Chapter Ten: Making the Most of a Horrible Thing.
Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.
OOOO
They stood together in a long line. Eddard Stark next to his wife, Robb next to his mother with Shiera Seastar pressed at his side, then Sansa with her Ladies-in-Waiting lined neatly behind her. At the very end of the line stood Arya who kept a guiding grip on little Rickon's rambunctious shoulder. Behind them all was the entire household of Winterfell in neat columns. Outside of the walls the several thousand citizens of Wintertown were doubtlessly lined up to wave at the Royal Procession.
Arya often admired the new opulence of the North. So much wealth had flowed into the kingdom that even her father's frugal-mindedness could not hold out entirely. They all still worked tirelessly to prepare for the coming winter. Whatever wealth was produced mostly went towards preservation of food, and more storehouses. Four small fortresses had been built in each of the four regions of the North. In each were the centralized food storages contributed to by each of the Stark bannermen. With such effective organization and combined effort for collective survival it meant that more focus could be placed on other matters. This was the point where Arya watched her mother shine like never before.
With her background in ruling a wealthy, southerly keep the Lady of Winterfell managed to shape their large, but formerly poor, home into something splendid. Rich furnishings from Essos now covered every inch of the interior replacing the ancient, worn hand-me-downs from past generations. Fork tongued banners embroidered with diamonds waved majestically from every crowning point of Winterfell. Even on sunless days the sight was far from unimpressive. Outside the city of several-thousand her father had ordered the construction of another wall to protect against recent strikes by brigands in the night. Her mother took charge of the architectural designs though. Set between squat, yet picturesque, stone watchtowers rose higher with each day a luxurious, formidable gatehouse which would no doubt be gifted to the Pooles or Cassels.
That was certainly not the end of it though. Any old furniture had not been simply disposed of. Instead the clean, yet sparse, First Keep was filled up again in a way it had not been for centuries. This was quite important given that the Starks now needed much more space for the many important guests who often visited their home. Far below their feet upkeep of the Crypts of Winterfell had been assigned to a contingent of new servants. Many more of the tombs of her ancestors now glittered as brightly in the torchlight as when they were first installed. In addition to the lavish preparations for the King's visit Winterfell glittered more brightly than ever before. "Rickon," She hissed down at the squirming boy, "You must remain presentable."
"I want Shaggydog!" He pouted. Across from them stood many of the Northern Lords in attendance. Few passed up the opportunity to visit Winterfell now that it was truly the capital of the North's power. Fewer still would have refrained from schmoozing with the south's most powerful. The Umbers, Mountain Lords, excepting Wull, Hornwoods, Magnars, Manderlys, Cerwyns, and Dustins had all sent at least one envoy. Surprisingly enough Roose Bolton had sent his bastard, Ramsay Snow to represent his interests. Behind them in just as orderly columns were there many retainers. All of whom were surely taking notice of the youngest Stark's poor behavior.
"You will be Lord of the Stoney Horn one day, Rickon," Arya tilted his red face towards her own. "Your reputation will not only be important to your own credibility with the powerful men surrounding us, but to your wife and children as well. Do you truly wish to hurt the Lady Osiria's wellbeing?"
"No," The seven-year-old pouted. Twisting beneath her grip so he stood properly. Arya smiled whilst standing up. Rickon had gotten along quite well with little Osiria Magnar when they met the year prior. Already their parents were planning for a grand betrothal ceremony between the two children. She was lucky to have stood at that moment, for it appeared the royal family had arrived. Many knights, horses, retainers, pages, whores, serving wenches, and mummers filled the courtyard of Winterfell. A large carriage rattled across the cobblestones prior to coming to a halt. From a horse at the front plopped the King. Even fatter than he had been at Riverrun three years ago.
"Ned," The man pulled a surprised-looking Ned into an embrace.
