A Song of Frost & Flame

by Chimaera1201

When Robert's Rebellion broke out, the ancient friend and ally of the Starks, House Tormont offered their oldest daughter to the Lords of the Corridor for their alliance. Powerful and respected, the Taugere family kept the way north safe and at peace for thousands of years. But a less known prophecy may declare if the world will freeze over again, or burn in the fires.

27. Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27 – THE UNKNOWN

Berterin sat on his bed, running a fine whetstone down the length of his blade. It was a good feeling, keeping his sword sharp as much as he tried to keep himself strong. Almost another year at Citrine Arch blew by like so many leaves in the autumn breeze, and his fourteenth name day passed with it several moons ago. In essence he was a man grown, although it might not be ceremoniously acknowledged until his sixteenth year and he had yet to fill out his frame. But it didn't matter, as long as he could do what he was meant to, how others saw him was not important; it was motivating to feel a weight on his shoulders. He continued to uphold the training of the Citrine Arch guards as his father would, it made them all stronger. But every few weeks, they saw more inquisitors coming to demand the location of the White Hold, without any sure answer. Wildlings had passed the Wall, and set up on the grounds of The Gift with permission of the Lord Commander of the Nights's Watch, but as long as they kept to themselves it didn't bother him a great deal. They hadn't presented themselves as a direct threat to their people, yet. And some weeks ago they received the raven from Winterfell that lord Roose Bolton was dead. Poisoned by their enemies, and now his son held the North. It was not welcome news, but they accepted lest their people be tormented. There just was no other way, unless a Stark could retake that keep. He wondered how his family was doing back home, and then heard the deep clattering of the outer gates opening, then stood and sheathed his sword before heading to the window and looking down, where he spied three people dismounting from their horses, and then making their way to the stairs. Two men, and one woman. The two men were clad in leather armour it seemed, with furred cloaks draped over their shoulders. The woman in a thick winter dress under the same kind of furred cloak. These people he did not recognise, but they weren't the same as those who had come to call before them. And so he decided to make his way down to hear why they came. In the long hall, his uncle met the visitors before escorting them to his audience chamber so they may speak alone, and he held back, waiting in the hall and wondering whom they were. After a long while, his uncle and the visitors returned from the audience chamber, looking morose.

"I am sorry, I truly am. But I can't." he again apologised for some reason, and then headed off as they lingered behind. They exchanged looks, and then on a whim he decided to approach.

"Good day, my lords and lady." he greeted, and their eyes met his. The young woman was beautiful, with long, rich auburn hair and striking blue eyes. One of the men had thick black curls and black eyes, and the stubble of beard across the cheeks of a kind face, and the other had cropped grey hair, a full peppered beard and brown eyes. The younger lord extended a friendly hand.

"Good day." he greeted, but his voice was not at all as cheerful.

"I am Berterin Trentin." he introduced himself.

"My name is Jon Snow." the stranger returned his name, and then indicated his companions.

"This is my sister, Sansa Stark. And this is ser Davos Seaworth." he added, and Berterin smiled.

"A pleasure." he looked over them.

"May I ask your reason for visiting us?" he asked, to another subtle exchange of looks.

"We came asking for help, unfortunately we would not find it here." ser Davos explained with a light shrug, and he looked between them.

"What do you need help with?" he asked, and Sansa glanced at Jon whom looked around the hall, but there were no others near them.

"Retaking Winterfell from the Boltons won't be easy, and we need the men." he breathed softly, and Berterin understood. Then he glanced at the form disappearing down one of the long halls.

"Oh. Forgive my uncle, he is a good man. But tends to weigh his risks carefully." he apologised, and then looked back at them.

"Whom do you have?" he asked, and Davos seemed to think on that.

"Well, we have the support of house Mormont. House Hornwood. House Mazin..." he started, and for an instant Berterin felt hopeful that his list would continue.

"And the Free folk." he ended, and Berterin stared at him.

"The Wildlings, eh?" he glanced at Jon, who nodded tentatively as he looked back at the boy. Clearly, the youngster had no love for those north of the Wall, but to his relief there was no outright hatred either. Perhaps, it was more caution than anything else.

"This was the last place we could have come to." Sansa told, with the response in his bright green eyes there was hope that perhaps he may persuade his uncle otherwise. For the Freefolk he had discretion, but for this Ramsay he had absolute disgust. Sometime over a recent past, he had been wronged in some way as well.

"Lord Scharer isn't the like to easily alter his decisions, so if he has already turned you down, I won't be able to do much for you." he confessed, and then carefully spared a glance around the hall once again.

"But I know where you might find someone else who could." he said softly, and they stared at him. A little bit of hope came back to them for more people, and Sansa couldn't withhold a grateful smile.

"Any help we could gather will give us better odds." Jon said, and he took a small step closer to them.

"Take the Laketrail towards the Wolfswood, and wade into the mists. Prove yourselves no threat and the cats will find you." he told obscurely, and they stood mystified for an instant before remembering.

"They haven't been heard from in years." Sansa reminded but the boy smiled.

"They're there." he smiled, and then suddenly a voice cracked through the hall.

"Berterin! Come on, we're late." someone called from the doorway, and he sighed as he waved at the tall youngster awaiting him before looking back at them.

"I wish you good fortune, my lords and lady." he greeted, and headed off.

"Who is he talking about? Cats and mists..." Davos asked curiously as they watched him head away.

"A small house, but fiercely loyal to our family. And respected, besides." Sansa told, and then looked at her half-brother, and Jon sighed.

"I thought they'd all been killed..." He hadn't thought of them after receiving word of what happened to Robb. Manderly refused them, Umber refused them, Glover refused them, Karstark would certainly refuse them so there was no point in trying. And so many, many others. But they wouldn't.

"The Tormonts of Pale Haven. Small but skilled. One of the Starks's closest vassal houses." he brought it back, recalling the silver hair and silver-blue eyes. Lord Willmon Tormont and his eldest son were slaughtered days after his own brother, but they were still there. A Tormont still held the White Hold. They would never refuse them. The only thing was, that they've never been there and had not the slightest notion where the castle was, but they could try. The cats will find you...

"Where are 'the mists', exactly?" ser Davos asked.

"Somewhere between Long Lake and the Wolfswood, I think." Jon said, recalling the directions. Take the Laketrail to the Wolfswood... and Davos sighed.

"Well then, best we be off. We might take a while to find it." he suggested, and they started their way out to continue their search for more aid in their cause, leaving Citrine Arch on their coursers with no fortune gained but no hope lost. For near to two days they travelled north, north-west and west, avoiding the eyes of enemies, following a narrow trail that passed Long Lake down towards the Wolfswood just as the youngster had told, and slowly the white mist started to envelop them, so thick they could barely see a couple of feet in front of them as Jon led the way.

"You're sure we're going the right way?" Davos called from behind, and Jon looked around before breathing out and wondering why he was looking around for anything. There was nothing to see, the mist was too thick.

"He said 'The Laketrail to the Wolfswood'." he called back, unfortunate as it was they had no further directions.

"We've been here for goodness knows how long. How are we going to find them?" Sansa asked, feeling miserably defeated, and quite a bit lost in this. Then Jon looked back.

"We're not supposed to find them. They're supposed to find us." he reminded, and turned his horse around to face them.

"He said, 'Prove yourself no threat, and the cats will find you'. They're around here, somewhere." he insisted, again looking around at nothing to see.

"And how do we do that?" Davos asked, seeming equally frustrated.

"I don't know. I've never been here before." then he looked down, the only thing visible was the trail still heading duly south-west into the thick cloud, and he breathed out a heavy sigh, wondering if they really needed this. But then he tried to encourage himself,

"But I do know that if they can help us, they will." he insisted, repeating in his mind that they needed every man they could find. And this was their last option.

"We'll go as far as we can. When we reach the Wolfswood, we'll come back this way. If nothing happens..." they would never find them, he knew the stories. The Silence of the Mist was more than just a fanciful fable made up about Pale Haven, and was proven quite a few times.

