Lord Hadrian Steele

282 AC

Lord Hadrian Steele stared out from the highest tower of the Dreadfort. The tower wasn't very high as they went, but all of the Dreadfort was built for war, not pretty towers. Hadrian knew his castle was ugly, crouching squat and menacing on its hill. But the aging lord didn't care, the castle was strong and it was his family's. For those reasons alone Lord Steele loved the Dreadfort, not for how numbingly cold it got in the winter or for its smoke stained hall but for its strength.

None of this passed through Hadrian's head as he stared out over his lands, house Steele had ruled here for thousands of years since they where given lordship of the Dreadfort when the Bolton's where overthrown. Thousands of years of strength, all about to be tested. At the base of the Dreadfort's hill a camp sat, just over three thousand men, most of the strength of house Steele. All flying the crossed bronze hammers above a black anvil on a field of blue that was house Steele's sigil. Though lesser houses sworn to the Dreadfort could be seen among them, the three spears of house Kraise, house Hull's black ship with its red sails, the grey boar of house Blacke, the broken sword of house Lachlan and the rearing wyvern of house Gimble. All come at Hadrian's call, all come to march in his name alongside men from across the North.

But this was not Hadrian's war which they would fight in, it was the war of Eddard Stark, Hadrian's new Lord. A war against the Mad King Aerys, one which the Targaryen king had begun when he burned Eddard's father and Hadrian's liege Rickard Stark alive while his son and heir Brandon watched and strangled himself in attempting to free his father. Sighing Hadrian ran one big hand through his greying hair. Lord Steele was nearing to six and forty, he'd lived a long life, a hard life. The scars from battles both won and lost where etched into his body. All with memories to them, but now he marched again to war, a war that he hoped would be his last. The sound of heavy feet behind him caused him to turn. Striding up the stairs to the towertop came six figures, his sons. His eldest son lead the way, Halvard.

Lord Steele swelled with pride at the sight of his eldest boy. Like his father he was only of middling height, but broad shoudered and barrel chested, with thick arms. Halvard had a deceptive intelligence in his eyes, one that was offset by his plain, rough features and size. The young man was six and twenty now, with a wife and young son of his own. Hadrian knew he would make a fine lord one day. Following behind him where Hadrian's two youngest sons. The twins Cedrik and Edrik where only seventeen namedays old but both of the lads stood well over six feet, both thickly muscled already and with a hungry look in their eyes, one that spoke of adventure and battles yet to come. The two lads took after their mother's family, she'd been an Umber and the boys looked like they'd one day be larger even than Mors Umber or his brothers, all giant men themselves.

Hadrian's leading three sons cleared the doorway and the next figure cleared the stairs. Hafter was his third son, like the twins he was tall, though they'd nearly outgrown him. Hafter resembled his father and oldest brother in build, burly and thick armed at twenty one namedays. Hadrian's third son was a clever lad, good with battle tactics and a blade. He would serve his brother well as a bannerman and advisor one day. Like his brother Hafter was already married, a pretty Locke girl who'd already born him a son and was even now pregnant again.

The last two young men walked side by side as they climbed, on the right was Gareth, the second of Hadrian's sons. Gareth was of average height, though far leaner than the rest of his siblings, with a handsome face and hard eyes. He'd been a grim lad ever since his wife died giving birth to a stillborn daughter last year, and it showed. Next to him walked Jarren, Hadrian's only bastard, of an age with the twins at sixteen namedays, the young man had rarely seen his family at the Dreadfort, having been fostered with house Lachlan in the far north of Steele lands, almost as far north as the Umber's. Jarren was simailer in build to Hafter, tall and burly though the short beard he was growing was brown instead of Steele black. His face was scarred by a pox from is childhood, but from the tale's Hadrian had heard the lad was a formidable fighter, having cut his teeth against wildling raiders.

Hadrian looked them all over with pride, his boys, but at the same time he looked at them with fear. The fear of a father about to lead his sons into war and if necessary their deaths, something that in Hadrian's mind no father should ever have to do. But his sons knew their duty, they where ready to give their lives for the Stark's as had countless men before them. They where ready, their hearts burning with vengeance. They'd all grown up alongside Brandon and Lyanna Stark, and they'd all loved them both. Now they where ready to fight to bring one home, and to lay the other to rest.

