Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall
The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it.
I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.
Xxx
Chapter Ten: House of Kings
Winterfell
"Absolutely not."
Roose Bolton was not used to repeating himself when it came to issuing orders. Normally he operated on the system of giving a single reminder of this before having the offender transferred somewhere far from his presence, flogged or otherwise disposed of depending on the severity of the offence and their station. Unfortunately the offender in question was in a unique position that made dealing with him a process which required some amount of flexibility and tact.
After all, adding the title of Kinslayer to his repertoire of disreputable titles (which already included kingslayer and oathbreaker) wouldn't be helpful towards realizing the long denied destiny of his bloodline.
"The longer we sit idly, the weaker we look!" Ramsay hissed. "When Baratheon came to the North he had no support and an army of foreign sellswords. Now he has the Umbers, the Mormonts, the Glovers-"
"And Alys Karstark and any who didn't follow Arnolf." Roose finished, more focused on the recent batch of scrolls to be delivered by raven. "Despite what you may think, I am not ignorant to this."
"Then why aren't we doing anything?" Ramsay demanded, pacing back and forth across the solar that once belonged to Ned Stark, or rather the approximate reconstruction of that same room. "At this rate he'll win the North without a single battle!"
"And you think that you and your…twenty good men, was it?" Roose paused to look up while dipping his quill in ink. "Will be able to do enough damage to him? His army isn't gathered in one place, in the open and waiting for you to sneak in during a blizzard. They aren't made only of levies and conscripts but seasoned mercenaries and anyone experienced enough to survive and zealous enough to endure Stannis' defeat in the south. Add to it the Mountain Clans who are immeasurably superior trackers to you and your Bastard's Boys. Your death in such a foolish endeavour would be worse than any number of the lesser houses joining with him."
"Then what?!" Ramsay leaned on his father's desk. "What are we doing? We aren't fighting, we aren't raiding, meanwhile more houses trickle over to his side-"
"And in the meantime to Stannis Baratheon it will seem that we are reactive at best and incapable at worst." Roose began to compose his next letter. "When the weather lets up he will gather his forces and march south for either Winterfell or the Dreadfort. The loss of either would give him the clout needed to unite anyone else who would see us brought low."
"Which is why we need to strike first!" Ramsay insisted.
Roose allowed a ghost of a smile to cross his face as he rolled up and bound the parchment. "The action of a desperate man." He said dismissively. "Tell me, Ramsay…what do you know of our house? Of our words?"
His son looked at him, shifting between confusion and irritation.
"Our blades are sharp." Roose beckoned to Maester Wolkan, who took the letter while keeping his head bowed meekly and shuffled out of the solar. "That wasn't always our message to the world, Ramsay. Once it was 'A flayed man holds no secrets'. When I was a boy being tutored, my Maester told me those weren't our words but that people 'heavily associate' them with us."
After settling in behind his desk again Roose began on his next message. "My father gave me the true lesson. When we ruled as the Red Kings we proudly flayed man or woman alive. Openly. Without fear of condemnation. Our words were a warning to enemy and ally alike, a reminder of the fate that befell those who dared to encroach upon or betray us." He stopped and scowled as he realized he'd bungled a sentence, the context of which was critical to the body of this particular message.
The Flints of Widow's Peak were too closely tied to White Harbor to be trusted, even when discounting their relatives in the Mountain Clans. The Flints of Flint's Finger on the other hand, with the newly legitimized bastard brother of the late Robin Flint at the head of the house, were more malleable and cut off from their cousins by enough generations for there to be little love between the different branches. It would be unfortunate if the wrong Flint were to be made privy to troop movements and long term plans.
Setting the parchment aflame and dropping it into a metal container to safely ensure its disposal, Roose reached for a fresh strip and started over. Somehow his son had possessed enough sense not to make any noise in the twenty seconds of silence.
"Then the Starks made us bend the knee, but that wasn't enough. With other kings they would butcher the men, take the women in marriage and absorb their bloodline. With us however they saw fit to let us live even after putting many of our banner men to the sword. They outlawed the practice of flaying. They made us give up the words of our house to take another. Our. Blades. Are. Sharp."
He emphasized those four word parallel to the ones he wrote on the fresh parchment.
"We didn't select that. They did. We accepted it on pain of death until we made it our own."
Roose could almost hear Ramsay's mind struggle to keep up with the tale he wove. His son's true talents lay in butchering and flaying. Matters of intellect were far beyond him. If only Domeric had heeded the order to never approach his bastard half-brother…
Still, what was done was done and Roose was not one to let something as irksome as kin slaying derail his aims. Gods willing he wouldn't need to deal with Ramsay's proclivities any longer than necessary.
