Part 2 - The North
Chapter 21
The Mad Hound
"Please, m'lord…" the old man wept. "Mercy… please…"
The knife paused. There was a moment of quiet.
"Say that again," Ramsay said.
The man's eyes flickered. "Go on," Ramsay insisted. "Say it again."
"Mercy," he gasped. "Have mercy… I beg you…"
Ramsay scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Now why would you say that?" He asked, genuinely curious. "Do you really think that I would go this far, and then stop just because you ask for mercy? Has that ever worked before?"
The man let loose a whimpering cry as Ramsay cut off another finger. He never asked for mercy again.
Honestly, 'mercy' – the cheek of it!
The old man was still alive when Ramsay left him. He was only a poacher caught sneaking onto their lands. Ramsay's father would likely just have had the man killed and be done with it. Still, truth be told, Ramsay didn't actually like killing people.
In fact, Ramsay went to great lengths to avoid killing people. He much preferred to keep them alive. Every time somebody died, Ramsay felt like he failed somehow.
Dead people were just… there. Stiff and boring, pretty much useless to everyone. A living person, though, a living person was full of so many possibilities.
Ramsay took a deep breath, cleaning the blood off his hands as he walked out into the courtyard of Winterfell. His father disliked Ramsay's sports, but Lord Bolton was out at the moment, gone to meet Lady Cerwyn. Ramsay had never believed in keeping it quiet like his father did – people needed to see it. The needed to see the bodies, the missing limbs, the scars, and they needed to know, yes, this could happen to you too. Otherwise what's the point?
However, Lord Bolton's tactics had their merits too. Sometimes it was the quiet, unspoken, uncertain fear that bound men more tightly. There was a fine balance between the insidiousness of the fear and the obviousness of the threats. It was a skill that Ramsay was still trying to learn, to be honest, but he was a dedicated student.
Still, part of Ramsay suspected that it was a subject in which he and his father would always clash heads over. After all, Roose Bolton preferred to rule through intimidation, while Ramsay would rule through hate.
Around him, there was the banging of hammers and shouts as men struggled to patch up the Great Hall. Even now, weeks after arriving, they were struggling to rebuild Winterfell after the sack. The amount of time it takes to rebuild the castle, I almost regret burning it down. Almost.
His marriage to 'Arya Stark' would be a joyous affair. Almost as joyous as their wedding night would be. The lords and ladies of the north would have to attend; they were expecting ten thousand in attendance, before marching off to throw out the last remnants of the ironborn invasion at Deepwood Motte. Torrhen's Square had already fallen to the Boltons weeks ago, that had been a bit of delay from the wedding, but it meant that Ramsay's wedding would be the start of a new, unified north.
After that, I will march on Bear Island, and those stinking, treacherous Mormonts, Ramsay decided. Or maybe the bloated, weak Manderlys. Or maybe the Umbers. The mountain clans have been acting far too defiant for my liking too.
"My lord," a quiet voice muttered behind. Ramsay turned, to see Maester Tybald approaching him, head bowed respectfully. "A raven has just arrived with notice. Your lord father is half a day's ride away."
Ramsay grinned. The Lord Bolton was finally coming back. The sooner he arrived, the sooner the lords of the north gathered, the sooner he could finally be married.
"Then let's greet him!" Ramsay said cheerfully. "Form up the men in the courtyard! Let us welcome Lord Bolton and Lady Cerwyn properly!"
The maester nodded, pausing uncertainly. "And, um…" Tybald hesitated. "There's an incident in the kitchen with your… retainer."
"Oh no. What did poor Reek do this time?"
The old man stumbled over his words. Ramsay heard a shout from the kitchens. He saw his squire, Little Walder Frey, rushing for him. "Never mind," Ramsay said with a sigh. "I'll go see myself."
Maester Tybald bowed, not quite meeting his eyes. The maester had only recently arrived with Lord Karstark, he recalled. Ramsay didn't mind – he quite liked maesters in general, actually. It had been a maester at the Dreadfort who had taught him to read and write, two years ago when Ramsay was first welcomed into his father's household. The maesters had always fascinated him.
There was a time when Ramsay himself thought he might want to be a maester, if he had more patience. He had heard that maesters were men of learning. Ramsay was a man of learning too, in his own way. Ramsay was a student of humanity – he had cut open bodies to learn what was inside of them, he had cut men apart to see the animal inside. He was constantly pushing the limits, learning more and more about pain, fear and response.
Ramsay had very diligently learned how to read and write, and more often he had even mused about logging some of the many things he had learned during his research. Ramsay suspected the tome would be ground-breaking.
After all, I'm a highborn lord now. I am the Lord of Hornwood and soon-to-be heir of Winterfell, son of the Warden of the North, he thought proudly. Writing books about my exploits is what a respectable lord would do.
If Ramsay ever did find the time to write that manuscript, he suspected that Reek would have a chapter all to himself. Reek was Ramsay's finest work.
Ramsay found his creature huddled into the kitchen corner, between a shouting match of Tallhart men. Little Walder brought Ramsay straight to him.
"My name is Reek, Reek…" the creature muttered, sobbing. "It rhymes with freak…"
"Turncoat!" a man snapped, clutching an iron baton as he tried to run at Reek. "Fuckin' turncoat Theon–"
"Why, you're confused, my good man," Ramsay said suddenly, stepping into the room. "I see no one called Theon. This is Reek."
The sound of his voice made everyone go quiet. They all stopped still. Ramsay grinned brightly.
"Well, what seems to be the problem here?" Ramsay said happily, looking at the men. "I do hope there's no disagreement."
He turned to face the man at the front. A big broad northman – a man-at-arms bearing the Tallhart crest. The man hesitated, eyes flickering. Gods, I love that expression. "I was at Torrhen Square," the man said slowly. "When the ironborn attacked. I lost good friends to the reavers, and then I find that you've got the bloody Prince of Pyke walking–"
"Prince of Pyke?" Ramsay laughed. "Reek is no prince. To be a prince, you'd have to be a man." He paused, staring at Reek's wide eyes with a small smile. Ramsay was proud of his work. He wanted to show it off. "Take off your breeches, Reek. And your tunic too."
Reek gulped, his hands trembling. He was staring at the floor fixedly. Ramsay patted him on the shoulder almost kindly. Almost. "Come on now, Reek," Ramsay said. "Take them off. Take off all your clothes."
Reek knew that voice. Reek had learnt what it meant when Ramsay became that cheerful.
The creature's mutilated hands were trembling as he stripped off his filthy rags. Ramsay heard gasps as they saw stripped, raw skinless flesh on his chest, and then cauterised, ugly, severed flesh as he pulled down his pants. Whole strips of flesh were missing, like any fate had been cut off him.
The Tallhart man's face paled. Yes, Ramsay thought with pride. Bloody fine work.
"Do you see?" said Ramsay. "Reek is no man. Reek is a dog. Go on, lick the floor, Reek. Lick the floor."
There were tears down Reek's eyes. The room was deathly quiet. All eyes were focused on the broken little prince. How strange, Ramsay mused. I didn't know he was still capable of crying.
"Please…" Reek muttered, eyes averted. Naked, frail, broken, standing in front of two dozen eyes. Tears leaving streaks down his filthy cheeks. "Please…"
Ramsay smile froze. "Oh Reek," he said sadly. "You know that we never say that word."
