Rickard Stark - Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North
It took ten days for Wyman to ask for another private meeting. He was quite surprised. If Wyman had answers, he would have come far earlier. But Rickard didn't send for him.
No matter how much his curiosity was piqued, he wouldn't pull himself down to the level of a petulant child demanding sweets.
Regardless, he didn't waste much time before he found himself in his solar, a pair of guards at each end of the corridor keeping watch. Within a minute, Martyn Cassel entered, escorting a pale-faced Wyman Manderly. If that wasn't enough to raise his eyebrows, the thick stack of letters in his hand clenched hard enough to make his already thick fingers look like large sausages.
His patience allowed him to wait until Martyn closed the door and then tapped in their sequence with the blunt end of his polearm.
"There is… terrifyingly disturbing news, Lord Stark. Euron Greyjoy, the second son of Lord Quellon, perished in what appears to be an accident a week past."
That was unfortunate, but the disturbed expression on Wyman's face didn't disappear. On the contrary, it only got worse.
"My Argent in Lordsport sent me a large stack of letters, apparently sent out the very day the Greyjoy boy died. And they," he paused, gulping, "My Lord, the content of these letters are horrific at best. Here," he extended the hand with the letters in it to Rickard, who gingerly accepted it.
The first letter was dated nine years ago, talking about the second son of the Lord Reaper. He could only guess why Wyman only saw it now.
As he read through it, he got an impression of a boy driven mad with nightmares and dreams. He couldn't help but make comparisons to the Targaryens despite having never married into the Greyjoys. Madness of that sort was mightily rare at best and usually snuffed out when found.
None of the noble families would want that one person to be a stain on their reputation, and hence they were never talked about. So it was understandable if Quellon had decided that an accident was the only way around.
As a Lord Paramount, with a legacy of more than eight thousand years to protect, Rickard could see how another lord would conclude that nothing else could be done. It was one thing to wait for the child to do something bad and exile them for that, but those rarely end up well. Regardless, he would pray to the gods once again, beg to them that they never put him in a position where he'd have to become a kinslayer.
The second letter, though, was where things started to fall into place. It was hastily scratched as if written in a hurry and in fear that someone could find it. A sudden sense of unease rose the hair on the back of his neck.
Euron had found out the purpose of the Argent stationed there. And he had threatened him with unspeakable things if he was ever mentioned in his letters.
Using his privates as bait for fish?
Dear gods, no.
Euron had then taken the liberty to slice the wings off of all the Argent's ravens. And then he'd placed guards that kept a keen watch on him so that he couldn't send any letters by ship.
Rickard didn't hold himself up pondering on the contents of the second letter. He felt that any conclusions he made would be premature, as part of the sympathy he had for Euron cracked and faded with just the second letter.
One by one, he picked up the letters and read. One letter at a time, his pity died and gave way to a burning outrage. How insane had the boy been? To commit the worst crimes and more, then come to the Argent's assigned room and then narrate to him all his misdeeds?
By the seventh letter, he was seething.
Wyman picked up on that - smart man that he was.
"My lord, I would suggest that you take your time reading these. However, I believe it paramount you read the last one."
His throat was choked, so he didn't bother wording out a reply. Instead, he simply dropped the stack of parchments to his table and pulled out the one at the bottom.
The first words made his jaw drop. He… he had done what to his brother? His eyes jumped up and met with Wyman's, but he didn't say anything. With a guarded expression now, he continued reading, intent just to end this recount of horror and get to Euron's death. And the contents of the letter had him raise his eyebrows.
The Argent had seen Rodrik and Harras Harlaw leave two hours after the midday feast for the nameday celebration of the young Aeron Greyjoy. They left with no guards but came back with another person in tow—the very boy who had plagued his thoughts as of late.
Rodrik Greyjoy had reached Pyke.
And so he read how Euron had, seemingly, drunkenly walked out of his room and ended up on the bridge that connected their Great Keep to the Sea Tower. How a freak storm had robbed him of his footing, and how he was found the next morn, washed up ashore, with everything beneath his ribs ruined.
Good riddance, he thought. But he couldn't shake off a suspicion. Was Rodrik Greyjoy responsible for this? Had he known what sort of person Euron Greyjoy was?
Well, even if he did, it wasn't like a Greyjoy boy could just politely ask the Gods for a storm and be given a gift.
Rodrik Greyjoy's time of return was just a happy coincidence, then? Most likely.
However suspicious his heart made him, his mind reasoned fairly well against it, and at the end of the five or so minutes he pondered on the letter, he had decided to follow his head.
His mouth was dry, and his ale was fresh in the goblet. Yet, Rickard didn't reach for it. He had to clear his mind, yes, but ale wouldn't help here. But he knew exactly what would.
"I'm hoping you've got more to say, Wyman," Rickard intoned, getting off his seat to open the door.
"Martyn, get Lord Manderly and me our horses and saddle yours up. We're going on a hunt."
He didn't wait for their aye's, turning back to Wyman and motioning him to rise.
"Get into your leathers, man. I will ask my goodfather if he's up for one more hunt. I trust you've got copies of these stored safely?"
Wyman nodded, his second chin bobbling up and down, yet he ignored that. Grabbing the stack of parchment, he left the solar towards his goodfather's rooms.