"Then what?" Sansa asked, staring at him.

"If nothing happens, we go back to camp." Jon decided, and then turned his courser again to continue following the trail, the only sounds around them the steady thumping of their horses' hooves over the dirt path, but the mist remained ever constant with only slight differences in consistency every few feet. They trudged on for a good while, when realizing that it was suddenly severely dark, the trail little more than a dark smear on the ground. Jon cursed, the mist indeed made things very difficult for those who did not know this area thoroughly.

"Give me a torch, please." he asked, and ser Davos rummaged through the bag behind him, pulling a small staff.

"Only one left. We didn't expect to be stuck here." he reported and moved forward, handing the torch to Jon.

"What do we do now?" Sansa asked, not relishing the thought of spending another night outside, much less in this.

"We go forward. The Wolfswood shouldn't be that much farther." Jon decided dismounting his courser before taking the torch from Davos. He set it down on the path, which was mildly damp, and took two flint stones from the pouch at his belt, and struck them together. The sparks fell dimly to the ground while Davos dismounted as well. Seven more times Jon tried to bring light to the torch when finally a tiny ember fell on the soaked cotton binding, finally breathing life into the dark. With the torch softly flickering he brought it up to see, but still not much was visible. The light simply cascaded off the cloud around them, and no more could be made out of their surroundings than hours ago, and he cursed again.

"Perhaps we'd go further on foot? Might be easier to find the pathway." Davos suggested, and Jon nodded before looking up at his sister.

"Stay on your horse, we'll lead. If anything happens, just ride." he told, and she looked around at the thick white around them.

"What do you think could happen?" she asked, and he shrugged.

"I have no idea. Anything is possible here, I suppose." he said, and then took the reins of his horse to guide them forward with Davos closely behind him, his own courser in tow and Sansa following. On they walked until there was nothing but their footsteps resounding around them in muffled echoes, and the endless, thick white silence.

"We've been walking like this for hours. Jon, we're lost." Sansa finally complained, weary and worn. He didn't bother to look around again, there was nothing that could be seen.

"Just a little bit farther, then we'll rest." he urged to a disappointed look.

"Maybe we shouldn't have come. Maybe this was a mistake." she sighed, not being able to resist the urge to try and see through the veil that covered them.

"Just a little bit farther." Jon goaded once again, and she had to agree with a sigh and they walked. On and on they went, the path only visible for yet another five or six feet in front of them; when Davos suddenly stopped pointing.

"There, what is that?" he asked, indicating a shadow in the mist, and they moved forward eagerly, to find a tree.

"Is this the Wolfswood?" Davos asked, and Jon touched the wood of the pine. This tree was real.

"I don't know. It might be." he supposed, peering into the whiteness.

"The Wolfswood is a lush forest, not just a single tree." Sansa muttered, and then finally heard Jon sigh.

"Al right. We've found something, at least. We'll rest here for now, and take the trail back when we can see better." he decided, but he did not feel promising. They'd walked through this shroud for another day and a half, and all they found was a tree... They proceeded to unsaddle the horses and hobble them for the time being, gathering their equipment around the solitary tree. They might continue their search a short time by morning, but it seemed a better option to take the trail back. They used the torch to fuel a small fire which they shared for warmth and light, going at the contents of one of the saddle bags as it seemed the sudden night deepened and the mist ever kept its thick line. But despite the change of seasons, it was surprisingly warm here and they were not left shivering. They continued to share soft discussions, idly planning on what to do once they returned to the encampment where those who had agreed to join them had started to gather, and awaited their return; and again they wondered what success they could hope for in this isolation. But oddly, the thick mist didn't leave them as uncomfortable as they had expected. There were no sounds beyond their own voices, and it was like the thick mist created a tiny little chamber which kept their presence and the warmth close. Davos looked up, at an equally white sky that captured the orange glow of the small fire.

"Even as a smuggler, I've never seen mist this thick before. It ain't natural." he quipped, and heard Jon snigger.

"Lord Willmon Tormont used to say, that his home was protected by the old gods." he told, and Davos sighed.

"Well, of that I can't say much. I've never been a big believer." he breathed.

"The power of the old ones are still strong in the North. My mother didn't believe in them though, but my father used to spend days sitting under the weirwood in the godswood of Winterfell, but I never heard him praying. I think, that their presence was worth more to him than spoken words..." Sansa recalled, time and time again as a child she would see him under the white tree with the great sword of the Stark family, called "Ice" in his hands.

"My wife prayed. My sons prayed. But I just felt foolish sitting there in a corner speaking with nothin' but the stones to hear me." Davos said, using a stick to shove some of the embers of the small fire around.

"Well, it's never too late to start." Jon said, watching the flames and then looked at them.

"Try to get some sleep. I'll take first watch." he proposed, and the little group settled down on the ground around the fire. Jon looked around a last time, at the wall of white around them. But, he didn't feel endangered here. Perhaps the gods of their fathers were here after all, watching over them. He eased, preparing to wait out the night. Heedless of the shadows moving around in the unseen... Sansa was the first to wake to a white world, stirred from sleep by odd sounds in the distance. She blinked, and then registered that they were still in the thick of the mist. Ser Davos off to one side snoring softly, and Jon on the ground a foot or two away from her. Apparently it seemed, their watch was discarded sometime during the night. The sound came again, and she strained to hear through the mist that muffled the direction. A wolf? She continued to listen, the sounds coming slowly closer. But no, it was not a wolf. It sounded bigger, heavier... What is that? She sat up, searching the area around them which remained as it was the day before, anything beyond a few feet indiscernible, and realized the horses were gone hoping desperately that they had just wandered off slightly and were still close, simply concealed by the haze. It was starting to lighten, but the sun was still not away from the horizon, wherever that was right now... The sound continued to echo through the mist, and she reached for her brother, gently shaking him.

"Jon... Jon!" she called to him softly, and his eyes opened.

"We're not alone..." she breathed, and he suddenly sat up with a start realizing that he too had fallen asleep during the night. The world was so quiet, he couldn't tell when he drifted away, and now he registered the sound as well. It was moving towards them. More than one... Then he stood, taking his Valyrian Steel sword and unsheathing it, holding the grip in both hands.

"Davos... Ser Davos..." the older man shot up, still dazed from sleep.

"What?" he asked awkwardly, drunk on slumber. But then it vanished as he too heard it, and he quickly stood.

"Wolves?" he asked, taking up his own sword looking around. The sound seemed to be coming from all around them.

"Too big for wolves." Jon muttered, scanning the mist. Where is it? Where is that coming from? What is it? It might have been better to have Ghost along after all, he would have been able to smell what or who it was in the mist if he could not see them, but he hadn't seen his dire wolf in days having thought he was simply off hunting. They huddled closer, trying to identify the direction of the sounds, but they were everywhere and suddenly the fact was very real that they were alone here, that they were severely vulnerable and if the worst should happen, no one would ever know... And then the sounds vanished, drowned out like the mist simply swallowed it up and there was nothing. They stood close together, scanning the white around them and wondering if they were dreaming, and then Sansa pointed at something.

"There..." she whispered, and Jon looked her way to see a large black shadow in the mist. It was immense, near to ten feet tall. And his heart leapt up into his throat as he gripped Long Claw's hilt tighter in his hand. What monsters dwell in these mists...

"Who are you?" Davos suddenly demanded into the shroud, and the creature seemed to stretch out its arm, and there were suddenly more sounds. Sounds he then realized were not the snarling of monstrous wolves, but the snorting of horses and the brush of steel and leather.

"Friend or foe?" a voice came back. The voice of a man. And they stood bewildered for half a heartbeat before more shadows materialized out of the whiteness and the voice came at them again.

"Friend or foe?" he wasn't simply asking out of curiosity... Prove yourselves no threat, and the cats will find you...

"Friend!" Jon suddenly shouted, laying down his sword and raising his hands.

