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Chapter Thirty-Six: Seagard.
The farther they travelled through the Riverlands the more the ravages of war revealed themselves. Once fertile fields had been put to the torch, reducing them to little more than scorched earth. He wouldn't have been surprised if the raiders hadn't sown salt into the ground, just for good measure. Whole villages had been laid to waste, leaving only stumps of houses that had been stripped to the foundations. Wattle and daub homes of the smallfolk had been torn away completely. Many were populated only by rotting corpses hanging from gibbets suspended from the town walls that were meant to protect them. A stray dog followed them through one such place, yapping incessantly at their passing horses. Jon noted that that dog was the first sign of life they had seen since leaving the Neck.
Regardless of who governed the Riverlands now, it would take years for the land to recover. And there wasn't so much as a grain of corn to see any survivors through the oncoming winter. If the Maesters told it true and this winter would be the longest ever, the region was doomed.
"Who did this?" he asked Brynden Tully as they passed the remains of another derelict village. "The Freys?"
"Not even the Freys would do this to their own people." It was a begrudging concession that made his real guess all the more ominous. "Lannisters."
Of course, he thought to himself, the Lannisters food supply would be coming from The Reach so why did they need the Riverlands? Although, that didn't make sense because Cersei had the Tyrells murdered in the Sept of Baelor. That had to be the most stunning act of self-sabotage Jon had ever heard of. When he mentioned this to Brynden, the old man laughed mirthlessly.
"Cersei's mad! Do you think the mad see reason?"
Jon stifled a sigh and kept his gaze on the road ahead. What few scouts they had had already ridden ahead, forewarning them of whatever fresh hell awaited them in the next village. Seagard was coming into view now, a good sized town spread out along the northern lip of Ironman's Bay. The woods that surrounded it were only sparse, the remains of once great forests felled to fuel the shipping industry. Jon could only be grateful for that as it afforded him a clear view of the town they hoped to take as soon as Sansa's reinforcements arrived. Now that he had seen the destruction for himself, he soon found himself wondering whether they could even wait that long.
"Do you know the castle?" he asked.
"As well as any outsider," replied Brynden. "What are you thinking?"
"I suspect I'm thinking the same thing you are, my lord," Jon replied. "That we get in there, somehow, and free the Mallisters. A small hope, I'll grant you, but if we have someone who knows the castle it could be possible."
The older man didn't try to hide his scepticism. "If it were that easy, my lord, I'd have nipped in and done it myself on the way up to Winterfell. Even with that wench Lady Sansa sent down it would be a tough call. And the Freys may be stupid, but they're not unprepared."
Dismayed, Jon suppressed a sigh and continued gazing out over the town. It, at least, looked like it was still functioning. Penetrating the castle continued to be his only idea for springing the rightful Lord out of his cell and it persisted in his brain like a stubborn stain.
"I still want to see for myself," he said.
"Are you mad?" Brynden demanded.
Jon only laughed. "Not in person, my lord. I need Ghost." He looked around, locating his direwolf at the edge of the sparse woods where he was sniffing at the undergrowth. "Ghost! To me!"
The wolf hesitated, but finally obeyed. Jon began to wonder at what was in those woods, that so fascinated his wolf. Easy prey? Other wolves? The only other traveller they had met talked of a vast pack of wolves led by a she-wolf the size of a royal wheelhouse. The ragged man had grown skittish at the sight of Ghost, until Jon called the wolf to heel and settled the man's nerves. It made him wonder something he dared not give voice to, but he was sure Sansa once told him Nymeria was let loose in the Riverlands.
That night, they camped close enough to the coast to hear the sea. When Jon closed his eyes he opened them again when he close enough to smell the salt and hear the waves crashing against the basalt cliffs. He was in a place where the trees thinned out and looking down a steep incline, leading into the town. The air was heavy with pine, salt, and men. It was the men who made him nervous as he ran down the incline. The town was in darkness and he slipped unseen through the shadows of the walls. Only when he passed the strips of light from beacons and candles in windows did he show himself, but it was enough to make him skittish.
