YNGVI
The great hall was cold and quiet. The hearth burnt off the last embers of wood, the wenches wiped the floors with salt and damp rags, frantically scraping at soot and grease.
Robb was sat eating, at a table seating his most loyal bannermen. The Greatjon was sat to Robb's left with his son, the Smalljon, and Eddard flanking him. On Robb's right was Theon and Howland. Opposite him was Rickard Karstark and his heir, there was also a space for Yngvi so he sat. Ser Edmure was not present, his incompetence had cost them men and time. Already Yngvi had heard that the young Lord Darry had been captured at his keep by a band of sellswords, calling themselves the Brave companions. Everyone else called them the bloody mummers, their goat maimed more than he killed, taking feet seemed to be the man's fetish.
Howland proudly displayed a greatsword to Theon. A simple thing; pommel, crossguard, and blade. It was just very large.
"Can you even lift it?" Theon japed.
"Yes, but not very high. Strange to think that the Mountain wielded this one handed," Howland retorted his voice thick with sarcasm.
"Your grace," Yngvi almost shouted. "You asked for me."
Robb looked up from his meal. It was toast and bacon, the toast was grilled in the bacon's juices and the bacon was black. His blue eyes fixed with Yngvi's. They had aged since Winterfell, lost the innocence of youth.
"I did, Lord Yngvi," he said, quickly finishing off his meal. "We need to discuss the war. We need to talk about alliances, tactics. When and where we strike, how we strike. It is of paramount importance."
The table had on quiet. They all nodded in agreement.
"Out," the Blackfish's voice rang through the hall, as he emerged from the shadows. The serving wenches scurried away, like frightened mice. His footsteps echoed off the stone, getting louder with each step, as he approached the dais. He sat next to Yngvi so the group was a huddled mass.
"What I say does not leave this room," Robb said his voice a soft whisper. "The Lannisters have been lying to us about a great many things. They do not have Arya. Where she has gone, no one can say. But, the fact is; the Lannisters do not have her." Tears threatened his blue eyes for a moment. It was just a moment, but it might as well have been an eternity.
"The war, whilst we have won battles, is not going in our favour. Both Stannis and Renly have crowned themselves, yet both do nothing. Stannis sits on Dragonstone with a fleet, Renly marches from one bannerman's keep to another - killing any Lions he sees. Neither seek direct confrontation in the field with the Lannisters. This means we are outnumbered," a small laugh erupted on the table. When were we not outnumbered? "Tywin sits in Harrenhal, waiting, ready to pounce. There, he is in a defendable keep, close to us if he must needs attack. Yet close to the capital if either Baratheon strikes. In the west, Jaime's host has regrouped. A small host we will soon crush, yet a host none the less," Theon then interrupted.
"What is their strength?"
Robb scratched his beard. "Only about two thousand, all foot. I think some Lordling rallied them together. That's not the biggest news though, another host has been raised at Oxcross. Its led by Stafford Lannister and is around ten thousand strong. They are in a highly defendable position, commanding views over the entire approach. There's no way to flank them or get behind them. Unless we march down the Gold road." A small smile flickered on his face.
"Do you think the two hosts will merge?" Howland probed, his face was stern.
"Most likely, but then again, it all depends on the Lord leading it," the Blackfish replied before taking a drink of mulled wine. "Incompetence is rife in Westerlands. For all the genius of setting camp in a defendable position, the little Lannister doesn't send out riders. He is blind to the world around him."
"We can't meet Tywin in the field, he would never allow that. We can't march on Harrenhal. And we need to march, we got to march, we have already lost enough men by Edmure we can't lose more by desertion. So that means we march on the west," Yngvi summarised. The Lords nodded in agreement.
"So we march on the smaller host then attack the larger one," the Smalljon stated.
"No then we march on Casterly rock. That's decades of Tywin's shit, and we all know Tywin shit gold," the Greatjon roared.