"Friends!" he repeated as he glanced at Davos who spared him a cautious glance, but then lay his sword down as well. There was a fleeting silence, and then the tall shadow moved again, coming forward. Emerging out of the mist, they saw a soldier mounted on a courser as pale as the fog, and he made his way to them with a spear held in his hand. He was a gaunt man, a stern face with rough features, a scar running down from his left eye to the side of his square jaw.

"I had hoped so. Getting rid of threats is tiresome work." he grinned, and more soldiers took form, all mounted on the same grey horses.

"But then, the Bolton ranging parties were quite a bit larger than yours." he pointed out, and then stared at Jon.

"Who are you, ser?" Sansa asked, and his steel grey eyes met hers solidly.

"Philkin Deepwater they name me. Captain of the guard to Pale Haven, in service of Lord Tormont." he introduced and then looked back at Jon, smiling in a moment of elation. They had found them.

"You wear the wolf of a Stark." he indicated the sigil on the leather over Jon's chest with the butt of his spear.

"Lord Eddard Stark was our father." he revealed, motioning to his sister.

"Well then, my lords and lady. I assume you did not come here looking for mushrooms?" he smiled, and Jon sighed. He was blunt, but not altogether rude.

"We had hoped to meet with Lord Tormont." Davos quickly said, and the grey eyes went to him.

"You won't find him here, I'm afraid." he told, and Sansa stepped forward.

"Then you might take us to Pale Haven to see him." she said back, and he looked back at her, a stern draw to his mouth.

"Lord Tormont was grievously injured, not too long ago." and their hope suddenly started to vanish,

"Please, we've come all this way. Surely we can have a look at the White Hold, at the very least." Davos urged foxily, and the soldier sighed with a soft smirk.

"We will escort you to Pale Haven. As for an audience with the lord himself, I can make no promises." he agreed,

"But, our horses..." Jon mentioned, looking around and then saw a different soldier approach with their horses, already saddled. So, they didn't just wander off... Sansa thought. These men used the mist well, they'd come close enough to their camp site to relinquish them of their steeds should they have been a danger. They mounted and followed Philkin on the trail, back the way they came for a while with the other soldiers circling them, all in silence. There was nothing from them, not so much as a breath. Then she looked down, abruptly realizing that the path had vanished.

"How do you know where we're going?" she asked the captain in front of her, and he pointed down at something. As they passed, she noticed a white stone protruding from the ground. And then another... and another. They were following a trail of white stones, and she looked back at Jon just behind her, who shrugged. They would never have found the castle by following the road. They trailed the stones heading north and east, then slowly turned back west where a solid road met them again when the sun was little more than a shining ball through the thick clouds. Philkin stopped his horse on the road, and silence fell on them again as they looked around. A sudden high pitched whistle broke the mist, and half a heartbeat later the whistle echoed back. He whistled again, two high tolls, and it echoed again. No, not an echo. One pitch died somewhere in the fog, and he moved forward again down the road, and their hope brightened when the distant sound of straining chains and cogs sounded through the mist. Moments later another shadow loomed in front of them, and a great gate came into view, solitary in the world. Just a gate..? Davos wondered, and then finally noticed the stones it stood in. They were white, streaked with shade grey, that made the hold vanish in the shroud. Pale Haven... they entered into the bailey, the green banners with the leaping black cat displayed against the walls, and numerous felines crossing the yard while the gate was lowered again and the soldiers dismounted. The little group spared a glance at the world around them, notably clearer than what it had been outside the walls. Several carpenters were busy rebuilding a part of the forge, which seems to have collapsed.

"This way please, my lords and lady." Philkin called to them, and they dismounted, leaving their horses to the care of the grooms. They entered the white hold into the vast hall where light spilled through the grand round window above the wide stairway, and servants moved about, another furred face watching them from the railing of the stairs. A great maned dark blue-grey feline with a lighter smoke-grey belly, big tufted ears, long silk-white whiskers, and glowing orange eyes. Others also stopped to stare at them for a moment, at the new faces, of course... but it was not their eyes that held their attention, but the bright, leering sunburst eyes of the grand tom that watched them intently, like he was demanding a reason for their disturbance in his home.

"If you'd be so kind as to wait here, I will announce your calling." the captain advised, and then moved off as they remained in the space, taking in the wonder. The stronghold was grand, and yet completely out of sight.

"I never would have thought that a place like this existed." Davos breathed, taking in the stern contrast of the thick mist outside the walls, and the clear air around them now.

"A wonderful creation, yes." Jon agreed, and then looked up to the second level where a woman came down the steps. For her age, she was beautiful, dressed in pine green velvet with fine silver detailing. She had lush brown hair, warm brown eyes in a soft face and full, smiling lips. She opened their arms to them as she approached them.

"Welcome to Pale Haven." she received them graciously, and then looked at his sister.

"Lady Sansa, how beautiful you've become. The last time I saw you, you were just a girl." she complimented, and she softly blushed for such a warm welcome from someone she barely knew.

"And to you, Jon Snow. Your father would be a proud man, had he lived to see what you've achieved." she continued, and for a moment he too felt slightly baffled. Then she looked at Davos.

"Welcome, ser." she said, and he bowed his head.

"Our deepest gratitude for receiving us, milady." he replied, bringing their thoughts back to themselves. She was lady Alyssa Tormont of Pale Haven, the Grey Tom's wife... now his widow.

"May I have chambers prepared for you? A warm bath and a proper meal, perhaps? I'm sure you've been on the road for days." she offered and Jon almost laughed happily.

"Thank you very much, lady Alyssa. But I'm afraid we can't stay long." she smiled back, bringing her hands together.

"For as long as you need it, of course." she agreed, and then turned around as two girls came rushing over.

"Prepare three chambers in the noble quarter, and be quick. Our guests are pressed for time." she ordered them, and they hurried away as Sansa stared. Did she know why they came? The servants obeyed her without so much as an awkward glance. Then she turned back to them, and guided them to a different hall where charwomen and serving girls were cleaning the tables.

"Three servings, quickly!" she ordered, and two more serfs ran off through the little door. It was amazing, almost as much as it was frightening. Then she looked back at them, her eyes ever bright and warm.

"Tell me, has anything been heard of Lord Taugere?" she asked, and they glanced between one another.

"Not that we know of, milady." Davos replied, and she slowly nodded as she looked down.

"And his lady wife?" she asked, and Jon felt relieved that they could give her some good news.

"Safe at Mount Ardor, my lady. And standing strong, if the stories be true. I've heard tell that hers is the home of Westeros's first Battle Master in centuries." he told, and she smiled looking up at him.

"Oh, yes. That would be ser Falgon of the Fire Hall, no doubt. You were quite smitten with the great sentinel when you were a child." she mentioned, and he laughed. The memories were vague, and far off. But there. He recalled a powerful man, long dark hair, and fierce eyes. Strength as great as the mountains, and manners as gentle as a spring breeze; and he had the hope of meeting him again some day. But if lady Claira turned down lord Stannis when he called upon them, she might turn them down as well. He knew too well besides, that their time was limited.

"Thank you. Please settle down for a while. My son will meet with you as soon as he is able to." then she turned and left as they took seats around one of the nearby tables. Alyssa Tormont was certainly a formidable woman, and there was no longer any questioning why her lord husband would leave the order of a keep under her hand when he was needed elsewhere. They were brought helpings of boiled beef, spinach, maize, pumpkin and beetroot with ale, and passed their meal with conversation. How and when they would return to their encampment, which may in all likelihood be early the following day, and their good fortune for making it this far. Secretly they prayed, that this luck would keep with them for a while longer. And at some point the captain of the guard once again joined their company.

"My pardon for disturbing you." he drew their attention, his armour now removed he was not as homely a man as they'd at first thought. The rough features made him seem harsh and crude, but when he smiled there was a gentleness to him.

"Lord Tormont has agreed to meet with you as soon as is reasonable, given his condition. You are welcome to await him in the lord's library." he told, and Davos nodded.