He passed down dank alleyways, where the air stank of open latrines and rotting food that had been tossed from windows overhead. Beneath his paws, the cobbles were slick with an unknown slime while high overhead the winged beast circled beyond even his sharpened eyesight. Still he felt safe in the knowledge that if he was attacked, the beast would swoop down from the skies in the blink of an eye.
The cold stone castle rose from the edge of the land and the sound of men were closer than ever. More than he'd encountered before, he could hear their voices as they walked the walls. Little of consequence from what he could decipher, until…
"A dragon, they said."
"Aye, and I saw a merman out in Ironman's Bay yesterday morning."
"And what about those wolves? You can't deny them wolves. Hundreds, they say, led by the biggest she-wolf in Westeros. They attacked the camp outside Riverrun so don't tell me they can't come prowling around here. There's truth in what the smallfolk say, no doubt about it."
"Since when have you known wolves to come sniffing around Seagard?"
He prowled silently around the perimeter of the walls, trying to get the men in his line of sight. But all he could hear were their voices, disembodied but still close at hand.
"The wolves are bold. It was Robb Stark who brought them down from the North, whole armies of them. Everyone knows them Northern wolves are demons sent from the seven hells."
The other man laughed out loud. The sound of it startled him, causing him to flinch away. He exerted his will through sheer force of effort, otherwise he would have bolted.
"You worry about the wolves all you like," he replied. "I'm more concerned about Black Walder's coming home from the old man's funeral. No more than a day or two away, my scouts tell me. Now he's Lord of the Crossing he'll have no more use for this place."
"What'll he do with the prisoners?"
"He can put them to the sword, for all I care. If I heard it true, that's exactly what he will do."
He'd heard enough. Jon let go of his hold on Ghost, pulling himself back into his own conscious body with a force of will that left him breathless. Suddenly, Rhaegar was standing over him bearing a bowl of something hot and steaming. He knelt, almost spilling the broth over his clean tunic, with a look of concern etched on his face.
"Are you alright?" he asked. "You look terrible."
Nonplussed, Jon scrambled to sit up. "Thanks. You look wonderful yourself."
"Sorry, what I meant was, you were doing that wolf warging thing again weren't you?" he asked. "It must take a lot of out of you. So I prepared this for you."
Proudly, Rhaegar proffered up the bowl of broth and Jon accepted it gratefully. Warging really wasn't like that, but it was difficult to someone who didn't have the ability to do it. At first, it was confusing and easily passed off as a strange dream. Now, years later, it was almost second nature.
The prince had lit a small oil lamp and positioned it between them on the floor of their shared tent. Up-lit, with the yellow glow in his face, his eyes looked bright purple. It was almost disconcerting.
"Well, was it worth it?" he asked, expectantly.
Jon allowed himself a smile. "I heard a lot. I know now is that we don't have time to wait for reinforcements. Get the others so we can talk properly."
While Rhaegar went to round up the others, he found some hard bread to go with his broth and ate quickly. So quick he barely tasted it and still didn't have time to finish before the others returned. Then he had to recount what he had heard and even now he struggled to discern his own feelings from those of Ghost. But he still was able to cover the basics. Including the tidbit he overheard about Edwyn Frey's death and Black Walder's absence from Seagard. Two days ride away, he remembered.
"The fact is," Jon concluded. "We can't take the castle, even with the dragon. But if Black Walder's returning from the Twins any day now, we can take him."
Brynden was quiet for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. Eventually, he went further than Jon. "If Edwyn is dead and Black Walder really is the new Lord of the Crossing, if we get him alive we'll have control of the Twins. He'll yield quick enough with a dragon breathing down his neck."
"So long as we take him alive," Jon emphasised. Although, the dragon and the wolf could still help, he was certain of that if nothing else.
Silence settled once more over Winterfell. Snow blanketed the yards and courtyards in an unbroken virgin whiteness as far as Sansa could see. It capped the walls and turrets and trickled silently down the icicles hanging like molten wax from the gargoyles and overhanging guttering. Horses whickered in their stables and a lone dog barked at the moon. Little else stirred on such a harsh night. If winter brought with it only snow, it would be beautiful. But she knew better. She had seen them herself.
