Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 25: Across the Sunset
"Fight with your head, not your Heart!"
– Prince Darion Stark
A sword flashed in the sunlight. It whirled down on a young woman who caught the blade on her own, inches from her face; smiling through the crossed swords with eyes gleaming like sunlit steel. "Not bad," Prince Darion said, disengaging his blade with a swift flare before forcing his opponent back with a series of dazzling sallies.
He pushed her further back as he spoke, "but not good enough-"
The tip of his sword rested on the girl's throat, having fallen to the ground.
"-to live," Darion grinned down at his cousin.
Princess Serana's face was flush from exertion.
Emblazoned on her surcoat was the direwolf of his house, her hair short and messy.
Suddenly, she kicked her cousin's blade aside with her boot, rolled, then sprung up, lunging at him.
"Better!" Darion deflected the blade by inches, smiling. Pleased.
Serana grinned at the praise, letting her guard down only briefly. It was brief, but it was enough.
With a nimble parry, Darion arced his blade down, striking the startled girl; but only with the flat of his blade on her shoulder.
"But if this were real then you'd still be dead," Prince Darion laughed then as her expression turned.
Serana reeled back and, with a snarl, charging wildly at her cousin as he leapt up upon a crumbled piece of stone – laughing all the while shouting, "I have the high ground" and easily deflecting the violent but clumsy blows. "Purpose, not passion, Sera! Fight with your head, not your heart!"
He spoke each word with a slap of his sword flat, obviously toying with the young woman.
Serana sliced wickedly at his legs only for Darion to leap up as the blade swished harmlessly under him. But as he landed back on his feet, the edge of the stone crumbled beneath the heel of his boot, teetering then tumbling off the rock; out of sight behind it.
The Princess's savage fighting demeanour turned into the shock of concern.
"Cousin?" Serana muttered, scrambling over the stone to find Darion sprawled out on the ground.
She leaned down to examine him, muttering "this isn't funny Darry" only to hear the footsteps of new arrivals.
Serana squinted in the sun to identify them, as this courtyard on the castle's edge was reserved for the royal family alone; she expected to see Prince Artos or perhaps his son. Then, towering up behind her, a sword glinted at her throat. Prince Darion leered over her shoulder and she knew him to be grinning.
"Dead again, cousin," He said with a joyful laugh. "How many times must I tell you to-"
"-only expose my back to a corpse."
She'd interrupted him, moving the blade carefully away with her finger.
"I know," she rolled her eyes, a hand on her hip. "Falling was a dirty trick though cousin…"
"You asked me to teach you," Darion shrugged, sheathing his steel. "In battle; there's only the dead and the living…"
"You sound like uncle," Serana said with a dismissive wave.
"More the reason to listen," Darion countered. "Uncle Artos is blessed by the gods…"
Serana scoffed then. She knew that; everyone did – he was the best sword in the Sunset.
"Aye," the newcomer finally spoke. "I'm here too, thanks for noticing…"
Prince Darion looked at him, a grin forming; scheming something.
"Did you hear that sweet cousin?" He asked her, feigning confusion.
"Hear what?" She said, eyes narrowed in search of some trick.
"A voice from nowhere," he remarked; looking around the yard. "Spirits on the wind!"
"Piss of Darion," the newcomer said with a snort of laugher.
"Crown Prince Darion," he corrected, still clinging to a smirk. "Brandon; do use your manners…"
"My apologises," Prince Brandon put a hand on his heart. "Piss off, Crown Prince Darion."
Serana watched the two of them with a smile and a shake of her head.
"So then Brandon," Darion pushed aside his amusement.
"His Grace sent me to fetch you. Also, nobody can find Varin…"
"I haven't seen him since the feast," Darion said, showing some concern for his little brother.
"What one?" Brandon asked, pointing out the obvious.
They'd been holding feasts for a whole damn week up to the wedding.
"Last night," Darion hummed in thought; trying to recall the nights events.
"I saw him stumble from the hall," Serana added. "He seemed rather drunk."
They were on the final day of the weeklong celebration now – so Serana had been glad for the sparring this morning – as she may not get the chance again. "Think you can find him eh Sera?" Darion asked her, eyes darting. "I'm assuming that father wants me with him for today's hunt."
"Who do you think you're talking to eh?"
She was grinning something fierce as a wolf in pitch black fur bounded over lazily, calm as still waters.
"We'll find the kid," she scratched behind the wolf's ear. "Won't we Volki?"
Volki's tail wagged absently as his master scratched his ear.
"Well then," Darion was still smiling. "When you find him, tell him the hunt is due within the hour eh?"
"And I'll join you too," Serana added with an easy nod.
"Can we stop you?" Brandon asked as if he needed to do so.
"Nope," she denied, popping the P for extra clarity.
She walked off then alongside the wolf, whistling a tune.
"Don't stare at her ass cousin," Darion said with a smirk. "She'll cut you."
Brandon simply stared at him, sighing with a roll of his eyes. Idiot.
"Your father doesn't like to be kept wa-"
"Who'd you think she'll be wed off to?"
Brandon groaned at that… this wasn't a topic he liked…
"I mean it," Darion's mummers smile faded. "By the end of the damn day I'm to be married, can you believe this Bran?"