"Yes let's march on the Rock. Whilst we mount a lengthy bloody siege, the Lannisters can fuck us in the arse," Howland retorted, his stare never leaving the Greatjon. "I hope you fight better than you scheme."
"I don't plot and I certainly don't plot. I'm no snake in the grass, boy," the Greatjon held Howland's gaze. Howland smiled slightly.
"Schemes and plots are the same thing. And I would watch the snake in the grass," he paused a moment. "Especially when that snake has toppled a mountain."
"Howland you will take your horse and regroup with Roose Bolton. You will defend the Riverlands and plot to cull a lion. That should get some Riverlords back in the fight," Yngvi commanded. "The rest of us will march on the West, if Howland and Roose make enough noise Tywin won't realise we have moved."
"We need ships to assault King's landing," Theon said. "My father has ships."
"Stannis also has ships. A fleet larger than the Iron one," Yngvi countered. He did not like where this was heading, they all knew the Greyjoy's ambition.
"Do you not trust me, my Lord?" Theon questioned, his smirk whipped clean from his face.
"I trust you with my life. Not my son's though, and certainly not my King's," the Greatjon nodded his agreement. Yngvi turned to face Robb. "I would not trust Balon with my privy pot, you shouldn't either. The last time he reached for a crown he lost two sons, this time he could see losing one as a bargain. If you give him Theon, even if Theon stays true, you have given him his son back. We lose our leverage and the North."
"Why the North? Why not the south, the lions fought to dethrone him, why should he attack us?" Robb asked. Yngvi smiled.
"The North took his sons. It was Ned who made him bend the knee, Ned who took his final son. He will want vengeance," he paused a moment, then with a quieter voice. "The North is also undefended. The men have marched south, below the Neck. If he takes Moat Cailin we will never see the North again. I suggest raising a new host in the North, garrison it at Winterfell. Also, send word to men at Moat Cailin to build defences at the Northern and Western edges of the keep."
"We would need a man to lead this new host," the Smalljon stated, running his hand through his beard.
"Ser Rodrik?" Robb asked.
"No, he is a Castallen of Winterfell," Eddard said.
"Roose Bolton," Howland said. Yngvi smiled.
"So you can take command of his host? Don't take us for fools, boy," Yngvi retorted. "No. I would suggest Whoresbane, or Mors. Those two would do nicely. I have fought with them both. Good men, should command well."
The men all nodded, except Theon and Howland who scowled.
"That's agreed then. I still believe we send Theon to Balon. I trust him, he is a brother to me. He would never betray me," Robb said, whether he was indirectly talking to Theon or reassuring himself, Yngvi couldn't tell. "We also need men to talk to the Baratheons. Renly has a larger army than us, Stannis a larger fleet. I need allies."
"Renly shouldn't be too hard. A bit of feasting, a bit of arse kissing and he will give us generous terms. Probably let you keep the King in the North status," Yngvi rubbed his chin, a small beard was growing, more silver than black. "Stannis, however, will name you an usurper and traitor besides. You will never win with him. Robert was steel, Renly is copper...Stannis is iron, he will break before he bends."
"Then we shall break him. He is a cold man, his link to his men is thin and strained, we can topple him if must needs," Howland said, straightening up his black silk tunic.
"We offer peace to every man, except the Lannisters," Robb commanded. "Yngvi, you shall treat with Renly, Theon with his father."
"Your grace, I must object," Robb interrupted him.
"To what, me sending you or Theon?"
"Both, my king."
"Would you rather me send Howland and the Greatjon?" Robb japed. They all laughed, even Howland. The Greatjon would rip Balon apart, whilst Howland would kill Stannis, marry Renly and rule in his name. Or just kill them both.
"I will go my king, on your command and head," he said before walking away. His feet now echoed through the hall, bouncing off the walls, as he made his way out.
It was a brisk morning, the wind cold and sharp. In the north it would be snowing now, a little kiss to remind them that Winter is coming, but in the Riverlands there wasn't even hail.