While he needed time alone, the recent arrival of Rodrik Stark was a blessing. Rickard wasn't prideful enough to ignore wise advice, and however smart Wyman was, he never knew the hearts of men as Rodrik Stark did. No one knew the hearts of men like Rodrik Stark did.
An adventurous child he had been, taking to the way of the sword and horse over his books. His father, Lord Beron Stark, had died at the hands of Raymun Redbeard when he was six, and after Artos the Implacable had absolutely ruined the Wildling Invasion, Rodrik had begged his elder brother to teach him warcraft. So for ten years, he learned what he could, quickly becoming the only person in the North who could even try to contend with his much older brother in the yard.
According to his goodfather, exactly a moon after the death of Artos Stark, he had left Winterfell with his horse and four men. The only supplies they had taken were the food they could load on their horses. A bow and two score arrows each, along with their choice of weapons, fresh steel chainmail, and riding leathers—no carts following in their wake and no ravens to send for help.
For two years, the five friends had roamed the North, killing bandits and putting the fear of the Wandering Wolf into the hearts of every soul above the Neck, which included those beyond the wall.
He remembered reading the first letter the previous Lord Commander Dalyn had sent to Winterfell in the archives and being awed at the thought of Rodrik Stark's name being as known as Artos Stark's beyond the wall. But, of course, he now knew that knowing the name was one thing. They might not have feared Rodrik Stark like they did Artos the Implacable, but the thought of the Starks being at full alert made them dispose of any plans of invasions or raids.
When Autumn came, and the snows had thickened, the Wandering Wolf had taken his band of five to White Harbour, where he took a ship and sailed to Braavos, where he had signed with the Second Sons. In six moons, he had become their commander, and for the next two years, he led them across the plains of Essos. He unhorsed Khals with his lance, and his band of four slaughtered their Bloodriders with ease, their polearms giving them a far longer reach and chainmail and leathers protecting them from their enemies' arakhs.
And yet, he had grown weary of the fighting - two of the four men that had followed him since the beginning had died because he had underestimated his enemy. So the next day, he named the remaining two men Captains and boarded a ship from Tyrosh to return to the North.
Marrying an equally adventurous Arya Flint, he had two daughters of his own, after which he became the Master-at-Arms in Winterfell. For two and ten years, he whipped the guards into something of an elite force. Two hundred men - all heavy cavalry like himself, with sufficient mastery of their polearms and recurve bows. The best part of his training was that their commander need only give them a direction. They were smart enough to formulate plans and had been grilled with drills and scenarios Rodrik Stark had taught them.
But as good as the result was, it was entirely on Rodrik Stark to claim credit for the elites. Rickard had brought the elites along with his recently made goodfather to the frontlines of the Blackfyre Rebellion - the War of the Ninepenny Kings they called this one.
Rodrik had teamed up with the Blackfish, handing over command when his horse took an arrow. Rodrik Stark's elites had given chase along with Brynden Tully to capture Lashare, Spotted Tom, and the Bad Apple. Not the Knights of the Vale, nor the Riverlander cavalry. Not the Lannister Heavy Horse or the Dornish Raiders. It was Rodrik Stark's elites, with their bows and glaives, that had laid waste to the remnants of the Blackfyres.
And yet, he hadn't claimed credit for it. Instead, he had leaped praise on the Blackfish, and grown close with the Riverlander, only turning back north when his wife was heavy with Benjen.
He had stayed with her until Benjen's birth and Lyarra's eventual death before leaving with Bran to Barrowtown.
Yet, he'd returned two days past, with the rider that brought back word from Barrowtown about Lord Dustin agreeing to his request.
If there was ever someone who could help him make sense of this situation, it would be Nuncle Rodrik, as he insisted he is called by everyone in the castle. After all, he was the one who knew Quellon Greyjoy best. He was the one who facilitated most of the trade between Lordsport and Barrowtown, after all, and that required he be the one to treat with Quellon Greyjoy in Rickard's stead.
His presence was paramount for this discussion to proceed.
Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the doors to Nuncle Rodrik's quarters.
"Aye?" came a hoarse voice from inside. Hoarse, yet strong and loud still form the years Rodrik Stark spent giving his men commands.
"Fancy a hunt, Nuncle?"
The door opened, and the first face he was was not Rodrik's but his daughter's.
And it was a very guilty expression she sported.
Rickard proceeded to ignore Lyanna and looked at nuncle instead. "What's she done now?" came out of his mouth before he took the scene in.
Surprisingly, he was already dressed in riding leathers and had his bow in hand - almost as if… "Why, she convinced me to go out hunting with her!"
The guilty expression disappeared from her face, replaced with a pair of big wide eyes, begging for him to allow.
"Nuncle, it's a topic of utmost import that we must discuss at the earliest."
"And Lyanna can ride as well as Buckets already! Isn't that perfect! I'm afraid, Rickard, I've already given my word."
"...Sigh. Very well, then. Come, Lyanna. I trust that you'll have Ella saddled up by the time we're to leave?"
"I will!" She yelled in pleased delight before blushing and composing herself. She gave a proper Lady's curtsy, bowing with fingers that imitated her clutching at an imaginary skirt. It would have looked a lot more sincere if she wasn't dressed in Ned's old riding leathers.