"Aye." He could believe it. Why wouldn't he?
Darion frowned. "Father's up to something, ever since grandfather passed…"
"He's the king," Brandon remarked; simple as you please.
"And he's up to something," Darion repeated himself with a sigh. "We all know my marriage is political, it's fine; Cai's a beautiful woman and I'll do my duty-"
"I'm sensing a But here somewhere…"
"-but," he continued as if he hadn't heard the comment. "That still leaves the rest of you. I've seen him talking with Seastark plenty, and the other cadet lords too; scheming and the like – and my people say that Lord Ryder is growing restless. Lord Towers is missing too…"
"Since when do you have 'people' eh cousin?"
He ignored that too. "Lady Amber says he's sick, but I don't buy it…"
"You're ignoring me, aren't you…"
"Towers have ever been an ambitious lot, if they're to miss the wedding; it'll be an insult to father – but isn't that too damn obvious?"
There was a silence that washed over them in.
Prince Brandon looked left, right, then left again.
"Now?" He asked, wondering if he'd be ignored still.
"Yes," Darion rolled his eyes. "What do you think?"
"I think you're nervous about the damn wedding and it's making you overthink, cousin."
He blinked, humming in thought. "Maybe, but still – about Towers and Ryder and the others…"
"It's nothing," Brandon dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Ryder's pissed at my father for the Nefer incident, not that you can blame him; he lost a son – I get that – but the Ryder's wouldn't do something stupid over it. Father lost his position in the fleet after all… it's not like grandfather didn't punish him for it…"
Darion scoffed, a hand on his swords pommel. "And now there's talk of giving your father his own castle – so where's the punishment now eh?"
"It belongs to Uncle Will," Brandon shook his head, thinking of Frostfell. "Father doesn't want it. Why not give it to Prince Varin?"
"I don't know," Darion frowned then, looking frustrated in his thoughts. Politics was a thing of headaches.
Frostfell was without a lord, truly; since Willam's departure – the holding was a matter of some debate among the lords.
"What would you do?" Brandon decided to ask after a moment.
"If I were King now?" Darion frowned, an ill thing to ponder – he wasn't ready to be king yet, even at seven-and-ten. "The cadets are sated, so no concern there; but I'd grant Frostfell to Varin – damn what the lords think – it's not like Uncle Will ever wanted it. And then I'd give Ryder a marriage to stroke his ego…"
Lord Ragnar Ryder had been a great friend to the late King Brandon, that was true enough; but the man's children had minds of their own.
"One of our cousins?" Brandon assumed the match, prying for more detail.
"Aye, maybe Solana? I doubt that Serana wouldn't just flee across the sunset like Uncle did if I tried forcing her to wed…"
"Possibly," Brandon could see the logic. "How old is Bolvar Ryder's eldest? Ten namedays? Eleven?"
"A betrothal obviously…"
"That might do it," Brandon supposed. "What about the others?"
"Towers has more daughters than I care to count," Darion's grin returned. "I'd get you a nice lass, eh cousin?"
He huffed at that idea. "And what could my children inherit eh Darry?"
"Father is building a castle in the Hundred Islands. It'll need a lord…"
"Gods forbid," Brandon chuckled nervously. "A rock fortress a month sail away from home? I'd tell ya to piss off…"
"He has big plans for it," Darion revealed with a beaming smile.
"I don't care how big it-" Brandon paused, then muttered a curse. He?
"Figured it out yet Bran?"
He'd been playing dumb, the sneaky little shit…
Sometimes it was easy to forget he was older than his cousin, by a whole damn year….
"Your father is planning all this, isn't he…"
"Aye," Darion said with a nod. "I've talked to him about it, and he agrees. Varion for Frostfell and Artos for Midgard."
"Lord Ryder will see it as all but exile," Brandon scowled.
"Your father will too no doubt, but it's not – you'll see. Big plans cousin. Big!"
Smooth the Ryder's anger by appearing to exile Artos to a remote outpost in the middle of nowhere.
"And the girls?" Brandon pried; what amusement he'd had long gone now.
"Solana for Ryder's grandson, when they're of age – then Calia for Umber's eldest."
"Umber," Brandon raised a brow then. "Not for Towers?"
"Towers are ambitious but weak," Darion dismissed them out of hand. "Amber will follow Ryder, so they're no fuss, that leaves Towers alone."
"And disgruntled to say the least cousin…"
"They can be disgruntled all they like," he scoffed at the notion. "They can raise, what, a thousand men at best? Best to not reward greed…"
That sum seemed about right, on a good day; the house was proud but far from mighty – not like Ryder or Umber; who feuded enough between themselves.
"House Fisher is ours though grandmother," Darion began listing off the houses. "Flint though the Fisher's, then Mormont though Uncle Edrik's wife, then Seastark though my mother and Sunstark through you Bran. Once father brings House Ryder into the fold and reinforces ties to First Hearth; we're golden… as they say…"
The major houses were all in all tied together, thanks largely to their grandfathers work during his reign.
"What about the Greystarks?"
"Ah," Darion acted as if he'd forgotten. "Lord Wright is old. We'll need a new Lord Admiral sooner rather than later."
"No marriage for them though," Brandon pointed out with his doubts.