"Oh. Well, thank you. He is very kind to take the trouble." he said sounding abashed, and Philkin grinned.

"If you didn't come looking for mushrooms, then a simple glance at the White Hold was not on your order of business, either." he teased, and then moved off.

"One of the girls will show you to the library, when you so choose." he assured and then vanished again, passing a fuzzy brown and black tabby sitting in the doorway, watching them with bright green eyes. When they were done, they followed one of the serfs to a grand room on the second level of the castle, stocked with great shelves to the height of the chambercap and countless books. A bright fireplace burnt in the centre of the wall where a comfortable chair faced the flames, a long divan next to it and a wide table stood behind it strewn with books, letters, maps and numerous other scrolls. They gathered around the hearth where Sansa took a seat on the divan, finding it serenely comfortable, and they waited while their voices sounded soft in the air with the warm chattering of the logs in the fire, with little care for the time in this restful place that made them think of home. Moments later, a hard thud drew their attention to the wide table behind them, where the same great cat that met them when they entered again sat with his thick gossamer tail hanging down over the edge in a curl, staring at them with his bright eyes. His purr was deep and thick and loud, like the rumble of distant thunder.

"Quite the lord, this one..." Davos murmured, watching the grand tom. He quite resembled the spot-cats they've seen in the wild on the odd occasion, when they weren't too shy to appear.

"I've never seen a cat that big." Jon added, while Sansa only smiled, admiring the big lustrous eyes. Then the sound of feet and wood on stone drew their attention to the door where a young man helped the lord inside.

"My apologies, for keeping you waiting." he breathed as he gave them a tired, but friendly smile, his blue eyes bright and warm, and Sansa stood to acknowledge him.

"It's quite al right, my lord." Jon said, watching them move slowly inside. He used a brace under his left arm to support himself, while the youngster supported him from his right shoulder. Dark bruises covered the right side of his face and neck, and white linen was visible around his wrist above an equally bruised hand. Rhegard spared the large feline a quick glance, and chuckled.

"Forgive Tempest, he's been watching over our home for near to thirty five years; and is oft curious of strangers." he told, and then was helped to the chair facing the hearth where the youngster carefully had him take a seat; and from the way he walked it was a clear thing that he was in a substantial amount of pain. He allowed himself a deep breath, and then eased back as the young man took the brace from him, and then his attention went to the visitors, and he motioned to the divan for them to join him, and they settled down.

"I welcome you to Pale Haven, blood of Lord Stark, and your companion." he again graced them heartily. It was a considerably more hospitable acceptance than what they'd received in several other places.

"Thank you, lord Tormont. We realize that this is rather untimely." Jon said, but saw the gentleman smile easily.

"It's al right. Not all things fall under our control." he breathed, and then rested his hands on the armrests.

"What business do you bring to the White Hold?" he asked, and Sansa sat forward.

"We've come to ask for your support." she stated, and he nodded.

"You mean to reclaim Winterfell?" he realized as a shadow leapt onto his knees making the lord grimace for half a heartbeat, then the great cat turned curling up and facing the guests with eyes luminous, and his profound purr continued to vibrate through the air while Rhegard's hand came softly to him, stroking down the dark grey fur on his back.

"It won't be a fair fight. We've managed to rally three other houses to our cause, but still including the Freefolk the Bolton forces outnumber ours by a good three-to-one." Davos continued to explain.

"I see. And how did you know to come here?" he asked, and Jon glanced at the others.

"Citrine Arch was the last stronghold we called upon. We met a young man there, named Berterin Trentin. He told us where and how we might find you." he told, and saw the lord breathe a sigh.

"He took a great risk, sending you here." he said, his eyes on the flames for a long silent moment, but then looked back at them again with a smile.

"The cats have always run beside the wolves. I don't mean to change it." he finally said, and again Sansa almost leapt up and hugged the man, but kept her composure.

"My nephews will ride with you. But as for me, I won't be of much use to you now. Not while I'm like this." he decided, and then looked up at the young man waiting at his side.

"Will, go fetch your brothers." he told, and the youngster hurried off.

"How many men can we hope for?" Davos asked, and Rhegard looked back at him.

"One hundred and nineteen, including my nephews." he calculated, and Jon smiled. They continued their discussion for a while, where the camp was based and how they hoped to win. Shortly after, three young men returned, and Sansa regarded them. They all looked the same, black haired and blue eyed. But one, seemed to stand out from the others; he was taller and had more mass. And his blue eyes shimmered, like flakes of frost in the sun. Rhegard looked up as they approached.

"This is Williame, Gaerand and Rye." he introduced them, young men of sixteen, fifteen and fourteen years. Jon stared at them, wondering.

"They're little more than boys." he breathed, examining them.

"Oh, they may be young. But they'll surprise you." Rhegard laughed, and one of the youngsters scoffed.

"Is it our skill or our age that you want?" he asked, followed by a stern glare from the lord.

"Be respectful, Gaerand." his words were soft, but powerful; and Gaerand looked down.

"My apologies, my lord." he said.

"Go make your preparations, I assume you will leave with the dawn." he instructed, and they left the chamber, rather excitedly.

"They're certainly spirited, I'll give them that." Davos mentioned, for just an instant remembering his own sons.

"They are all fine fighters. Williame's skill in strategy has been compared to my own father's, while Gaerand is an adept commander already. And Rye, well... He has very intricate capabilities." Rhegard explained, and their conversation continued for a good long while with Tempest coiled in his lap until he finally shooed him off and forced himself to his feet.

"I wish you a peaceful night, my lords and lady. It might be the last one you'll have for a while." he greeted, taking the brace and starting to move off. As if summoned, one of the guards appeared to offer the lord his strength. He was a short, stocky man with thick chestnut coloured hair and dark eyes, but well defined.

"Well then, as his lordship commands, we'd best make the most of a soft bed." Davos proposed, in his secrecy relishing the thought of something besides the hard ground beneath him.

"That sounds like a fine idea." Jon agreed, and they departed the library, finding a page boy whom politely escorted them to the chambers that had been prepared for them; and after a duly savoured warm bath, Sansa stood staring out of the little window at the sky, but there were no stars to be seen. Then her eyes lowered, thanking the entities for answering their cries before spotting the crimson leaves of what could only be a weirwood. I haven't been in a godswood for a long time... and she wondered if she might go there to pray, which at the time seemed like a good idea. She left her chamber and made her way down through the still castle, venturing outside and for a moment felt lost. Then she approached one of the sentries, on his way back from the castle gatehouse.

"I'd like to visit your godswood." she said, and he looked to his right towards a wide arch and pointed.

"The gods grove is through there, my lady." he advised, and she thanked him before moving off, stepping through into the small woodland. She followed the trail between shrubs and bushes and flowers, lit with a delicate torch every few feet, all with the sound of dry leaves cracking beneath her feet, and then heard voices. She looked up, a single torch was burning next to the ancient tree, and on a fallen log just a few feet away in its light she could see the lord of the hold sitting next to a lady with her hand in his. The face looking back from the tree was calm, majestic, understanding... ancient, under the blood red leaves, the white of the bark almost glowed in the firelight.

"Lady Stark." she heard her name, and suddenly realized that lord Rhegard was looking at her.

"Can we do something for you, my lady?" the woman asked, and then she moved tentatively forward.

"I just wanted to visit the godswood..." she said, and Rhegard smiled.

"All are welcome in the gods grove, my lady." he invited, and she took a seat on a stump opposite from them.

"My love, this is lady Sansa. Daughter of lord Eddard Stark." he told the woman next to him, and then looked back at Sansa.

"May I present my wife, lady Lyenne." he introduced, and Sansa smiled at the woman.

"A pleasure." she said, finding the woman likeable. Her mother might have looked like her in her younger years.

"The honour is mine, my lady." she replied, and the world drowned in silence for a while, but soon enough Sansa's attention went back to the lord, and the bruises that covered him.