"I meant, I'll see that done, father," she said before turning tail and sprinting out of nuncle's rooms.
"You want her to take her duties as a lady more seriously? Then allow her these moments of release, Rickard. Believe me, I raised two daughters just like her."
A rough laugh escaped both of them as their eyes met.
Rickard put all pretense aside as he took two quick strides, closing the distance between them and grabbing nuncle in a tight hug.
Rodrik hummed in his ear, just like he'd done when he'd executed the first deserter of the Watch in his time as Lord Stark. He took a moment, eyes closed, before thumping his palm across nuncle's back and releasing him from the tight hug.
"There's been disturbing news from Pyke, nuncle. Crimes worse than what the Boltons are remembered for. While the perpetrator might be dead, I'm not completely comfortable sending Brandon and the heirs to the Northern Houses onto a Grejoy ship without someone there to keep an eye on them."
"And you want me to accompany them?" Rodrik asked with a calm, knowing smile.
"If you could, nuncle. And yet, looking at how happy Lyanna has become in your presence here, I'm reluctant to do so."
Rodrik laughed heartily at that. "Son, all you need to do is to indulge her once in a while. Carrot and stick, man! Carrot and stick! If she excels in her lessons, then take her out hunting for a day. Spend some time with her, get to know her truly. She'll amaze you."
"Aye, I'll see what I can do, nuncle. You're prepared already. I will go get my bow. In the meantime, go through these," Rickard said, handing over the stack of parchment in his hand.
Rodrik Stark was not a stupid man, so when he saw the expression on Rickard's face, he didn't say anything. Instead, he simply accepted the letters and made himself comfortable on a fur-laden chair.
Rickard saw the dismissal for what it was and made his way towards his room. Wyman would take a good thirty minutes to change - that is, if he still fits into his riding leathers. He grabbed his bow from the cabinet in his rooms and then picked up Ice from the mantle in his solar. Attaching the buckle before swinging it diagonally across his back, he hopped a bit to ensure it was secured.
Now a greatsword wasn't an ideal weapon for hunting. Some would even go as far as to say that it was the worst. But when it's Valyrian Steel, it changes things completely. He had to say, there was a certain sense of satisfaction when it cleaved straight through the head of a boar where most spears would just sink and get stuck in it.
He walked out of the Great Keep, looking around at the happenings of the castle. Vayon should have his prized riding boots out and shined by now.
It was a whole different story behind those boots, Rickard remembered with a smile. It was on the way back from the war in Essos when Luthor Tyrell had deemed it funny insulting his riding skills simply because he preferred fighting on foot. That had marked his first and last performance in a southern tourney ever.
Rickard had simply prepared his horse and borrowed his nuncle Rodrik's lance. His injury prevented him from partaking, not like he would want to in the first place. And so he rode in the lists, defeating only three nameless knights before being pitted against Lord Tyrell. He was surprised to know later that Luthor had gone through the trouble of bribing the gamesman to arrange the match.
Luthor came onto the tiltyard, all dressed up in fancy armor and sweating like a pig in the heat of Oldtown. Rickard had decided to have mercy on him on the first tilt. He didn't want any needless grudges forming. But, his pride was challenged, so he had to make a stand. He could easily break even by unseating Luthor in the second tilt - which would prevent the Reachman from being needlessly offended while forcing him to accept his superiority on horseback.
So that is exactly what Rickard did. And at the end of the tilt, he only asked for his boots with the golden spurs, returning the horse and armor back to the Reacher Lord. Of course, he would have just asked for the spurs, but they would look bad against the usual pair he wore. Brown doesn't go well with gold, after all. Black was much better.
Just as he had expected, Vayon was outside, waiting with his pristinely shined riding boots. They might have been too much for a simple hunting expedition, but he couldn't deny - the southerners had mastered the art of making their boots so very comfortable.
Lyanna had already saddled up her pony and was warming her up by trotting rounds around the sparring yard. Good. This would mean that the smaller horse wouldn't exhaust itself when riding around with his and Rodrik's thoroughbreds and Wyman's warhorse.
He had to give the Ryswells their credit. Their pureblood horses were the only ones that could last for hours at end in Northern forests. The thoroughbreds were the best of the purebloods. Larger, faster, and more agile than the best Bracken or Lannister horse. The Dornish Sand Steeds were the only ones who could possibly take them on in a race, but they'd eventually lose on their endurance.
Yet, these thoroughbreds required equally talented riders. Rickard had to put in more than three sennights worth of single-minded focus to tame Vain before he stopped attempting to throw him off. Rodrik had joked about the horse having a coat of fur redder than a Tully's hair, even calling it redder than the blood in his veins.
When he dominated all the other horses in the stables for his time with the scratcher, he had decided to name him Vain. Soon enough, Wyman Manderly stepped out of the Great Keep, followed closely by Rodrik Stark.
Whatever Rickard had expected, a soft smile on his face wasn't it. Still, he held back from commenting as they all mounted their horses. Grabbing the quiver from Vayon's hands, he attached it to its spot on Vain's saddle.
A few moments later, everyone was mounted, and with Martyn taking the lead, the party headed out the Western Gate, making their way towards the Wolfswood.