"There are talks," Darion's smile turned nervous as he scratched the back of his head.
"Are you… blushing…"
"Piss off," he denied. "There are talks, for my first born and Trian's or one of Duran's daughters for Varin perhaps?"
A Greystark Queen. Such a thing wasn't uncommon, but in recent years it hadn't come to pass. If not that, then Duran Greystark had a whole litter of daughters that would need husbands. All this talk of politics was starting to give Brandon a headache, honestly, he was so damn glad he'd never be King of Winter.
"Aunt Lyarra was meant to wed Trian once," Darion said with a brief falter of his smile. "It seems fitting that we mend that scar, yes?"
They'd had all this worked out it seemed, even going so far as to plot the future of Darion's own blood before they'd even so much as bloody well married. King Rodrik Stark had wasted no time to secure his reign since his father passed little over a month ago. His reign seemed wholly secured.
"Not forgetting the Empire though your future Queen, eh cousin?"
"Yes well," Darion chuckled nervously. "That too, yes…"
All of this only left one Stark unaccounted for then.
"So what about Serana? Where does she fall into this game of yours exactly?"
"Nowhere," Darion admitted easily. "Father isn't cruel, he'll not force her to wed – she's too much like Uncle Willam for that…"
"So she's our newest Wandering Wolf then?"
Silence at that as Darion frowned in thought.
"Grandmother refuses to consider that he's gone for good this time."
"It has been two years and we've heard nothing," Brandon argued. "Pained as I am to admit it, but-"
"Aye," Darion waved it away. "I know. No need to say it though, aye?"
To all except Queen Visanna Stark, it was widely considered fact that Willam Stark was likely dead by now.
"I'll need you to take over Sera's sparring…"
Brandon tilted his head slightly to that, confused.
"Father's planning my life down to the bloody fine details of late," Darion continued with a sigh. "I doubt I'll have spare time to so much as swing my sword for a while yet alone teach Serana to swing hers – so it falls to you, cousin, to pick up the duty. If you don't mind."
"Do I have a choice?"
"Always," Darion smiled wickedly. "Though, I shall have to inform Sera of your refusal to-"
"No," Brandn muttered a curse, feeling a headache coming along at the mere thought. "By the gods, no – I'll do it…"
"I knew I could count on you cousin!"
"Piss of Darion…"
"Crown Prince Darion," he reminded, grinning wide.
"Piss off Crown Prince Darion," Brandon corrected with a sigh.
They left the yard then, leaving behind the smell of salt air and the sound of gulls on the wind.
He found himself in the Wrightwood, moving silently beneath green-grey sentinels and gnarled oaks as old as time.
It was dark amongst the trees, but the sun had risen to light his way, and his feet were sure. He was moving on four good legs, strong and swift, and he could feel the ground underfoot, the soft crackling of fallen leaves, thick roots and hard stones, the deep layers of humus. It was a good feeling.
The smells filled his head, alive and intoxicating; the muddy stink of the hot pools, the perfume of rich rotting earth beneath his paws, the squirrels in the oaks. The scent of squirrel made him remember the taste of hot blood and the way the bones would crack between his teeth. Slaver filled his mouth. He had eaten no more than half a day past, but there was no joy in dead meat, even deer. He could hear the squirrels chittering and rustling above him, safe among their leaves…
He sat on his haunches and lifted his head to the brightening sky, and his cry echoed, a long lonely mournful sound.
As it died away, he pricked up his ears, listening for an answer, but the only sound was the sigh of blowing leaves.
"Varin," a voice came from behind him, softer than a whisper, but strong too. He turned his head, searching, but there was nothing, only…
A weirwood. It seemed to sprout from solid rock, its pale roots twisting up from a myriad of fissures and hairline cracks. The tree was slender compared to other weirwoods he had seen. Wary, he circled the smooth white trunk until he came to the face. Red eyes looked at him. Fierce eyes they were, yet glad to see him.
The weirwood's face turned sad, as if it had lost something of importance that could never be replaced. He saw fear too, a deep-rooted terror.
"Varin," came the soft voice again, stronger now; almost panicked. "We have to leave!"
He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and squirrel, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and a deep stench of wood and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.
"…in the snow…"
Specks of white drifted down from the sky, melting in his fur.
"…leave this place!"
"Open your eyes Prince."
He bared his fangs at the voice.
"See?" The tree said then. "Like this…"
And the tree reached down and touched him.
Prince Varin Stark awoke to the feeling of dread and a pounding drum beat in his head that stabbed at him something fierce.
"Arrrhhh," He groaned, using his arms to get up from the grass covered floor. The Godwood? He assumed it had to be, though he had no memory of coming here. Varin muttered curses under his breath and pushed away the furry beast that was now pushing him with its nose. Stupid wolf. Always bothering him.
"I'm up," he batted the wolf away. "Freki, leave off you mangy bastard!"
The wolf feigned hurt at his words, whimpering playfully.
He stared at it, with a dark black coat and obsidian eyes that seemed to sparkle with mischief. "Don't give me that pup," he rolled his eyes. "I see right through your tricks Freki! You're hungry." The wolf, his face mere inches from Varin, licked him happily in reply. The beast was hungry. It was best to feed him before he ate something he shouldn't; like him for example. He'd tried that once when he was smaller. It hadn't gone well…
"I followed the wolf and sure enough here you are."