"Your grace," Arya's father clearly tried to hide his surprise at the repugnant sight of their King. They exchanged some banter while she observed the rest of the royal party. There was the Kingsguard, including Meryn Trant who glared with open malice at Robb. Word head travelled quickly throughout that Seven Kingdoms that her eldest brother was just as worthy a fighter as any Kingsguard after the duel at Riverrun three years earlier. She glanced upon Jaime Lannister who stared with his mocking gaze at Winterfell. The carriage opened as the Queen stepped out onto the cobbles of the courtyard. Arya noted that the beauty had only faded further with far more pronounced wrinkles. Behind her loomed the Crown Prince Joffrey. Why he was hiding in the carriage like a little boy Arya did not know.
While Queen Cersei deigned to greet with her father, Arya noted how lovely Myrcella was, as well as how awkward little Tommen looked. Joffrey was handsome, that much was undeniable. Though there seemed to be a sneer he was failing to hide as he regarded the many people before him. "Robb, my boy!" Robert crowed eagerly, "You have gotten strapping." Ignoring Lady Seastar he moved down, "Lady Stark. We passed by Harrenhal on our way North. I could hardly believe it with my own eyes!" Beside him Joffrey stared at Sansa as she dipped into a splendid curtsey. The look was hungry, greedy. Arya did not like the Crown Prince at all.
There came a pause, of course, before the twelve-year-old girl's life changed forever. "Lyanna?" The King whispered, staring at her with wide eyes and a bloodless face. Everyone grew silent, staring at her in a similar manner. The Queen's family, including herself, glowered murderously after the name was uttered, however. She should have anticipated such a reaction from the King. In past months seemingly the entire North had seen fit to proclaim the resemblance. That down to the way she rode horses the resemblance to Lyanna Stark was uncanny.
"Your grace," She dipped into a curtsy. Nowhere near as elegant as those of Shiera, Sansa, or Cersei, but surprisingly better than that of Princess Myrcella's. "We met three years ago at Riverrun. My name is Ary-."
"Of course," He appeared quite shaken, "I remember." Turning to her father he spoke firmly, "Let us visit your dead, Ned. I must pay my respects."
"Your grace," The Queen interrupted firmly, "We have been travelling for so long. Such a thing can surely wai-."
"Quiet, woman," He rudely interrupted yet again. "Ned. Lady Stark." The King addressed her father again, but included Sansa this time too, "Will you show me your crypts?" They were gone in moments. Lady Seastar moved forth, pulling Rickon gently away so that he was stood next to Robb instead.
"We must speak," The beauty whispered, tugging her from the courtyard. Uncertain, Arya followed without protest until they were deeply hidden away from any eavesdroppers. "You must assist me with something, Arya. Now is the time to prove yourself."
OOOO
Sansa was rattled, and very little ever seemed capable of rattling her any longer. She had only been invited to the Crypts as a courtesy due to the stature she made for herself. Yes, her father still had a legal say in who she was wedded to. The man was a fool though, but worse enough, he was a fool who had not seen the revitalization of Harrenhal, or the tons of food produced every month by the God's Eye's resurging population. The Stark beauty knew her worth even if every man in Westeros liked to diminish it to little more than a virgin cunt. "What is wrong my Lady," Sweet Jeyne asked concernedly. Wylla, likewise, rushed forth as soon as her mistress returned to the chambers. Syggi with all of her ambition and cunning had been wedded to the heir of Seagard a year earlier to forge a Northern tie with the increasingly powerful Mallisters.
"Leave me for now," Sansa gasped loudly, "Please." They stared concernedly until she snapped fiercely, "Instead of gawping at me like fish find Alta Butterwell. Where has that girl been all day?" At the heated command both women finally fled to do as bidden. Because her Direwolves were in the kennels for the day she found herself all alone. Pacing nervously the young woman felt her fingers shaking as she considered what had occurred in the Crypts. The King had indeed offered the Lord of Winterfell the position of Lord Hand. A post the man certainly could not refuse. He deserved it, Sansa decided, to be trapped in the place where his father and brother were murdered. For if she was to be stuck in King's Landing. To be forcibly betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon despite richer prospects across the Narrow Sea then her father would suffer as well.