"What happened?" she suddenly asked, instantly regretful for her boldness. But graciously he only smiled.

"An accident." then he looked up.

"Our forge caught fire, one evening. I tried to help those inside, but three of my people lost their lives." he told, but Lyenne gently squeezed his hand.

"You saved more people than we lost." then her other hand came over to cover his bruised hand.

"And if the boys didn't pull you out of there, we would have lost you too." she comforted him. He smiled at her, and then he looked up at the tree.

"The side of the forge collapsed onto me, cracking my ribs and breaking both my leg and my wrist. I come here, because it soothes me. The maester's aids help, but I find more relief under these leaves than in any bottle." he continued to explain, and she could share that. It brought a kind of calmness that no medicine could ever give you. The silence they shared as she prayed freely, in a place that was safe and secure and serene before standing.

"Good night, my lord and lady." she greeted and then returned to her chamber, falling down on the gentle bed and drifting off to sleep and meeting yet another grey dawn. The company dressed, and broke their fast before gathering in the bailey where the men assembled to claim their steeds; only a handful in darker shades than the pale grey mass. Rhegard and Lyenne stood on the first step watching as Philkin took position at the front of the mass, Williame, Gaerand and Rye to his left side, and the guests on his right. Then he lifted his head towards the gatehouse, and sounded off a loud high whistle, and the heavy iron lifted from the earth to allow the horde of soldiers to pass into the mist beyond. Lyenne looked up at her husband.

"They'll be al right." she soothed, feeling the tremble to his fingers, and he glanced down.

"I know." he assured, acknowledging that the shiver was not fear. Were it not for his current conditions, he would have led the force himself.

Milla stood watching the endless fields that stretched out to the blue horizon with its many woodlands and streams and stones, her arms resting on the stones of the high rim of the sun tower's crown, wondering how long still her family will linger. They'd been gone for near half a year, and Claira's name day passed just little more than a month ago when a raven came to inform them that Bristlemane Stronghold was reclaimed by her lord husband, and again securely under Trentin rule. But, they've been there for so long, and should have been back by now if all was in order. She glanced down at Garde's Post, and the shadows moving between the buildings. From here, the village looked like a distorted sunflower, the shops and houses growing outward from the wide town centre with its well; but didn't think that three hundred people lived here. Ironic was the fact that the greatest castle in this country had the smallest town, while Ramshorn and Hornsney were their great trade cities for the sheep herds and honey. But their size was little more than grossly enlarged towns.

"Milla?" she looked back to see Claira standing behind her, dressed in lush royal blue velvet with gold detailing.

"Are you al right?" she smiled, and then looked back at the rim of the world.

"Yes, just a bit anxious. Berin's company should have been back by now." she said, and heard her friend coming to share the view of the world with her.

"Don't worry, I'm sure it won't be much longer." she breathed leaning on the stones as Milla regarded her, the breeze gently brushing strands of hair over her face. How calm she was... time had taught her patience.

"Of course, you're right." she agreed with a soft smile, and then Claira looked at her with a happiness to her features.

"We've had word from Oldtown today." she informed, and Milla shared her glee.

"And how is he?" she asked eagerly, and Claira's eyes went back to the horizon.

"He's fine. He's just fine. And he's doing exceptionally well. Perhaps he too, can come home soon." she said, and it was a cheerful thought, to have everyone back where they were meant to be. But, there was something else, as well.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, and Claira sighed.

"Maester Adlyn is feeling morose. Stannis's force was destroyed while trying to take Winterfell." she told, and Milla hesitated for a moment. Why would he be sad about that?

"That's not all, is it?" she said softly, and saw her friend shake her head.

"Lady Shireen is dead, as well." she added, and her heart dropped. She was around Rychon's age, maybe just a little bit younger. And as a babe she was infected with Greyscale. Maester Adlyn, renowned for his healing skills, was summoned to Dragonstone by lord Stannis to try and stop its advance. He travelled there with sentinels Derric and Saerus, and returned seven weeks later, happily announcing that he and two other maesters were able to stop the disease, and save the child's life. Now, she was dead...

"Oh, that's so tragic..." she whispered.

"It is." Claira agreed, and then glanced down at the village.

"There's been more activity around Garde's Post for a while now..." she mentioned, and Milla looked down. There were definitely more people.

"I suppose they're preparing for the Horn Festival." she said, and Claira sighed softly.

"Possibly, but it's not for another two months." she calculated. Provisions usually wouldn't start for another turn of the moon.

"Well, come along. We have engagements of our own to tend to." the lady of the hold beckoned,

"Yes, my lady." Milla agreed, sparing a final glance into the blue sky where somewhere far away in a solid stronghold, her daughter was busy packing her effects with her bold Bea helping her while Sam and Sweet Stephanie finished with their own belongings for the journey back. Her father had given the command to return to Mount Ardor two days ago, and all was well under way. Geerd Vega was dead and buried, as respectfully as his position would decree. Those loyal to him were dismissed from the Bristlemane grounds, but not without scowls; yet, there were more that remembered the Trentin rights and they stayed on with vows to uphold their honours. Order of the hold will be left to Gedro, with Vaellion remaining behind to secure their position and to learn if he would one day be castellan. Then she closed the chest she was busy with, to be delivered to the wagon with their other items.

"I'm heading down for just a moment." she told, and Bea looked back with a smile.

"Al right, I'm almost finished, then I'll join you." she told as she folded a dress, and Bella left her room for the stables to ask the stable master to ensure that her palfrey was tended to and ready for their travel home. In a few days she would see her mother again, her aunt and her protector and soon enough her friend. All of her precious people. Suddenly a hand grabbed onto her wrist and pulled her into a different passage, and in a moment she reached for her dagger before an eager mouth closed over hers, and she recognised his smell. The smell of pine. They'd shared kisses before, but they grew increasingly avid. And so did his persuasions since she turned sixteen.

"Happy to leave this heap?" he asked as he drew back, his arms going around her waist.

"More than I should be, I'll confess." she breathed softly, her arms going around his neck as his tightened.

"Meet me in the stables tonight, we'll have a tumble in the hay before we leave tomorrow." he suggested impishly, and she sighed. This wasn't the first time he'd made that proposal either. The south tower, the cellars, the rookery, the granary, the armoury... the stables. She enjoyed Devan, but...

"Devan, please." he smiled.

"We can't abandon the castle without making our mark." he continued to urge, and her hands came down to his chest.

"But not like that." she resisted as he smiled down at her, a greedy leer in his light eyes.

"You're a woman grown, Bella. You can make your own decisions." he reminded her intentionally, and she smiled back.

"I know. And I want to be married to the man that takes me." she told him, solidly. It wasn't just an obligation for the honourable preservation of their house, she longed for it. The solidity and happiness of a blessed union, like that of her family.

"I could marry you." he suggested with a small shrug, and she almost laughed at him.

"No. No, you couldn't." she denied again, and he pulled her closer.

"And why not?" he leaned down to kiss her again, but she drew slightly back.

"Because my father would rip out your spine and flog you with it." her father had not considered suitors for her yet, but it was not a well-kept secret that he had no great love for the young guardsman. But for her sake, he tolerated him to the best of his endurance.

"He'll have to catch me first." he playfully teased, and then drew her closer into a fervent kiss which she returned for a moment before gently pushing him away.

"You don't know how good he is." she warned him, but he laughed.

"He's an old man." he mocked, and she scoffed irritably. True, her father was not at age with Devan, but he was certainly nowhere near maester Adlyn. Aside from Falgon, he was the lord's very best.

"Oh, if he doesn't get you today, it will be tomorrow." she assured him, well aware of his persistence, and then she felt his hands tighten again on her low back.

"Come on, Bella. Come with me. We'll head up north, and start our lives and our own family on my uncle's land." he urged again, but the thought was a daunting one. And even if her father did not choose a suitor for her, she wanted to stay here. Close to home.