"And then when we rebelled twice they spared us but gleefully mounted the heads of every lord and lady to stand by us on pikes. Even their own kin in the Greystarks. Do you know why?"
"They couldn't be rid of us just like that." Ramsay answered. "They needed us!"
"Wrong." Roose bound the parchment and set it aside for when Wolkan returned. "They could have put anyone up in our place at any time and dealt with any short term consequence long ago. Our retainers would bend the knee or join those who had been made examples of. Loyal houses and smallfolk always benefited from Stark victories and generosity. Ask the Mormonts or the Manderleys."
Roose scraped his chair back and stood up.
"They spare us so the threat we represented wouldn't disappear." He stepped out from behind the desk. "Our blades are sharp. A warning. One made by the Starks…for the Starks. To remind them of us, should they ever begin to rest easy in their rule. They saw us as their greatest rivals and made us into their greatest weapons for guaranteeing their continued rule over the North. When we rose, others who were dissatisfied or resentful rose with us and were put down. Men were butchered, women and daughters were married off to loyal or newly raised lords, sons sent to serve out their lives on the Wall. All except us. Other houses would try to rebel without us. You can guess how they fared from how you can't even guess their names anymore."
Roose stopped in front of his son, cold pale eyes staring into furious pale eyes. "Until Ned Stark. His father never groomed him to inherit Winterfell, leaving his upbringing to Jon Arryn and his concepts of honour and chivalry. The old lessons were lost with Brandon and Rickard Stark, but Ned Stark would have ruled without fear of rebellion from us in his lifetime had fate been kinder."
He gripped Ramsay's shoulder and leaned in. "Because he made an example of House Targaryen, of Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent and Gerold Hightower. By the time he returned to the North his rule was guaranteed and I resigned myself to simply prepare my successor to resume the long wait. But he was not taught as his brother was, he was the first broken link in a chain stretching back thousands of years. He couldn't pass the warning down to Robb Stark."
His hand squeezed Ramsay's shoulder through his tunic.
"Our Blades are Sharp." Rose released his son. "And those blades were always poised at the Lord of Winterfell's back, ready to strike if the Wolves showed weakness. When we would rise we would find them ready for us, ready to make examples of our allies and reaffirm their authority before leaving us to try again generations later. They mocked us for it in private, laughed at our failures, but when I realized that Robb Stark would lose the war…I knew that our time had finally come."
He picked up a flaying Knife from his desk and held it up. "Robb Stark failed to heed his ancestors' warnings. I won't stop Stannis Baratheon or Jon Snow from repeating that mistake. Let them think we are vulnerable, let them think they have all the time in the world to build and prepare…because in the end, like the Kings of Winter of Old, we will be ready for them. This war is already won, they just haven't seen it yet. When it is over I will purge the houses that side with our enemies and secure our control of the North for all of time."
He resumed his original seat. "But to do that, I cannot yet meet them in open battle or risk losing my heir in a foolhardy raid. You will keep our men from doing anything more than patrol and defend the lands that we still hold with punitive raids on any that bend the knee to Stannis. We will take hostages from houses that have yet to pick a side and make overtures to those who have joined us. Once the loyal have been sorted out from the treacherous and the snow settles enough to allow for open conflict…"
He looked up, and for the first time in memory Ramsay actually shivered at the cold glint in his father's eyes.
"Our blades will fall upon them and eliminate the last opposition to our rule before winter strikes."
It was said that the Starks were always right in the end: Winter was coming, anything else in between was time to prepare for anything that might threaten the pack.
Fortunately, at least in the mind of Roose Bolton, being right in the long run meant nothing if there was no more pack to worry about.
Xxx
Ironrath
They had come just past mid day and captured or slaughtered those harvesting the ironwood. The elite guard of House Glenmore, eager to avenge the torture and murder of Arthur Glenmore, gave only a single chance to surrender before filling any man still holding so much as a hatchet with arrows. This time they were led by Gerold Glenmore, once a cousin of a lesser branch through Lord Glenmore's younger brother and now the new heir of Rillwater Crossing.
With Rodrik Forrester at his side, they made short work of the Whitehills' workers. The only warning that the garrison at Ironrath had was a number of panicked and short lived cries of pain or calls for help. A few trickled in back towards the gates, newly repaired after the Whitehill attack, and were let through before the castle was sealed.
Then the banners were struck: a black sword amidst a white tree over a black field for House Forrester, a nocked and drawn white bow and arrow on a red field for House Glenmore and several other minor houses and clans gathered from around the Wolfswood now sworn to Stannis. Each only contributed a handful of men, no more than a hundred and no less than twenty, but it added up to give them a force of nearly a thousand besieging the ancestral Forrester home.