Watching from the warmth of the Great Hall, Sansa looked out over the scene without really seeing any of it. Needlework lay across her lap, momentarily forgotten. All around her silk Direwolves snarled at three headed dragons from fields of black and silver-grey linen. Her new bevy of women had been helping her assemble to the multi-coloured silks of war. The previous night, she hadn't stopped sewing until she was to tired she'd accidentally stitched a half a direwolf's jaw to her own skirts.
In the weeks since sending reinforcements to the Riverlands her thoughts had turned increasingly to war. She had knelt in the godswood until her knees were raw and spent whole nights lying awake, sleepless as she agonised over the merits of sending her men back out to war. No matter how many times she told herself that this wasn't like Robb's war, it felt the same. The end result was the same: untold numbers of dead northerners. Now she was so tired she was practically falling asleep on her feet.
'Your father was a killer; your brother is a killer…' a voice from long ago awoke her as her eyes drifted shut. For a fraction of a second she thought she saw his face. 'You better get used to looking at killers.'
It had been so long since she thought of Sandor and she wondered where he was now. Dead, more than likely. So many people feared him, even Arya in her own way. But Sansa never had. She saw the pain and fear in his eyes as he told her about the night his brother pushed his face into the fire. She made him a promise that she would tell no one and she had been true to her word.
Wide awake once more, she ventured out to the gallery beyond and ask that warm spiced wine be brought to her. That stuff always made her drowsy. But when she returned to the hall, she saw that she was no longer alone. Maester Marwyn was there with her mother in tow. Her mother never slept any more, but she rarely ventured beyond her chambers. Curious, she joined them at the trestle table beside the fire.
"Pardon us, my lady," said the Maester. "We saw the lights and assumed it was you. If something ails you, you know I can help."
Sansa hesitated before answering. "Can you help my armies win a war?"
He looked apologetic. "Alas, some things are down to luck and sensible commanders. Both are rather rare these days."
Sansa pulled at a loose thread in the sleeve of her gown, nervous and tense. "But it's different now. Jon and I have no desire to rule the Riverlands, but to restore them to their rightful rulers. That makes all the difference, right?"
"You're looking for approval," Marwyn replied. "You want someone to tell you you're doing the right thing and, moreover, you're looking for someone to tell you the outcome. But it's impossible. You can only do what you see fit and hope for the best."
It was hardly reassuring, yet comfortingly true. She never could abide liars. "There's more to it than that. There's a war coming in the North and it matters not a jot who sits the Iron Throne. If Jon gets caught up in a protracted southern war, what's to stop the Others moving south?"
Marwyn raised a pained smile. "The Wall." He paused, letting that detail sink in before adding; "Your cousin knows this and he won't let that happen. He knows, better than any of us, what's headed this way. If he liberates the Riverlands, he could raise an army of grateful lords. Lords who have men by the thousand to travel beyond the wall. Right now, as things stand, you haven't the men to take them on."
The loose thread in her sleeve had snapped, so she took to digging her fingernail into a crack in the weirwood table. She worked away at the groove in the wood grain, channelling her nervous energy into it.
"Why now?" she asked, dropping her voice to a whisper. "Why have the Others returned now, after all this time?"
Marwyn's answer was equally low. "True, they hadn't been seen. That doesn't mean they'd gone away."
"So, they were there all along," she replied, frowning. "Ever since the last Dawn Age, they've been roaming the Lands of Always Winter and just biding their time. Even so, it still means that something is drawing them south?"
"That's why I'm really here," he answered. "To try and find out. To see if there's a way of reaching a settlement with them. My lady, they live here. They're as much a part of this world as us and dogs and wolves. So let us see if we cannot reason with them. While your cousin must raise his army and prepare for the worst, let us also hope for the best and find a way to make that army redundant."
Sansa shifted uncomfortably, but if he wanted to talk to the Great Other over tea and lemon cakes, she wasn't about to stop him. She would bake them herself if she thought it would bring peace to her people.
The scouts caught sight of the Frey company not three miles from Seagard. Twenty men in the guard around Black Walder's wheelhouse and an unknown number of scouts riding ahead. It was then that Jon realised their small number might be an advantage. They just looked like weary travellers passing through the Riverlands headed for the safety of the Westerlands. A far from unusual sight, only Brynden had to be kept hidden. Jon, Rhaegar and Davos were free to hunch down and walk the road in single file with their packs strapped to their backs. If anyone stopped them, Jon was the son of Davos and Rhaegar was their humble companion.