The voice was laced with amusement, coming from the girl dressed in riding leathers with a sword on her hip.
"Sera," Varin addressed his cousin, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. "Can't this wait? My heads killing me here..."
"Afraid not," Serana replied, though her tone seemed anything but caring. "Your kingly father seeks you, Prince."
He scoffed. "I'm sure father can do without, he usually does; or has he grown too old already?"
It was Sera's turn to scoff. "Whine to someone else, cousin – I'm just the messenger."
"Fine," Varin waved her away. "Fine – but damn my head hurts…"
He'd drunk more than his share the night before, but they'd been feasting every night for a damn week – it was a wonder Rodrik hadn't beggared the realm of food by now; though Varin supposed the influx of traders and visitors brought its own merits and they had hunted fresh game each morning…
It wasn't like anyone else was allowed to hunt stag in the Wrightwood besides his immediate family.
"Brandon sent word and Darion asked," Serana paused to sigh, a hand on her hip. "Just come along, will you?"
"Aye," he grumbled, rubbing his forehead – the pain stabbing at the front of his skull.
It was a short walk through the Godswood, birds chirping above them as Freki pawed alongside.
"So dear cousin," Varin broke the relative silence between them. "Has father wed you off yet?"
The scowl at that arrived within a heartbeat.
"Piss off Varin," Serana huffed, her hand gripping around the handle of her longsword.
"I'm just saying," he cared nothing for his elder cousin's wrath. "He's wedding us all off at this rate, isn't he? It's only a matter of time…"
"I've no interest in such things…"
"It's your duty," Varin pulled off his best fatherly impression.
"Says the hungover princeling late for his own brother's wedding hunt…"
"Fair," Varin said with a chuckle.
"Very fair," Sera rolled her eyes. "Now shut up about it Varry."
Most knew better than to tease Serana Stark; but he'd never cared.
"As you say Serry," he laughed, teasing the girl.
"I'll cut you cousin," she warned, entirely serious.
"You won't," he denied with a devious smirk.
She wouldn't. He knew her well enough, and blood was blood.
"Still," Varin supposed aloud as they neared the edge of the Godwood. "No lords take your fancy eh cousin?"
"I'm going to cut you…"
"A Ryder perhaps – maybe the wayward pirate one, eh? Pirate Queen has a nice ring to it, no?"
She'd said nothing, eyes forward; her pace quickened as Varin moved to keep up.
"Imagine how cute all the mini-serry's would-"
The punch came with a THUD that took all the wind from his lungs.
"Arghh," Varin managed a chuckle, stumbling a little from the impact.
"You deserved that." She declared with a scoff.
"Aye, fair enough – I'll stop, on my honor oh fierce cousin of mine."
She'd rolled her eyes and simply kept walking.
Freki hadn't so much as growled when she'd hit him in the stomach.
"Traitor," Varin muttered, eyeing his wolf with feigned hurt.
The beast's eyes glinted with cunning and amusement.
Winterhold's main courtyard was a vast thing of cobblestone and high walls, with a single weirwood in its centre; the yard was filled with horses and men armed for the mornings hunt. Stag was the goal – though boar wouldn't be passed up – venison was a staple of the nobility; especially out of the Wrightwood.
"Brother!" Prince Darion called out from beside his horse, a fine black charger.
"Where'd you find him?" Brandon asked from atop his bay.
"Godswood," Serana answered with a smirk. "Passed out under a weirwood…"
"Thank you, dear cousin," Varin said with an unamused look.
"He'd drank too much last night I fear…"
"Thank you," Varin repeated. "We get it."
"Drunk I see," Brandon mused from atop his horse.
"How irresponsible," Darion added with a smirk.
"I hate you all," Varin sighed as he approached the stables across the yard.
Freki had bounded across to his packmates in a heartbeat, playfighting with Fenrir and Volki around the courtyards great weirwood as passers-by gave the wolves a wide birth. Prince Brandon's wolf was a stark contrast to the others; unrelated to them, Sol's fur was white as snow and he was noticeably younger than them.
They'd join them on the hunt, as there were no better trackers than Winterhold Wolves.
King Rodrik Stark came out into the yard then to the collective cheer of his lords as he declared that "today was the day" they'd hunt down the fabled White Hart – a mythical creature that hunters of old pursued, not because they expected to kill it, but because it led them in the joy of the chase. Many looked at a White Stag as a spirit of the hunt, springing forward, ever leading to leap over difficulties, to face new adventures in the active pursuit of the higher aims.
Men often reported sighting of such a creature in the Wrightwood, but most dismissed the notion.
The King leapt into the saddle of his white charger with Lord Endrin Greystark and his sons Trian and Duran acting as his shadows.
"Let the games being!" Rodrik declared as he spurred his horse forward and made to leave the castle.
Prince Varin watched from atop his own horse as his father and brother rode out from Winterhold with a company of some hundred lords.
The Wrightwood was a vast place of pines and oak and evergreen, with freshwater streams that flowed down from a mountain range at its centre, giving the Wrightwood its life. It was famous, above all else, for the packs of Grey Wolves that called the forest home – wild or otherwise. House Greystark saw to the breeding of wolves.