"No, Devan. I... I want to go home. I want to see my family and my friends again. Want to see Rychon..." she told, but the name that escaped her lips left a sourness in his eyes, and a scowl to his mouth.

"He's forgotten about you, Bella. He hasn't written to you in years." He hasn't forgotten me. He would never forget about me... I'm sure he's just busy... They'd shared too many days next to the fountain in the garden, too many walks, too many rides, too many lessons, too many suppers, too many... even a kiss, once. He would never forget, even if he didn't write to her.

"I know that he hasn't written. But, I still want to see him." she insisted, and the sourness turned to something bitter.

"You're foolish. A foolish girl, dreaming about a boy lord." he ridiculed her, but the bitterness he showed was answered by a stinging sear through her as she pushed away from him.

"At least I dream of better things than some patch of land. Go find someone else to share it with you, then!" she wrenched away from him and started her way off through the halls, almost having forgotten why she'd come down in the first place, but suddenly his hand grabbed onto her shoulder and turned her.

"You think I don't dream of things? I have, so many times. Of us. Of you with me, because that's all I need. Isn't that better than hoping for something that might not happen?" he asked, and she softened.

"Then, you will wait for me until the time is right." she breathed, and he closed his arms around her again.

"Al right, I'll try." he said softly, and then smiled at her.

"I just love you so much. I want to start my life with you." he told her, and her arms wrapped around his neck.

"Your patience will be rewarded." he softly teased, and he brought his face closer to hers.

"Promise?" he asked, breathing down her neck.

"If you earn it..." she whispered back, her fingers gently straining into his shoulders as she felt the warmth flow down her skin into her stomach, and his arms tightened when he kissed her again. Deeply, heatedly and finally she managed to force him away.

"You should go..." but he pulled her closer again.

"Why?" he asked,

"So you can see that all of the arrangements are met before leaving tomorrow. It's a long road back." she told him, and he leaned down.

"I'll have time enough for that, after you." he teased, pressing her closer. But then the sound of footsteps coming down the hall drew his attention, and he released her before Berin's tall shadow fell across the stones, and he appeared in the hallway.

"Where the-fuck have you been?" he suddenly demanded, and Devan looked up at him sheepishly.

"Patrolling the halls, my lord." he replied courteously, the deep green eyes hard while he examined them both.

"Get your ass down to the bailey. There's a lot to be done." he ordered, and with a final glance the young guard left through the hallways down. Bella looked at her father, drawing a deep breath as he stared at the youth making his way from them before looking back at her.

"I've told you many times before, Bella." he breathed, and she sighed.

"I know, I know. 'Never meet with him alone' you said, Dadda." she quoted him, and his eyes softened.

"Where's Beatrice?" he asked, and she smiled.

"Seeing to the last of our effects. She'll be down soon." she told him, and then glanced down the hallway where Devan disappeared.

"And he won't try anything." she assured him, hinting at the dagger at her side.

"Not all things are forced. Some, are just... not controlled. And I know it becomes tempting-" he started to explain, but she threw her arms around him.

"Don't worry about me. I know what I want." she comforted him, and felt his arms coil around her waist to hold her.

"And I want the best for you. I can see that you like this boy, but... it won't be enough. Not for my only daughter." he told, and heard her laugh.

"Well, as to that. We will have to wait and see." she giggled, and he smiled.

"I hope you're planning to wait another twenty years, at least." he teased her as her arms slipped around his elbow.

"Maybe..." she agreed in a light tease of her own as they started down the hallway to tend to the last of their own matters.

Rhegard sat in the library with Tempest once again lounged in his lap, his deep rumbling purr seeming to resound off the very walls around him. The great grey tomcat was currently the oldest creature on their grounds, and despite his own set of afflictions he was a stubborn old thing. The men had been away for a number of days, and he wondered if he might make it to the camp site before the battle began. But doubtless, the maester would fervently advise him against that, as he had yet to fully heal. The pain wasn't as bad any more, he might be able to hold the sword. And as long as his destrier was not struck from beneath him, he may yet still have it in him to fight, as well. Then he looked up through the window, at the endless whiteness outside where not even a star broke through. Keep them safe... then soft footsteps came into the library and he looked back at a girl carrying a tray inside with tea and a small plate of crispels.

"Your tea, my lord." she announced, setting the tray on the table, and proceeding to pour the rich liquid into a small cup as he smiled.

"Thank you, sweetling." he breathed. He was served tea twice a day, with either cloves or Valerian root for pain, and sometimes milk of the poppy which often would just make him feel drowsy. Then she came over, presenting the tea to him before sitting down on the divan close to him, her hands folded on the armrest as she looked at him.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, and he breathed in.

"Better, I can walk on my own now." he reported, and she smiled happily.

"That is good." he regarded her slowly, taken by how much she looked like her mother, except for her eyes. Her eyes were the bright blue of their family. A maiden of fifteen, named for the Lady of Pale Haven.

"Are you lonely?" he asked, bringing the cup to his mouth.

"A little bit. I miss their laughter, a lot. The way they would always tease each other. It's far too quiet without them." she confessed, and he smiled. She was fond to them, of course. Then she looked up at him.

"They'll be al right, won't they?" she asked softly, and he sat back resting his hand on the cat sleeping on his lap.

"Of course, sweet Malyssa. They'll be just fine. Your brothers are very capable." he reassured her with all the confidence he had, but watched as she looked down at her hands.

"I just can't bear the thought of something happening to any of them. We've all grown up here, even if..." she started, and he knew what she would say but that didn't matter.

"My sweet, gentle child. Never doubt them, for our thoughts strengthen them as much as their own. We must believe." he told her as her blue eyes came up at him, the glint of tears under the soft blue. Then she stood and came forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and he held her, his fingers running over the soft honey gold hair.

"Don't worry, they'll come back." he soothed her, his brother's beautiful daughter, now his along with Theresa and Elysia; and he felt her arms gently shivering around him. All together, they were three and three. Three boys and three girls, all Tormont blood. And he loved them all...

"Don't be scared, Malyssa. They've all been taught well, and we'll stay safe here." he promised, and then she pulled back.

"I know. I'm just cold." she told, but he smiled. She wasn't the best liar, then she stood and retook her seat, watching the flames and wondering where they were in this grey night, and if they were thinking of home. But of home, there was little time for thought as they waited in the darkness, cloaked and hooded in black they were as silent as the trees around them, with the shadow of Winterfell far in the distance just visible under the pale moonlight as Gaerand watched through the shadows. They'd offered to come scouting at night, and they'd best hurry to get back to camp before they were discovered.

"So, what do you think?" Williame asked from the back of his courser, and a figure moved standing up from where he was crouched down on the ground.

"More have come, a couple of hundred at least." he told, and quickly mounted his own steed.

"I'll never get how you do that." Gaerand softly laughed as Rye took up the reins, then he looked back and smiled.

"Practice." then he turned his horse around.

"Come, we'll have to report this to the commanders." Williame took their lead, making their way back to the camp site as quickly as was possible without being noticed. Little after daybreak they entered into the camp, and gave their mounts to those tending to the horses before moving in further, aiming for their tents to steal some sleep before in all likelihood receiving new orders when they happened upon Jon Snow and his sister, engaged in a subtle discussion on their conditions, although some others would sooner name it an argument.

"It's not enough, we need more men." Sansa told her brother, and he looked back at her, contemplating what their chances were, and indeed it was all but hopeless.

"There's no time." he breathed heavily, if there were they would have used it, doubtlessly.

"If we went down to castle Cerwyn, I know that Lord Cerwyn-" she started as he came towards her.

"We fight, with the army we have." he decided, and then Gaerand stepped forward to offer an opinion of his own.

"We could send a raven to my aunt at Mount Ardor. She'll help us, I know she will. She'd send the entire force of the Corridor to support us." they looked at him, the lady's blue eyes shining happily with optimism while the black eyes remained distant and unfortunate.