They heard the horses of the household guard before they saw them. The tramping of steel shod hoofs pounding on the packed earth road that led to the town gates. Having donned roughspun cloaks over their clothes, their weapons were concealed. Jon carried Longclaw with an extra dagger thrust into his sword belt for good measure. As well as his own sword, Ser Davos found an axe fit for planting in skulls if need be. Ser Brynden, following them from behind a roadside verge was ready to spring out and lead the attack as soon as Jon called the signal. Only Rhaegar was lightly armed with a simple castle forged sword. His greatest weapon was coiled around the tree stumps just out of sight of the road.
As they drew level, the three men walking the road fell to the pathway at the side ostensibly to allow the wheelhouse to pass. Only at the last minute did Jon jump out into the road, shrugging off his pack as he went, unsheathing Longclaw and causing the guardsman's horses to rear. The one out front was thrown off altogether and he cursed heavily as he hit the ground. He called out to Brynden at the same time Rhaegar bellowed some Valyrian command that brought Sonar crashing through the trees as he tried to build enough momentum to take flight.
In the ensuing chaos, Jon managed to dispatch the fallen guardsman with a quick downward thrust. One of his fellows dashed over to help, only to be picked off with an axe to the skull. Sonar beat his wings, screeching loud enough to wake the dead. At some point, when Jon wasn't even looking, the door to the wheelhouse was flung open and a weasel faced man demanded to know what was going on. He took one look at the dragon before flinging himself back inside and slamming the door shut.
Ghost had joined the fight by tearing the throat out of one of the horses, its blood gushing from the open wound and drenching the wolf's pure white fur in slick red slime. Seizing the initiative, Jon grabbed the dead horse's fallen rider and pressed his dagger to the man's throat.
"If you value your lives drop your weapons now!" he yelled over the racket. To make his point, he drove the edge of the dagger deeper into the man's exposed throat, right beneath the loosened gorget of his helm.
Sonar circled overhead, swooping down and screeching as the guards attempted to advance on them. Jon leapt back from the swing of a sword, but it caught his prisoner in the belly and he could only watch as the man's entrails slid from a gaping wound. They slopped to the ground with a nauseating wet slap. Dropping the useless hunk of meat the man now was, Jon took another man out with Longclaw and Rhaegar gave the command for Sonar to open fire.
"Dracaris!"
"Shit!" Jon cursed, "We need Black Walder alive! Don't let that creature burn everything!"
The dragon's flame missed the wheelhouse and set a guardsman and his horse alight, before the others dropped their weapons at the sight of the jet of flame. It was as if they hadn't yet realised that Sonar was a real dragon. Stunned, they all watched in horror before fleeing on foot. Ghost gave chase, and they fled into the arms of Brynden Tully who was waiting farther down the road with his sword drawn and ready. The old man had waited a long time for this moment and he set about it with relish.
Without wasting time, Jon wrenched open the wheelhouse door fully prepared for Black Walder's attack. He had donned armour, but without a squire he hadn't had enough time to strap it on properly and the breastplate hung uselessly from his left shoulder. It was more a hindrance than a help. But his sword was drawn and he leapt out fighting, thrusting the blade at Jon's breast. It could have reached his heart had Jon not parried so easily. The other man was still in deep shock and Jon was quick to seize the advantage. He slashed with Longclaw while kicking out to trip his assailant.
"Who are you?" Black Walder demanded, retreating fast. "What do you want? Gold? I can give you gold. I am the Lord of the Crossing. Name your price and you shall have it, ser."
Rhaegar had jumped in behind Frey and now had his sword trained on the Lord's back. Wolf, dragon and man had finished off the rest of the household guard and Black Walder knew he was surrounded. Jon touched Longclaw's tip, just enough to draw blood and set the blade alight. Black Walder watched the flames take light, the blade turning red, in horrified fascination.
"On your knees and drop your weapons," Jon commanded, flaming sword to the man's throat. "Hands behind your back. You're coming with us."
