Before you start reading, know that this story is a fanfiction that seeks to continue and end A Song of Ice and Fire after A Dance with Dragons, the fifth novel in the series. I advise that you have knowledge of the first five books in the A Song of Ice and Fire published series, and I also advise that you forget all that you know about the sequel to A Dance with Dragons.
With those things in mind, feel free to enjoy the show.
PART I: A DEAD MAN'S HONOR
"And she saw her brother Rhaegar, mounted on a stallion as black as his armour. Fire glimmered red through the narrow eye slit of his helm. 'The last dragon,' Ser Jorah's voice whispered faintly. 'The last. The last.' Dany lifted his polished black visor. The face within was her own." - Daenerys Targaryen's fevre dream
"Power resides where men believe it resides...It's a trick...A shadow on the wall." - Varys to Tyrion Lannister
"It is being common-born that is dangerous, when the great lords play their game of thrones." - Septon Meribald to Ser Hyle Hunt
PROLOGUE
The old man slept in peace.
The serving maid gently placed a candle beside him, his face bathing in the soft light. It was her night to care for him, as his wife the lady had vanished as he fell into slumber.
"Off with one of his sons," the maid knew the rumours that had long become stale. The old man seemed to know, as word travelled easily amongst these towers, but that was long past his worry. It was she who would worry about this for him. Tart worried for him, as his health withered with other things. His all too many sons, his all too many lands, and this endless war.
The old man never stirred once as he lay on his bed, and Tart knew that it was exhausting. It would be a peaceful night until the sun rose and the old man stirred, but her shift would be long past then. It rankled her sometimes, that in the lord's chamber there was naught else to do but watch.
On a rare night, reprieve would come in the form of an occasional visitor, yet she had to turn them away with a few quiet words. The last time it had been Tart's night, it was one of the old man's sons, the boy who had squired for that wolf king. He had sat by his father for a short moment, holding his father's wrinkled hand in his own. The boy had told her that he was to leave for the south the next day. He wanted some time alone with his father before he was gone, away from his brothers. When she told him that the old lord had never woken before dawn, the boy lowered his eyes, and asked her to tell his father that he was sorry.
Tart had left when the sun rose that day, before the old lord woke, and she never told him.
She looked now at the gathering mists from the tower, blinking her eyes open. It would soon be dawn, and now it was her time to leave. Another maid came to do the old man's morning ritual, and someone else brought his morning meal. Tart gave them their greetings, and left the old lord in his chamber.
She found herself coming face to face with Sala in the hall. She beckoned for Tart to follow her.
Tart knew that her time there was enough, caring for the old lord in the night, and Sala would know. She oversaw all the work of the maids, and would report them to the steward before noon every day. Sala always knew who had served the lord, and saw fit to raise their places.
Sala never spoke to Tart as they walked, and her face was as still as stone. Tart knew that Sala was fond of her, as fond she was for any maid who was pretty, shy, and could do their work. Sala led her down a path Tart had walked a thousand times. She knew those marble pillars that were laid by a past lord. That lord had fought in a war when dragons danced in the sky. This time, walking beneath those pillars, Tart wondered where Sala led her. She wondered if it was a dream.
Sala led her to the quarters of the maids, and Tart was disappointed. Tart had been foolish to hope for a break in the monotony of day. "At least it would be a normal day."
She entered to quarters, and resigned herself to a day just like any other, with no beauty nor cheers nor songs.
There were people in the quarters, almost all that Tart knew served in the Towers. She briefly wondered why they had not left yet for their duties that day. When the sun rose in the past, only a few of her friends had remained. Tart resigned herself to being pressed into their throng, being a serving maid just like any other.
Long shadows lay across every wall of the quarters, and they lingered there for eternity. Pale light spilled into the square windows, lighting some of the quarters. The rest were lit by braziers, and the fires burned out.
They sometimes played games with the shadows, guessing at what they were. A shill of wheat, or the banners of the Towers. There was one that Tart starkly remembered,"Those are our braziers and our beds and us."
No such games were played today. Not even smiles brightened their cheeks, as was the norm when her friends greeted her.
Sala tarried at the door, her warm eyes saddening as she looked at Tart.
"I must go," she spoke to Tart,"and you must lock this door. Stay in your quarters, and do not leave. Dark times are before us, and all of you must stay here. There is food and drink aplenty. The steward will come to fetch you when all this is done. Whoever else comes to the door, whether lords or knights or common men, you must never let them in."
On that last word, Tart closed the door behind her and locked it. Sala's steps hurried away. Tart did as she was told, knowing that Sala was wise beyond her years, and waited with the other maids.