In a smooth motion, Ramsay grabbed a black iron kettle from the kitchen counter and swung it forward. Reek screamed. The impact of solid metal colliding with him sent him to the floor.
And then the kettle spilled, and scalding water splashed out. The sound of Reek's screams howled outwards as the steam hissed. Burning water all over his head and back, so hot the skin bubbled.
The sound Reek's agonised screaming filled the room. Some men fled. Ramsay just laughed.
"Lick the floor, Reek. Lick it."
He did. The Prince of Pyke licked the stones of the kitchen, even as steaming water burnt him. He heard the wails. Ramsay approached the Tallhart man slowly.
"Do you see?" Ramsay said. The man's face was pale, frozen still. "He's not Theon Greyjoy – he's Reek."
"Reek, Reek…" Ramsay's creature wept through stammering breaths. "It rhymes with freak…"
The man didn't move. So strange how some men screamed and others just froze. "What's your name, man?"
He looked deathly pale. Ramsay knew the men in the room – over half of them were his Bastard's Boys now. "Cley, milord," the man gulped.
"Well, Cley," Reek said graciously, slowly pulling a dagger out of his belt. "If you still want to punish Reek for what the ironborn did to your friends…" He handed the dagger to Cley. "… then please be my guest."
The man-at-arms stared at the dagger with wide, fearful eyes. Reek was still whimpering as he licked the kitchen stones.
"No thank you, milord," the man stammered after a long pause, handing the dagger back to him. His hands were trembling too. "I have no quarrel with Reek."
"Then as you were," Ramsay said, smiling, before motioning for two of his men – Yellow Dick and Sour Alyn – to drag Reek back to the kennels. The Tallhart men ran away very quickly.
What a shame, Ramsay thought quietly. Honestly, Ramsay would have probably had more respect for Cley if he did take the dagger to Reek. Maybe if he cut off an ear, an eye, or even a good old-fashioned rape. If he had done that, then Cley would have probably earned a place with his Bastard's Boys, and the world always needed more hounds. Instead, Cley proved to be just another sheep.
Reek was still whimpering as he was dragged away. Ramsay walked with him. "You know, Reek," Ramsay said, his voice chiding. All dogs needed to learn boundaries. "I'm not happy with how you questioned me there. I think there might be too much of the old you left in there."
"Reek… reek…." he whimpered quietly, body trembling.
Ramsay mused over it. "Tell me, do you want to fuck a dog?"
Reek stared at him with broken, fearful wide eyes. "The old Reek used to fuck dogs," Ramsay said. "And if you're a dog, then you should fuck like a dog. Of course, you can't fuck anything. Maybe tonight I will let loose a big brute of a hound into your cage and let the dog fuck you. How would you like to be a dog's bitch?"
Reek never replied. His mouth hung open, quivering. "Your name is Reek," Ramsay said quietly, just before the men dragged him away. "It rhymes with shriek."
I need to catch any disobedience in the bud. Always make sure they know what they are.
He would have to have a word with the Ben Bones, the kennelmaster, about suitable partners for Reek. It would be difficult to train the hound not attack him, but Ramsay quite liked the thought of the creature that used to be Theon Greyjoy being taken like a bitch. Definitely something to think about.
Ramsay really did care about his Reek. He spent a long time caring for him. In fact, there had been several people who had died as practice before Ramsay ever took the knife to Theon. Ramsay had refined his art painstakingly – choosing the perfect amount of pain to break him without ever risking killing him. The very last thing Ramsay ever wanted to do was kill Theon – not when the sight of him as Reek brought Ramsay so much pleasure.
When he had first seen Theon Greyjoy, Ramsay had been the one in chains and Theon had been the brief prince of Winterfell. Ramsay had wanted him from first sight.
After all, Theon had been exactly the type of lord that Ramsay just loved. He had been arrogant, highborn, all easy smiles and daddy issues. If there was a combination that Ramsay loved to break apart…
He reminded me of my brother, Ramsay thought with a soft sigh.
Oh yes, it was so very satisfying to look at his new Reek – it was a victory every time he laid eyes on him.
The thought made Ramsay think of his betrothed, 'Arya Stark', waiting for him in the castle. Ramsay was so, so tempted to go see her early, but he had other distractions. The act of sex could never be half as intimate as the act of torture.
Ramsay still remembered his first time. He had been twelve when his father sent Reek – the original Reek, that is – to him.
That was the last time I ever begged for mercy, he recalled. It had been a valuable lesson too. Beg for someone to stop and they never, ever would. Begging is the most useless exercise.
He spent the day preparing for his lord father's arrival, grinning as the men snapped to attention around him. The bowed their heads before him, and they called him 'lord'. The Lord of Winterfell. He had made sure that nobody dared to ever call him bastard, or Snow.
He stood in finery, in his own castle, staring out over his land.
Do you see me now, Mother? Do you see your little bastard now?
Mother had been a mean, spiteful bitch. All the while Ramsay had grown up, she had barely used his name. He couldn't remember his Mother ever calling him anything other than 'bastard'.
He knew the story. Mother had told it to him frequently, whenever she was drunk and angry. All through his childhood, she told him the story. The story of how his father had murdered her husband on her wedding day, and then raped her while her husband's corpse was still swinging. How she had spent her wedding night being violated by the stranger that had murdered her one true love, and raped her with her husband's blood on his hands. The miller's daughter whose life had been destroyed only hours after she'd been wed.
All because Lord Bolton had grown bored while on his hunting trip.
If not for the payment that Roose Bolton gave her yearly for Ramsay's upbringing, Ramsay had no doubt that his mother would have strangled him in his crib. Instead, she used the coin to drink herself angry and bitter, giving Ramsay little more than cruel words and vicious neglect.
You fed me nothing but hatred my entire life, Ramsay thought with a self-satisfied smile, and so I learned how to live on it.
He had learned very quickly that he could hurt her too.
Ramsay had been a bulky boy growing quickly. When he was twelve, Mother went back to his lord father to request help raising him. In return, Roose Bolton sent Reek. Ramsay long suspected that it had been his father's idea of a jape. Reek had certainly been no servant or steward.
Reek had been a big man. The man had stunk of some birth condition, with rotten teeth and watery eyes, with foul yellow skin. Ramsay still remembered the way Reek had forced him down to the ground, back when Ramsay had been small and weak…
Eventually, Ramsay grew to be grateful. It had been a valuable lesson of how the world worked. In his own way, Reek had done more to raise him than his mother ever had.
Later, Ramsay stopped being small and weak, and Reek stopped being able to force him to the ground. Ramsay did not share in Reek's… base tendencies, but Ramsay certainly learned how to appreciate being the one in power. That was something he and Reek could bond over.
It was all about power, really. How to not be the one being pushed to the ground.
That was when Ramsay had met Domeric Bolton – his father's trueborn son. The son that Ramsay would never be.
Mother taught me about hatred, and Reek taught me about cruelty, he reflected.But, in his own way, Domeric helped shape me into the person I am more than any of them. Domeric had been his friend. His first, and possibly only, real friend.