Day gave way to night as the Northmen surrounded the southern approach, cutting off every road and hunter's path. The Whitehills remained firmly barricaded inside, with archers patrolling the ramparts in shifts.
It was by the next morning that fortune shined upon them. Just as predicted by King Stannis, the Whitehills at Highpoint rode out to lift the siege of Ironrath after a raven was allowed to get through. Clansmen and sellswords hidden in the woods ambushed and harassed the Whitehill cavalry, cutting off their retreat and giving them no choice but to press on.
Right into a gauntlet that kept up through the night and ended with a formation of Clansmen and Essosi dragging a prisoner into the camp, led by Syronos Dirrin who explained to Gerold Glenmore that he had orders to take this one alive and deliver him to the Lord of House Forrester.
A gift from King Stannis, the sellsword had proclaimed, to show that those who answer his call will be rewarded the justice that has been absent under the rule of the flayed men.
"Get the fuck off me!" Gryff Whitehill snarled, writhing in the grasp of two Glenmore scouts who dragged him by his bound arms and threw him face down into the mud where he sputtered and cursed. "You fucking- my brother will have your-"
"Head?"
Gryff froze and turned pale as his good eye looked up at the bearded, scarred and stone-cold visage of Rodrik Forrester.
"Is that what you were going to say?" Rodrik next down, concealing the pleasure he felt at how Gryff recoiled away in fright, clearly nursing fresh memories of the beating that Rodrik had administered to him…the very same one that cost him his eye. "Last time it was the Boltons and that they'd flay me and my whole family alive. You Whitehills sure like making threats. Love it, actually, at least when you're the ones with the bigger army."
He tapped the eye patch covering the evidence of Gryff's humbling from two years ago. "Not so fun when you've no one to protect you, is it? Though I thought you'd have learned that during your first visit." Rodrik spoke like he and Gryff were old friends in the midst of reunion. "The one where your fat fuck of a father had to run to the Boltons for help to release you. Where's papa now, Gryff?"
His gauntlet clad hand curled into a fist and drove itself into the bound man's face, driving him down onto his back with a pained cry.
"Where is he now, Gryff?!" Rodrik roared, seizing him by the roots of his hair and making him look up. "He's dead. I took his bloated head off and now the Boltons can't save you."
"P-please!" Gryff whimpered. "The-The Black! I'll take the Black! You'll never see me-"
Before he could finish his face was pressed down into the mud, muffling his high pitched squeal until Rodrik pulled him back up.
"The Watch is too good for you and your kind." Rodrik spat in Gryff's face. "No. You've only one thing that I want and it's long overdue. For Talia, Ryon, Ethan, Elena and everyone you and your fucking house killed stealing my home away."
Gryff's good eye bulged in panic as he saw an ironwood stump cleared off. He shrieked and struggled with renewed vigour before Gerold Glenmore drove the pommel of his axe into the back of his head, not hard enough to kill.
"Least his father died with some fucking dignity." The heir of Rillwater Crossing growled.
Gerold wasn't as handsome as his cousin Arthur, bearing scars from the Ironborn invasion including a missing left ear and a scar that left some teeth on the same side perpetually exposed. Despite this he was no less respected as a warrior and a leader by the Glenmore Elite Guard and had killed no less than six Whitehill workers and three sentries with his bow. It was thanks to him and that same proficiency that Rodrik, his sister and Ser Royland had not been run down while fleeing to the Crossing where Elena had convinced her father to take them into his protection.
It was also thanks to him that Rodrik would live to gain vengeance for his slain brothers, sister and father.
"Gryff Whitehill." Rodrik unsheathed his family's ancestral blade, a great sword that needed two hands to wield effectively. "In the name of King Stannis of House Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Roynar and the First Men, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the realm; for the crimes of treason, oath breaking, murder and the unlawful seizure of lands: I, Rodrik Forrester, do sentence you to death."
"You can't do this to me!" Gryff wailed as his head came to be forced down upon the stump. "Torrhen will bleed your cunt wife's lands and rape your sister to death! The Boltons will flay you and make you watch everyone you love die! DO YOU HEAR ME FORRESTER?! I-"
Thunk.
Just like that, with one clean slice, Gryff Whitehill's head rolled, face twisted in an expression of rage and terror with the occasional twitch until it finally fell still. There were no cheers or taunts to be made at the remains, no satisfaction to help dull the pain of everything that the Whitehills and their Bolton masters had inflicted on their lands and families.
They felt nothing as they secured the head in a pouch with a letter detailing the events leading to its present condition.