Varin had ridden reluctantly, finding no true joy in hunting; but knowing what his father expected of him.
He'd recalled the first time spent beneath these trees, the underbrush in their shadows as the sunlight of early morning greeted them. It had been a hunt, far less grand than this; where his mother had taught him about the use of pine needles in boiled water being given to the Winter Fleet on long voyages.
It fought off some disease, apparently. Varin only knew it tasted dreadful. It was often sweetened with honey for that reason.
"You feeling well Varry?"
His eyes darted aside to her. Was he that easy to read?
"Fine," he dismissed with a smile. "I'm fine Sera…"
"Bad dreams again?"
"Aye," he admitted with a sigh as they rode.
He was a warg, so such wasn't uncommon; but lately he'd dreamed things beyond a wolfs eyes.
"What was it this time?"
"A tree," Varin admitted, eyes ahead of him.
He'd dreamed of it through Freki's eyes, sometimes a sapling and other times an ancient as the eldest of Winterhold's weirwoods.
"The snow again?" Serana asked, riding atop her chestnut mare.
"No," Varin denied that. "Not this time, thankfully…"
A common dream found him drowning in a sea of snow.
Wargs were common enough, though not so common; it was considered a great gift – marking a man or woman to accomplish great deeds in their time – or so the belief was. Prince Varin wasn't so sure. He was the only warg among his family this generation however, a mark of some pride for the crown…
His father had been a warg too – still was, in fact – but ever since Loki died on a hunt Rodrik had never bonded with another.
Darion hadn't shown any signs of the gift, not that he'd complained. Varin loved his brother for it.
"I get the crown, you get the gift," he'd always say with a beaming smile.
They were deep in the woods now; some hours ride from the nearest village by Varin's guess.
Redwood Hall was near too, the seat of House Redwood, a minor family of little note mostly full of huntsmen and traders. Varin had noted Lord Redwood's presence too, an elderly man on a black charger dressed in the white-and-red of his house with a red weirwood on his crest. A cadet branch of the old Blackwood family.
The closest village was nearer than Redwood was however, by the name of Wolf's Rest; it was a village of some note for its hunters and archers. Varin vaguely recalled some claims years back about a cadet branch of House Stark being founded there, but the claim was dismissed by his grandfather.
Still the village was a cosy overnight stop for many traveling through the Wrightwood.
"We're off cousin," Serana snapped him back to attention and out of his daydreams.
Freki bolted away at that, off to join the other wolves as a sent was picked up and the hunt began in earnest.
Up ahead the wolves had ceased their howls and snarls, sulking into some underbrush far too dense for horseback.
"On foot," King Rodrik had declared, leaping from his saddle with a longbow of exquisitely crafted weirwood strapped across his back.
Varin joined the others beside Serana, sulking through the brush with the wolves and the lords up to a clearing in the trees. A vast meadow greeted them between the trees, full of daisies and roses and flowers of every colour. In the centre of the meadow was a stag unlike any Varin had seen.
It was huge, with grand antlers and a powerful frame – but no feature struck as sharply as its coat.
The stag was as white as fresh snow.
"The hart," one voice whispered, hushed; in awe of the beast.
Varin saw his father take the weirwood bow from his back, a thing of beauty to almost rival the stag; such bows were rare – only ever made of fallen branches.
"Steady father," Darion spoke in a hushed whisper, crouched beside the king now.
Prince Varin hated this. The white stag looked majestic in the meadow, the sun high above them now, winds blowing through the trees behind; the air fresh and warming in the daylight. He wasn't opposed to hunting entirely, per-say, it was an art that fed his family; and no part of a kill was ever wasted… but still…
He could find no joy in watching this, thinking a silent prayer to himself; hoping that the stag might flee.
The gods didn't answer. No magic power arrived to save the beast, no gust of wind, no snap of a twig to alert it…
"Ha!" One lord cheered as the beast dropped to the snow like a puppet without strings. "Fine shot Your Grace!"
"A blessed day," Another lord showered his praises. It was Flint, or so Varin thought.
"The gods bless Prince Darion's wedding," Lord Redwood agreed with the man quickly.
Rodrik swung his bow back over his shoulder and drew a fine silver-engraved skinning knife.
No part of the stag or any kill would go to waste, as King Rodrik ended its suffering with precision, bones were milled into meal and sown in the fields to make the crops grow stronger, the marrow was boiled to make broth, the balls and the rest of that area were usually thrown to the wolves or given to the poor. The organs were made into sausages and given to the guards, as a good dry sausage could last for nearly a year in a cupboard, and forever, if kept cool in a buttery cellar.
The pelt would doubtless be a trophy. A white stag was a rarity – as the muttering of lord's would attest; it was a good omen indeed.
"Poor beast," Varin muttered as his father hauled away the kill with the help of Lord Greystark and his men. They'd hunt several deer and a few boars before the hunt was done, enough to feast for the night; the largest and most important of a weeklong celebration. They left the Wrightwood before the sun began to sway.
Winterhold welcomed them back with open arms and cheers as King Rodrik announced the successful hunting of the White Hart.