Ramsay still remembered the way Domeric had rode into his cottage, following up rumours concerning his wild half-brother. Domeric had been older – he had been handsome, charming, and quick to laugh. He had been dressed in samite and velvet and he rode a horse like a knight. Domeric showed Ramsay a world he had never even imagined.
He had been cheerful and charitable. They rode together into White Harbour, Domeric bought Ramsay new clothes, a new sword, and he slept in feather beds. Domeric would laugh, and make girls blush. They didn't blush when Ramsay laughed.
Meeting Domeric had been a whole different experience, a look at a completely different world. The look at the life of a lordling.
Ramsay still remembered when Domeric had sat him down at a tavern, ordered the finest wine, causing the barmaid to curtsy and he winked as he flicked a gold stag at her.
"Ramsay!" Domeric had said cheerfully. "We must get you out of that dreary cottage more often! Life like that isn't good enough for my brother."
"Half-brother." Ramsay had blinked, struggling to respond. He had never been good at keeping up with the laughter and smiles. "I have no money, I am a…"
He hadn't been able to say the word. Bastard.
Domeric had scratched his chin. "Well," his half-brother had mused. "Do you really need coin? It seems only fair that you have a chance for happiness too. I have a proposition, if you're interested."
"What?"
"How would you like to kill our lord father?"
It turned out that had been the whole reason Domeric had sought Ramsay out in the first place. Domeric had wanted Ramsay to murder Roose Bolton for him.
It made sense, actually. Domeric had grown tired of waiting for his father to die, and tired of being the heir to the Dreadfort rather than the lord. Of course, Domeric couldn't kill him – not easily, not without coming under suspicious and risk being branded a kinslayer.
Instead, Domeric must have figured, who would want to kill Roose Bolton more than his insane, savage bastard son, neglected from birth and born of rape?
Domeric had promised a life of luxury if Ramsay did the deed. He promised to raise Ramsay up when Domeric became lord, for them both to have a chance to escape from Lord Bolton's grip. To stand side by side in the Dreadfort as brothers.
Domeric promised a lot of things. He even supplied the poison that Ramsay could use. Ramsay had seen the glint in his grey eyes. Domeric had thought him a fool, some pawn to be manipulated.
They sat opposite each other, and that was when Ramsay realised; if one brother could become a lord, then why couldn't the other one?
They had been toasting to their partnership when Ramsay had slipped the poison into Domeric's glass instead. Domeric Bolton had died with a look of surprise on his face, gasping at his chest.
Soon afterwards, Ramsay turned up at the Dreadfort. It appeared Roose Bolton was now missing a son and heir. Of course, Roose always knew that Ramsay had been responsible for his trueborn son's death, but Ramsay kept the exact reason why to himself. It felt good to be able to smirk secretly each time Roose compared him to his trueborn 'golden' son Domeric, with no idea that son had been plotting his father's death.
Domeric hadn't been the first person Ramsay killed, but he was the first kill that actually meant something to Ramsay.
I am my father's son.
Ramsay was waiting on the battlements, watching the host march through the wide gates of Winterfell. There was a flurry of snow sweeping through the yard. Four hundred more men from Cerwyn, with Bolton men at the front.
He was smiling as he walked up to greet his lord father. "My lord," Ramsay cheered. Roose Bolton sat grim faced on his horse, clad in black ringmail and leathers with his spotted pink cloak over his shoulders. "Have you had a safe journey?"
Roose's pale eyes danced over him, but he didn't reply. Ramsay turned to Lady Cerwyn, a plump homely woman, with fearful eyes. Lord Rodrik Ryswell and Lady Barbrey Dustin were in the courtyard too, while the men filed through the gate.
"Welcome to Winterfell, my lady," Ramsay said, bowing fractionally. "It's such a pleasure to have you here for my wedding."
Lady Cerwyn extended her hand, timid as a dear. Ramsay noticed her eyes flickering. I murdered your father, Ramsay recalled with a smile.
"Ramsay," his father said coolly. "A word."
Ramsay's smile never flickered. His father's man – Steelshanks – walked by his side as they headed towards the Great Keep.
"I saw your work on the kingsroad," his father said. "Half a dozen lords and ladies had to ride past your work. Who were they?"
Ramsay's eyes glinted. "I can't recall. Which ones are you talking about?"
"Discretion, Ramsay. Is the concept lost on you?"
"But they should see! I've been keeping the north safe. Winterfell is to be my home, and my men guard proudly it against traitors and the like."
"Were they traitors?"
Ramsay shrugged. "Probably."
Before the Sack of Winterfell, six hundred Bolton men had cut their way through two thousand collected northmen under Rodrik Cassel – assembled to take back Winterfell from the ironborn under Theon Greyjoy.
It had hardly even been a battle. Ramsay's men had been the most vicious killers that House Bolton had to offer, while the Ser Rodrik's host had been expecting friends.
Still, some of them had escaped. Some men managed to flee the battle, who could testify that it had been Bolton's men, not ironborn, who had sacked Winterfell. Ramsay had worked diligently to ensure that such men, nor anybody they may have talked to, ever had a chance to cause problems for his family.
Ramsay was feeling very protective of his family, actually.
"We will discuss this later," Roose said coolly. "Come, to the keep. We have more urgent matters."
Ramsay bristled as if he had been slapped. After all the work I've done…
He looks at me like Domeric did, Ramsay realised with quietly simmering anger. That quiet, arrogant superiority in the gaze. He thinks me a fool – some puppet that can be used.
A hound that can be kept on a leash.
Roose intended on using him. Ramsay the wild dog to hunt down his enemies, to make Roose's rule seem tame in comparison. Ramsay wondered how his lord father would describe him in private. Vicious but with low cunning? Some sort of butcher? True, and Ramsay had even encouraged that description. But Roose Bolton was just like his Domeric, while Ramsay was more than he could ever see.
Let him have his games. He thinks he owns me, he thinks that my men will choose him over me. He really thinks that Sour Alyn, Luton, Skinner and all the rest actually report to him. Let him have his delusions.
I am a Bolton, father. My blade is sharp too.
Ramsay followed his lord father towards the Keep, as the castle stirred with the new arrivals. He saw Maester Tybald bow to Lord Bolton.
"My lord," the maester said. "A raven arrived from Last Hearth, from Hother Umber to you."
"The Whoresbane," Ramsay said sharply. "The Umbers have sent word? Why was I not informed?"
Lord Bolton gave a cool nod. Tybald trembled. "I will deal with them shortly." Tybald whimpered away. Ramsay glared. His lord father glanced back at him. "And yes, it appears that House Umber will be giving fealty at your wedding."
"They waited too long." I should flay them for that defiance.
"Yes," Lord Bolton agreed, musing. "It also appears that Lord Umber himself will be attending."
The Greatjon? Isn't he a prisoner at the Twins? "Why are we giving hostages away to the Umbers?"
"They have offered a token of fealty in return for the Greatjon's release. I must admit it is unexpected. We shall see what comes from this deal."
Ramsay was about to ask more, but they had already arrived at the Great Hall, and the lords and ladies were gathered. Ramsay saw the banners emblazoned with twin towers, battle axes and pikes, iron fists and chains, horse heads and moose, all under the flayed man of the Boltons at the top of dais.