Nothing as that pouch was attached to a horse's saddle and sent off towards the gates of Ironrath.
Nothing at the horrified cries that came when the poor sod standing guard was forced to investigate and see what had become of the very man who was supposed to have ridden to their aid, their one and only remaining hope to break the siege.
Nothing when the Whitehill men within dipped their banners and pleaded for mercy.
And nothing when they put the head of every last soldier on a pike and mounted them on the ramparts of the recaptured castle.
Nothing at all.
Xxx
Skagos
When Jon returned, the company had struck camp within a cavern that had been scouted thoroughly for signs of habitation, be it by man or beast. It had access to a stream from which they could refill their water skins and provided a hidden refuge from any threats that might prowl the woods or the beaches, also allowing the sentries an advantageous view of the only approach that any sizeable force could use to reach the opening.
These same sentries almost shot him when he leapt down from a cliff overlooking the approach, further experimenting with his physical limits and having lost track of how far he'd been when he made the jump. None the less they recognized his black attire and the white direwolf that had quickly caught up to him, lowering their arrows.
"Lord Snow?" One of them wearing the Karstark crest composed himself. "Dav- Sers Davos, Narbert and the Giantsbane await within. They want you to speak with them as soon as you can."
With the message received, Jon gave the man a nod, bid them to remain as swift to react should anyone else approach – save for the unicorns, as he had no desire to make enemies of them and then pressed on into the cavern. He passed clusters of supplies and bed rolls where men had gathered close together, leaving the centre of the cave free for easy movement in any direction. Towards the back of it, near where bowls had been set up to catch rain water dripping in through cracks in the ceiling, he found the leaders of the expedition huddled around a map weighed down with a rock on each corner.
"How went your walk?" Ser Davos asked, spotting him first and drawing his presence to Tormund and Ser Narbert's attention.
"Enlightening." Jon answered. "Have you had any trouble while I was out?"
"Not a whisper or a distant glance of anything that walks on two feet." Davos offered him a flask which Jon accepted a swig from. "We've gone unnoticed, thank whichever gods were at work for that."
Smart of him not to name anyone specific with so many religions stuffed into such a small place.
"The stonemen have Rickon." Jon told them. "They had him hunt and kill a unicorn."
"A unicorn?" Ser Narbert looked sceptical to say the least. "I've seen giants, I've seen the dead walk now. I've even seen a woman drink a cup filled with poison that struck a man dead in front of her. But…unicorns?"
"Nothing like what you southrons imagine," Tormund said derisively. "These aren't pretty little horses for your daughters to giggle about. They're stone cold like the Skaggs and they don't just let anyone hunt them."
"Except their leaders." Jon pointed to a portion of the map only a few leagues from where their camp was marked. "It was around here. He had his direwolf, Shaggydog, help him kill one that got separated from its herd. I found the symbol of a house there: some green sea creature that looked like a spider over a white field."
Davos reached into his pouch and produced a book. "Hold on. Hold on…like this?" He flipped it to a page which showed an artistic depiction of the creature. "A lobster?"
"That's the one."
"House Magnar." Tormund rumbled. "Used to be Stone Kings who ruled this rock, then they weren't. Sure like to remind anyone they meet of that, though."
"Doesn't that word mean 'lord' in your tongue?" Ser Narbert asked, looking decidedly amused by the realization. "Would that make their lord 'the Lord of House Lord' in common tongue? Lord of the Lords?"
"Tell me why we let these cinder worshippers accompany us." The Stranger growled. "They are extra mouths to feed at best and a hindrance waiting to happen at worst."
Jon slowly inhaled through his nose and rubbed one hand between Ghost's ears. "I'm sure that if given the chance he will gladly answer that to you in person, Ser Narbert." He said in a tone so dry it reminded several southerners within earshot of grim old Stannis' usual lack of amusement with the so called wits of his banner men. "Which is why you will stay behind with your men and guard the encampment."
Ser Narbert almost coughed up his last mouthful of wine. "What-what?!" His face took on a red hue. "My men and I are more than capable of dealing with these stone savages!"
"Your capacity for disrespect was established long before we ever departed East-Watch." Jon shot back. "The Skagosi are not the Free Folk, you are not Stannis leading thousands of fresh cavalry to run them down and I will not risk violence with the House of Magnar if it can be avoided. Let me be blunt Ser Narbert, I don't trust you not to say or do something that will antagonize them."
"I will not be treated like some errant child, bastard." Ser Narbert hissed the last word, the corners of his mouth curling upward just enough for Jon to know that the knight, like many, took pleasure in reminding him of his status.