Halvard was the first to speak, "Father, Lord Lachlan's lad just arrived with the last of his spearmen, we're ready to march for Winterfell."

Hadrian nodded slowly as he thought, "Lord's Brine and Galle's will meet us on the road with the western levies. What of the Karstark's? Any word."

It was Hafter this time, rolling his shoulder's to ward off the brisk wind that stroked the top of the tower. "Corben Lachlan says that they're a day's march behind him. Do we wait for them father? Or let them catch us on the road?"

Hadrian shook his great bearded head, "Lord Karstark can try and catch us if he wishes, but we leave at dawn tomorrow." Hadrian's gaze drifted to the twins, "Cedrik, Ed, go inform the bannermen of my orders." His youngest son's nodded and darted down the stairwell, shoving each other as if it where a race and they weren't almost men grown. Their brother's chuckles chasing them down the steps.

Turning back to his older sons Hadrian's already grim face tightened further. "Any further news from Lord Stark?" Ned Stark's last orders had come by raven from White Harbor, the young lord declaring that he would muster his forces at Barrowton before they marched south.

Halvard shook his head, "Nothing father. No ravens and no riders."

At that Gareth coughed, "There was a raven from Storm's End though, and another from King's Landing. Seems that Robert Baratheon broke the loyalist storm lord's at Summerhall, smashed three hosts in a day." An appreciative note was evident in his voice, and Hadrian nodded at the news, it seemed this Baratheon boy was halfway competent. Gareth's voice was grim once more as he held up a small scroll, the kind of which would be sent by raven. "As for the King's raven well..." He shrugged and handed the scroll to his father.

Hadrian read the note, then paused and reread it before crushing the parchment in one gloved hand. "Have you spoken of this to anyone Gareth?" Gareth gave a firm shake of his head, and Hadrian could see the growing curiosity in the eyes of his other sons. "It seems the king has seen fit to offer a pardon to any man who bring's him the head of Lord Stark, as well as Wardenship of the North."

Hadrian sighed as he sealed the door to his chambers an hour later. Rubbing his face he gazed around at the simple rooms. No tapestries lined his walls, the two windows where open to the setting sun, thick woolen curtains pulled back to let the air in. A wooden rack containing his armor stood in one corner, Hadrian approached it, running his hands along heavy grey steel plates, one thumb brushing the bronze hammers on the chest and the heavy black iron anvil that would rest above his gut. The armor was like the rest of his rooms, plain with nothing but use in mind. Hadrian smiled sadly as he felt the dents and scars in the armor, remembering the story behind them all. He'd worn this armor for the first time when he was little more than a boy, fighting in the War of the Ninepenny King's.

Hadrian remembered those days well, and because of those memories he'd prayed to never again see a war like that again. Yet now another had come, yet Hadrian felt no fear only sorrow. Grunting Hadrian tore himself from his memories and looked to the wall above his hearth, ignoring the heat that washed over him as he moved to stand before it. There suspended by a pair of stout iron studs pounded into the wall was his family's pride and joy.

Unlike many southern houses, and even some northern ones, the Steele's had never possessed a Valyrian steel sword. No mighty blade forged by sorcery and passed through the ages. Instead hanging above the hearth was a long axe, ironwood handle worn smooth by use, its heavy iron head blackened by time, though the edge still gleamed as if it could shave a man. Hadrian stared at the weapon, thinking of the generations for which his family had owned it. If Hadrian's father was to be believed than it had been forged only a year before Aegon's Conquest by Hadrian's own ancestor. The lord refusing to allow any man to make the blade he would swing, and toiling over an anvil himself to craft the great weapon. Still visible underneath the blackened head where the crossed hammers and anvil of House Steele, worked into the blade along with silver first men runes. Runes that where said to make the blade unbreakable. Since then every Lord Steele had carried the axe into battle, it had tasted the flesh of men beyond counting, yet still the axe looked hungry seeming to burn with the light of the fire beneath it. All living up to its name, Frostbreaker.

Behind Hadrian his chamber door opened and softly shut, footsteps crossing the room to stand beside him. Hadrian already knew who it was and didn't even bother to look, eyes never leaving the axe. Finnaly the figure at his side spoke and Hadrian turned.