The room was quiet, the granite walls still blackened from the sack, and many had to stand because there were tables. Men would have sat easily while Lord Stark held court, but they would never, ever sit comfortable in the presence of Lord Bolton. Nor did he expect them to.
"My lords," Roose announced quietly, and the room quietened. "We welcome you to Winterfell. It has been a trying time for all of us. We have all felt the touch of war on our lands."
"The ironborn still hold Deepwater Motte," Lady Barbrey Dustin said coolly. A bitter bitch. "They have taken prisoners to their isles. The reavers still threaten the west coast, and you hoard men here that could see them off."
"The ironborn are finished!" 'Lord' Arnolf Karstark announced, in a raspy voice. Crooked old hunchback. "They lost their grip on the north when they lost the Moat. They have already turned their attention to raiding the Reach – they attacked the Arbor barely a week past."
"Then we must be rid of them for good," Lord Rodrik Ryswell called, an old man with red-hair turning to grey and a long, stern face. I've murdered his grandson and one of his sons.
"At ease, my lords," Lord Bolton said, his voice low. People always fell quiet to listen to him, Ramsay thought proudly. "The ironborn will not be able to hold their ill-gotten gains, not when the main bulk of their fleet has already moved on. We will leave them in their stolen castles to starve, and they will fall easily when we do take them back."
"And what of the prisoners of House Glover?" Berena Tallhart snapped angrily, to a murmur of agreement. Aw, I married and murdered her good-sister. And murdered her husband, actually. "The heir to Deepwood Motte and other captives?"
"Hostages are most easily negotiated for from a position of power. The ironborn have none. Any prisoners will not be harmed." Lord Bolton's eyes shone. "I am Warden of North. I will see the north put to rights."
The words caused the room to ripple. Beneath the dais, Ser Hosteen Frey and Ser Aenys Frey both look smug. "I expect vows of fealty from each of my loyal lords," he said quietly. "And then together, we can return order to these lands."
Some of the men looked like Roose had asked them to swallow shit. His father didn't pretend it was anything other. We murdered the old Lord Paramount – everyone knows it, Ramsay cackled quietly, and now we demand that they bend the knee to us as well. The Freys had an expression sickly-sweet.
They all knew what Lord Bolton would want of them. Bend the knee, and we will give you back your lands and castles. Stand defiant, and we will break you. Our allies hold your kin hostage at the Twins. we have the men, we have the support of the Throne, you have nothing.
Still, northmen were proud. Some like Lady Dustin and Lord Ryswell had surrendered early and would come off well, but others like Manderly, Tallhart or Umber would not say the oath easily.
And so Roose had invited the entire north to Winterfell – to make sure that everybody saw their defiance break.
"My lords," Ramsay said sweetly, speaking up for the first time.I am the Lord of Hornwood – I have a right in the room now too. "It is so good to see us all together like this. The north has been led astray for too long, now we can finally return it to peace." He grinned. "Yet it seems to me that our numbers are lacking. What of House Manderly? House Umber? Should we not wait for their arrival, on my wedding day?"
Roose stared at him with pale eyes, before quietly shaking his head. "The Manderlys will not be attending. They have refused the invitation."
Ramsay froze. His smile disappeared. "They what?" Ramsay snarled
"House Manderly, House Locke, House Flints – many lords around the White Knife," Lord Bolton explained quietly. Some of the lords were rippling, it was news to them too. "They sent a raven excusing themselves that arrived at Barrowton. They will not be attending."
"Why?" Ramsay snapped loudly. He saw a few, but he didn't care. They were all staring at him, but good. They should stare. They should see rage. "They dare defy their lord?"
"They claim the need to gather men to face the threat from the north." Skin him. I'll skin them all.
He snorted. "Stannis is already gone." Ramsay's voice was shaking. "You are their liege. Command them to come. Otherwise I'll take their heads as my wedding prese–"
"It is not Stannis that is the concern." Lord Bolton's voice turned sharp. Chiding Ramsay for his outburst. "There was another raven. The Night's Watch has fallen."
Ramsay flinched. There were mutters from the back of the room.
Ramsay had been furious when reports came that Stannis had landed on their shores. If his father hadn't stopped him, Ramsay would have ridden to Eastwatch himself to take the false king's head. Stannis had even sent ravens to the northern houses – asking them to declare for him! The nerve of it caused Ramsay to shake.
And then, weeks ago, the news came that Stannis had fled. They had seen his ships leaving, sailing south past Grey Hills, and the raven came from Karhold. Twenty-nine ships had arrived at Eastwatch, but only eight had sailed out. No ravens, no announcement, just a broken king fleeing once more. Stannis had agreed to sail alongside the Night's Watch against the wildlings. And then the wildlings won.
Ramsay had laughed so hard when he heard the news. It wasn't the victory Ramsay envisioned, but it was funny. Ramsay could picture the pure indignity on Stannis' face – to arrive declaring himself king, and to run away weeks later! 'King' Stannis would be the laughing stock of the entire realm, if he wasn't already dead.
He had no idea where Stannis would run. He arrived with maybe up to five thousand men, and left with less than a thousand. Hopefully, Stannis would die at sea, crashed against the rocks somewhere, and that would just be the most gloriously indignant end to a king famed for his pride.
First Tywin Lannister died on the privy with a whore in his bed, Ramsay mused, and then Stannis was turned into a craven beggar king. It was unhealthy to be proud man, it seemed.
Oh, how Ramsay had laughed and laughed for hours. Normally, whenever Ramsay laughed that hard, he needed to get cleaned up afterwards.
"We received a raven from Ser Denys Mallister, of the Shadow Tower," Lord Bolton continued. "Many other lords received the same. It was quite desperate. He reported how their ranging led by the Lord Commander went missing against the wildling host. Then Castle Black fell quiet."
"Mallister," said Lady Dustin. "House Mallister rebelled alongside Robb Stark, could it be a scheme?"
"Perhaps. But nights later, there were urgent pleas from Eastwatch, reporting a large force of wildings at its gate. Then they fell quiet."
"All of the major houses on the west coast of the continent received similar pleas," Arnolf Karstark said dourly. "Manderlys included. Shipbreak Point took in four men of the Night's Watch – men who fled the battle – who confirmed it. They reported a horde of wildlings overwhelming Eastwatch."
I've only just heard about this now. Have these fools been keeping me in the dark? "How many?" Ramsay demanded.
"They claimed thousands upon thousands. The men were scared senseless."
That caused the room to stir. Ramsay paused, looking across dark faces. "If Eastwatch has fallen, the rest of the Night's Watch will not be long. They will not be able to defend from the south of the Wall," Lady Dustin noted.
"We should have seen this coming," Lord Stout growled. "The Night's Watch is less than a thousand men. They have been requesting aid for years. It was only a matter of time that a King-Beyond-the-Wall broke through."
"Everyone is demanding more men, if you hadn't noticed." That was Lord Ryswell, snapping angrily. Bickering like fools.
Wildlings, Ramsay thought furiously. Bloody wildlings. Come to spoil my wedding.
A wildling invasion gave the disloyal houses an excuse to ignore the Bolton's summons. They would claim to be massing a force against the savages, but they could turn their blades against them instead.
Ramsay's hands were trembling. "Give me the men, father," Ramsay snarled. "Give me a thousand men and I will paint the Wall in wildling blood."