"Then you will be treated as insubordinate." Jon replied, one hand wrapping around Longclaw's hilt as Ghost bared his fangs. "Janos Slynt might tell you how unhealthy that mindset is, Ser Narbert."
He cut the knight off before Ser Narbert could get a word out. "Especially when you stand surrounded by Northmen who care not one lick for whichever god or king you fight for when you can't follow a simple command." He looked around the cavern to see that the Thenns and Karstark men at arms were climbing to their feet already, hands resting on weapons still safely secured. "You will remain here. You will obey this order and nothing short of being overrun by an army will lift you from this spot until I relieve you of this duty or I will make it my personal mission to see that you are either sworn to the black or your head rolls."
Were he still vulnerable as he once was he would have added the possibility of the Skagosi taking his head as a condition of Ser Narbert's release from this order, but Jon saw no point in pretending.
The knight, now realizing that he had no foundation to stand on with so few allies at hand, seemed to shrivel in his armour. "I…I…"
"Do you understand me," Jon raised his voice enough for it to be heard clearly across the cave. "Ser Narbert?"
Red in the face, the knight slowly lowered his gaze towards the cave floor. "Yes."
"Yes…?" Jon stepped closer.
"Yes…Lord Snow."
The Stranger nodded in approval as Jon gathered up those within the cave who he did not feel would need constant supervision and left Ser Narbert with his handful of Stormlanders. The company of fifty-six men and one direwolf trucked up through the trails scouted by Jon before, with warning not to disturb the unicorns passed along well in advance of this passage.
"I don't imagine that this Lord Magnar will wish to part with Lord Rickon if he's been raised to such a station." Ser Davos, the only Stormlander who Jon did not object to bringing along, speculated. "And you've said it yourself, these Skagosi don't view your house as fondly as most northerners do."
"Starks in the past have brought them to heel through force of arms and respect commanded by strength." Jon replied, slowing down when he saw that some of the men were becoming winded to keep up with the swift pace he had set in a moment of forgetfulness. "I won't be the one to ask him to return Rickon, Ser Davos. That task I leave to you."
"To me?" Davos blurted.
"You managed to convince your king to abandon the theatre of war in the south and come to our aid." Jon reminded him. "Tell me how many others in this company could have done the same."
Davos opened his mouth and looked over his shoulder before turning back to Jon with a defeated look. "And if I can't?"
"Then it falls to me to bring them to heel." Jon answered. "But I'd rather we accomplish this without needless violence."
"I'll do my best, and that's all that I can promise." Davos sighed.
"That is all that I can ask." Jon cracked a smile and patted the older man on the shoulder before trekking onward.
It took them the better part of the day to reach the territory of the Magnars. Along the way they found villages, small hamlets built within range of the rare and coveted acres suitable for farming and constructed around a Weirwood that would serve as each settlement's heart. In each one there was no sign of life, but evidence of very recent habitation in the form of hastily dropped tools, meals that had not been taken by rot and vermin and in the last village before Kingshouse even signs that someone had accidentally kicked a cooking fire and set a hut on fire.
Seeing the danger of the flames spreading, Jon reached to his belt and pulled the Fist of the First Men free.
"Snow?" Tormund called as Jon broke away from the column and approached the blaze.
Coming to a stop at the edge of the pyre, Jon raised the Fist high overhead and closed his eyes, remembering how he had buried the Builder's tomb in a fresh layer of ice and rock. He had not created this new covering, but had rather…repurposed the materials around it to take a new shape. What he intended required something more strenuous, as told by the Stranger during the short voyage.
Ice!
Jon brought the Fist down with a yell. From the point of impact erupted a gust of air which carried with it a chill so intense that the flames were snuffed out and a layer of frost spread over the blackened timbers and surrounding ground. He heard one of the men behind him utter an oath as he slung the Fist back onto his belt and turned away from the wreck.
"Fuck me." Tormund rasped, gaping at the sight. "Why'd I ever think you'd stop surprisin' me, Snow?"
"Keep following me," Jon said with an air of amusement, "maybe the time will come before our work is done."
"Sure hope not." Tormund shook his head and trudged along after him, waving one arm to get the men moving. "When you do things like this, it puts my people a little further away from the wrong end of a knife."
The mystery of where the smallfolk had gone was quickly answered minutes later when they came to Kingshouse. The first sign that they'd reached their destination was the presence of watch towers with grim faced archers, faces painted white and green and glowering as stonily as their names suggested at the procession of Free Folk and Northmen. Yet they made no move to attack or even turn them away, content to watch their every move as they made the climb towards an outer wall made of wood, built high and strong like Hardhome's, only more developed with space for Magnar warriors to crowd along its top and in guard posts that would allow a few dozen dedicated archers to turn the approach into a blood bath for any army with aid from the incline. Beyond this wall Jon spied signs of roof tops, wooden structures with signs of wear and hasty repair.