Wrightport hadn't been this lively since her own wedding, Queen Visanna thought; all smiles and honey as she wanted out food to the poorer folk in the city. The city was the crowning jewel of the Sunset Islands. It stood the test of time and steel and still shun like a beacon to those that called it home; islanders and imperials both.
They'd cut through the Old District, past the great Godwood there, the sky clear as a warm breeze blew through. A crowd of people went about their daily lives, in fabrics and furs composed of bold whites, red, blues, greys, and greens. Although one might assume the usually chilled climate would call for more clothing, the inhabitants of Wrightport preferred lighter fabric, but lots of it. Many wore long-sleeved tunics, billowy trousers, leather boots, and fur cloaks of varying thickness.
Adventures and sellswords were hardly an uncommon sight, as the city was wide open to all; with the notable exception of the Shipwrights.
"Your Grace," many a passer-by said with large smiles on their faces.
Visanna had been loved by her late husband's people, having often walked among the streets and bought from the merchants or handed out leftover food from the many feasts her King Brandon held over the years. It was a tradition – especially in regard to the food – that left her family well loved among the smallfolk.
"Here you are," she handed a little girl some fresh bread before she bolted away to a woman who was clearly the girl's mother.
A group of Greycloaks passed them by in breastplate that identified them as such. They'd don their full plate during ceremonies and when they ride out of the city on business, but around the city; much like the common guard they wore far lighter attire. They spoke their respects as they passed the Queen Mother.
She saw a richly dressed man then, rudely brush past a sellsword while muttering a curse about unwashed adventuring-types.
Nobility. As much love as her father's family and the Stark's had earned of the people, other lords often scoffed at in their arrogance.
The rich and rude man appeared to have been from House Long, a minor family of little note and less power.
"Pompous bastard," Thorim Flint muttered from beside his queenly aunt.
"Thor," she scolded him half-heartily.
"Apologies," her nephew smiled then. "It's just-"
"I know," Visanna smiled back sadly. "He only harms himself though."
"You sound like father sometimes Your Grace."
"My brother has his wits about him," Visanna laughed, handing out more bread.
Odyn Fisher was anything but a fool… though he had managed to be outwitted by Willam…
"Gods watch you," Princess Solana was handing out food too, as her grandmother insisted; it was practically a family tradition.
The Princess was dressed modestly, in a fine black fur cloak to fight off the cold that was clasped in place by a silver direwolf pin.
"Your Graces," a merchant passed them by as they neared the Trade District and left the poorer side of the city behind. Most of the city's coffers were filled with the taxes taken from merchants in the busy markets with countless souls bickering and moving around the crowded market.
It wasn't long before Thorim had found his way to a weapons stall, inspecting the steel for sale.
"She's a beauty," He proclaimed, eyeing a freshly forged one-handed axe.
The vendor beamed a smile. "My thanks m'lord, some of me best work she is!"
"It shows," Thorim was all smiles, parsing the work no more than it deserved. It was fine steel, engraved with basic runes.
"Come along nephew," Queen Visanna said, nodded to the vendor politely.
"I thought my lad might like it…"
She giggled at that, as if she were a blushing maid again.
"Your boy is barely past his second name day."
"Never too early to start Your Grace."
"I'd be honoured to sell my work to your boy m'lord," the merchant said, eager as you please.
"Here," Thorim gave the man a pouch of silvers. Far more than the axe's true worth.
"I-" the merchant stumbled over his words. "This is too much m'lord, I-"
"Take it," he insisted, pushing the pouch into the man's hand. "It's fine work; my boy will love it!"
"You honor me Lord Fisher," the merchant bowed his head. "And you, good Queen…"
They left the man's stall then, with a new axe stabbed to Thorim's waist.
Away from the steel and closer to the cloth, there were many merchants selling attire from simple shirts to fine cloaks or coats and furs and belts among other things. The women on this stall greeted them with a smile, saying "Your Grace" and little else as she went about sorting some wares behind the stall.
It wasn't anything a noble would wear, the merchant woman knew; but the Queen and her granddaughter made the effort to look despite the fact.
"Here you are," A small voice snapped them to attention.
It was a child. Maybe six years of age? She held out a small shirt for Thorim, with a wide smile on her lips at being helpful. "For your son," the small girl said; having clearly overheard them at the other merchant's stall. Visanna held back a laugh. "Mother says our clothes are just as good as the stuffy noble-
"I'm so sorry Your Grace," The child's mother rushed in, laughing nervously. "Children say the strangest things!"
"That they do," Visanna stifled a laugh, but not her smile.
Thorim had taken the shirt from the little girl and thanked for her it politely.
"Thank ye, little lady," he'd said, making the merchants daughter grin.
"You welcome," The child's voice replied with a nod, the bright smile still on her lips. Innocent as they came.
Visanna found the whole thing hilarious, handing a small pouch of silver to the girl before turning to her mother.
"And this," she held a single gold piece for the woman. "Is for embarrassing my nephew."
The mother smiled once more, taking the gold gladly and casually grabbing the silver off her daughter as the Queen Mother and her party left. "Thank you, Your Grace!" She called out, "Come again!" A single gold wasn't much, especially for royalty, but it was probably a few days of sales for the women.