"The men are not what gives me pause," said Lord Bolton.
Karstark grunted. "Surely you don't believe such nonsense."
"If it were one man reporting it, I'd call it nonsense too," Lord Bolton replied calmly. "A dozen men saying the same gives me pause."
"What?" Ramsay demanded. "What?"
"The ravens also report a dragon. A white dragon, in fact."
There was a long moment of stunned silence.
"That is insane," Lady Dustin said finally.
"Then the insanity is spreading. I have had testimony from three different houses saying the same thing," Lord Bolton replied. His voice was calm, but his eyes looked troubled.
"There are no dragons left," said Lady Cerwyn, shaking her head. "And there have never been any dragons in the north."
"Well, apparently there's at least one," another lord – some minor north-eastern house – grunted.
"The reports are all consistent," That was Maester Tybald, speaking up nervously. Ramsay glared furiously. I have been kept in the dark. How dare they? "They report a white dragon over a hundred and fifty feet long. Larger than Balerion the Black Dread, to hear the tales. This dragon breathes ice, and flies with the wildling host."
"It could be only a wild rumour to stir up fear," Lord Bolton said with a long sigh. "But I suspect more."
"The Night's Watch is weakened, but the Wall is still extremely defensible," Lord Stout growled. "It would not have fallen so quickly except to something exceptional."
A dragon. Ramsay blinked. Are they serious?
"How is that possible? Where could a dragon possibly come fr–"
"Who cares where it's from?" Karstark snapped. "Karhold is further north than any of you – it'll be Karhold on the front lines. There's a bloody wildling horde heading south."
"What of Last Hearth? The Umbers must see a threat coming to them first."
"Dragons? Should we be concerned of grumpkins and snarks as well?"
He heard the bickering. Some were calling it lunacy, yet Lord Bolton didn't speak a word. His lord father was considering the possibility. That made Ramsay convinced. A dragon.
Ramsay's face twisted. He had only read the books, heard maesters speaking. I've never killed a dragon before.
… no… I won't kill it… I could tame it. I'm good at taming things. I could cut its wings, I could chain it, I could hurt it until it obeys me…
"And what of the king?" Karstark demanded. "The testimonies from survivors mention a wildling king – King Snow."
"Snow!" Ramsay said suddenly. That word snapped him out of his thoughts. "Snow?"
Lord Bolton cast a cautious eye over him. A few men stepped back from Ramsay. "They claim that this dragon obeys this king. We have yet to learn the truth of it."
There was a long murmur of quiet. Ramsay saw a few people shift. Rumours travelled fast in the north, yet Ramsay hadn't heard anything. I've busy with my hunts and distractions, all the while the lords have been talking and whispering without me.
"And what of the rumours," Lord Ryswell said slowly, his eyes hard, "that this King Snow is one Jon Snow – the natural son of Eddard Stark, the bastard of Winterfell?"
The room froze. Ramsay felt his hands clench. A bastard.
A fucking bastard.
Nobody met his gaze. Lord Bolton was at the centre of the hall, but Ramsay could feel their gazes glancing to him. His head spun. Oh, no wonder nobody dared to tell me.
A fucking bastard king.
Ramsay had to take a deep breath. He could feel his body trembling. All of that emotion – that rage, that hatred, that pride – oh, he could feel it.
"The wildling king is a threat to the realm. I imagine each of the rumours that you have heard have been exaggerated a thousand times," Lord Bolton said. "More likely that this is nothing but some savage king trying to take the identity of Stark's bastard. A feeble and useless attempt to claim a sliver of legitimacy."
Nobody replied to that. There were more talks, talk of raising men and sending ravens, and strong-arming allies, but Ramsay could feel everything that wasn't said echoing with quiet glances in the room.
The court dissolved quickly after that – Roose Bolton wasn't fond of addressing assemblies of large numbers. Lord Bolton much preferred to take men to one side, one by one to air and resolve grievances quietly and discreetly.
Ramsay took a deep breath, feeling his arms shake. Everyone, even his Bastard's Boys, kept their distance. They looked at him like he was some rabid animal off the leash. Ramsay could feel the whispers. By dusk, all of Winterfell would be whispering about the wildlings invasion.
A dragon, and a bastard. It was hard to say which thought infuriated Ramsay more.
King Snow, he thought. King Snow. King Snow…
He heard Ser Hosteen Frey arguing with Lord Bolton after the court was over. Ramsay was left lurking outside of the corridor, waiting for his lord father and glowering at the wall. Lord Bolton was calm, quiet, as he walked out. His father went everywhere flanked by at least four guards, Ramsay noticed. Although Lord Bolton usually preferred eight in Ramsay's presence.
"Well?" Ramsay snapped at his father. "What are you going to do about it?"
"About what, Ramsay?" Lord Bolton replied, motioning for his guards to step backwards.
"The wildlings! The dragon! About King 'Snow'!" Ramsay snapped. "Give me the men! I'll kill them myself."
"Don't be a fool. You would march up to the Wall? Through the snows, mountains, risk the autumn storms and waste our strength?" he scowled. "You'd be taking five thousand men – many of uncertainty loyalty – to face a much larger force on their own ground." He shook his head. "No, our armies stay in Winterfell."
"But he comes south! Ned Stark's bloody bastard!" Ramsay was almost frothing at the mouth, eyes bulging in rage.
"Patience." His voice was dark. "Our hold in the north is tenuous at best. We must conserve and rally our forces."
This threat could not have come at a worse time, Ramsay realised. Roose Bolton was a patient man, he liked to wait until he was in control, yet this invasion could be disastrous to his plans. In a few years, Lord Bolton could have the north completely under his thumb, or his blade, but now? When the memory of the Red Wedding was still so fresh? When any aid from the Iron Throne was nigh non-existent at best? These wildlings threatened everything they were building.
He kept his voice steady, but Ramsay could see it in his eyes. His father was actually concerned.
"Learn your history, Ramsay," Lord Bolton said. "If we truly face a dragon, then armies are useless. Aegon the Conqueror proved that – large dragons can torch ten thousand men. No, we must be careful."
"I'll kill a dragon, I'll rip its bloody wings off!" Ramsay spat.
"Perhaps you'll have your chance," he replied. "But patience. We must allow this 'King Snow' the first move. Our response will depend on his."
"His? And how will he move, father?"
"Depends. If he is a fool, he will march south on us with his overwhelming force and put our castles to the torch. In that case, I will rally the north against a common threat to throw him out."
That's what I would do, Ramsay thought with a scowl.
"But I fear that this King Snow may be smarter than that," Lord Bolton continued. "I fear he may reach out to our 'allies', to convince them to join him against us. His force is made of wildlings, and negotiating any alliance would be difficult, but in exceptional circumstances… hmm… he may succeed in finding supporters among the disgruntled northern lords."
"And if he does?"
Lord Bolton smiled softly. "Then I will win. Against a conquest of might, it may be very challenging for me," he said. "But if he tries to play the game of thrones, then I will most certainly kill him at it."
Ramsay spat. "You keep your game," Ramsay scowled, already storming away. "I will take his head."