As they came upon the gates of the town, Ser Davos waited for a prompt from Jon before stepping forward. "In the name of Stannis Baratheon, first of his name, I bring greetings to the people of Kingshouse!" He called up and was met with silence. "…we have travelled far to seek an audience with the Lord of House Magnar!"
Low, wry laughter rippled among the ranks of the Magnars.
"Wildling fuckers!" One man jeered.
"Go back to your soft soil!"
"Our lord will suffer no friend of the Thenns!"
Weapons were waved overhead, making Davos tense and prepare to move for cover before Jon stepped forward with Ghost at his side. The sight of the massive albino direwolf brought immediate silence to the Magnars, many of them gazing wide eyed in reverence as they murmured among themselves.
"My name is Jon Snow." Jon declared. "And your lord will suffer me. Tell him a son of Ned Stark will have words with him either now as equals, or tomorrow as enemies."
A tense silence followed, leaving Davos squirming in place next to Jon as Tormund moved to stand with them.
"Well, at least they aren't filling us with arrows." Davos whispered. "Is your plan to threaten him? Pray, warn us in advance that we might be at a safer distance when this plan goes into action."
"I won't do anything to put you all in danger, Ser Davos." Jon promised. "But with the Skagosi, a measure of force or threat of force is needed." He paraphrased the Stranger's words as the spectral man fed them to him. "Too little and they will think you weak, too much and they will take offence."
"Sounds about right." Tormund nodded, noting the presence of a few women among the Skagosi. "That's new."
"What?" Jon asked.
"Magnars might've been Free Folk once but they got too southron to let their women fight." Tormund explained. "Now I see them, armed and armoured like the old stories."
"If they've been isolated from the mainland long enough then anything could happen to make them reconsider that stance." Davos proposed. "Perhaps there are too few men to balance everything, like on Bear Island."
A harsh cackle from the top of the walls answered him. "Our women-folk were never the soft flowers you mainlanders let your girls become."
From the mass of stoneborn emerged a man who, much like the Greatjon, looked like he could have legitimately possessed a giant in his ancestral tree. The sides of his scalp were shaven while the top was grown out and pulled back into a mess of dark braids that reached down past his shoulders. From one ear hung a large curved fang fashioned into an earring. His outer garb was a mixture of boiled leathers and fragments of the peculiar stone armour favoured on this island, with a green lobster emblazoned across his chest.
"But we'd never put them close enough for some fucking Wildling to steal away." The man spat, pale blue eyes locked onto Tormund. "Seems their women have failed them so bad they've gotten desperate enough to come right to my door now."
Tormund's nostrils flared and his hands balled up around the handle of his sword before Jon raised one hand.
"The Free Folk are here as part of my company." He said. "Be you the Lord of House Magnar?"
"Aye, I'm the fuckin' lord." The man held his arms out to his sides. "Baldric Magnar, Lord of Kingshouse and Defender of the Bay of Seals." He made an exaggerated flourish. "At your service, Jon Snow, son of Eddard. Glad to meet one of Stark blood after so many years."
"But you already have." Jon put an end to the pitiful attempt at diverting the discussion. "A boy came to your island, with a woman and a direwolf with dark fur. You had him kill a unicorn on a hunt weeks ago."
Baldric's smile fell. "No boy with the Stark colours walks among us."
"But a boy with red hair and a black direwolf does." Jon insisted. "He is Rickon of House Stark, son of Eddard and Catelyn…and my half-brother. I've come to take him home."
"Is that right?" Baldric leaned on the wooden rail. "A bastard son of a mainlander lord and some mainlander whore dares to command me?"
"A bastard son of your liegelord dares to command you." Jon challenged. "And if naming me a bastard is your idea of clever, I imagine I could find more than a few names for you as this drags on."
"Skagos knows no liegelord save for one of our choosing!" Baldric snarled. "We've obeyed the words of men far from here long enough. We've bled for you mainlanders in your wars, we've bled at the Wildlings' hands and now you approach with them at your back and seeking to command me in my own home."
He was seeking to escalate the situation, that much was clear.
"Skagos will be bled dry if it stands alone." Jon said. "Winter is coming, and it brings a new Long Night with it. Your raiding parties must have seen what befell the Free Folk by now, they must have seen the dark things that walk under the sun beyond the Wall."
Baldric spat as close to Jon's feet as he could manage. "Unless the dead can swim or sail, or the Wall itself crumbles I will hold no fear of your monsters and tales."