"Even if the raven gets there, it will take them near to a month to reach us." Will had to enter his own thoughts, and Gaerand glared at him, and then Rye only made it that much worse. But instead of simply adding a statement, the blue eyes met his evenly.

"There are new arrivals at Winterfell regularly, as you've seen. If we take the time to gather more men, then Ramsay will as well. What do you suppose the odds will be in the end?" he challenged, and then they heard Jon sigh.

"Lady Claira has already refused to support the wars of other regions. I don't think we can count on them. If she did not answer king Stannis, why would she answer us?" he put forth, and Gaerand opened his mouth to give him the answer: Because her nephews ride with you, that's why... but then Rye looked at Jon, and cut him off.

"That's not the issue. She'd help us if she could, I'm sure. But it will take too long to mobilize their forces, and you've said it yourself. We just don't have the time." Rye finished to a short silence where each mulled over their fortune, and then loud voices drew their attention to the back where ser Davos was attempting to appease some or another fight that broke out between some of the soldiers. Jon spared a final glance at his sister before moving off towards the encounter with Williame at his side to report on what they'd found, and then Rye's hand clamped down on Gaerand's shoulder.

"Good day to you, Lady Stark." he greeted her, and proceeded to guide him towards the tents where more soldiers waited.

"You're too cautious, you know." Gaerand breathed. Uncle Rhegard often told him how much he was like his father. He was enthusiastic of his challenges, up to the point that some people would call him impulsive or even reckless, especially his brothers. Will was patient, and Rye contemplated on situations carefully. But when they needed to improvise, they would turn to him, even if he was the youngest of them. A man grown, but only just.

"It's not about caution." he told back, and Gaerand turned towards him.

"Then what is it?" he demanded as Rye pushed him inside their tent.

"It's about how much your risks will cost us. Half Stannis's army died here when they were caught in the storm, and winter will be here sooner rather than later. What do you think will happen to our people? What will happen to us, if we lose even a handful of our men here, to the snow? We can not wait a month for more people to join us." he told deliberately, and Gaerand felt his face flush warm.

"But-" a hand pushed him backwards onto a bedroll.

"Try to get some sleep. We'll move again soon, and we need you to be ready." he urged, and then went to his own, settling down as the youngster stared at the figure. It's not just that, is it..? But then he sighed, laying down and covering himself with the fur cloak and huddled up for warmth, perhaps he could claim a few hours of sleep after all, and so closed his eyes listening to the world around him. The falls of boots outside on the grounds, the grind of steel on stone as some of the soldiers sharpened their blades, the sound of wood creaking as crates and barrels were carried and rolled about, the trickle of the stream nearby where the horses could drink, and the howl of the wind over the mountains. Somewhere in the far off distance, the cry of a lonely wolf was the last thing he heard...

Claira lay comfortably on the wide divan in front of the hearth of the lord's wing, still dressed in the day's dress of gold with black flower embroidering over the neckline and elegant sleeves, black satin lining, and black silk ribbons laced down the front of the bodice, with a book in her hand. They'd had it for years, but she never truly considered the work until reading the severely long title. A tome decked in soft red leather – The Rogue Prince, A King's Brother: A Consideration of the Early Life, Adventures, Misdeeds and Marriages of Prince Daemon Targaryen. As set down by Archmaester Gyldayn of the City of Oldtown, which she found rather enjoyable. It was already deep into the night, and Milla had retired to bed shortly after Falgon had left them, wondering if she should go for a bath. It was a cold evening, but the heat of the fire kept the chill away. Then she looked up at the phoenix on the wall. Haven't you found him, yet? She sighed, easing back into the fleecy pillows wondering if tomorrow might be better. Berin had finally sent word that they were on their way home and should have arrived early this afternoon, but it seems they were delayed again. Then she thought of her Rychon, where he was and what he was doing and what he was learning... she hadn't seen him in four years, and wondered what he looked like now. How tall was he? Surely taller than she was, and he was so much like his father. Perhaps she could send a message, asking that he be returned to her now that things seem to have settled somewhat. But, there was no guarantee that the raven would reach them, even if... The sudden tolling of the sentry tower bells drew her attention, sounding over terrified screams and dismal cries, then followed the barking and howl of the hounds, and her breath froze in her chest, painful and frightening. Oh, no... Not this... Not again... she stood and made her way down to the Hall of Fire with her heart pounding and her limbs cold as ice, and a moment later emerged into the outside air where screams filled the night from beyond a sealed gate. Guards were running for the walls with pikes and bows, and master Austinus was calling out commands.

"Hurry! I want every archer on the walls!" he ordered, watching as men rushed away to assume their places while others stayed on the grounds with the dogs pulling at their leads, barking furiously at the noise; and she approached him without a thought.

"What is happening?" she asked and he turned around, already with a hardness to his features.

"Garde's Post is under attack, my lady." he reported, and she looked up at the gatehouse.

"By whom?" she asked, already hearing the people on the other side calling for help.

"We don't know yet, but oddly it seems they're keeping well south of the village for now." he told, looking up towards the mass outside.

"Why would they do that?" she asked, and heard him sigh.

"We don't know that either." he breathed, and she thought for a moment. My people... They'll be killed if we don't open the gates... but if this enemy remained on the southern side of the village, they could bring the people inside where they would be safe. She had to. Then she turned towards the portcullis, rising her voice as loud as she could over the chaos.

"Open the gates, let the villagers inside!" she ordered, but then heard ser Austinus step closer to her.

"But my lady, the gates-" he started desperately, but she looked back at him harshly.

"They have nowhere else to go..." she told him, and then returned her attention to those holding their grounds.

"I said open the gates!" she commanded, waiting for the sound of the cogs and chains before feeling a hand on her arm.

"What is it?" Milla had come down from the wing, having thrown on the same marmalade orange dress from this afternoon. Her fingers were trembling, and her voice high and afraid. But holding on to whatever courage she had, Claira lay her hand gently on hers.

"Don't worry, we'll be al right." then she looked around, the people from the village slowly streaming inside as the gates lifted from the ground.

"Where are the sentinels?" she asked as they watched shadows spill into the bailey. The baker, the brewer, the septon, the merchants, the innkeep; the women, the children, the old and the sickly, all in a terrified flood onto her grounds.

"Last as I saw them, they were with the guards trying to prepare the defence." master Austinus told, and she sighed. Of course that was where they would be, the safety of the keep was their first priority. She remained watching as people rushed inside, several guardsmen with two of the hounds struggling their way by them towards the bridge to ward off attackers if there were any. She could hear the distant sounds of steel against steel, curses and screams and taunts.

"Close the gates!" came a hard voice suddenly, and her heart momentarily stopped with a stab.

"There are still people!" she shouted back, but the voice answered, overpowering her own.

"Close the gate!" she recognised the voice, and struggled against the urge to contest the order, watching silently as the gates were lowered and her heart broke, begging for forgiveness... I'm so sorry... Wistfully, her eyes came to the faces huddled together in front of the castle steps, many of them crying for grief or relief. They can't stay here, it's not safe...

"Everyone inside the Hall, quickly!" she called over them, and they started up the stairs into the hold. Then she noticed two figures coming up the steps towards her, her sentinels. Wymon's grey eyes were hard and anxious as he reached her side.

"We must all get inside, quickly." Falgon told, and they moved inside with the mass.

"We're outnumbered, my lady." Wymon reported, and she felt the frigid sting course through her.

"By whom?" Milla asked staring at him, but he shook his head as Falgon glanced back at the horde filling the space. Somehow, he seemed calmer; but he was in al likelihood thinking.

"They're not carrying any colours or sigils." Wymon told, and Claira took a step forward trying to see over the heads and beyond the gate, to where archers were starting to fire their shafts. Some were even returned...

"How many are there?" she asked,

"About three hundred men." Falgon calculated, and once again her heart stopped when she recalled they had only ninety seven guards to the castle with the greatest number away to Bristlemane. But, someone would have noticed them. They would have been informed of a mass moving through their country.