Soon enough, Martyn and his band were out of hearing distance, and Rodrik called Lyanna to him, waving his bow to get her attention. She was behind them, riding quietly, but an invitation was all she needed before her pony suddenly picked up the pace and dashed to nuncle Rodrik's side.
"You're still the best rider I've seen at your age, my little winter rose." Rodrik praised her affectionately.
"Thank you, grandfather. Ella's the fastest horse in Winterfell. Would you care for a race, or are you too old to ride faster than this?"
"Why you little," he squawked indignantly as he chased Lyanna, who had galloped ahead.
"The little lady is most certainly a very talented horse rider, my lord. On a well-matched thoroughbred in five or so years? She'd be the fastest in the North, easily." Wyman commented on the side.
"You might be true, Wyman, but for now, nuncle is going to shatter all her hopes. Venth is far more agile than any of our horses, and with Rodrik on the saddle, I'd be surprised if they lost any speed even inside the Wolfswood. Look." He indicated as nuncle overtook Lyanna, slowing down in front of Ella to force her to as well. "Let's catch up to them, Wyman."
"Aye, let's."
Pushing his spurs into the side of Vain slightly, he gained speed and was soon slowing down to match the trot of nuncle and Lyanna, only to realize Lyanna was not happy and giddy anymore.
"... can't leave now, grandfather! You just arrived two days ago! You love Brandon more. It's not fair!" She was wailing as she showered nuncle with hits. Nuncle just bent down low and picked her up from Ella, made a lot easier by Lyanna instinctively removing her feet from the stirrups.
Nuncle Rodrik placed her in front of himself, Venth easily accommodating Lyanna's weight along with his own.
"Love, why don't you come with your father down south when he does? There's supposed to be a grand tourney in Lannisport in about two moons. I'll be there, and we can watch the tourney together?"
Rickard sighed. While he had planned to bring her along, he hadn't wanted to tell her so soon. She had been acting like a hellion for a while until nuncle had arrived. Running off from her lessons, giving Walys trouble by sneaking up on him and whatnot.
With Ned staying behind as the Stark in Winterfell, Rickard had always planned on bringing both Benjen and Lyanna along. But, he saw what nuncle was doing - he had taken the liberty to part with bad news and then temper it with good news. He vowed to remember that, as a teary smile appeared on Lyanna's face.
But he couldn't let nuncle be the only one making his daughter happy! At this rate, she'd only ever listen to him. So, on a whim, he made a decision and trotted over to them.
Nuncle had placed Lyanna back on Ella and continued on ahead when Rickard spoke, "Now, I know you're good with a bow Lyanna. Don't be surprised; I've known about the missing bow for the entire time!"
The tears, now magically gone from her face, made the flush on it even better. "I'm sorry…"
"None of that now! Won't you show Lord Manderly and your grandfather how good a shot you are?"
"I can actually join you in the hunt?" she asked, excited. After all, she'd been accompanying Rickard on some hunts for close to three years now, but she'd never been given the leave to participate - just observe.
"Aye. Now, you know the rules. We are already in the forest. Just up ahead, see that Martyn and his boys have dismounted and prepared binds for our steeds. Today, you'll be the one hunting. We'll start small. You'll have to be silent. No more talking after we've dismounted. Don't draw the bow unless you know you have a clear view of the target. And keep a knife on you at all times. Now I know you don't have one, but here, you can borrow mine for the day."
Handing over his sheathed knife that he kept strapped on his right thigh, he gave Lyanna a serious look. "This is live steel. Sharp enough to slice through bone. Be very careful with it. That means no swinging the knife. You always stab with this one - it tires you less and causes more damage that way."
Her eyebrows scrunched up cutely as she processed all the information. Then, a few seconds later, she gingerly drew back her hand, Rickard's larger one no longer gripping it, and looked at the knife. Giving it a look over, she nodded, "Aye, father."
"Now, the strap is wide enough to be your belt buckle. I trust you know how to fasten it? Go on then," he added, chuckling as she gave him a pointed look.
"Now, dismount, and grab three arrows. If you miss all three, we'll take over. So, remember, you've only three shots," Rickard reminded her.
He hopped off Vain just as Wyman and nuncle Rodrik did - handing their four horses over to Martyn's four companions. "Let the hunt begin."
Ser Brynden Tully - the Blackfish
He supposed the boy was really telling the truth as he saw Nate coming back into Riverrun. He did actually look like he had been riding non-stop since dawn, and his horse looked worse than him.
He decided to approach him at the stables and caught him unbuckling the large sack tied to the side of the horse as he walked in.
"How were your days away from Riverrun, my dear friend! Got any fancy trinkets for me?" He asked jovially.
The scared shitless expression on Nate's face was the funniest thing he'd seen this past week!
"S..Ser B..Brynden," he stuttered.
"Come, Nate! Hoster wants to have a drink with you. I hear you've got all the gossip from Riverrun to Ashemark?"
"Milord?"
"Come, come."
The fresh beads of sweat rolling down his forehead were so funny Brynden almost broke character and laughed at it, but he managed to keep a small smile on his face as he led Nate to his brother's solar.
Hoster was yet again on his desk, familiarising himself with the golden timekeeper he had received. Brynden had had his fair share of time with it, and he had to say - while it was monstrously complex and difficult to get used to - it was equally useful once you got the gist of it.