Davos cleared his throat. "My Lord Magnar, the boy you have is hunted by enemies of House Stark. The Boltons will find out he is here as surely as we did, only they will come seeking his death and that of your people. We stand before you now with an offer from King Stannis, one that may greatly benefit you. You already know that the dead walk, then you know why the Free Folk had to be saved and brought south. You should also know that the dead will turn on the Wall in full force without anymore meat to add to their ranks, and you can't assume that they won't find a way to cross water, be it today or a year from now. While they march as one, the rest of the kingdoms lay in tatters with usurpers and traitors who spit upon your gods in power."
"From what I hear, this Stannis' god is no friend to those of me 'n mine either." Baldric grunted.
"His Grace respects and protects the rights of every man, woman and child to worship whatever gods they see fit." Davos defended. "He comes not with armies and fire to enslave you, but to defend all who call the Others or the White Walkers or whatever they're called foe. If you were to aid him in that he would see you greatly rewarded."
"The word of a southron king spoken through a southron puppet." Baldric crossed his arms.
Jon noticed Davos' jaw clench before the man cursed and ripped off his glove, exposing his mutilated digits to the Skagosi. "See this? That's his word. Long ago I was but a smuggler, a pirate, looked down on just as others look down on you, denouncing you as savages. Then one day I saved Stannis and his home from starvation and in turn he made me an offer: knighthood, a holdfast with wealth and learning for my children the likes of which I'd never known as a child!"
He waved the hand before them. "Look at it closely, Lord Magnar, for this is the price he demanded. One good act did not wash out a bad one, nor a bad act a good one, he said. All I need pay was the loss of my fingers for what he promised, and gods damn it he did not lie! He took them off with his own dagger and then gave me and my family everything and more! He named me his Hand, heeded my council to sail to the Wall's defence and even now seeks to punish those who would spit upon the sacred guest rite and murder their sworn king! When Stannis Baratheon makes a promise it is not just words, he rewards those who serve him well. Help him put the North to rights and he would see you made rich and powerful unlike ever before!"
The man was left catching his breath by the end of his speech. Most of the Skagosi appeared intrigued by how proudly he bore the mutilation, Lord Baldric among them.
"…Snow may enter." The Lord of Kingshouse decided. "So may you and the Giantsbane, but the rest stay." He turned and barked. "Bread and salt! If I'm to talk with Andals, wildlings and a Stark bastard I'll do so the old way."
Stepping away from the edge of the wall, Baldric Magnar called out before he vanished from sight. "Unlike those flayer cunts, we know not to tempt the gods' wrath."
Xxx
Kingshouse was…much bigger than Jon had imagined. The castle itself was built into a hill and was located mostly under layer of earth and rock with a grand hall at the top of the summit. Leading up to it from the outer wall was either a large town or a small city, larger than any settlement he'd expect to find on Skagos.
Kingston housed no less than ten thousand based on its size and not at all what Jon imagined whenever he'd been told of the brutal and savage Skagosi raiders who clashed with and even managed to kill a Stark king once upon a time. Structures were built to accommodate multiple families, particularly during harsh winters, and the sloped nature of the town had allowed for a network of tunnels to be dug beneath it over centuries' passing until the Skagosi could reliably traverse from Kingshouse all the way down to Kingston's front gates through tunnels big enough for two men and expertly propped up and supported.
Here, Jon was hit with a moment of nostalgia as he watched children play in the streets and the occasional minstrel entertain the people, belting out songs of heroic deeds from long ago by legendary figures. Many stopped to stare at Ghost, who had been permitted with a surprising lack of resistance from Baldric Magnar, as the direwolf padded along silently next to Jon. A formation of twenty stoneborn surrounded him, Tormund and Davos as they were led to the mead hall atop the summit.
"The boy you seek is on this island." Baldric revealed as they came to a set of heavy doors. "But he is not under my roof."
He pushed the doors inward to reveal a hall that looked like it had the hull of a longship for a ceiling. The center of the floor was dominated by a roaring flame upon which a large pot's contents were boiled and the rich odour of fish being prepared drifted through the air. Two long tables sat along the length of the room, one on each side of the flames while a high table was set at one end on a raised section of floor.
Its atmosphere was…surprisingly similar to the great hall of Winterfell during its more lively days. Jon felt his eyes water as they drifted over simplistic paintings of heroic tales drawn on the walls, finding himself missing home more now than he had in the last several years.