Ramsay spent the rest of the day in his dungeon, working through his anger. He felt agitated. He need a distraction, to clear his mind and help him think. Ramsay poured wine over one of his dogs – Kyra – and then lit the bitch on fire. The hound went mad as her fur caught light, howling, barking and snapping against the cage. Ramsay watched her fur sizzle for a long while, feeling the grin spread over his face.
Fire was too quick and messy for Ramsay's tastes, but he could see the appeal.
He returned to his captive later that night and repeated the experiment, this time by pouring lamp oil over his head and shoulders. The man didn't even have the strength to quiver in his chains. Oil dripped onto the floor. "Why?" The old man croaked. "Why are you doing this?"
Ramsay's grin was predatory. "Because it's fun," he replied sweetly, before throwing a torch onto the man. "And because I love it."
He forced Reek to watch as well. He watched the flesh bubble and smelled scorching skin. The man's mutilated body spasmed and twitched even long after Ramsay would have said he was dead. Ramsay just laughed; the way he thrashed and fought so futilely… it felt quite satisfying.
It was only when the meat stopped smoking that Ramsay felt calm enough to think. Reek was trembling on the floor, trying to hide in the corner.
"Reek," Ramsay demanded, turning to the quivering creature. "Tell me about Jon Snow."
Reek's voice quivered, but he talked. Reek described a young, dark-haired boy lingering around the castle. A Stark in all but name; a spoilt, proud boy who had been so eager to escape his father's shadow.
A bastard, Ramsay thought. A proud, brooding bastard who calls himself king. A man with a superiority complex and a chip on his shoulder. I could have fun with a man like that.
He felt the idea form slowly. I'm going to kill a dragon.
Bran
He heard them arguing. They would argue constantly, but never in front of Bran. The two castellans of Last Hearth would retreat to the main hall to argue, out of earshot, yet Bran would still hear them through the senses of the hounds and ravens in the castle. His abilities were growing so much it felt like he could see through a dozen eyes at once.
"Bloody fool!" Mors Crowfood cursed, a heavyset old man, white-whiskered, clad in a snow bear's skin. "You're a fool, brother, if you think the Boltons will give you aught but treachery!"
"Aye they're vermin," Hother Whoresbane growled, pacing. He was the older – skinny and gaunt compared to his brother's bulk, but pacing constantly and snarling while Mors shouted and stomped. "And they're vermin that hold our nephew hostage. I will not see that boy dead, Mors, I refuse."
Boy. They called the Greatjon Umber a 'boy', Bran thought. Both castellans of Last Hearth, the uncles of Lord Umber, were well over sixty. Hother Whoresbane was pushing seventy, but the old lean man was still strong.
"I refuse. I refuse to pander to the fucking Freys," Mors bellowed. "We kill them all and force them to release our nephew."
"Now wouldn't that be a fine thing?" Hother kept his voice low, dangerous. "Our armies of greenboys and greybeards marching against Winterfell and the Twins?"
Mors eyes flashed. "Yet you suggest treason. Treason against the Starks."
"Treason has already been done. We bend, or we die." He shook his head, long white beard rippling. "If it were only our lives I'd soak Last Hearth in Bolton blood before I cave, but I will not see the boy dead, Mors. We bend to save our lord's life."
The Crowfood hoisted up his maul – a large, unwieldy thing like a club of iron. "And what of our king, Hother?" He snarled. "Brandon Stark. By the grace of the Old Gods we found him again, and if you dare to suggest we turn him over like cravens I will end you right now."
The dog that Bran possessed whined quietly from the floor, but both men ignored it. Hother just scoffed. His hands clutched the spear he used as walking stick tightly. Mors had his maul, but Hother fought with a spear. It was hard to say which one was more dangerous.
"What kind of man do you think I am, brother?" Hother said with a grunt. "No, Bran Stark will not fall into the Bolton's grip, I would never send the last son of Eddard Stark to his execution. But we still must yield. We pay lip service to the Boltons, we march with their army and we say the words. Brandon Stark takes refuge at Last Hearth and then eventually we might see Jon again."
"Bugger that. We have the King in the North under our roof," Mors challenged. "The north will rally for Stark. Let's fight back and take the heads of those kingslayers."
"The boy is a cripple!" Hother snapped. "He will never lead an army, or take a castle. No, I will not do it, and I will not risk him like that."
"I never thought you a craven, Hother."
"And I never thought you a fool."
They had been arguing for a week, ever since Hother found Bran and his party in the woods. Bran hadn't been to Last Hearth before, but it was a squat structure of oak and stone so old it had been carved into the hillside. There were no towers and it wasn't a large castle, but the three circulars walls were thick and strong and the keep was solid like a block of granite, the whole castle nestled amidst a thick forest of soldier pine, ironwood and sentinel trees. There were two moats filled with sharpened wooden stakes, and three gates that were constantly open.
Every night, hunters, woodcutters and farmers poured in to find shelter in the keep. Last Hearth had only very rarely ever turned away smallfolk from their gates, Bran remembered. For miles and miles around, men and women would always take shelter at Last Hearth during the hardest times of winter or war. Even those from the mountain clans could make the trek to take refuge at Last Hearth. It left hundreds, approaching thousands of men, women and children huddled around the great fire pit in the keep for which Last Hearth was named.
It wasn't the strongest castle, but the Umbers had held their territory fiercely for centuries. Rather than concentrated forces in a single castle, the Umber forces held the roads and pathways through the forest and the mountains of their lands. They manned any crossing over Last River all the way across to the kingsroad.
There were more petty lords than Bran could count. Their elite soldiers were more like hunters, who could move in small groups and constantly harry any enemy crossing their terrain. Whether against wildlings or Boltons, the Umbers could hold their lands better than anyone.
Still, House Umber was suffering dire times. The Greatjon had devoted a large percentage of their forces to Robb Stark's host, far more proportionally than other lords had, and now they were suffering for it. House Umber was running out of men-at-arms, while wildlings and Bastard's Boys ravaged their smallfolk from the north and south.
Mors Crowfood and Hother Whoresbane had been on the brink of schism when they found Bran. The last time Bran had seen the pair had been at the Harvest Feast. They had been elderly, lecherous lords full of cheer and bellowing voices, prone to arguments and mock battles, but now they seemed darkened and angry. His mother had once called them pair of hoary old brigands, but at the time they had appeared more boisterous than dangerous. Now, everywhere they went, they both carried weapons in hand.
The only thing the two castellans agreed on was that Roose Bolton and his bastard son would have Bran executed if they found him. Ever since Bran came to the castle, he had been restrained to his own wing along with Meera and Jojen. Not even Summer was allowed out to hunt. Hother had been paranoid that someone would spot him and word would get back to the Boltons.
Hother Whoresbane wants to keep me hidden, safe, Bran thought. Perhaps he'll give me a different name and I'll pretend to be an Umber, or maybe he'll put on me on a ship. Some way to keep me out of Bolton grasps. Mors Crowfood wants to use me as a figurehead to lead a rebellion, a Stark that the northmen might rise for.
He spent a long time thinking about it. They're both wrong.
His body sagged as he fell back into his skin. Bran stared around the dim, cramped room, with Meera pacing and Jojen sleeping upright against the wall. Summer was almost as on edge as Meera, hackles raised with their confinement. Every time Summer even howled, it was like announcing that there was a Stark here, and that made their guards very nervous.