Leaning against the desk she hissed furiously to herself. Trying to devise a way to weasel away from the arrangement without insulting the Crown. None came to mind that would prevent her reputation from becoming debased. "Sansa," Arya slipped into the chambers quickly, closing the doors behind her, "I eavesdropped on father talking to mother on my way back to the keep." Without much pause they both wound up entangled atop Sansa's silky bed covers. "How can father be so stupid?" The younger girl hissed coldly, "To let the King betroth you to that monster? I heard that just last year he-."
"Yes." Sansa could not speak of such things. Only nineteen-years-old the Crown Prince Joffrey was already developing a horrifying reputation. Tales leaked from King's Landing like blood from a wound. Of how he tortured animals during hunts, whores who serviced him disappeared, and even what occurred the prior year. She herself was no helpless maiden, and her talents grew in strength with each passing night of practice, though that would provide little protection. Even with all of the knowledge imparted upon her by Shiera nothing could much could be done to stop a man who would one day become King. Especially not when he was propped up by Tywin Lannister.
"We need Shiera's help," Arya spoke plainly, "We all must work hard in the coming months to wrest control of King's Landing from the Lannisters." It was no secret in the realm who held the power of King Robert. Especially now that Jon Arryn was dead. "That is the only way you can protect yourself when the crown rests upon your head." She squeezed her sister's trembling hands tightly together, lending Sansa enough control over her emotions to think again.
"They will never allow Shiera to enter King's Landing, let alone bring any forces into the city. We have grown far beyond her sphere of influence. I, however, can insist on bringing my own retinue to the capital from Harrenhal. Father must be persuaded to bring just as many of his own soldiers along. That is our only hope of matching the Gold Cloaks." Sansa rationalized, "I also must set about winning over members of the Small Council. Petyr Baelish can be manipulated, hopefully. Grand Maester Pycelle will need to be assassinated as soon as I am Queen."
"I will bring some of my Blue Roses south. Brother can construct the keep at Sea Dragon Point without me. One of the Mormont women will serve as Castellan and mind over the Order of the Rose. We will face King's Landing together, sister." Arya professed. Her eyes gleamed, "Bran will be squired to Ser Barristan. We can use him to deduce the loyalties of the white cloaks. Slowly pick off the ones in Lannister pockets." She hesitated, "Or, we could send him to squire for Renly Baratheon. That would provide us with another Small Council member-."
"No. Bran cannot have his reputation soiled by such a man for my sake. I will not have people mocking him like they do Loras Tyrell." Sansa shook her head. "How can we convince Ser Barristan to take on a squire?"
"I will handle that," Arya insisted firmly.
"'Tis funny sister," Sansa spoke somewhat dreamily in response, "That I always knew I would become a Queen. I merely believed it would be of the Rogare Bank. Not the Seven Kingdoms." They sat closer to one another at the grim remark.
OOOO
It had been the She-Wolf, the one that looked like Lyanna Stark, who caused Jaime to be banished outside. During a dance with the drunken slob of a King she had whispered to him. Almost immediately after, to his sweet sister's protest, was Jaime all-but ordered outside. 'The Starks are too honourable to suffer in the presence of an oathbreaker!' He bellowed with a red face. Prior to groping a serving maid in front of the most powerful Lords of the North whilst Arya Stark loped backwards victoriously.
As he stood beneath the swirling snows Jaime had to admit that he would have listened to the Stark girls if he were the King too. They had entered the Great Hall in ethereal, diamond-encrusted gowns. Pale skin glowing like the snows of these accursed lands he now found himself trapped upon. Surely every grandfather, father, and son in Westeros would soon be waging bloody wars for the hand of Arya Stark in betrothal. Especially now that the Lady Sansa was slated to become Queen someday. Puffing the cool air Jaime allowed himself to wander about. Tyrion had dropped off a bottle of Arbor Gold after having heard whisper of his exile. Carelessly, the Kingslayer sipped at it.
Until he dropped it in shock. Standing within the shadows of the courtyard was Shiera Seastar. Jaime remembered Rhaella Targaryen, but she had never been quite so tantalizing as this woman in front of him. Hissing at the cold he willingly accepted her invitation. While he would never betray Cersei with a meaningless infidelity even he could not help admiring the Lady of Trident's Gate. Furs were draped across her body in a sensuous manner. Those eyes summoned him with almost as great a pull as the Lordship at Casterly Rock did when he awoke each morning. Pausing the man stopped only a foot away from her. "Lady Sh-!" Beneath the swirling snows he felt as something heavy was slammed into the back of his head.