Surrounded and with one terrified eye on the circling dragon, Black Walder knelt. He hit the packed earth road and the jolt caused the breastplate to finally fall from his chest. Meanwhile, Ser Brynden had come up behind him, stopping only to wipe the blood from his sword.
"I'll name my price, my lord," he growled in the kneeling man's ear. "I'll have back all you stole from us and more besides."
Jon watched as the colour drained from Black Walder's face.
"You cunt!" he spat. "You complete cunt!"
Brynden laughed. "And you'd know a cunt when you see one."
"End this," Rhaegar commanded, returning to the small fold with Ser Davos. "End it now and tie the bastard's hands together. The sooner we get to Seagard the better."
Black Walder tried to resist, but a swift punch in the jaw from Ser Davos set him to rights. Blood burst from his lip, dribbling down his chin and onto his clean tunic. Jon made no effort to help. Trusting Brynden to keep their new prisoner properly constrained, Jon went to help Rhaegar round up the horses that had been pulling the wheelhouse.
"Wait!" Ser Brynden called out as they turned to the task. "Wait right there."
Both Jon and Rhaegar stopped and turned to see what the old man was planning.
"Secure those horses by all means. We'll be needing them later," he said. "But I say we take my lord of the Crossing for a little walk, don't you?"
Normally, Jon would have protested. Memories of being paraded through the wildling camp were raw in his mind. The humiliation of it, the vulnerability to attack that was only spared him because of Ygritte's fearsome nature. But then, he had never organised a massacre before. Less still a massacre that resulted in the fall of his house. Any qualms were set aside as he remembered hearing about how Grey Wind's head was sewn to Robb's corpse and paraded through the Riverlands in a grotesque triumphalist procession.
"Very well," he replied. "We could all do with the fresh air."
Sonar had eaten one of the corpses already and was making a start on a dead horse. But Rhaegar went to him and stroked the scales on his flank. He whispered soft Valyrian to the beast and kissed his smoking snout. After that, the dragon took wing and soared into the sky.
They were only a mile or two from the town of Seagard. An hour or so and they were there.
"Do you know how many men I have in that town?" Walder demanded. "Do you think the four of you can take on an army of thousands? Do you really?"
"No," answered Jon, nonchalantly. "Do you think they could reach you in time before we cut your throat to the bone the same way you cut Lady Stark's?" He smiled brightly at Lord Walder and added: "More importantly, are they flame proof?"
Still bound and being forced along the road at sword point, Black Walder suddenly sagged and laughed entirely without mirth. "You're a fucking Stark, aren't you? Forgive me, I heard Ramsay Bolton did for the older girl and the younger boy and Theon Greyjoy did for the cripple. Which can only mean ..." he trailed off as he tried to guess at Jon's identity. "Which can only mean you're the bastard! That must be it, you're Ned Stark's bastard. I don't know why you're so grieved for the throat of Catelyn Stark, Bastard, because she fucking hated you, you know. She would have taken great pleasure in opening your throat just as I did hers."
Guessing what was going to happen next, Jon sidestepped away from the prisoner so Ser Brynden could get a clear aim. He kicked out from behind, knocking the legs from under Black Walder and sending him sprawling into the muck.
"Up!" Ser Brynden yelled. "So get up now."
Jon had reached his limit and called Ser Brynden off. "My Lord, he is our prisoner and he is disarmed."
Jon stooped to help Black Walder back to his feet and then used the roughspun tunic he'd used as a disguise to wipe the dirt and blood from his face. None too carefully, but he did it all the same. Meanwhile, Brynden remembered his Knight's code and reddened before backing away. But he offered no apologies and Jon certainly wasn't about to start demanding one.
When they reached the gates of Seagard's town more guards appeared. They readied their crossbows, training them on the approaching party before realising what they were seeing and freezing in indecision. They couldn't fire at their lord's captors without hitting him.
"Command them to stand down," said Jon. "And inform them they are free to leave in peace. No one will harm and no dragon either. Resist, and there will be another attack with fire."
"Do this, and you might just come out of this with your life intact," Rhaegar added.
Black Walder had little choice. But he hesitated a long time before wringing the words from his breath.
"Sers, stand down and depart," he said, choking on every syllable. "I am yielding the town."