He made the long walk back to his room, a series of sharp corners and winding steps. When he entered his room there was no warmth. It was filled with shadows and colours of grey. His cot was a plank of wood stuffed with straw, his hearth was a lit torch, but that didn't matter. Not today. Today he was at war, and with a roof over his head that was more than he could expect. He drew his sword, and slowly polished the blade. The oil soaked into the metal, protecting it from the elements.
The sword was his life. When it was in his hands he had no wife, no children, just the blade. He would not let the blade age and wither like he had, when the blade was in his hands he was the same man he was at ten and five, he was as young as the blade would allow.
The task soon became larger and larger. He started with the blade, sharpening it with his whetstone, then he unwrapped the leather wrap on the handle, revealing a thin layer of rust. It spotted the metal. He scratched it off with his knife before applying some oil, then reapplying the leather. He then decided the leather was too dry, so he cut apart a leather jerkin and replaced it.
By the time he was done, several hours has past, the sun was falling to the earth. Streaks of red and orange were in the sky.
Yngvi was tired, but his weapon was fully maintained so the effort was vindicated. He still had his axe. It had a brouder head than Howland's had but he knew Howland could wield it. It would be a nice present to him.
Maybe bridge a gap between the two. At least it was a start.
He walked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing down the hall. He past Eddard's room and finally reached Howland's. He pushed on the old wooden door and walked in.
There were no grunts or moans of pleasure, but the scene was unmistakable.
Howland's hands were all over her body, one pressing down firmly on her breast, the other to her sex. By the positioning of her legs and his hips he knew his own sex was there. His hips pulled back slightly then thrusted forward, over and over.
She was biting into his neck, her moans muffled by his flesh. Her hands gripped his buttox tightly, forcing him to go faster and faster. On his back, a thin red liquid ran over thick white scars, criss-crossing his back.
"Blacky, oh Blacky," she moaned, her eyes shut to the world. Their sweat merged and mingled together.
He pulled out of her, dragged her to the edge of the cot, and whilst on his knees licked at her sex. She ran her fingers through his black hair and bit her lower lip between moans. Her ribs were sporting an ugly, yellow bruise, and her face had a slight cut just above her left eye.
"Howland!" He roared. The girl's eyes shot open, she forced her legs together crushing Howland between her thighs. She groped for a sheet to cover herself with but could find none. Yngvi offered her clothes, a simple white tunic.
Howland was reeling on the floor. He slowly crawled to his clothes and uncerismonally covered his sex.
"Father," he responded calmly with a slight smile. Whilst the woman's cheeks were now red with colour, Howland seemed unphased.
"I brought you my axe. I thought you were ready, that you had finally become a man. A man of honour and dignity," he said. "Yet here I find you with a whore, hours before you leave for battle. You are not ready for the axe, you are not ready for war."
"Father, she is Dacey Mormont. A very large difference to a whore, don't you think?" He mocked.
"You are not a boy anymore, Howland. You have been acting like a southern lord, growing fat on your own self image. You killed one man, it does not make you Aegon, fucking Targaryen," with that he threw the axe between Howland's legs, the blade within inches of his manhood. "Stop thinking war is a game. These are men's lives you are responsible for, they die on the commands you give. Consider that when you answer, why are you fucking whores when you could be planning for battle?"
And with that he left, marching out into the godswood. He knelt in front of the hearttree.
Protect my sons. Protect them from evil, the evil in men, and evil men. Protect Howland from his own stupidity and recklessness. Give him the level head you denied him at birth.
He stayed until dawn, praying, meditating it did not matter. His peace was in his solitude, there he could escape the labyrinth of suffering.
To bad my suffering is my son, Yngvi thought as the new day broke over the land.
He mounted his horse in the courtyard. He saw Howland on his, his face full of sorrow, devoid of any other emotion. A greatsword slung across his back, the axe on his side, digging his heels into his horse, he galloped off with his column of riders.
Eddard was mounted near Robb, a bastard sword at his side and a lance in his hand. Trotting over Yngvi nodded to Grey Wind then addressed his King.