He woke in darkness except for the dimmest of lights which illuminated Lady Seastar's sinister features. "He is awake," She smiled wickedly, "Do as I have ordered." Two men, both burly with the marks of impoverished peasants, wasted no time at all. Without any hesitance they stripped him naked. Dragging his shaking body across the dank chamber to the wall where shiny shackles looked to have been recently installed. Writhing against the new bonds he watched the two oafs step back. "Aestle," She waved at the larger one, "Now do your part." 'Aestle' the peasant drew a dagger, gutting his comrade only seconds before slitting his own throat with the same blade. It clattered to the dirty floor where she dipped gracefully to retrieve it.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Jaime snarled ferociously. "My sister will have you beheaded. My father will have each of his men line up to fuck you like a Tarbeck whore!"
"No," Shiera Seastar smiled, though it did not reach her mismatched gaze, "They will not. My time will come, yes. Sooner than I would like. Though in the end I will die for something larger than myself, or the petty vengeance of House Lannister." Fingers stroked his clean-shaven face gently until he attempted to bite at them. "A handsome specimen you are, yes. Worthy too. I surely hope you win over the Titan, but be warned that he shall have muscles as well." Her hand drifted then from his convulsing throat, down the soft golden hairs of his writhing torso. The muscles on every part of his naked body glittered appealingly beneath the warm torchlight. Instead of touching his firm manhood which pulsed due to the excitement of the moment she reached around.
Jaime grunted as the cold hands gripped possessively at his buttocks. "You will recognize her when you see her, Jaime Lannister," She smiled into his eyes, "Like no Beauty to have ever lived upon this continent before. Do not deny yourself the joy you shall feel, or you will lose her to the others. Do not betray her, for she is the only hope you will ever have of reclaiming Casterly Rock. Pledge to serve as her sworn shield. Reap the rewards."
"Don't do this!" He had never pleaded before. "I can't leave my sister, my children!"
"You would have died following Queen Cersei," The Great Bastard sighed sadly, "None of your children would have survived either way." With a swift movement he was cut by the bloody knife. "A blood sacrifice of two strong men," She leant forth suddenly pressing a hot kiss to his lips, "A kiss to seal the intention of the caster." Both of those eyes rolled upwards suddenly. Foreign words poured from the Targaryen Princess's throat. As he grew further into darkness only six words penetrated the coming of a very long sleep.
"The Beauty of the Red Comet."
OOOO
Sansa danced with the Lords of the North first. She knew that it would have been wisest to engage her soon-to-be-betrothed first so that his famed rage might be placated. Of course, the Stark girl was a politician first. Her sister, sweet Arya who had grown so strong, so wise, and was willing to sacrifice so much for Sansa's own safety, needed help. With great courtliness, grace, and skill she repaid the favour. Though her feet ached she kept the rising tide of admirers away from her sister until the girl's mission was accomplished. Even at only twelve name days Arya was captivating enough to surpass any of the beauties in the hall. Sansa herself was faced with the realization that her little sister was rapidly proving to be the fiercest competition at becoming the most beautiful woman in Westeros.
Throughout the week prior it seemed that their mother had covertly been hard at work with the Lyseni seamstresses and Alta Butterwell. The pretty little soubrette had been renowned across the God's Eye for her almost innate talents. Underneath Sansa's patronage her talents thrived wildly. Of course, the Lady of Harrenhal had cared very little for such things. Her fertile and expansive, despite having dwindled beneath lax Whent leadership, lands required tending to. The west was easily enough delegated to the loyal knights of House Wode. She elevated them to petty Lords while they proved effective administrators in turn. Eastwards, however, was not quite so easily handled. Only merchant's and farmer's sons she had recently invested in training as knights were available. Though their bloodlines were new, and the depth of their loyalties unproven.