Tart sat on her bed, and the fires shined bright. She would stare at them as she waited. There was food of course, as Sala had promised, crackers that were stale with age, but she left them at her side. She promised herself that she would eat when she knew what made them wait here, what befell Sala to make them stay.
It was scarce an hour after the woman left that they began to know. One of their windows opened to the great bridge, and across the river they could see the other tower, the other bastion of their strength. It was burning. The banners were still flying in the wind, but time and again they would fall, ashen and dead.
"Dead," the word finally touched her tongue,"Dead,"
She remembered something in the night, something she swore to herself would not be true. By the old lord's bed, she had dared to feel beneath his nostrils. There was no warmth, and she dreaded the worst.
Tart felt the emptiness crashing her, stifling a shriek within her throat. She realized now what she did not know then ,"He's dead. Lord Frey is dead."
That emptiness came with a fear,"Would they think it was me, the only one by his side that night."
"No," she told herself,"They would not remember me. All I need do is to hide."
There would be a new lord, the new lord raising the flames. It must not be a gracious lord, not as the old lord had been. "And perhaps not. Perhaps the flames were an accident. The old lord would choose someone worthy."
She held onto that hope, knowing that it must be true, that this new lord will be worthy of taking the fair mantle of the Twins.
Her friends stared out the windows as well, watching the banners rise and scatter and fall into ashes. They were fretting in their seats, and Tart sat behind them in the shadows. Tart told them not to worry, for anguish did not serve the truth, and anguish did not serve the light. She knew that all would return to peace once this terrible day was at its end.
They told each other their worries as to what befell the castle, and Tart dared not join.
"It's a sinful day," Cerene was saying,"Mayhaps it is best that we hide from what's out there. Sala was right, and we should never think to leave. There are great horrors in this castle that made that fire."
"What do you think it is?" Marba asked,"The ghosts of the northmen who attacked us at Lady Roslin's wedding?"
Branda, always the most sensible of them, said "The ghosts of wolves never die. Ser Danwell told me that each day our warriors set out to slay those monsters, but they've been losing men to the forest. The wolves prowl in the shadows, catching even our brave soldiers unawares. It is a dangerous land out there, that those monsters haunt. And I hear that the wolves are coming here to hunt us again."
"Wolves," Marba said,"they walk as men in daylight, and hunt maids for sport in the night. I heard their howls drawing closer each time the moon rises. And it's soon a full moon. A wolf's moon."
Tart knew the stories, but they always seemed far away. Lord Goldenhand was found dead a moon ago. Hanged. At the same time, Ser Daven's entire host had disappeared outside Pennytree. It was bound to be the work of the wolves, yet those horrors were always distant from her home. They seemed to be coming to Tart now.
She felt a chill run through her bones as she remembered what the wolves would do.
"I'm safe," she closed her eyes,"safe in my bed and my walls and the lord's power."
Booming steps outside the door nearly made Tart jump. She was numb to all else but the sound. Yet the noises receded, and she began to feel her breaths again.
It seemed like the next day when someone at long last knocked at the door. Tart had hidden herself in her blanket, knowing only the shadows beneath. She took a glance outside the window, and saw that only hours had passed since she arrived here. It was still afternoon, and the crackers lay uneaten on her bed.
The others opened the door, forgetting to ask who it was in their hurry. Tart rose, moving to warn them against it, but she was too late. She relaxed when she saw the steward at the door, as Sala had promised.
The steward told them what Tart already knew, that the old Lord Frey was dead. A new lord had ascended to the Twins, another Lord Walder. The steward told them that the new lord was holding a feat, and summoned their service.
"A feast, just after the old lord died?" Cerene whispered to Tart,"That is an ill omen."
Branda overheard them, and answered,"Mayhaps it is to honour the old lord's memory. We would all do well to remember his kindness."
Tart agreed with her, and felt her own spirits lighten. A feast was a feast, and it was best to forget the sorrows.
All of Lord Frey's kin would gather here. Some were already in the castle or near, Edwyn and Black Walder and their like. The ones afar would be late, those sent afar to vanquish the last of their evil foes, but they would come. Lord Frey was gone, and none would forget the kind old lord.
The new lord was one of the Walders, Black Walder to be precise. He had a penchant for wooing blushing maids, and Tart never wanted to see him. There had always been better ones in the Twins, even though Black Walder was a knight and held all that glory. "Though he is lord now," Tart considered. A lord's favour goes a long way. A bastard's even longer. Black Walder's ills no longer seemed so loathsome to her eye. The castle folk should always look past everything, and cherish what is best.
