Chapter 2 is here! I'm trying to stay true to the books in that the Reeds aren't the only house in the Neck, and I simply adore Valyrian Steel for whatever reason, and those two facts kinda shaped this chapter.

By the way, updates will be slow for both this and A Struggle of Blood from now on. Essentially, this is because I have two stories on the go and no more chapters already written for either. If I don't find time, chapters can't go up. I will do my utmost to keep some kind of pace up on both of them.

Oh, and by the way; to those readers who've included this story into their three communities; thank you very much, and I greatly appreciate it!


It was three days, by foot, to the edge of the Marshes; and a weary three days at that. When Kennet's shoes had started squelching with each step he knew he was close, and when he crested the next ridge, reeds and bogs and trees were all he could see to either side of the road. His relief was palpable enough that he took the time to pitch his grey, much-repaired tent, and he looked out across the waters afterwards.

Now came the quandary of what exactly to do, in order to get the attention of a Crannogmen.

Shouting would do little to entice these little-seen, less-known people, nor to endear himself to them.

Walking into the swamp would likely give him some disease or get him killed.

He set about with the short sword, chopping as much as he could of the vegetation on a nearby rise down and apart. In a couple of hours he had a tired pair of arms and a large amount of wood.

There were about four hours until sunset, and, intending to let the fire burn through as much of the night as possible (with his help), he settled into his tent and checked through the small number of papers that remained to be read. However, none were of particular value, nor interest, and he settled to reading through Robb Stark's last Royal Decree, and thinking on the future.

Without the decree, the North had no heir apparent nor heir to rally around. Without it, so separate, the Lords of the North could fight of no cohesive threat, particularly with the Ironborn occupation to contend with and no strong army heading North.

He could not turn the war by this point, Kennet realised. Many losses had been sustained. Heirs to houses killed and captured. Lords killed or captured. The Northmen would have no desire for a war in the south any more. Their liegelords there were likely captured or dead. Their families and friends the same.

It would be far easier to unify for independence than to fight for revenge.

But they needed a Stark. And this Jon, of whom Kennet knew nothing, was the best chance they had.


A few hours had passed, and Kennet struck up the fire with his flint and steel. There was an hour of sunlight left, he guessed, but there would be no harm in allowing the Crannogmen to see smoke from the leafy, wet fuel, which would produce particularly dark, visible smoke. The kindling caught on the third try.

He blew on the dry moss, coaxed it to spread, and moved it into the small pile of twigs and more moss. First the moss caught, then the twigs, causing black smoke to rise.

He began building the fire up, with various larger sizes of wood, deal and living. In half an hour it was producing distinctive amounts of black smoke from quite a large pile, and he still had as much wood again to keep it going with, but he returned to the trees to cut as much wood as he could while it was still light.

Kennet returned with a decent amount about half an hour later, and sat in front of the fire, it's warmth on his back and the swamplands at the front.

Besides the crackling of the fire, there were several noises of the night that reached Kennet's ears. Firstly, some kind of croaking noise came up at regular intervals. The odd splash of a water-creature was audible, and he once heard the hoot of an owl and the swoosh of it's wings overhead.

A smell of peat perfumed the air, but in the blackness ahead he could see none of the swampland he knew lay there, treacherous terrains and stagnant water and all. It was black as pitch.

It was an hour and a half since sunset when, for the first time, he heard the snapping of a twig to his side, a way away.

He kept his lulling head where it was, and kept his ear ready for more sounds, either breathing or a footstep.

After a small but tense period, he heard a relieved sigh, then a step. He determined it to be about a spear's lunge away, and turned his head sharply.

"I mean you no harm," he said as he twisted, to find the point of a spear about the length of his forearm away from his face, gleaming in the firelight. "I mean no harm but to those who wished harm upon the King in the North, for whom I fought."

"Wished?" was the only reply of the small man with the mud-covered face and the spear.

"It was four days past that Robb Stark's army halted at the Twins for the marriage of Edmure Tully. While the nobles and knights were feasted in the castle, the troops remained outside and drank and laughed with the Frey troops. I was guarding the Young Wolf's tent. The Twins fired catapults at our troops and their men set upon ours. A ruthless and savage trap, in which the Young Wolf doubtless died, along with countless men, common and noble."

"And you?" questioned the Crannogman.

"I knew the King was lost, and so I took many documents from his tent and supplies from others around me and fled, hoping to make a difference to what remains of the war effort."

"How?"

"Take me to Lord Reed of Greywater Watch. There is a Royal Decree in my tent which must pass the Neck if the North is to unify again."

The Crannogman considered, tilting his head. "Blindfold," he finally said.

Kennet nodded, but as he did so, he felt a hit to the back of his head.

He felt someone catch him, and felt very little after that.