Only after conferring with her grandfather did she learn of House Butterwell. They had been the competing power to House Frey not even a century prior. Their wines second only to those produced in the arbor, and they had dominated the dairy markets. Until Bloodraven, the same man who imprisoned Shiera, had their holdings dismantled, and lands salted for supporting the Blackfyres. With not a shred of pride left they became little more than very petty Lords. Wedding well below their former status with landed knights.
Sansa did not hesitate to reinstate them returning the, now less salty, lands where Whitewalls once stood. Alongside generous investments they were now returning to prominence in their former markets. Needless to say they loved her. Not only for her generosity, but for being the product of a coalition that ended the Targaryens as well. She kept Alta close at hand so that a prominent marriage could be arranged at some point. Powerful allies were needed in the changing political landscape of the Riverlands. The Butterwells would be stalwart in their support of her new House for many centuries to come.
Indeed, that loyalty showed even in the very fine stitching of Arya's and her own gowns. Where her's was the black and orange of her own banner, Arya's was grey and white in tribute to House Stark. Twined expertly throughout both were hundreds of encrusted diamonds. They glimmered vibrantly as they both twirled about the hall. No Queen, Princess, or maiden in that moment could ever hope of competing with the Stark maidens whilst inside of Winterfell. Now, with aching feet, Sansa noticed her sister had finally manipulated King Robert into a gentle pattern. Relieved she waved apologetically at Jory Cassel prior to slipping against a nearby wall. "Thank you," Her voice was genuine as she took a glass of Dornish red from a servant girl. Though in an intentional charade she only pretended to sip at it.
No expenses had been spared. House Stark had recently, easily, paid its debt to the Rogares off. With the boom of the economy they were wealthier than ever before. "A dance, if you will, Lady Sansa?" Came a quiet, deceptive voice. She turned to face the Bolton Bastard. He was not ugly, though quite unnerving indeed. Eyes white as ice, black hair short, a large frame designed to intimidate.
"No," She responded shortly. Prince Joffrey had been insulted enough. Sansa would not stoop so low as to dance with a bastard before the Crown Prince at risk of harming her own safety in the future. Especially not one who had been sent as an insult to Winterfell. Nor one who was a suspected kinslayer, and who came from the loins of House Stark's most upstart House. Eyes flickering about she spoke in a softer tone, "Lord Bolton was a fool to send you here. Us Starks have grown stronger than ever before in the last three years. Wealthier, smarter, and far more dangerous." His eyes grew even colder than chips of ice at these words.
"So have we," He sneered back with almost sadistic animus, "House Karstark and House Bolton have never been closer. Just this month Torrhen Karstark was wedded to Lord Stane's second daughter. We will eat at your pathetic coalition, feast upon the spoils of your efforts, and show you all that you are no longer the Kings of Winter."
"How does it feel," Sansa asked in a dreamy manner then, with fluttering eyelashes, "To have to depend on the goodwill of House Karstark? Given that you are an upstart bastard with no prospects of your own? Nothing more than another leech of the Dreadfort. So pathetic that the Lords Karstark and Bolton sent you to whisper treason in my highborn ears, to avoid becoming sword fodder themselves?" Stepping into the light Sansa enjoyed her almost unnatural height, for it left her on even footing with the Bolton Bastard. Fully beneath the torchlight she knew that her gown was shimmering resplendently once more. "Your father is clever, I will give him that much." Her voice cut like a knife, "To deduce so rapidly that King Robert was planning to install me as the next Queen of Westeros. It is understandable that he would order you to poison me, as a Stark wielding so much power could set his own ambitions back generations more."
At this she pretended to slip. The glass of contaminated liquid splashed against Ramsay Snow's formerly fine tunic. Staining the pink fabric in a lacking imitation of blood. "Why he would send a bastard," She 'steadied' herself against his firm frame whilst hissing in his ear, "On such an important mission is beyond my comprehension." Slipping back her lips stretched again into a brilliant smile. "You have proven an engaging conversationalist. Never forget just how much you amused me this evening, Ramsay Snow." With a steady pace the Lady of Harrenhal escaped without paying any heed to his bitter expression.