"Can we visit the park, grandmother?" Solana asked, looking hopefully.
"I suppose so," Visanna hummed at the title that made her feel her many years, eyes to the sky – it was still early in the day.
"I'll leave you ladies to it if that's alright aunt," Thorim asked, a grown man who didn't truly need permission; even if she was Queen Mother.
"I'll see you again at the wedding feast nephew," she opted for, all smiles and sweetness.
Thorim Fisher left them at that, leaving his aunt with her granddaughters and a handful of Greycloak guardsmen.
The western corner of Wrightport was a district devoted to leisure activities for the cities populace who found the presence of nature a welcome respite from the vast stone thoroughfares of the city proper. It was here, on the parks edge, that many minor nobles and rich families called home. The most attractive section of the capital, it naturally attracted the wealthy; with streets of clean cobblestone lined with trees and flowers kept by gardeners set to task.
The Old District boasted the largest Godwood, true, but it was largely a place of prayer; where the park was for leisure.
It was here that Visanna Stark found herself sitting on one of the any carved wooden benches, watching her granddaughters Solana and Calia playing as the daylight shun through the trees in the sky above; the air warming as the day grew older. There were others present too, smallfolk and nobles alike, all enjoying the quiet.
The cold morning had given way to a comforting warmth by now. She thought of her late husband then as she watched the girls laughing at play.
His death had come swiftly, in his sleep; to the shock of the whole kingdom. It was a morbid thing waking up beside a dead man that had once been her husband. Their marriage wasn't a perfect one by any stretch, but she had come to love him in the later years. His loss still weighed heavily on her heart.
"Your Grace," one of the Greycloaks spoke, calling her out from her daydream.
"Yes?" She asked the man, wondering what he wished.
"It's growing late," he told her kindly. "His Grace should be returning soon…"
Ah, her son's hunt, one of many he'd held over this last week of celebrations.
"Very well," she decided. "Girls, come along; your father should be returning shortly."
They left the park at that and headed back to the Winterhold. Her grandson's wedding was due to begin tonight.
The smell of hearty beef and ale stew wafted through the air strongly, making his belly growl. Round loaves of fresh bread in baskets smelled ever so slightly of cinnamon and raisins. Venison, beef and pork were aplenty, with the choose of fish; salmon and tuna – potatoes and parsnips fried in honey, seasoned to perfection.
Varin's mouth watered at it all, or it had; during the first few nights of feasting. A man could grow fat and plump if he kept eating like a king every damn night.
His cousin Brandon was spinning a tall tale as he chewed on a well-done piece of crispy bacon.
"There we were," he'd began. "At the peak of the mountain!"
"Hardly anywhere close," Varin thought, nursing his tankard of Winterbrew; a popular mead that warmed a man's soul.
"Out of the trees, fierce as any I've seen, came a stag three times the size of the average hart!" Brandon continued his tale as a handful of lords listened around him. "I swear on my honor, it was none other than the fabled White Hart! Its antlers were the length of swords!"
"Ah," One of the lords scoffed. "You're full of it lad!"
"Not so fast," another argued. "His Grace returned with the beast; it's no tale!"
"What say you Prince Varin?" Lord Flint asked, silencing the rest as the eagerly awaited his account.
Varin glanced a look at Freki, resting peacefully on the halls floor. "It was-" He paused.
What harm did the tall tale do, truly? "As my cousin says, my lords. "Never seen a stag so large…"
"Ha!" Brandon exclaimed, seemingly down a few cups of mead. "See? Those of ye that doubted our tale, just shameful!"
They continued to argue and drink for as long as the average man tended to. And in Varin's first-hand experience that tended to be a sizable amount time. It was his father's voice that snapped him from his barely half empty tankard and wondering thought of talking trees, snow and white stags.
"My Lords," King Rodrik declared from his high seat overlooking the great hall of roaring hearths and gathered nobles. "Ladies, friends and family – I thank you for coming to these celebrations. With the loss of my father, a new age is upon our fair islands, and with it comes new bonds to be forged!"
The hall erupted into cheers from most of the lords present, raising their cups and mugs and glasses up to drink happily.
"We are here to celebrate not only the life of my late father, but the union between my son Darion and his bribe Princess Cai!"
Sounds of "Princess!" and "Prince!" echoed out across the hall.
One shout of support came from a dark-skinned man Varin knew to be the self-styled 'Prince of Nefer' here to beg his father's support in reclaiming the city.
Nobody had heard news out of Nefer since his uncle Artos had his blunder there, losing him the admiralty and one of the Ryder sons; until this supposed Prince of Nefer had arrived some months past claiming to be the last of the rightful Kings of Nefer. The man hadn't left since… not that he had anywhere to go…
"The Islands and the Empire have forever been close friends," Rodrik continued, still standing; his voice booming. "A union that has too rarely been tied with blood – but one that shall be tied tonight, here before us all, reforging the pact of Ice and Dawn for generations to come!"
"To the Dawn!" One lord shouted out, clearly rather drunk.
"To House Stark!" Another added to far greater cheers.
The Lóng's were present in the hall too, seated in a place of honor with the Stark family. It was the eldest Prince Liang and Princess Nuwa in attendance for their sister's wedding. Darion had at one stage argued how his Cai was far more beautiful than Princess Nuwa and none had challenged him on the claim.