Mors and Hother would argue violently all day, but whenever they came before Bran they pretended to be in agreement. They think I'm a young child who wouldn't understand, Bran thought. Perhaps I am young, but I don't feel like a child anymore.
That evening, the two castellans came to see him over the evening meal. Hother was about to suggest moving him away from Last Hearth to a smaller holdfast in the east, when Bran interrupted.
"No," Bran said suddenly. "I want you to sell me to House Bolton instead."
It was hard to say who was more surprised, the Umbers or Meera. Jojen just nodded.
"Bran what are you–" Meera started, but Bran didn't dare to meet her gaze. He was trembling.
"I've already thought about it," he said firmly, meeting Hother's and Mor's gaze. "Send a raven to Winterfell saying that I am here. Promise the Boltons your fealty, and promise to send me to them, if in return they release the Greatjon from the Twins."
Mor's mouth hung open. Hother shook his head, his long beard wafting. "Hells no. If I sold a son of Stark to get him free, the Greatjon would rip my arms off himself and beat me with them. And he'd be right to do so too."
Bran forced his voice to stay firm. "There's no other choice. I can't stay here, and I can't lead armies into battle. I won't be useless, so I'm going to do the one thing I can do to be useful. I'm going to be sold for the Greatjon, and however many other hostages we can negotiate for." He nodded. "Let the whole north know that I am alive. Make it sound like I'm your prisoner and you're ready to sell me. Act a traitor, both of you."
Mors shook his head, but his eyes twitched. "You don't know what you're asking, child. They will execute you. The Bastard of Bolton is marrying your sister, and they don't need another Stark to challenge them. They'll have you executed."
"Yes." Bran nodded. They have Arya. "That's why I have to do it."
Both men refused, no matter how Bran pleaded. Meera looked at him with shock. "Bran, what are you doing?"
"I need to go home. And this only way I can do it," he whispered. "All I need to do is look Lord Bolton in the eyes, and then I'm going to kill him."
Meera's mouth hung open. Jojen stared at him. "You're going to possess him."
"Just like I did with that wildling." The man who died bleeding from his eyes.
"Bran, you jumped into his body and you almost lost yourself. It almost killed you."
"Then it's going to almost kill me again," he said with a nod. "But it will definitely kill Roose Bolton."
"Bran, it's too dangerous," Jojen said, shaking his head. "The Boltons might kill you on the spot."
"They'll take me to their lord first, I know they will. Or they'll keep me hostage."Because I'm a crippled boy who's no threat to anyone. "And I only need to get close enough to look him in the eyes."
Both Jojen and Meera objected as well. Meera tried to talk him out of it. Bran barely listened.
The next morning, Hother Umber was quiet as they broke their fast together, but his face was hard and his eyes thoughtful. "You said that I was King in the North," said Bran. "Is that true?"
"You are the eldest living son of Eddard Stark. Robb Stark declared himself king, and you are heir presumptive. Many would see you take your brother's place." Hother paused. "But Robb Stark wore a crown for less than a year and didn't step foot in the north while he had it. He was my lord, he was just, and none can question his bravery, but naming himself King in the North was a decision I did not support."
"So am I your lord or your king?"
"You are Brandon Stark, and I would not send you to your death."
"I could order you to send me to Winterfell."
"Then that is an order I must disobey, my lord."
Bran was quiet for a long time. He ate the porridge in silence, yet he had no appetite. An Umber serjeant had to carry him back to his room like a sack of potatoes. He was quiet as he closed his eyes and went to sleep.
There was no maester in Last Hearth, so Hother Whoresbane managed the rookery himself. Despite his strength, the old man was limping stiffly and cursing as he walked the steps to the rookery at the top of the keep. A raven flapped onto one of the battlements, staring Hother straight in the eye as it cawed.
"Stark," the raven croaked. "Stark, Stark."
Hother looked at the bird quietly, a heavy frown on his face. Another bird flapped. "Stark, Stark."
The rookery rustled. One by one, the ravens took up the cry until they were all cawing and chanting. "Stark, Stark, Stark."
The next morning, Hother watched Bran in the hall with something different in his expression. None of the ravens had stopped repeating the word. Soon, every bird down to the Lonely Hills would be chanting the name. If they do not agree, Bran thought, then I will let the whole north know that I am here myself.
Hother and Mors' argument was especially loud that night.
It took over two weeks before they finally agreed. Bran would not be convinced otherwise. "House Bolton is fighting against the ironborn," Bran insisted. "Ironborn are a threat to the north as well, so House Umber should join against them. Send the raven, offer your support, and go to Winterfell."
Mors shook his head. "You would have me pledge fealty to a traitor."
"Fealty means nothing to Boltons."
Still, Hother Whoresbane finally nodded and reluctantly agreed to send the ravens. One raven to Winterfell, another to the Twins, and a final one to King's Landing. Bran was shaking as he lay sleeplessly in bed that night. We can only be brave when we are scared, he told himself.
Bran half-expected it to happen instantly. Instead, it took a fortnight before a raven replied, with a letter written in the pink parchment of the Boltons. The raven came from Barrowton, so clearly the Boltons hadn't reached Winterfell yet.
The message was short and cold, stating that the Starks were traitors, and that Last Hearth was committing treason by harbouring Bran. It threatened death to House Umber if Bran was not executed immediately.
Another raven returned from the Twins saying that Bran must be brought to Winterfell otherwise the Greatjon would be dead within the week. The letter from the Iron Throne, signed by Queen Cersei Baratheon, Queen Regent, was the last to arrive and the most diplomatically written, but it demanded proof of identity and also that Bran was sent to Winterfell.
"Bloody vermin," Hother growled after he read it, already penning more letters in reply. He was a vicious old man, but he had plenty of wits and he could read and write with ease. "It's a negotiation, boy. They want what we have and they know what we want, they just don't want to trade anything."
Hother penned another set of letters, sending them multiple times with different ravens to ensure they would arrive. He also sent letters to White Harbour, Widow's Watch, and even the mountain clans. Bran forced himself to watch and learn.
It took another dozen ravens back and forth before the terms started to emerge. The wait between each one was excruciating. The ravens from House Bolton refused to negotiate at all at first, but King's Landing seemed hungry for a deal. The Umbers had to deal between all three parties and that took time.
Eventually, the Twins agreed to release Lord Umber, Robin Flint and Ser Wylis Manderly to the care of the Boltons at Winterfell, in return for Bran Stark and the Umbers' fealty. Mors protested that the last son of Stark was worth more than three highborn nobles, but Bran pushed them to accept the terms. While Mors and Hother Umber gave fealty, Bran would be brought to Winterfell for his identity to be confirmed and, if true, the Greatjon would be released to his uncles. Bran wasn't to stay in Winterfell, however; instead, the Iron Throne had demanded that Bran should be shipped to King's Landing to remain a hostage there indefinitely. The Boltons would have killed him, but it seemed King's Landing wanted him alive.
Bran didn't care. It was all just a mummer's act to get him back to Winterfell. But it was a mummer's act that took time, and he was left simmering in the keep of Last Hearth, in his cramped stone room. Jojen helped in the household, and Meera had taken to going out alongside the Umber hunting parties, but Bran could do little but sit and meditate.