Tart was hungry when she arrived at the kitchens. She had eaten little of what the other maids offered her in their quarters, and now regretted it. She stuffed in her pockets what she could little, but that was precious little.
It was fortunate that at the kitchens, Tart was not greeted by the haughty cooks who spared all for the nobles of the castle. It was the kitchen boys, who were much more amicable. She found Kent, and he snuck her a few choice morsels of the feast's delight for a kiss. Tart gobbled these down , and even though she could barely taste its sweetness, it filled her tummy for the moment. She briefly pondered on asking for more, but she pushed the hunger down. Her courtesy would be needed for the day, and hunger could wander sometime else. It was wise, for the steward came to her a moment later, telling her that it was meant for the lords in the high table.
The castle did not seem to know that their lord had died. In every hall that they walked, they heard the roar of a booming choir. It was as if they had won a great victory again, such as when the valiant knights of the Twins slew the Young Wolf's monsters.
"Mayhaps they truly had again," Tart smiled, as it was always a delight to share in their glory,"They had won a great victory, and did not yet know." Most in the hall would be heroes from the war, bearing songs of their mighty conquests under the banner of the stout twin towers. It was always well remembered.
The lord was dead, but she could make peace with that. She knew this night would be a joy that she would know. It would be a joy that the castle would know. "The shadow of the Stranger has passed."
She gradually heard other voices rise against the cheers. The bright sky outside had vanished as grey clouds gathered all over the castle. She heard rains pouring on the roof, and far away, in the depths of her fear, she thought she heard a wolf howl.
"Memories," Tart assured herself,"A mark on the soul by those beasts will never heal. They are a taste that will linger all my days." The honour of the Twins had been her shield against those ghosts. It still was, and she found her peace.
The hall was oft a merry place of late.
Tart remembered a darker time, when the hall was as quiet as the dead. Winter had come in the form of a Young Wolf who had named himself the King in the North. Those men had pretended to be their friends, and Lord Frey had returned the favour. The Young Wolf spoke of vengeance and righteousness, and Lord Frey believed in him. The old lord, despite his age, aided the Young Wolf in his march. So many men left the gates with the northmen, and never returned. So many of them died in the King in the North's war. Lord Frey aided the Young Wolf with all they could, yet it did not satisfy him. He demanded the old lord's daughters, first for himself and then for his bannermen. Lord Frey gave in, but even that did not sate a wolf's hunger. The wolf's men turned on them at Lady Roslin's wedding, revealing their true desires to kill and plunder. Yet in the end, their evils were defeated by the valiance of the Twins. In the end, the Young Wolf fell.
Now, the hall was no longer empty, but merry with laughter again. There were still remnants of the Young Wolf's host scattered in the land, yet they were not to be worried of. The Twins had fought, had conquered, had won.
Now, the hall was awash in light as she entered, its radiance shining against the gloom outside. It was the mark of joy arising in these new days. Rows upon rows of gallant knights feasted in the hall, each in their elegant cloaks. In every corner of the hall, Tart could hear a cheer. It was all the sights of a feast, of japes and laughter and bawdy words. In another hour, it would be a delight to go amongst them.
She ignored them for now, knowing the dish in her hands and her duty. "This is for the high table," Tart remembered the steward saying,"for the lords."
Black Walder, the new lord, sat at the table's head. It was strange, seeing the old lord's seat given to another. From what Tart could remember, the old lord had been there forever. Yet now he was gone.
"Times pass and so do men," Tart thought. As horrors like the Young Wolf pass to be dead and gone, so would the shield of the Twins. The old lord met the Stranger after all his heartening years. The Father would judge him justly as he passed into what lay beyond.
The new lord was here, in the old lord's place.
Black Walder was more solemn, with less smiles in his lips and eyes. He seemed to be the only amongst the table who was silent, offering only curt answers when he was by chance addressed. The Lord of the Crossing was flanked by Lord Lothar to his left and Ser Danwell to his right. Lothar's wife, Lady Leonetta, was absent, but Lady Wynafrei sat by her husband Ser Danwell's side.
Around the table sat the folk of House Frey. The knight Raymund sat about the table, Raymund's wife Lady Beony holding onto her husband's arm and whispering into his ear. Perwyn's new betrothed was not here, the girl Bethany of House Blackwood who had only nine years. There were no children at the high table now, when children were the norm at the old lord's thought she never saw any children at all in the hall tonight.
Lord Lothar seemed like the true lord at the table. He was jovial, speaking eagerly with the ones around him. His place at the table was always a place of warmth. It seemed that the table was drawn more to him than their true lord.