The Princess Nuwa didn't take kindly to it when she'd overheard, though how she overheard was anyone's guess. Varin didn't like that woman.
He could see Prince Liang Lóng seated to his father's left, all smiles; in a way that seemed fake to his own eyes.
"To my son," Rodrik degreed with a raised chalice of Imperial Wine. "To our families and friends!"
Once more, the hall erupted into cheers and praise as their King sat back into his seat.
The feast continued in relative peace, with hushed whispers and laughter over good food and company; though Varin could make out his father's conversation across the high table. "And so it shall," he'd heard his father clearly, an edge of winter on his tone. "So long as you stand with us Lóng..."
"Always," Liang Lóng replied, all fake smiles; his accent was deeply imperial. "I am a man of my word Your Grace..."
"As am I," Rodrik said plainly, taking a gulp of his wine.
There was something afoot there, Varin thought as he sipped his brew; deciding to stay out of the politics. Such things were father's and Darion's problem.
His grandmother seemed more interested in the matter, whatever the matter actually was; it seemed she was aware and none too thrilled by whatever it was Rodrik was scheming with the imperial. She had that motherly disappointed look on her face that Varin's own mother often gave him when he'd disobey his father…
It wasn't long before the wedding ceremony took place, held outside the great hall under the eyes of the gods; hundreds of nobles were in attendance as the shadows grew longer. Men in green flowing robex of green cloth were present, sewn together in such a way as to make it look like a dress of leaves. Their belts were like bark and in the darkness of his hood were masks as white as bone, covering their entire face aside from kindly emerald eyes. They were here to bless the wedding.
Varin stood with his father and cousins as Darion and Cai Lóng stepped towards the great weirwood that showered the courtyard.
"Who comes before the gods?" One of the Green Men spoke, standing between the pair.
"Prince Darion of House Stark," his brother decreed, appearing not even an inch nervous; though he knew him to be.
"Princess Cai of House Lóng," his brothers bride said, dressed in a silver-white dress; a stark contrast to her flawless bronze skin.
"The gods see you," the Green Man said simply. "Do you come together here freely, of your own volition as one heart and soul?"
"We do," Darion vowed bravely.
"We do," Cai echoed, smiling nervously.
"Princess Cai Lóng," the Green Man declared then, as the blood-red leaves of the weirwood blew in the breeze. "Do you swear in sight of the gods to remain true to Darion Stark, to bare his children and give him wise council and comfort, through good and ill; so long as you both draw breath?"
"I swear by the moon and stars," she declared, with practiced poise.
"And do you, Darion Stark, swear to remain true to Cai Lóng in sight of the gods; to give her hearth and home so long as you both draw breath?"
"I swear by Ice and Fire," Darion declared clearly, smiling at his blushing bride. "By the sun and stars…"
The Green Man took the Prince's hand then, taking a small bronze knife with a weirwood handle from his green leafy robes and drawing it across Darion's palm in a shallow cut that drew a fine trickle of blood. "With this blood, in sight of the gods and these witnesses; you do pledge your heart and soul together."
He did the same with Princess Cai's hand, mixing their blood in a bowl of thick red weirwood sap.
"I bind you in sight of the gods," the Green Man marked both their foreheads with the mixture, a rune-word.
Varin watched in quiet, as all others did; noting the rune his brother had chosen for the ceremony. It read "Loyalty" for all to see.
"The gods have seen your hearts and heard your vows," the Green Man declared for all. "May they bless your future until the day you return to their embrace…"
Darion cupped his wife's face then, kissing her ruby lips and holding her closer as the crowd of noble lords and ladies clapped and cheered for the couple's union. The Green Man was smiling and Varin could've sworn he saw his own kingly father shed a tear… but that might've been a trick of the light…
Above them, as the courtyard clapped and cheered, white flakes drifted down from the sky as Varin held out his hand and the snow melted from the heat of his palm. Winter had come as Prince Darion and Princess Cai Stark kissed while the snow drifted down all around them under the god's watchful gaze.
Unknown to them all as the snows fell a ship arrived in Wrightport, carrying men thought two years dead. Cregan Snow was home.
My Note(s): A PoV from the Sunset Islands to catch up on events. King Brandon the Bloody has passed peacefully at a ripe old age, giving way to King Rodrik who has been busy securing his reign and is plotting/scheming future endeavours. Darion Stark gets married to his Princess, tying the Empire firmly to the Islands by blood for the first time in a few hundred years. I felt after all the focus on King's Landing that we were due a glimpse from across the sea to check in with Winterhold.
Cregan Snow has arrived back home finally as we fade to black on this chapter, though he has no clue about the war back in Westeros.
20: Tame the sea dragon? It's basically Jörmungandr from Norse mythology, so I'd say that's fairly impossible :)
Miguelgiulianoco: Stannis was seizing any vessel going out of the Blackwater at the time in the books, so it made the most sense that they'd all but be forced to make a visit there; however short that visit was. Lord Reed should show up later but I won't spoil anything in regards to all that :P
Dave: Glad to hear you're enjoying it so far :) I appreciate people taking the time to comment, always encouraging to see