Wasting no time at all she pulled her brother in for a wild dance after he broke away from Princess Myrcella. They moved so swiftly that none could hope to hear their conversation. "I must dance with Prince Joffrey before he decides to smother me on our wedding night," She dared not to glance at where the Crown Prince glowered after her shimmering form. "Thus, I will say what must be said quickly, Robb." Tully-blue met Tully-blue as the eldest Starks stared fully at one another. "Despite your kind-," She twirled back in from a spin, "Nature you must show the Boltons no mercy when the time comes. Steer clear of any situations in which you could ever become dependent upon them. Remember that their House only lives due to weakness on the behalf of our Kingly ancestors."
"Why are you telling me this, San? I already know not to trust them." His handsome brow furrowed as he snarled, "Does this have to do with what Ramsay Snow whispered to you in that corner moments ago?"
"Promise me, Robb," She glared plainly at him in response, "That you will heed my warning. That if I sort out Lady Dustin on my way to King's Landing you will focus on easing my concerns." He was observant now. Cleverer by scores each time she visited Winterfell. Her brain wished to believe that he could handle this matter, but her heart still needed assurances. With where she would soon end up weakness was a death sentence. The North and Riverlands were her fortresses. If Robb failed then so would she.
"I promise Sansa," He ended the dance prematurely to pull her into a hug, "I swear it."
"Good," Her voice cracked slightly, "Now it is time for me to fret over my own, more southerly demons."
OOOO
The entire castle fell into a mutinous uproar. Jaime Lannister had disappeared in the night. How was the main question. None of the guard at Winterfell's new, out walls would admit to having seen him ride off. Ravens from Lords farther out demonstrated that no amount of searching the Northern lands was yielding any needed results. With that dead end having been reached only one possible conclusion was left. "He must have abandoned his oath," Robb spoke with Arya as the stared together out of his window in the Maester's Turret.
"Aye," She nodded back at him, her grey eyes directed towards the courtyard below. Tensions were visible as King Robert's many Lannister men kept completely separate of the Starks and their bannermen. "Why Queen Cersei is too dumb of a cunt to recognize such a thing we will probably never know." The Queen had first accused her hosts of having her brother executed in the middle of the night. To which Arya, outspoken as ever, had plainly interrupted their father to tell the woman that Jaime Lannister was of too little political value for such a thing to have ever passed. Prince Joffrey had gone on a vengeful storm against her in response. The nineteen year old prick threatening to raise his father's banners against the North if his uncle was not immediately returned. Thankfully, this was what finally convinced King Robert to have the pair of them locked away.
"Did you come here with news?" Robb asked, "Or just to wait with me until the arrival." The host of giants, skinchangers, and the Order of the North were set to arrive soon. They would, hopefully, kneel to King Robert as well as their father.
"They are an hour away," Arya admitted, "I stopped by the Watchtower on my way here. Jory Cassel said that it seems Theon sent at least two-thousand of his Wildling men to supplement the party."
"Good," Robb spoke firmly, "I would have stormed the Dreadfort with all of our men if the Boltons had sabotaged this."
"Hopefully you would leave Karhold for me, dearest brother," Arya smiled deviously at him. Seriousness lit her eyes after the smiles had finally faded. "I managed to persuade King Robert that Bran should become a squire to Ser Barristan. The Lord Commander will stop to collect our brother from the Vale on the way back to King's Landing." Her voice paused, "I did make them both swear as well that they would never let Bran be elevated to the Kingsguard."
"Clever," Robb agreed, "Bran will be more than capable of making his own fortunes with such a boon. We need to be able to forge decisive marriage alliances someday very soon." He paused to peer at her, "Though I wonder whether you are truly capable of handling King Robert."
"He is three times my age," Arya admitted, "And his eyes make no secret of the fact that he wishes to defile me. Though I am no average maiden, Robb. If this will help our family to create a tide of influence in King's Landing then I will string him along."
"What will you do if he asks you to pay back his favours one day?" Robb pressed. Her grey gaze stormed like a blizzard of icicles in response prompting him to go silent. In that moment he learned that Arya was no longer his littlest sister. She was a Stark maiden, one who would soon enter the snakepit with Sansa and their politically naive father.