"Keep safe your grace. Win glory, and make the North proud of its Young Wolf," Robb nodded a thank you. "Eddard, keep him safe and yourself."
And with that he galloped off. Further south, heading to the Kings; the King at Highgarden and the King at Dragonstone.
HOWLAND
"Well, that was unexpected," Dacey said, her voice as warm as summer, as enticing as a winter kiss. Her warm body was pressed against his, her callused fingers softly curling his chest hair. Her lips caressed his neck, her tongue darting in and out of her mouth. She slowly ran her teeth up his neck and onto his chin, a quick bite before she carried on. Her lips were soft and full, she kissed his bottom lip then opened her mouth, their tongues dancing together.
She broke off and rested her head on his chest. Her head rising and falling with his breaths.
He runs his fingers through her black hair, not caring that it is greasy and thick. Its her's, so its perfect.
He wraps his toes around hers, their feet wrestling for control under the fur. A small giggle escapes her lips and her face is full of joy.
I won't tell her, not now.
"So how do you fight with that mace?" He asks. Shit, I sound so patronising. She grins, her white teeth large across her face, her eyes filled with excitement.
"I hit them hard. Across the arm, the head," her voice was seductive. God when did death become so erotic. "Doesn't matter, whatever I hit breaks. Bones snap. Flesh torn. Armour crushed."
"Gods I want to fuck you," he blurts out, before pressing his lips against her forehead. He could taste the sweat, the salt on her skin, but he did not care.
"Then do, my lord Blackadder," she whispered, slowly kissing his chest. Her hand groped his cock, the chill of it sending shivers through his body.
"Would that I could, but I gave you my seed, all of it. Your field has been truly plowed, my sweet bear," he whispered into her ears, his manhood growing in her palm.
"I am ashamed. The Smalljon lasted several hours more, my maiden fair," she mocked. He sighed, long and deep.
Dawn was creeping into the world once more, the sun rising from the darkness. The light crept into the room, large shadows dancing across the wall. A new day dawned and the truth could not be withheld no longer.
"Dacey," she still nibbled his chest, teeth causing orgasmic pain. "I ride to Roose Bolton..." She stopped biting, his skin still between her teeth. "...in the east." She bit down hard drawing blood.
She pulled away, her heat leaving with her. She took the furs, draping it across her shoulders, she turned her back to him. Her pale thin, yet strong legs were all of her soft skin he could see. Her muscles twitched as she hopped from one foot to the next, pulling on her breeches.
She turned to face him. Her breasts were hidden by her black hair and the fur, but he could still outline them. Their round perky shape. His manhood rose, unobstructed into the air, betraying his thoughts. A small smile danced across her lips, the white of her teeth showing.
She pulled on her undershirt, then her mail and boiled leather, she picked up her boots and with one final goodbye, she left. Left him alone.
He did not chase her, although he wanted to. He did not cry, for he could not. He stayed in bed; naked as his nameday, isolated in his labyrinth of solitude.
But war he knew. He felt himself in battle.
When every second is life or death, the tedious hours spent before seem insignificant and wasted, he thought.
He wanted to smile, to smirk, to show his glorious grin. But the dead cannot smile, and without battle and without her, he was dead. Everything paled to insignificance, what once seemed of such importance now was an ant to be crushed underfoot. He did not spare it a moments thought, he could not.
He thought only of his craving, hoping to sustain him to the next battle. He would never see her again, he knew that. He had lost her. Not intentionally, or with malichousness. He had lost her, as he always would; he chose war over her.
She knew that as he did. That's why they did not cry, or plead not to part. It was why he did not chase her. He chose blood and death, over warmth and her.
He chose this smoggy room, his solitude of misery, over her. A labyrinth of death over her.
So he waited. Waited for the call to arms, the sound of battle, the blood on his skin once more. He waited and he knew he had chosen wrong. But the die had been cast, the choice made.
"The path that will slowly kill me," he whispered, but not a soul heard him. Not even his own.