Before getting in, he sent the guard outside to fetch Elbert and made himself comfortable on one of the seats across from Hoster.
"Ah, Nate! Come, you have the ironwood shield, then? And the gold, let's not forget that. You have them, yes?"
"... Yes milord." Nate replied, looking like he was about to find himself in the gallows for this.
"Brynden, what did you tell him?" Hoster asked with a sigh.
"Nate, I know about your profession. I know it has its uses, and you've never made a mess of things, so I'm content to allow it. Brynden's a man of japes, and you needn't take it so seriously. Now, Rodrik Greyjoy is on his way to the North. He requested I take delivery of the items he procured and pass them on at a later date. So, the shield and the gold?"
The now much relieved Nate quickly fumbled with his sack after hearing that. Brynden shook his head. Hoster was never one for the simpler things in life. All the harmless jokes, yet he wouldn't crack a smile unless he was negotiating like a fishwife.
He saw as Nate brought out the shield from the sack first - and boy was it a work of art. A simple round shield - a bit more than two feet across but clearly made of dark smoky wood. It wasn't a solid block of wood, no, but two curved pieces of Ironwood, one rounder than the other. Certainly filled with something else between the two pieces of wood.
Evenly spaced rivets could be seen across the rim of the shield - riveted inside out and then hammered - by the look of it. When Brynden took it from the smuggler, he was quite surprised to find it wasn't as heavy as he'd assumed it would be by the look of it, which only reinforced his belief of it being stuffed with something else in between two pieces of wood.
"What's it stuffed with?" Brynden asked, a surprised expression still on his face.
"Tanned seal hide?"
"Why that?" asked Hoster on the side, intrigued. It wasn't like it would make the shield stronger. Nate was just trying to swindle the Greyjoy boy for his money!
"I don't know much about shields, milord. But the Lord Greyjoy had one like this specifically made in the past also. Said it will lessen the load on the arm when using it."
"Of course it will! It is half the weight it should ideally be!" Still, why would Rodrik make a shield of such a quality material yet make it of such a design that made it less effective?
"He also said something about reducing impact, milord!" exclaimed Nate, trying his best to get himself out of the predicament he found himself in, most likely. But that clicked something in Brynden's mind.
"Come with me." He instructed Nate before looking at his brother, "You too, Hoster."
Brynden walked out of the solar without waiting for the two. Elbert was just at the end of the hallway. "Good, Elbert. Join us."
"Lord Brynden?" Elbert asked. "What…"
"We're going to the yard." was all he said, choosing not to elaborate further. But his mind was reeling. If what he suspected to be true was the case, then this was a game-changer.
The best shields were the ones made of steel. There was no doubt about that, but in most cases, steel was not the ideal material. It got uncomfortably hot within moments of being out in the sun and the opposite at nights. They also tend to bend instead of break and end up damaging the defender more than protecting him.
Another problem with a steel shield was that harsh impacts jarred them hard enough for the user to lose all feeling in their arms. That was never a good thing, which was why Brynden used a composite shield still. Mahogany for the centerpiece, a foot and a half across, and a steel ring covering it - holding the wood in place. It tended to make the shields heavier, but it worked well for him.
The reason behind ironwood shields being the best was quite simple. They were heavier than almost all the woods out there but much lighter than steel, still. As for strength - they were unquestionably the strongest. While Goldenheart wood was the springiest and Weirwood the perfect blend of strength and flexibility, Ironwood had all the strength but a lot less flexibility. The combination made it totally useless for bows, but for doors and tables and shields? Nothing could be better.
He remembered Rodrik Stark talking about the centuries-old block of Ironwood they used to execute prisoners. Considering they had a Valyrian Steel greatsword that struck that block every time a head was placed on it, it was a testament to its strength that it lasted for so long.
Seal hide was the one leather he had never seen used for armors. He had seen brigandines made out of tanned cowhide and even a few exotic vests in Essos - made of horsehide - mainly used by the Dothraki. He'd even heard of the small men of the Neck using Lizard Lion skin for their armors, but never had he heard of leather being used in the way he had just been described.
Yet, the thinking can be done endlessly. Brynden had seen an Ironwood shield before - even fought with one in his hand. Rodrik Stark had handed him one for the first and only time in his life. And now, for the second time - he had one in his hands - except this was sent by another Rodrik.
He knew that there wouldn't even be a scratch on the shield if he swung a tourney sword at it with all his strength. To scratch a solid, well-built Ironwood shield, one would need a man with the strength of the White Bull wielding a heavy mace. The only limitation to the shield would be bending. It could take pretty much every type of weapon and protect the wielder from it, but if someone tried to use it as a tool to sit on, it would snap like an old man's walking cane.
Most people didn't know that. After all, the secrets of this mysterious wood were those of the First Men. They were notorious for not putting things into writing, after all.
"Elbert, bring me a tourney sword. You, stand over there," he told Nate.
"Are we to test it then, Brynden?" Hoster asked.
"Aye, brother. Take the sword, and swing it as hard as you can - right down the center." Brynden commanded. It was a testament to Hoster's respect for his martial abilities that he didn't question him before grabbing the sword from Elbert's hands and preparing to swing.
