasional pleasantries and reports from the largest city in the North, it was more of a personal message instead. Eddard began to read it aloud:
"My Lord, we had received an unexpected fleet of ships travelling from Braavos the previous day, and whilst we did not receive any discriminate markings upon sighting of said fleet of ships, we soon managed to reach an understanding with the captain of the fleet. He rules the mercenary company known as the Ashen Roses, a company made up from the Ashen Legion and the Company of the Rose. I myself did not expect to see a friendly face, but at least it was to be a rich one who would pay for his indiscretion for docking without giving awareness. What I instead discovered was that your long lost brother, Gael, had returned to the North with a small army of men and wished to pledge his sword back to you again.
"He has left his company under the command of his secondary leaders and has reported to me that he was heading to Winterfell as soon as possible. I wish you the best in your unification once more, as there is nothing like a good family reunion.
From Lord Wyman Manderly, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed and Lord Marshall of the Mander."
As Eddard began to twist the letter back into the form of a scroll, a look of confusion and mirth had appeared on his face. He did not know how to feel about this, worried or excited, nervous or happy. Gael had left the North well before Robert's Rebellion and nobody had ever heard from him since then. Eddard knew that his only living elder brother had been a witness to a terribly cruel thing which had forced him to leave the North to find his purpose. Perhaps Gael finally had found it, and was seeking to reunite with what was left of his family.
Eddard handed the scroll back to Ser Rodrik, a small smile stuck on his face as Robb, Jon, Theon and Bran had mounted their horses behind him. Turning to look at the children, he gave a brief nod and soon the men began to ride off out of their home and to Last Hearth in order to see to the deserter.
"Gael bloody Stark." Eddard whispered to himself as they rode out into the North. "Where have you been for twenty years?"
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Well, well, well.
I never thought I would ever actually be able to write another Game of Thrones story since I wrote my Dark Souls crossover, but it seems that the inspiration has struck me hard enough to convince me to write one more. Instead of creating the over-used additional son or daughter of House Stark, I thought I would go back a little bit and create an Uncle or a brother to Eddard and Benjen.
As you can tell, he left well before Robert's Rebellion due to a highly traumatic incident during his teenage years and that was the reason why he had decided to leave Westeros and become a mercenary who travelled throughout Essos, eventually creating his own mercenary company, The Ashen Roses. There is more history to what I have included here, and I will make sure to go over it in the future so we can really see what Gael's life has been like since he did leave Westeros.
Hint Hint: It really is not that nice at all.
Anyway, I do hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this new literary endeavour, and please do not forget to follow, favourite and review it give me any kind of praise or criticism that I can use to enhance and work upon this story!
(Note: I know I have yet to describe Gael in much detail, but for a casting I would choose Ansen Mount and his general appearance will be the story image!)
Mister X