Tart placed her dish upon the high table, as did all the other serving folk, and the lords and ladies thanked them. She stepped aside just as Lothar gestured at the heralds. The heralds blew their bugles.
The hall grew silent as a shadow, and Tart took another step back.
Lord Lothar stood, and turned to the watching crowd.
"A great tragedy has befallen us," Lord Lothar began,"Lord Walder has passed from this world. He was a father not just to me and all my brothers, but to all of us, a father that knew and loved us, and who we knew and loved in return. We should all find time in our hearts to drive, to honour the joy that he graced us with."
He paused in a moment of silence,"Yet it is in these dreadful times that we should strive to go on. In his memory, we honour him. In his memory, we had slain the traitors Edwyn and all his ilk, who slew our father for his seat. In his memory, we make our peace with him. We had graced his body with the blessings of the Seven who are One, so that in their Heavens he would find eternal joy. With our peace with him, we can look to our future. We should look to our future. To honour our father's work, the Twins have a new lord. Even in the darkness, we can find a new day."
"We raise this day," Lord Lothar raised his goblet towards the new lord,"We rise this day, to remember our father, and to bless the health of the new Lord of the Crossing. To Lord Walder."
The hall rose with goblets in their hands, and echoed his words,"To Lord Walder."
The new lord rose, and gave a nod to their cheers.
Tart had never known a happier night. The hours lengthened to a crawl, gracing their high spirits. The food was a delight, to be sure, but even more was the pleasant knight who embraced her in his lap, gently feeding Tart off the tip of his knife.
"The prettier ones got the lords," Tart thought,"but this knight's not so horrid." He was warm as the summer sun, with a voice that chimed like the sweet birds that sang in spring.
Through the hall, there were those same sweet echoes. Bards were striking up merry tunes, their strings ringing with the beauty of song. Every so often, they would play a sadder tale, and the hall would grow quieter. Tart would hear the rains pattering on the roof of the hall, but those times never lingered. They were not the joy that a feast should make.
The bards were now playing a slow song. It was soft, almost mournful, seeming to fill the room with its grief.
"It was a pretty song," Tart thought. The hall grew quiet again, and they could all hear the rains falling from the sky. Far off, there seemed to be another echo. Echoes of wolves, howling in the night.
A storm of cracks jolted Tart still, waking her to the hall. Suddenly, a stream of blood flew across Tart's face, and she felt the urge to stream. That cry was cut short by the knight beside her, who shoved her to the ground and sprawled on top of her body.
She could still see beneath the folds of his cloak, and she quickly closed her eyes. It was not before she saw the corpses. There was one man cradling two crossbow bolts in his stomach, eyes frozen as he lay under a table. There was another, a guard she knew, whose head was split open by an axe. Tart saw the blade in his skull even as she closed her eyes. She could still see the blood flowing, all around. She could hear the moans and groans and screams.
Tart squeezed her shut even firmer, and her breaths came swifter. She knew nothing but the chill in her bones.
Two thuds sounded above her, and Tart heard a grunt. The air above suddenly turned cold, and she flitted her eyes open. The knight above had rolled off her, looking at the two wounds that blossomed red in his flank. In his hands were the broken bolts.
"Go," he urged,"Under the table." The knight then grabbed his only dagger.
Tart turned away as he wobbled to his feet, rushing where he bid.
She lay under the table, hearing the relentless tide of crashing and screaming and cursing.
Tart closed her eyes, and prayed. "Mother have mercy," she whispered,"Mother have mercy." She did not know how many times she echoed her own words, but there came a moment at last where the gods answered. At last, the hall faded to silence.
It was not long after before the table above was overturned, and light blinded her eyes.
"Up," Tart heard, and a hand wrenched her arm upwards. Her eyes caught the shadows in the hall, and she closed them again. Under her eyes, she would not see this sight of blood, this sight of grim, where even the shadows of the corpses gnawed her inside. She still saw the oozing cavities, empty within the dead. She prayed that it was a dream.
When Tart finally dared to open her eyes, she saw that it was true.
'Why?" she wondered,"Why?"
It was a group of men who flipped her table and grabbed Tart from beneath. They were led by Ser Perwyn, who was covered in blood. One soldier stayed to escort her while the others passed on.
The others were flipping tables open, hunting who lay beneath. They found many like her, hidden from the slaughter. If it was women they found, they helped them to stand, but if it was men, Perwyn's men would put a sword through their chest. Several men crawled from under the tables, trying to escape, but none ever did. Tart heard the echoes of bodies fall.
The soldier beside her pushed her, and she saw that he was directing her to a place where all the other women stayed. There were at least half a hundred who survived this hall. When Tart joined them, she heard their frightened whispers that mirrored her own thoughts.