"You're leaving tomorrow then father?" The irritation in the voice masked a hint of worry in the softness of the voice. Hadrian smiled as he turned to his only daughter, Mara. She was tall for a lass of eighteen, nearly as tall as he was in fact. She was stocky despite her height, and though no man would ever call her ugly neither was she a great beauty.

Hadrian shook his head, "I'm afraid so my sweet, don't worry though. I intend to come home with all your brother's intact."

Mara frowned fiercly, "I'm not worried about them, or you father. No weak little Southron lord could defeat any of you." Her frown only deepened, "I-it's Jorah I'm worried for father."

Hadrian nodded slowly, his daughter had been betrothed to the heir of Bear Island for nearly three years now, a betrothal that was only waiting for summer to arrive in full force to be completed. Mara had taken a liking to the big Mormont lad, who was nearly four years her senior, and was eager to get the wedding over with, a wedding which was even now experiencing another delay. Without speaking Hadrian laid a hand on his daughter's shoulder, smiling as he squeezed her gently, "Don't worry Mara, we'll bring your bear home as well."

Mara smiled at that and reached around to hug her father, and in that moment Hadrian couldn't help but see her mother in her. The slight plumpness in her cheeks and face and the fiercness hidden in her eyes. Hadrian smiled and gently pried her off him, guiding her to sit in one of the plain chairs next to the fire, long into the night father and daughter laughed and told stories, trying all the while to banish the feeling of dread creeping into their hearts.

Hafter Steele

Hafter awoke with a soft groan, cracking his neck as he stared up from his bed. Instinctively his hand crept to his left, feeling for the familiar warm shape of his wife. Yet his hand found only empty space, not even the other half of the bed. In that moment Hafter remembered where he was even as the sounds of thousands of men around him sleeping reached his ears. Grimacing Hafter swung his legs to the side, letting them settle into the soft grass that made up the floor of the tent he shared with the twins and Jarren. Soft snores came from the other side of the pavilion, and Hafter ran his eyes around the dimly lit structure.

The snores came from a large shape on a cot in the far corner, Jarren judging by the faint outline of what might have been an axe leaning against the cot. Hafter's grimace only deepened as he regarded the shape of his sleeping half-brother, he'd known of his father's bastard for years, the lad had lived in the castle since his birth after all. Hafter had never liked the younger man, true they'd never quarelled but when Hafter looked at Jarren he couldn't help but see the son of a trapper's daughter, the woman who his father had turned to after the death of Hafter's mother not two months after the twins where born, struck down by a fever.

Still Jarren got on well with Hafter's other brothers, the twins loved him and where constantly at his side adventuring from the time the three could walk. Even Mara seemed to have a soft spot for the bastard. When father had sent Jarren to foster with the Lachlan's three years ago it had seemed a blessing, but now that Jarren was back the pain and anger where coming back full force.

Hafter shook his head to banish the thoughts as he stood and began dressing, donning his mail and leathers with the ease of familiarity in the near dark of the predawn camp. As he dressed he thought back to the empty space beside him, he'd been married to Megan Locke for nearly three years now, their's was a rare marriage of love. Hafter had fostered with the Locke's for two years when he was sixteen. Over the course of those years he'd fallen in love with the pretty daughter of Lord Locke, upon his return he'd begged his father for the chance to marry her. To his surprise his father had agreed, and Lord Locke's agreement followed soon after.

Hafter smiled as he thought of the way his brother's had teased him over his eagerness to be wed, and of how happy he'd been on the day when he'd traded Megan's Locke cloak for a Steele one beneath the weirwood of the Dreadfort's Godswood. The two years since had been happy, his son was born less than a year after the wedding, a healthy and curious boy they'd named Harald, after Hafter's great grandsire. Hafter's smile widened at the thoughts of his son even now toddling around the Dreadfort exploring, and at the memory of his wife's revelation the night before he'd ridden south, of how he had another child on the way. Pride swelled within him, pride in his son, in his wife and in his house.