The men patrolling the walls and manning the gates looked to each other and then the four men holding their lord prisoner.
"But, my lord, we can take them cunts for our supper if you wanted," said one, utterly perplexed,
A huge winged shadow swept across them, followed by a piercing shriek from the skies and a jet of vivid flame. Rhaegar smiled up at the guards beatifically. "Are you sure about that?"
They dropped their pikes and opened the gates in stiff and awkward movements. Meanwhile, the townsfolk saw the dragon and their screams filled the air as they ran for cover. But Jon knew Rhaegar would call him off and tried to call out to them to not be afraid. Before they entered the town, Rhaegar did as he thought he would and Sonar made for cloud cover once more.
Having figured out who Jon was, Black Walder now turned his attention to Rhaegar.
"So, who's this one?" he asked. "Silver hair, purple eyes and humble pet dragon in tow. Well that rules out House fucking Bracken, doesn't it? Viserys, is my guess. He's the one that got away. Him and that sister of his. You know, we had a brother named after one of your lot. Aegon Frey. Turned out to be a lackwit so my grandfather dressed him in motley and made him a capering fool. Personally, I think it quite apt for a fucking Targaryen namesake."
Rhaegar merely sighed. His verbal reply was cut off as a heap of shit sailed through the air in a perfect arc, hitting Lord Walder square in the face.
"Here he comes, the upjumped weasel!" a fine young maid of the town called across the town square. "Look at him now, the Frey murderer!"
With the dragon now out of sight, the people grew bold. When they saw their tormentor bound and being marched through the streets at sword point, they grew positively jubilant. Chaos reigned, but chaos of a different order than before. Soon rotten vegetables and night soil was being flung from all quarters and dumped from upper storey windows from the tightly packed houses. In an effort to avoid the filth, Jon steered his group into the middle of the square, hoping to be out of range of the human shit at the very least.
Rhaegar ducked a flying turnip with surprising grace and fell into step with them. "We need to move quickly before we're all killed."
"They're aiming at him," Jon replied, nodding to Walder. "It's nothing personal."
"I know that," Rhaegar retorted. "But I'd rather we weren't so prominently in the line of fire."
They picked up their pace before the crowds of people could close in on them. Jon tried to force them back to clear the path to the castle, but there were too many. Women clawed at Frey's face, scratching red livid marks down his cheeks from eyes to jawline. He looked like he was weeping blood. Finally Jon, Davos and Rhaegar formed a human shield all the way to the castle gates.
"Now yield," Jon yelled above the din. "Yield the castle to Ser Patrek Mallister and I swear, I will plead with him to spare your life."
Having run the gauntlet of hate, what was left of Frey's anger and pride had taken a severe battering. He fell to his knees before the gates of the castle, watching in despair as the portcullis was raised. To Jon, it all seemed to happen in agonising slow motion. Inch by painful inch he watched the gate rising.
"Lay down your arms. I yield the castle," Frey called out. "I yield the castle to my Lord Mallister."
"Very good," Jon whispered in his ear. But he kept a watchful eye on what the men in the barbican were doing. There was an air of shock and disbelief in the castle as they slowly filed into the yard below. When most were assembled, Jon and the others marched their prisoner within the walls. He gripped Frey's shoulders, holding him up and hissed in his ear: "Now tell them again. Tell them you yield and you want the Mallisters out here, unharmed."
They were surrounded by stunned and silent faces. Mostly men at arms, barely able to comprehend this fresh trauma breaking out all around them.
"I yield," Frey said again, sagging in his captor's hands. "The castle is yielded to my lord Patrek Mallister. Release him from the dungeons and bring him and his family to the yard."
It seemed to take forever and a day. In reality it was no more than a half-hour. Shaken and pale from their ordeal, the Mallisters slowly appeared on a balcony overlooking the courtyard of their newly restored castle. Their eyes were glazed, their faces slack with shock and uncertainty. Only slowly did the realisation sink in and that didn't even begin until they saw a man they recognised. "Claim the castle, my lord. It is yours again."
Thanks for reading, reviews/comments would be great if you have a minute.
Apologies for not getting Arya back in this chapter, but it's definitely on for the next.