Stifling her fear, she tried to look amongst the carnage. She looked for the knight that helped her, but he was gone. Most of the men she knew were gone.
Lord Lothar was standing at the head of the hall, and seemed to have taken charge. The new Lord Walder was nowhere to be seen. Aside from Ser Perwyn and Lord Lothar, no other Frey remained to stand in the hall. Tart found the other lords and ladies she had served at the high table, lying unmoving there just as the castle folk lay between the benches. "Dead and gone."
Closing her eyes for what she promised would be the last time, Tart wondered what this would spell for her. It was dreadful, freezing her in an icy chamber, but it might be over soon. Whatever horrors this day brings, it shall all pass into a better day.
Beyond the ringing of the hall, she seemed to hear other sounds again. The rains had stopped battering the roof, but she still heard the howls of the wolves. They were closer, and fiercer than ever before. Tart also began to hear voices outside. They were only faint shouts, from far away, but they were there.
"Was it a chant?" she wondered,"What are they saying?" It became clear as the voices closer. The howls of the wolves were as fierce as a horn.
"King in the North."
"King in the North."
"KING IN THE NORTH."
It came as a shock when Tart heard the Frey men in the hall give the same chant.
"King in the North."
"King in the North."
"King in the North."
"Traitors," Tart wanted to say, but swallowed her words when she saw their bloodied swords. She shrank away, hiding herself amongst the women.
"Lord Lothar made a deal with the cruel northmen," Tart thought in dread,"He's opened the gates of the Twins for them, and he will doom us all." For the first time that evening, she broke into tears. She knew that tears would not be out of place anyways, for most of the women about her already had crimson cheeks from their weeping.
"King in the North," it seemed almost a scream in the chant outside.
"King in the North."
"KING IN THE NORTH."
Tart looked to Lord Lothar, and saw him switch his cane to his other hand and back again. He told his men something, and they sheathed their swords. Their hands, though, remained on their hilts. Tart noticed that Ser Perwyn had silently found a place in the shadows, away from sight.
"King in the North," the voices were at the door.
"King in the North."
"KING IN THE NORTH."
Lord Lothar's face dropped just as the door blew open. A monster of a man broke through. It was one of the Young Wolf's monsters. He barreled into the hall, shouting in a voice that blew apart their ears,"For the King in the North."
A host of men followed in his wake, echoing the same words,"For the King in the North."
There were men in worn mail, withered knights with tattered shields, a hundred motley soldiers. They all wore different banners. A burly warrior seemed to lead them, who wore a golden cloak. Each of them had blood in their eyes.
Without a word, the giant monster began to swing his sword. He caught one man by the neck, and his head went flying off with a spurt of blood.
"HAR," the monster hollered,"FOR THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
Each of their cold-eyed guests followed with the singing of their blades, and steel flashed all across the hall. They rushed forward, and that steel found the bloody flesh of their hosts.
Tart was frozen in her place as she watched the hall. Her men were drawing their swords, but many were too late. The tide of their foe swarmed them in howling silence. Tart's ears were ringing, but she still heard the soft song that the bards still played.
"Why are they still playing?" Tart wondered in a trance as she found a bard still playing with his lute. Her mind came back to her as she heard the screams.
She turned, seeing a Frey man fall before her. His killer gave her a toothless smile.
The women about Tart scattered, their cries piercing the chaos, and Tart followed. They ran, knowing the monsters were giving chase.
All around, Tart heard the echoes of screams.
"King in the North."
"King in the North."
"KING IN THE NORTH."
Tart only knew to run, to leave this horror behind. She did not know what lay ahead, only that it was better than the shadows of monsters behind. The monsters caught some of them, and Tart heard their shrieks as they were dragged into the jaws of the beasts. She did not dare to look back.
Men were screaming, women were screaming, and wolves were howling in the night. The same words tore forever through the fury.
"King in the North."
"King in the North."
"KING IN THE NORTH."
Tart felt a pull on her dress, and screamed. Her heart stopped for an instant, turning to find a beardless boy baring his teeth.
"No," she shrieked as he grabbed at her,"Get away." She could barely hear her own voice amidst the din.
She did hear the rip of her dress, and pain lanced across her knees as she fell upon the timbers. There soon came another pain, a terrible burning.
Her blurring sight found the door to the hall. More men were emerging from the darkness. Men with a white tree that was dripping blood. A ghostly mother was standing there, kissing the cheek of a pregnant daughter.
Something touched Tart's throat. It was cold, like the kiss of snow.