Hafter finished donning his armor and buckled on his baldric, his heavy bastard sword resting comfortably against his back and the throwing axe his father had given him for his wedding hanging at his hip, a dagger on his other hip. Rolling his shoulders to test the baldric's sit Hafter marched out the tent's entrance, nodding to the sleepy sentry at the nearest fire. A nod which the man returned with a salute as all around them soldier's began to stir. The riverland's air was warm as Hafter made his way across the encampment towards Lord Stark's pavilion.

It had been nearly two months since their forces had gathered at Barrowton and marched south. Sixteen thousand northmen had crossed the neck, joining with the forces of the Riverlands, then waiting for the Baratheon and Arryn forces to meet with them. Two months of riding and marching, two months of listening to reports and rumors of a war other men where fighting, a war which was beginning to turn on them. Hafter frowned as he thought back to the latest reports. Robert Baratheon's host had been broken by Randall Tarly and was scattered, even now the Reachmen where laying siege to Storm's End. The Baratheon seat was held by only a skeleton garrison and Robert's younger brothers, green boys. Word had reached them that Robert was fleeing North into the southern riverlands. Right into the jaws of a Royalist army under the new hand of the king, Jon Connington.

While Robert had clashed with his rebel lord's and the Tyrell's in the Stormlands Connington had been leading the forces of the Crownlands in fighting Jon Arryn near Duskendale and Crackclaw Point. Three battles had occurred, none large enough or clear enough to give either side an advantage, then Connington had turned his men south, marching quickly in an attempt to catch Robert after his host was broken, and smashing and army of Riverlords in the process.

Hafter grumbled uneasily to himself, the northmen hadn't even seen battle yet and the war was already swinging against them, though one thought tugged at his mind, despite the Targaryen victories there had been no news of Rhaegar. No one had seen the prince. Hafter mused on that for a moment before he reached Lord Stark's tent and entered, receiving a muttered greeting from the two guards outside as one pulled aside the tent for him to enter.
Inside a group of a dozen men where already gathered, Hafter's lord father and Halvard stood to one side, both staring intently at a map of the southern riverlands laid out on a table. At the sound of his entry Hal glanced up and gave his brother a nod of greeting before looking back to the map. At the head of the map table stood a lean young man in mail, his long face grim as he pointed at the map and spoke in a low murmur to the men around the table, the short, green eyed fellow beside him nodding along to his words even as his eyes scanned the tent, one hand resting on a frog spear. Lord Eddard Stark and Howland Reed, only of them registered the fact that Hafter had entered, Howland barely sparing a second glance for Hafter. Hafter glanced around once again, Lord Hoster Tully was at the foot of the table, seated between Lords Jason Mallister and Tytos Blackwood as the three listened intently to Lord Stark. Standing across from Hafter's father and brother where three northern lords, Jon Umber, the Greatjon as Hafter was starting to hear him called, chewed thoughtfully on a chicken bone he'd been using to pick his teeth, beside him Jeor Mormont seemed tiny yet the lord of Bear Island seemed unfazed as he listened to his young liege lord. Next to them Rickard Karstark looked particularly grim as he watched the maps, brow tightening with each word that lord Stark uttered.

The last two men where strangers to Hafter, a dirty fellow fresh off the road with a bloodstained bandage wrapped around one thigh seemed to be attempting to sink into the shadows at the back of tent, the bright gold Baratheon surcoat he wore making his attempts futile. The other man was equally road worn, though taller and with a certain confidence about him as he stood behind Lord Stark. Ignoring the two for the moment Hafter stepped forward to flank his father and Eddard's words became clear to him, "...Rhaegar's a weeks ride from King's Landing by now, and if they reach it we lack the numbers to take the city by storm, meaning it will be a siege. A siege which Randall Tarly can break easily with his host." Men muttered agreement around the table, Hafter knew that technically the war council wasn't to begin for a short time, but the handful of lords already here where some of the best leaders and fighters in the combined Riverland and Northern army.

As the men around him finished Stark gestured to the Baratheon man behind him, "That's not even the worst of it. This man arrived at the hour of the wolf last night."