The last letter said that the Umbers had to arrive in Winterfell for Arya's wedding. My sister's marriage to a monster, Bran thought. The date loomed. Every day and week waiting until then felt nightmarish.
While Hother held Last Hearth and readied as many as they could gather, Mors Crowfood would go out on patrols regularly. Occasionally Summer would join the Umber scouts and hunting parties. Wildlings were slipping over the Wall regularly and Umber lands were the first to be pillaged.
Through Summer's eyes, Bran saw farms and cabins that had been raided by small parties of wildlings that had crept over the Wall, the corpses of men littering the ground and women and children raped and savaged.
More and more refugees made the journey to Last Hearth, but not all of them made it. He could feel the mood in the castle become more and more grim as the weeks turned into months. They tried to keep the reports away from Bran, but he still heard them. Sometimes it was wildlings who would rape and murder freely as they roamed, or Bastard's Boys from the south who would leave brutal displays of mutilated bodies. Slowly, Bran started to hear of smallfolk that would just disappear entirely. Shepherds and hunters in the woods that would vanish without a trace.
"Mullen Holdfast went quiet two nights ago," Mors reported one evening in the great keep, his voice low and furs still wet with snow. He had only just returned. "A whole family gone in the night. Two hunters the day before that."
Hother shook his head. "This ain't a subject to be spoken of in front of children," he muttered, with a discreet nod towards Bran at the other end of the table, his voice low.
Bran still heard it. The dogs had better ears. "No, tell me," he called loudly. "I need to know."
Hother and Mors shared a glance. They had been arguing less and less since the plan formed, at least. "Riders along the kingsroad found the Mullen holdfast empty," he explained. "No bodies, nothing. Travellers pass that holdfast daily, so whoever hit them did it very quick and very quietly."
"Wildlings?" Bran asked with bated breath.
"Must be, that far north," Hother said with a nod.
"Except nothing was stolen from the home. No damage and no sign of a fight," Mors growled darkly. "They just vanished. There are some queer bandits around Cragspeak Point."
That seemed to unnerve Hother more than anything. The old man chewed his leg of mutton in silence, while Mors promised to send out three hunting parties to search for the brigands. Hother suggested to send four.
Jojen was fast asleep as Bran returned to his room. Meera was awake, watching him as the serjeant hoisted him back into bed. "Are you okay Bran?"
"Yes," he said, wishing he believed it. "We're going to be heading to Winterfell shortly. We're going to go save my sister. I'm going to go home and everything will be alright."
Jojen didn't reply.
Bran closed his eyes and felt himself slip away. It was a comfortable, familiar feeling by now. There's something around Cragspeak Point, Bran thought. He focused upwards as the world twisted, and he tried to push himself into the body of a raven or a crow. Instead, the birds seemed too agitated, and Bran felt himself falling downwards.
He felt the earth around him. Bran forced himself to stay concentrated and centred, pushing himself forward through the roots of the earth.
The world was obscured and distorted from a different perspective. Bran was used to such dreams, but this time he wasn't sure exactly what he was looking through. The world twisted into something vague and dreamlike. No, a nightmare.
Bran dreamt of death – the Stranger itself – limping across the snow. A figure of black and white. Bran could see it, and he remembered the hidden, shawled statue that stood in his mother's sept. His mother had never prayed to the Stranger, there were never candles lit under that statue, and all Bran remembered of it was a dark figure looming in the dark.
Bran saw a man in a black cloak gasp as he swung an iron sword back and forth, lashing and striking with desperate fury. He wasn't fast enough. Instead, the man fell as a sharp white blade skewered him through the chest. The wound hissed and spluttered.
The corpses littered the snow. Two dozen brothers of the Night's Watch. It looked like some of them had tried to run, but none of them ran fast enough. The man with the iron sword had been one of the last and most stubborn to fall.
He saw the Stranger look downwards at the corpse with disdain, before pulling out its sword and limping away. It was a creature tall and sinewy, with skin half as white as dappled ice glittering in the sun, and the other half blackened and scorched as if it had walked through a fire. It looked wounded, injured, with half its face burnt off and one arm hanging uselessly at its side. It walked with an inhuman grace despite the limp. It barely left a trace in the snowdrifts.
The final man in a black cloak tried to hide in the roots of a tree, trembling and wailing. He didn't hide well enough. The Stranger hunted the man down and stabbed its crackling white sword through his chest.
Those are sworn brothers, Bran thought, thinking of Jon. Men of the Night's Watch being murdered. He could see the outline of the Wall in the distance. It looked too far away from Castle Black though, so these men must have been running from Eastwatch. They had been running as the Stranger hunted them down and killed them in the night.
The creature paused. This is a dream, Bran told himself. This has to be dream.
"I see you," it said suddenly, to nothing but the empty wind and forest. It wasn't speaking the Common Tongue, but somehow Bran could still understand it. "I see you, little boy hiding in the trees."
It turned and paced, face still hidden in darkness. "You look… you look 'scared'," it said slowly, its weird, echoing voice rolling over the word. "I was scared once. They said that I was scared. They said that I had been a boy once. A son given to the cold, left to die in the snow. I was given over to something greater, I became something greater.
"Scared. Scared," the Stranger repeated. It stepped forward, approaching the trunk of the tree. "Warmth is always scared before it dies, why? My liege tells me of fear, but I don't understand. What is fear, and what is death? Why do you want to feel those things? Yet you must do, if you continue trying to resist. To resist the gift of immortality."
Hands like ice touched the bark, and Bran felt himself shiver. He felt the world freeze. He saw an eye that shone like a cold blue sun. "I see you."
Bran woke up gasping. He felt the cold sweat stinging his eyes, dripping down his brow. His whole body was shivering. The room had been warm, but now it just felt so cold.
"Bran!" Meera called, rushing to his side. "Bran, what's wrong?"
"I saw it…" he heard himself mutter. "It saw me…"
Jojen was awake too. It was well past the hour of the wolf, but the crannogman looked wild-eyed and frantic. "Focus Bran," the boy hissed. "Tell me what it was. Do you know whereabouts you saw?"
He blinked, still shivering. Just that gaze… its gaze alone had left him cold. It felt like something inside of Bran's chest was frozen. The Stranger, Bran thought, still wheezing for breath. That was the gaze of death itself.
They all heard the sound of a horn echoing through the keep. A faint sound coming from the Walls. An alert.
"That's a war horn," Jojen muttered, and the whole castle seemed to tense. He heard footsteps charging outside. Men reacting in panic. "The perimeter…?"
"We're under attack?" Meera asked sharply, hand going for her trident. "Boltons?"
"No," Bran wheezed. "Worse."
Author Notes:
Just to clarify some of the more subtle differences between here and in canon. In canon, the Boltons gathered their army and allies at Winterfell in force to prepare for Stannis' attack. In this story, though, there was no campaign in the north from Stannis, and so Roose Bolton could take his time, so he went to take Torrhen's Square and others from the ironborn before Winterfell. Bolton forces were split and Ramsay was sent to Winterfell ahead of Roose, which led to Ramsay's wedding not happening instantly as it did in canon. Without Stannis, there's been no open rebellion to the Bolton's rule in the north, instead there's more simmering from disgruntled lords.
Doesn't really make a difference, I just thought I'd comment for anyone trying to place the timeline.