Brynden ducked behind the shield in an instinctual block and braced himself for the jarring hit about to numb his arm. Imagine his surprise when this new shield absorbed more of the hit than he had seen the Stark's shield do. His arm wasn't even numb!
"Have you lost your strength Hoster?"
"I'd think not, brother, I gave it my all. Rung my arm like a bell it did." Hoster responded.
Brynden stilled. Was this what the secret was? Did stuffing the shield with seal skin make it reflect the impact back to the attacker?
He quickly unstrapped the shield and flipped it over, running his fingers over the smoky wood to feel any sort of dent or damage. There was a fine line he could feel - but it was like one of those that appear on the skin when one sits on a straw for too long. Too subtle for anyone to tell.
"This is a work of art, my friend," Brynden whispered, turning to Nate as he did so. "Tell me, Nate, can the maker of this shield make more like this?"
Brynden's heart sunk just looking at the expression on the smuggler's face. "Nay, milord. Lord Greyjoy made him swear an oath to only make shields of his design when he commissioned them."
"But you can get us the Ironwood, still, right?"
"That I can, milord. But the one that I get it from - he's the brother of the smith who can work the wood. Far as I know, he only sells spear staffs and sword hilts - as he's permitted to by the Forresters. I might be able to get you a shield or two, but they'd be the standard fare - not these fancy ones."
"Fuckin' Hells! How much for the usual shields, then?" Brynden asked, throwing his arms up in frustration.
"...Two hundred dragons apiece, milord." He almost whispered.
Brynden threw up his hands in the air, outraged.
"Two for us then, you'll have two hundred now, and the rest when you deliver." Hoster took over the conversation at that point, not that there was much left to be said.
"Quellon taking betrothal offers for the boy yet?" Brynden asked him. Hoster pulled a sour face.
"You'll have him as a squire soon enough - unearth his secrets then." he responded, before handing the sword back to Elbert and taking Nate with him to pay him the coin for the two standard Ironwood shields.
Brynden grabbed the shield back in his left hand. It felt lighter than most other shields he'd ever wielded. Yet, it could easily turn the tides in his favor if perchance he was to fight against, let's say, a Kingsguard.
Normal shields - wooden, Ironwood, or even steel ones, didn't reflect that much of the force back onto the attacker. He tried to imagine how it would fare against a lance on a tiltyard, but he could only dream.
Even if he had one of these shields, he would never dare to bring it to a tiltyard. If, Gods forbid, he lost the round, then it would be forfeit to the winner. He wasn't Luthor Tyrell. He would never risk such a useful item in a joust of all things.
"Is that the shield Rodrik commissioned for me, Ser Brynden?" Elbert asked in a soft voice.
"Aye, Elbert. Come, sit with me."
It was just the two of them in the yard now. It was a working day, and the guards wouldn't be in the training yard for another hour yet.
"Rodrik Greyjoy, you know they call him a prodigy boy in Seagard? He's good with sums, arms, and pretty much everything he tries his hands at. He is the sort of child that everyone else is jealous of. And, believe me, I know how that feels. I was fostered in Castle Darry with Ser Jonothor and Ser Willem, and both were better at everything than me. I was the brother to a Lord Paramount! His heir even, yet all the Lords that came to Castle Darry during my stay there, they all praised Willam for his skill with the blade. I was the best horse rider there, yet no one paid me any heed. You know why that was?" Brynden asked him quietly.
Elbert sat there, stunned. "I... because they had more presence in the Royal Court with Ser Jonothor being inducted into the Kingsguard?"
"You're close. You see, the people are like sheep. They live their lives simply. Eat, sleep, fuck, and repeat. Yet when the wolves come, they look for the shepherd. Sometimes, the shepherd is enough to weather the storm of howls. But other times, it falls to the sheepdogs to save the flock. You understand what I'm trying to say?"
"I think I do, my lord. So the sheepdogs - they are the Knights, and the shepherd is the King?"
"Hahahaha! A simple answer, but lacking. Worry not, I'll explain to you how it was done to me. What is Aemon the Dragonknight best known for?"
"He was the greatest swordsman in the seven kingdoms!" Elbert instantly responded.
"And what was Cregan Stark known for?"
"For the Hour of the Wolf." He spoke, a lot less excited, this time.
"You know why I asked you about Cregan Stark and Aemon the Dragonknight?" Brynden asked with a knowing smile.
"..." There was no response.
"You know the Dragonknight once fought Cregan Stark, Valyrian Steel against Valyrian Steel? In the aftermath of Daeron's conquest of Dorne, Aemon took leave from King's Landing to deliver Rickon Stark's bones and the Valyrian Steel greatsword Ice back to Lord Stark. They met midway - as Lord Stark had heard of his son's death and was on his way south already. They met in Castle Blackwood, where Aemon knelt and offered the casket and the sheathed sword to Lord Cregan. They say the Old Man of the North was so wroth that he unsheathed Ice the moment he received it and commanded Aemon to defend himself. Dark Sister was drawn just a moment later, and the two great blades clashed."
After a moment to compose himself, Brynden continued, "It was the 159 AC, and the Dragonknight was at his prime - three and twenty years of age. Cregan Stark, however, was a touch above fifty years already. They fought so ferociously that it is said the Blackwoods' godswood had no ravens in it for a week afterward. Finally, when the sun sank, both of them sheathed their swords together, and Cregan Stark thanked him for returning his son to him. There was no winner that day, yet it is known that the Dragonknight only ever named one man who could beat him."