"Speaking of favours and Bran's marriageability," Arya spoke finally, "It is my wish for you to bequeath Sea Dragon Point to him instead. He will be much more valuable than I as both the second to inherit as well as a Lord in his own right." Her arms crossed, "Besides. I only ever wanted my own seat so that the Order of the Rose could have a permanent base of operations. He will surely allow them to continue on as intended."
"What do you plan to do instead?" Robb asked sharply. He was unfamiliar with such a situation. All the Northern Lords would have murdered so that they could lay claim to such wealthy lands. Now Arya was giving it all up?
"I have a feeling that I can squeeze much power and fortune out of King Robert yet," She answered in response. A disgusted frown seemed to twist her lips. "Besides, it has always been a dream of mine to see the world like Jon has been able to. Perhaps now that Sansa is no longer able to I will be the one to forge an advantageous connection with the Free Cities."
Robb did not plan on telling her so soon, but this was quite swell for his plans anyways. He had been much too hasty in deciding to spare one of his cleverest siblings on something so trivial as Sea Dragon Point. Bran was untested, his progress in the South unobserved by any of the Starks. Any fool could make something out of Sea Dragon Point, especially with much guidance from Winterfell. Already Robb and Shiera were in the early stages of planning out their Northern competitor to the Citadel of Oldtown. One that would be located on the fork of the White Knife where a lively town was beginning to form. Defensively positioned between two rivers, protected from pirates by White Harbor, yet still connected to the rest of the world.
Arya was canny enough to build what Lady Shiera desired. She had already proven herself capable of such with her Order of the Rose. A city of such prestige to rival Oldtown, whilst an order dedicated to knowledge-gathering would be fostered safely within her walls. More importantly, House Stark would be guaranteed safety for at least the next several centuries to come. Jon with his legions of Wildling soldiers, immense wealth, fertile farmland, and skinchangers as well soon enough. Bran with the shipbuilding materials and unclaimed lands of Sea Dragon Point which provided the perfect balance to House Dustin's growing power. Rickon who would open the gates to increased trade with his salt mines, as well as supply the North with mountains of preserved fish.
This Northern Citadel would prove an extension of House Stark's power in the east. As well as spread their influence into the Vale and Riverlands as dying Maester's were replaced by their own learned men. For many years to come, Robb could only dream, the Bolton resistance would be mollified. House Dustin would be effectively neutralized, as would House Wull.
"Robb," Arya shook him from his dreams and ambitions. "They are here! Let us leave to watch the Giants kneel for father." As he glanced out the window towards the massive creatures Robb smiled. These were the beings that would help him in finally achieving his dreams.
A fortress on Sea Dragon Point, the Citadel on the White Knife's fork, and the Stoney Horn would be completed in no time.
OOOO
Val had tried to escape many times over. The first attempt being her closest and most valiant. Even after she was restrained she had still fought, biting off ears or spitting violently whenever an unfortunate soul came close enough. As a result the Wildling now found herself bound and gagged in a freezing little hut. With only bald women disfigured by hideous tattoos for company. All they offered to eat was Pearlwort jam or on rare occasions cannibalized flesh from captured men of the Ice-River Clans. She did not shy from the forbidden meal. Worse had passed through her throat. Besides, with the spreading news that even the Ice-River Clans were being drawn into Mance's mess her diet would soon consist only of the repulsive jam.
The old men who shared the tent with her chortled happily about any gossip that made its way to their ears. They were slaves though. Only useful for sustenance or the pleasure of the strange Glacier witches. Val mostly ignored what they said. Trying to ignore the pain of having been bound in a sitting position for so long. When the dull pain grew bad enough and Val considered rolling over to smother herself was the moment that they came. Dragging her limp body through the craggy walls of ice. Far away from the camps. Further into the heart of winter than was to be encouraged given the rumours Val had been hearing for months.
Dead rising as wights for the first time in millenia. Dangerous times these were.