At Eddard's gesture the man-at-arms stepped forward, bowing to the lord's shakily as he struggled to find his voice. "I-I-I was wid Lord Baratheon m'lords, me and a 'andful of other's managed to stay wid 'im when we r-retreteated from that Tarly feller. Managed to hole up in St-t-toney Sept wid Lord Robert. Couldn't get 'im much further though, lord's wounded. He said to tell ye ta 'urry to 'im wid all 'aste, 'e did. Says that Connington is on 'is way there wid the royal army."

Tytos Blackwood spoke as the soldier finished, standing to gesture to the map. "Our scout's say that Connington and his forces number nearly twenty five thousand men, most of the strength of the loyalist riverlanders and the Stormlords who marched north after Summerhall. They'll reach Stony Sept by tomorrow by my guess. There's no way that we can reach Robert in time to relieve him. Add to that the Dornish host coming up the Roseroad, the loyalist lords from the vale and the crownlands and the reports of the Narrow Sea houses gathering at King's Landing and the royallists have near to forty five thousand men in the Crownlands and Riverlands alone. With Lord Arryn's forces still near Saltpans we number barely over thirty thousand, we must wait for the valemen before striking"

Jeor Mormont and Lord Karstark nodded agreement as the Karhold lord raised his own voice, "Aye m'lords, at best we could reach them half a day behind Connington, maybe a bit less if we stole a night march. But then our boys would be dead tired and near to useless in the fight."

More sounds of agreement sounded around the table, then all fell silent as Eddard Stark spoke, "Lord Steele, how many mounted men do we have?"

Hafter's father seemed caught off guard for a moment before he spoke, "Between us and the riverlanders m'lord? Nearly six thousand, though their mostly freeriders and men-at-arms. Maybe eight hundred knights and a thousand northern lancers among them."

Lord Stark bowed his head, then raised it his eyes grim and hard. He turned to the man-at-arms who had brought news of Robert. "What's your name?"

The man looked exceedingly nervous as every eye in the tent turned to him, "G-g-gram m'lord." The Baratheon man seemed to be trying to shrink into his boots, and Hafter wondered how a man so easily frightened had stayed with Robert as long as he had.

Eddard dropped his eyes back to the map, not looking up as he spoke to the messeger. "And how long Gram, do you think that Jon Connington will take to find Lord Robert?"

The man-at-arms went from nervous to terrified in that heartbeat, "M-m'lord I..." Ned's glare turned to him and caused him to trail off with a gulp, "A day m'lord? Maybe less. We 'id 'im in a brothel, but they might 'ave moved 'im by now."

Ned looked back to the map and sighed, "So we have at best two days before Connington finds Robert, and with Rhaegar mustering at King's Landing we can't leave the path to Riverrun undefended." He glanced around the table, "We must split our forces then, I will lead my bannermen south, to Stoney Sept. Lord Tully, I'd suggest that you lead the men you have present here, to the Red Fork and await the arrival of Lord Arryn and his forces." He pointed to the map as he spoke, "With any luck we'll catch Connington's forces by suprise and break them. Then we can muster our remaining men and finish the Targaryen's once and for all."

This time Hafter followed Ned's lead and looked at all the lord's around the table, he gave a slight start the number had more than doubled while he'd been focused on the discussion. None of the men present could offer any objections as they glanced amongst themselves. Finally Hoster Tully stood, "Stark, you can't hope to think that you can best Connington with just sixteen thousand men, he'll have half again your forces, and the city walls besides. If you ride south you'll need more men, I can't spare much, but take Lord's Blackwood and Vance. You'll have over twenty thousand swords then. I can hold the Red Fork with what I have while we await the arrival of the Arryns."

Murmurs arose as Lord Stark watched across the table at his goodfather. Then the young lord nodded acceptance, "Lord Steele, Lord Umber, alert the men, we march by midday. We march for Stoney Sept."

Author's Note: So yeah another long delayed chapter. Sorry it took so long and I hope you all enjoyed it, and heck even if you didn't feel free to tell me why in the comments. As you may have noticed I decided to go with the Robert's Rebellion time period for this, though the timing as well as the locations for certain characters may be off (Good news for Denys Aryyn...or is it? Dramatic Music). And to that one anonymous person who offered to make an account on here and edit for me, I would really appreciate it if you would. I could use the help, especially with my commas. Thanks again and I'll try to hurry with the next chapters to this and my other story.