"Now, does that still make Aemon the best swordsman in Westeros? I mean, if Cregan Stark fought him to a draw when he was fifty, surely he would have beaten him in his prime?"
"After all, what is the difference between the two? Both were sheepdogs that came in support of their shepherds, no? Aemon helped his brother Daeron in Dorne, and then rescued Baelor from Dorne. Cregan and his Winter Wolves completely turned the Dance of the Dragons on it's head. Not even ten thousand men, yet, at the end of the war, it was Cregan who sat the Throne, and dealt justice to the King's enemies. Was Cregan any less honorable in his actions? Did he ever break the King's Law?"
"No, Ser Brynden."
"Then why was it that the smallfolk and nobles alike feared the wrath of Cregan Stark but loved the nobility and honor of the Dragonknight?"
"I... I don't know, Ser Brynden." Elbert replied, clearly disturbed by the discussion.
"Think, boy! Why was it that the King had to send away his strongest supporter after only a week in the Capital? He was as oath-bound to his liege as the other Lords in King's Landing, as honorable as the Dragonknight, and yet, he was ousted from his post as the Hand of the King in just a week? I won't tell you, boy! Think! Think and speak your mind!"
"Because he believed in different gods?"
"Precisely! Gods! You're quicker than I was. He wielded the power to change the fates of people. He, a loyal sheepdog, who did his absolute best to protect the shepherd's flock, was exiled because the sheep were more terrified of the sheepdog than of the wolves."
Brynden observed Elbert's face. As they came and went, the cycle of emotions ended with a look of awe on his face. That was not what he had expected - which meant that he was thinking something else.
"What are you thinking, Elbert?"
"Ser Brynden, it's just something Rodrik Greyjoy told me the first time I spoke to him."
"And pray tell, what did the squid say?" Brynden humored him, though he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious to hear.
"He told me a story, Ser. Of a man who was sailing his ship through a storm. He said that a bolt of lightning shattered the mast, and it fell across the man's legs - crushing him underneath. The crew was all running around, panicking, and there was no one there to save the man. He said that the man screamed to the heavens, praying for the Drowned God to save him from the wrath of the Storm God, but no Kraken surfaced to pull the mast off of him. In the end, it was his wife - a sailor herself, who came up to the deck searching for him. She saw him trapped underneath the mast and ran to his rescue. Rodrik said that she didn't care about the Storm God's wrath. Or better yet, she cared for her husband more than that. He said that she single-handedly pulled the mast enough for the man to use his arms and crawl away from underneath it. In the morn, when the storm subsided, the crew found the man and his wife sleeping on the deck. They had both survived the night."
"Hmmm. And what about this story intrigues you so?"
"He said that the Gods do not care, Ser, men do. That anyone with the conviction to do it can change another's fate."
Whatever Brynden was expecting, it was not this. What had Damon Mallister been teaching the boy! How ever did he get so jaded? He needed to steer this conversation very carefully now.
"And what do you think of his words?"
"He's correct, of course! Cregan Stark changed the fate of the Kingdoms single-handedly - just as you said! So many men prayed to the Gods to end the war, but it wasn't their gods who answered; it was a man. Cregan Stark answered their prayers, and he changed their fates forever." Elbert said that with so much conviction that it alarmed Brynden.
He started to doubt if having this conversation with Elbert was ever a good idea. All he wanted to do was ensure Elbert became a good friend to Rodrik Greyjoy. It seemed the most logical choice - for if he was churning out game-changing improvements and creations, then it is better if he was with him along the way, rather than against. Yet, as he heard the words coming out of Elbert's mouth, he realized what had happened. The impact this mindset would have as Elbert grew up was dangerous at best but disastrous, most likely.
He decided to take a gamble. If it turned in his favor, all the good for everyone, and if it didn't - well, as it was going currently - he may have just given Rodrik Greyjoy his greatest ally.
"Does that make Cregan Stark a God?" He asked, warily but most curious about his answer.
"No!" He spoke harshly, "Of course, not. The Gods don't care, Ser Brynden. Men do. Cregan Stark wasn't a God, but he was likely one of the best men to ever grace the Seven Kingdoms. Just like Aemon the Dragonknight. You're correct - Ser Brynden. The sheep need a sheepdog more than they needs a shepherd. After all, the shepherd cares not for the sheep. He cares for thesheep for the wool and the meat they bring him. The sheepdog, on the other hand has one purpose only. Since the first sheepdog was tamed, their spawns grow with the flock. The flock is it's family, and it knows it's duty is to protect the flock."
"Elbert…" Brynden tried to interject, but he was spoken over.
"Ser Brynden! Cregan Stark was the bravest and most selfless sheepdog there was. He not only cared for his flock, he even went as far as to protect the other shepherds' flocks. His fault was that he was too good at his job. Instead of driving the wolves away, his pack tore them apart. And to the sheep that hadn't grown up with him - to those who he was an unknown - he seemed to be just as bad as the wolves."