Baldric beckoned them in. "He goes where he wills, him and his caretaker." He dropped into his seat at the high table and set the large axe carried on his back off to one side. "The Crowls found them first, tried to take the wolf for themselves and lost a dozen men for their troubles. The Stanes tried next and that woman put a spear through the throat of their fool lord. Some of my men came upon them when some Wildlings washed up in boats held together by dung and prayer. They saw a woman and her son out in the woods and did what you'd expect Wildlings to do, so my men intervened and that got us into their good graces."
"Why take Rickon to hunt a unicorn after?" Jon asked. "You don't let just anyone hunt them."
"Aye, we don't." Baldric nodded. "Didn't realize just who the boy was until he wailed for his wolf and it came running. I saw his eyes turn that blasted milky white of a warg, saw the same in his wolf. That's when I knew I had to make me and mine indispensable for this boy and his protector. After that hunt the Stanes and the Crowls started paying a little more heed to me when I spoke, started falling in line when they realized I had the favour of an honest to gods warg with a direwolf, a symbol fit only for kings as far as anyone around here cares."
"I thought you hate the Starks." Davos said. "At least from your general attitude towards all mainlanders."
"I've little love for any who claim to rule me from afar, but we respect strength and the Starks never failed to remind us who was the strongest." Baldric grimaced and brushed one hand through his short, tangled beard. "Used to be a house called Skagstark, a Stark branch founded to try and keep us from rebelling again. A long time ago the flayers rebelled, the Starks called for aid and my ancestors and the Stanes and the Crowls answered…but the Skagstarks pledged themselves to new masters."
"If this was during the last Bolton uprising…this could mean that they and House Greystark sided with the Boltons at the same time." Jon realized. "Why haven't I ever heard of the Skagstarks?"
"Hard to hear much about a minor house of traitors after they're long dead." Baldric chuckled, accepting a goblet as servants raced through, passing out drinks to his guests and setting out bread and salt on the nearest table. "The Starks showed no mercy to them. Distant kin or not, they lost their heads or had to take the Black. Only the flayers were spared. It was a good reminder that a Stark's favour isn't something to be tossed aside lightly."
By now Tormund and Davos had seated themselves and begun to partake of the offered food. Jon accepted a handful of bread and a pinch of salt to complete for formality.
"So you helped Rickon to find and kill a unicorn to raise his own status…and your own by association." Jon summarized Baldric's tale. "Between that, his direwolf and warg abilities he must be the king of Skagos in all but name."
"Would've been in name if that Osha wasn't as sharp of wit as the edge of her knife." Baldric rubbed one hand over the other with a grimace. "But your Rickon keeps the peace just by being here now. If you want me to help you take away the one thing keeping the Crowls and the Stanes from starting up another foolish fight over fuck all between our fathers and their fathers then I need something from you first."
"Name it and I'll make sure you have it." Jon said without hesitation.
His swiftness to accept left Baldric off guard. "I…uh…was going to tell you first, but…"
"Just tell him." Tormund said through half a mouthful of bread. "He won't stop 'til you do."
"Giantsbane, the only reason that I'm not going to rip out your tongue for talking under my roof is because you've managed to endear yourself to me with what you did to Volgran Crowl all those years ago." Baldric scowled. "But keep your mouth shut unless spoken to or it'll be you who gets shipped home with a ring of cocks around your neck."
Tormund snorted in amusement and went back to his drink and food.
Baldric sank into his chair with a heavy sigh. "We've had…a bit of a problem threatening our ships that stray too close to the Isle of Skane. Occasionally that problem comes to our shores and my people suffer and burn for it, as do our neighbours. My men on the mainland tell me that you're a man who works miracles, Jon Snow: rising from the dead, getting thousands of wildlings past the Wall when they'd been beyond help, finding some magic relic of the Night's Watch that's cost me at least two of my spies…"
Pressing his thick arms down against the chair's arm rests, Baldric leaned forward and stared intently down at Jon. "You want your brother back and the loyalty of the stoneborn? Then you need to perform another miracle."
Every time someone spoke of Jon and miracles they made it sound like he was one of the blasted seven reincarnate. Jon knew that he could easily track Rickon down if given enough time, but the chance of gaining Stannis and the Night's Watch the aid of the Skagosi was something that he couldn't pass up. They may not field armies in the tens of thousands or possess fleets of hundreds, but the Skagosi had not suffered any losses directly to the war in the south and acknowledged the threat from the north. Their help would be invaluable in the wars to come.
"What would you demand of me?" Jon asked.
Baldric clenched his teeth in a grin, revealing a few gaps and others grossly misaligned. "I need you to kill a monster that's been terrorizing us since before our fathers' fathers were born, Jon Snow." He said. "Kill it, and bring me its head."
Xxx
End of Chapter