Finally they arrived at a circular space within the tunnel of glaciers. Seven crones stood on the outskirts of the area. Sitting in the middle on his knees was a figure that caused Val's blood to nearly curdle. Eyes red as blood spots in a foul egg. A thin frame covered in the darkest tattoos Val had seen on anyone in this occult tribe. Fingernails which grew outwards into long tentacles of a black colour. They deposited her before him prior to removing the gag.
"Kiss the Master of the Glaciers," One of the cunts hissed, prior to cuffing her in the back of the head.
"Enough," The 'Master' rasped, "This Princess of Wildlings is not of our rank. I do not want her kisses either way. Her pride will be our salvation." The voice was a whispering sigh. Like the wind on a day of dying winter. Undeniably ancient.
"I am no Princess," Val spat back at him, "Mance is King-Beyond-the-Wall, and my sister was his Queen."
"You are the only remaining, singular leader of the Wildlings now that Mance Rayder has been killed-," He was cut off.
"What?" Her eyes grew wide with pain, the witches behind grasping at both shoulders to keep their prisoner restrained. "No. What of my nephew? What of our position on the Frostfangs?"
"After you were stolen the sothron turncloak descended into madness. He sacrificed the lives of those five-thousand who spoke against him. Two thousand men and nearly all the remaining giants rose against him in mutiny. Another five-thousand and half of the giants died in the effort." Those blood-red eyes glared at her, "Mag the Mighty has defected with half his giants and hordes of Wildlings for chance at a life in the Gift. What remained of the rest of Mance's host splintered into many pockets of resistance." With a snap he motioned for something behind her to be brought into view.
The same woman who had thrown red powder into Val's face returned with a roiling bundle in her arms. "Release the Princess from her bondage so she may take charge of her nephew." It was almost too grand to handle. One moment the woman had been a prisoner. Now she held the only reminder of her beloved sister once again in both arms. Exhaustion would have been an understatement for how she felt in that moment. "We wish you no harm." He stared at her hard, "I have seen the future of your arrival in our midsts for five years now. Before our prospects were bleak beyond hope. No possibility of survival for the peoples of these glaciers. All of us incorporated into an army of wights."
"What could you want from me?" Val asked curiously now. That they had gone to such effort to reunite her with the babe was enough for much trust to have been earned.
"We need for you to lead our ranks through the wild norths. To share a message to the remaining Free Folk that they must follow you south of the Wall." He paused. "Only ten-thousand men and women will listen. The other half shall perish to the coming winter."
"What would be expected south of the Wall?" Val asked, "Even if we somehow manage to make our way through." That truly was a large risk to approach the Order of the North with anything more than a bedraggled force of Free Folk farmers. There was an immense likelihood that they would immediately be put to the sword rather than listened to.
"You will kneel to the Starks as a regent in the stead of your nephew. For the sake of the ten-thousand who so loyally followed you." Those grisly, foul nails slipped downwards to stroke across the freezing ice beneath. "I have seen your nephew grow into a great Lord of Westeros. His seat shall be a castle at Queenscrown. Your own blood will shape the North, and bind us Wildlings as kin to the southron Lords." He stood to stare down at her. Mutilated face as serious as the Starks were about destroying the Free Folk. "You cannot accomplish this alone. Without our horses or company you will never reach the correct pockets of Wildlings in time. The masts of House Dustin's ships have been spotted off our coastlines. Many thousands of fresh, unexhausted men have arrived to supplement the Order of the North."
"I understand," Her voice was like iron, "Your help will not be free. Tell me what you will want."
"One day you shall sit on a high seat of power. With unlimited access to the Beauty of the Bleeding Star," The Master of Glaciers was firm as his name implied in that moment. "The Roses shall battle us to train her in their ways. You will be our most influential ally in preventing such a thing. In allowing us to influence the First Men blood that shall run hot through her veins. Her power shall be half our own. Keep us close to you as your southron court. Delegate unto us one day the task of instructing the Beauty."
"I swear to do so," She answered easily enough. They were her only hope of seeing her nephew safely under the Wall. The gibberish pouring from his lips would surely be worth survival.
"Leave us," He hissed at receiving what had been wanted of her, "We shall leave this very evening."
OOOO