Brynden Tully couldn't say what was worse at this point - that Elbert had suddenly grown a spine and sharpened his mind or the fact that the direction his thoughts were going wasn't something he could actually counter. Especially not when his own thoughts weren't exactly logical, to begin with.
He had never thought of it in this way. When Rodrik Stark had asked him the same questions on Lonny's Dream, he had not directed his thoughts in any way. Brynden had tried to do the same with Elbert - but this only showed how much he was still incapable of fathering a child. For he couldn't help but give them a forceful nudge. They all hated it. They became uncomfortable when difficult questions were asked. They rebelled when their beliefs were challenged. And they wrote back when he came to the point where he could give them the nudge.
Elbert was the first one to not shut off completely when given the nudge. Yet his hopes were not only dashed but crunched up, eaten, and sent out the shitter with how this conversation turned on its head.
Maybe he shouldn't try to give his squires the same life lessons he had received. Maybe they were fundamentally different from him - the product of a different generation.
He wondered how Rodrik Stark was doing - how he would feel if Brynden told him that he had been unsuccessful in spreading the spirit of the Wandering Wolf further. After all, the meaning in the sheepherder story he had found was quite different from the conclusion Elbert had arrived at.
In the presence of the Wandering Wolf - he had seen that it wasn't the shepherd or the sheepdog or the sheep that mattered. If some wolves protected the sheep from the other wolves, and those wolves were good enough to beat the aggressive ones - they could all live in a happy, productive environment.
Rodrik Stark had taught him the philosophy of Winter - if the wolves, shepherds, sheepdogs, and the sheep lived peacefully in the summer - they'd all have a better chance to survive the Winter. With that philosophy that Eddard the Unifier had set out, convinced in his own mind that the monstrous wolves had to be cleansed by the benevolent ones. And while Brynden could see the flaws in that sort of thinking - the end result was more Northerners surviving the Winters.
The best leader needed to ensure the best for every man - not just the one class. There was a reason why the Northern smallfolk never rebelled against the Starks - though they'd had their fair share of poor rulers. Brynden had learned this philosophy from Rodrik Stark - and at that time - he was convinced this type of thinking was needed to finally unify the Riverlands into a kingdom with the unity of the sort the North had.
But now, sitting at the bench beside an awed and disillusioned Elbert Arryn, Brynden couldn't help but feel that he failed. That he wasn't that benevolent wolf who could turn the other wolves.
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He might have been a complete failure as moral guidance - but he'd do his damned best to turn Elbert Arryn into a half-decent warrior. It would reflect on him in the end, and since it was the last thing he had left of his teachings from Rodrik Stark - he was becoming rather protective of it.
"Enough talk. Prepare for training, Elbert. Before I give you leave to wield this shield, I'll have you practice with the standard one. It'd do you no good to only be used to this one - you'll be left not knowing what to do without it. Now put on your paddings, and start with ten laps of the yard."
Elbert stood from the bench, silently making his way to the racks. Brynden inhaled deeply - trying to forget the conversation that had just happened. Well, he had a few minutes for that while Elbert ran his laps. He could take his time, he mused, smiling to himself - lost in thought, reminiscing about the ten days onboard the Lonny's Dream.
The conversations shared with Rodrik Stark while he was on the bed recovering from the arrow wound were the only set of fond memories he held from the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He had been the sort of nuncle he wished was his blood.
Brynden wondered what the Wandering Wolf was up to these days. Did he remember those days as fondly as he did? Was he even alive, or had he kicked the bucket? He had thought about writing a letter, but they didn't have enough time. Hoster had plans to leave within ten days. They'd be stopping at King's landing for a few days. After all - Hoster had promised to arrange the Greyjoy boy a meeting with the High Septon.
After that, they'd join the royal entourage in their progress to Lannisport. In ten days, he would leave Riverrun for yet another adventure - but this time, he couldn't help but pray to the Seven that he got a chance to visit Rodrik Stark before he passed. He was a man that made you remember him very fondly. The Wolf certainly was a beast in battle, but he also was a true magician with his words. Mayhaps he could impart a few more lines of wisdom to set his life straight - turn Brynden into a worthy successor to his ideals.
After all - Hoster had an heir now. He was finally free from the last binds of duty that he had. Except, the eagerness Brynden had always had for this day to come had most suspiciously disappeared. He was free - yet he had no direction, he had a purpose, but he had no plan. He had the knowledge but without the wisdom needed to pass it on.
He wondered if the Wandering Wolf ever found himself in the predicament Brynden found himself in these days.
Bah! He probably didn't.
A/N
This chapter came out much different from what was originally planned. But I was more satisfied with this than the other direction I had in mind. As for the Iron Islands, there won't be a POV chapter on their end this time. Next chapter, we start with Quellon's ship docking at Barrowtown. The details of the aftermath of Euron's death will come either then, or sometime later - wherever it fits best.
While I understand there was a lot of exposition in this chapter - I want to assure you guys that this won't be the norm for later chapters. Some in-depth conversations were necessary for more clarity, and I feel that the entire conversation between Brynden and Elbert was required to clarify some things that raised eyebrows in the last chapter. I can see why people reached the conclusions they reached, and I completely understand that it turned out that way, even though I had intended it to send another message. Regardless, this chapter should be used as the baseline for Elbert's recent personality change. I hope it's clear enough in their conversation this time.