He awoke in a splash of cold water over his face, drenching his middle-length hair and irritating him. He sat sharply, gasping, blinking, and snapping his head from side to side. It was a few seconds before he began to properly notice his surroundings, and they surprised him somewhat.

He was not in a cell, but in a small, dark room, sitting on a chair. Two people sat opposite him, one the man he'd spoken to earlier, one a slightly taller man who, to Kennet's surprise, wore a sheathed sword. This man had a pale face, a thin nose, a thick black beard, and long matted hair.

Another man was leaving, bucket in hand.

"Where am I?" Kennet inquired. "Is this Greywater Watch?" As he said this he glanced to the man, presumably a hunter or patroller of some kind, who'd said "blindfold" before Kennet fell unconscious.

"No," the other man said. "You sit in the keep of House Blackmyre, mine own House, in which you are a guest. This is The Myrehill."

"I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Blackmyre." Kennet had little else to say; he would not offend the man by asking questions of him in his own home.

"You say you have news of the war. Of the death of the Young Stark at the hands of the Freys."

"Yes, my lord. I believe you have heard what I have to say on the matter."

"And I have read your documents, too. They are what convinced me you were no liar."

"How so?" Kennet inquired.

"No enemy of the Starks would allow such a valuable piece of documentation out of their hands." The Crannogman picked the scroll from it's unnoticed position next to his chair and handed it back. "I have made an adjustment. I hope you do not mind."

Kennet frowned and glanced down. It all seemed the same. No words added or removed from the main text.

"Check the bottom," said the Lord of the Myrehill. Inscribed near the bottom was the name "Lord Darion Blackmyre," and stamped next to it was the Blackmyre crest, a crossed sword and spear.

"I thank you for your support of the rightful King, Lord Darion," Kennet said. Darion Blackmyre nodded. "However, I needs must-"

"Cross the Neck."

"Indeed."

"I will have a man escort you to Greywater Watch. It is a day's travel away by foot and half that by pontoon. From there, Lord Howland can sign that paper on behalf of the rest of the Lords of the Neck, as well as provide you with passage through the swamp and perhaps beyond."

"All the help of the Lords of the Neck is most graciously appreciated, Lord Darion."

"Thank you, my friend," the small man replied, "though I do not know your name."

"My name is Kennet, my lord."

"Kennet..." Lord Darion mused. "You wouldn't happen to be from around Queenscrown, would you?"

"No, my lord."

"Your father, then, or your mother?"

"I have never met my mother, and I know not from whence my father hails."

Lord Darion studied his face for a while, before shrugging. "You remind me of a man I once drew swords alongside, is all."

"It struck me as curious, my lord, that you do hold a sword rather than a spear, as I believe most Crannogmen prefer. Would it perhaps be that which is on your seal?"

"Indeed," Lord Darion smiled. "House Blackmyre holds one of only two Valyrian Steel blades in the Neck. This is Blackedge," he declared, drawing it carefully from the sheath.

The ripples in the steel glinted in the faint light. The blade did indeed have a darker tint to it. It was a shortsword, that much was plain, and it was clearly deadly.

"Incredible," Kennet said, reverently.

"It is a treasure. House Quagg would tell you that their Rippletorn is the keenest blade in the Neck, but they would tell you false. Theirs has a keen edge - nothing holds an edge like Valyrian Steel - but it is too long. It nearly matches the Stark blade for size, it is unbalanced; and it glistens. One cannot conceal it for a second." Lord Darion caressed his steel, almost lovingly for a few seconds, before sheathing it. "But I digress. I trust you enjoyed your sleep on the way here. You will not be blindfolded in such a way on the way to Greywater Watch, I can assure you of that."

"I appreciate your kindness, Lord Darion. That particular blindfold was rather uncomfortable."

Darion Blackmyre chuckled. "You will find we were kind enough to bring along all your supplies and gear. We have also provided water for the journey, replaced your spear with one far sturdier and more resilient, and put the documents in a waterproof lizard-lion skin sack, all of which you may keep."

"Many thanks, my lord."

"If you restore a King to the North, it is I who shall have to thank you many times as much, as both a Northman and the Lord of the southernmost house of the Neck. Spare your thanks."


A short while later, Kennet, and the Crannogmen who'd found him, Calwyn and Ulmerr, set out towards Greywater Watch on a shallow pontoon. Lord Darion , his wife, and his three young children, two girls; Layra, of less than twelve and Katryn, of less than ten, and a boy; Darryn, of less than seven, bade them farewell and safe journey across the Neck. Katryn bore a thin, fabric token, on which the dark spear and sword on a grey background of House Blackmyre were sewn. She smiled prettily as she gave it to him, and so he tied it around his arm.

They pushed off, leaving the bizarrely yet brilliantly disguised floating hill that was The Myrehill and it's occupants behind them, soon vanished in the swamp.