"How did a group that big, move without being seen?" she wondered. They must have passed several other villages, farms, holdfasts even a city to get here if they went by road.

"They didn't. Four or five men won't draw attention, so they split up before crossing the border with orders to meet at a designated location, just a few leagues from their target." Falgon suddenly explained, and Milla stared at him stunned.

"How long would it have taken them to do that?" watching him sigh.

"Weeks, months... maybe even years. They were thoroughly discreet." he told.

"Did they plan on our soldiers being deficient?" Wymon asked.

"No. It just happened to work to their advantage." Falgon said.

"How do you know that?" master Austinus asked, and the tall warrior looked back at him. The look in his eyes told, that this was not an assumption.

"Because we've done it before." he revealed, and Wymon stared at him in shock.

"You know them?" he asked, and Falgon nodded.

"The Black Bannermen..." he told, and then looked at him.

"Mercenaries. I travelled with them, years ago." he told, and again looked back to where the last of the villagers hurried inside.

"Close the doors and seal them!" he ordered to some of the guards that followed them inside, and they obeyed.

"What are you doing?" Claira suddenly demanded and he looked down.

"Garde's Post was not their target. I just hope that..." he started as the creak of the heavy doors sounded through the chamber.

"Hope that what?" she asked softly, feeling the blood drain from her face.

"Hope that what, Falgon?" she asked again, taking hold of his arms.

"No army has ever taken Mount Ardor, it's true. But you don't need an army to take the gatehouse. Just twenty skilled men, already inside." he told softly, and she suddenly felt light and cold and sick all at once. The gates were ordered closed for a reason, and she challenged that reason. If Mount Ardor fell, she would be to blame. But, there was still hope. If they could hold out until the morrow, then... she turned and ran for the grand staircase where their maester waited. And thankfully, as she looked up at him, he did not seem dazed.

"Maester Adlyn, send a raven to Earndale. Tell them that Mount Ardor is besieged." she instructed, and he nodded.

"At once, my lady." he turned and hurried the way back up to his tower as quickly as he could, the jingling of his chain fading away in the distance. She turned again, watching the people in the hall and every heartbeat felt an hour. Earndale Palace was the closest vassal stronghold to theirs, barely a day away. If they could hold out until either Berin or Darius arrived with the hosts, they would be fine.

"Claira, what are we going to do?" Milla asked softly beside her, and she looked at her. I don't know... I don't know what to do... I don't know what will happen... But then she forced a smile.

"We're safe here, Mount Ardor is one of the strongest keeps ever built." she tried to comfort her, praying to the gods that she was right, and they only needed to last a day. So they waited, and waited, and waited while the lives of the castle joined the villagers in the hall, many reuniting with family members and offering words of comfort and encouragement. Wymon's mother came up the stairway, to be close to her son without the need for him to leave the side of their lady. Laurene was with her family, soothing a crying Ricket against her shoulder, and Lilly with another group of women with Hazel on her hip. Berry and Joldewin, attempted to appease the people to the lady's great gratitude, and just a few feet away more people gathered around septon Costane to pray. Everyone were together there, a third of them no older than ten years. Please... Please hurry... anyone... voices were rising from outside, and the horrifying churning of the gates as the cold suddenly showered her. How long has it been? A hand to her shoulder startled her, and she turned back to see maester Adlyn behind her.

"Has the raven been sent?" she asked, simply to ensure she still had a voice.

"Off and gone, my lady." he reassured, and she could find a degree of promise. Her eyes went to the doors where the guards were preparing to barricade the door, and then a flood of voices, barks, snarls, snorts and yelps assaulted the great hall in the moment a soldier stumbled inside, bloody and tattered. With almost insentient motions she rushed down the stairs towards the wounded guardsman, to where he fell on the floor with others surrounding him to try and help as the doors were closed and further attempts made to seal it, pikes, spears and swords shoved through the large handle bars of both doors. She knelt next to him with the maester, who assessed his state.

"The wounds are deep, we must take him-" he started, but the blood soaked hand reached up to her.

"They... they've taken... the gate... They've swarmed the bailey... You... you can't stay here... You have to leave..." he gurgled, and then dropped silent, and her hands covered her mouth to stifle a scream. She had seen someone die before, the last when her sentinel defended her in the Right, but this was different. He was one of her own... A powerful hand pulled her gently up.

"He's right, we have to go." Falgon urged, and she looked around. The gate and the bridge was the only way in and out of the castle grounds, there was nowhere to go. There was no escape from here... Milla's hand touched her arm.

"Claira, what do we do? Where do we go?" she pleaded desperately, and she felt all but lost. What do I do now? What do I do? All these people... This is all my fault... But suddenly, like being shoved she recalled the light of a fire against a wet wall surface. The Lightway... she turned to Milla.

"There is a way." she said, taking her arm and guiding her away.

"Take our people, go to the deepest part of the tombs. Behind the tapestry with the rising phoenix, you will find a door. The Lighway leads outside, the fisher's village is nearby. You have to hurry." she told, leading her to the door that was the way down into the earth beneath the great keep.

"I'm not leaving without you." Milla suddenly stopped, and Claira faced her. Oh, my dear friend...

"Milla, listen to what I say!" for some reason she couldn't control her voice, and it seemed louder than she meant it to be.

"You have to lead our people. I have to ensure that everyone makes it through, and then I'll follow." she told, and Milla looked down.

"Do you promise?" she asked softly, and Claira took her hands in hers.

"You have to go, now. We don't have time." she urged, and then looked at those behind.

"Everyone, this way quickly." she called to them, and they came forward.

"Claira, promise me!" Milla cried, and Claira looked at her. I can't... Then she looked at the maester.

"Maester Adlyn, go with them." she told him, and then looked back at Milla.

"Go now, hurry." she told, softly pushing her towards the door and she vanished between the stones with the people following, and she saw all of them. Maester Adlyn, his pages, the handmaidens, the chambermaids, the charwomen, the serfs, the hands, cook Jeody, the scullions, the pot boys, the villagers, all who stood under her protection; and then looked back at the handful that remained behind. Her sentinels, her masters and a meagre few guards, and even the smith.

"What are you doing?" master Austinus smiled softly.

"We might not be young soldiers, any more. But we can hold them off long enough, for you to get out." he told, and her heart broke as she looked at their forger.

"Philpot?" he nodded.

"I've never been a warrior like my son, but I can bash in a head or two." he said, and then looked at the others.

"You boys ready to pound some steel?" he asked, his hammer ready in his hand, and they agreed. Austinus looked at Falgon and Wymon.

"Get her safely out." he told, and then they turned and headed for the door. Then Wymon stepped forward.

"I'm coming with you. You'll need every sword there is." again she felt sickly, did she even have a heart any more, that could break?

"Wymon..." but what could she say?

"It has been my greatest honour, lady Claira. To stand at your side, these many years." he smiled at her, and then moved away. Suddenly he stopped for a moment that seemed like an eternity before turning again and coming back to her, but all she could do was watch as his hands came to her face, and he came forward still. He kissed her hard for a long moment, before drawing back and laughing.

"I've finally stolen that kiss I've always wanted..." he breathed, and then vanished from her while she stared through an almost painful warmth. She didn't even care that he kissed her. He's going to die... He's going to die, and this is all my doing... Maybe I deserve to die, as well...Once more, a hand wrapped around her arm.

"Come, we must go." Falgon told, but she held back.

"I'm not leaving." she refused, and he stared at her, his dark eyes defiant.

"We have to." he told, but she pulled away from him.

"I'm not going. As long as I am in this castle, it will never be taken." she said, and his eyes darkened.

"You cannot mean to stay here. They will enter-" he started.

"If they take Mount Ardor, they take the Corridor." she told him, but his hand grabbed her wrist again.

"If they take you, they take everything! From everyone! Think of your family before your pride!" he countered harshly, but the warmth flooded every inch of her body.

"My pride? My name has made me all that I am! If I abandon that I abandon myself as well. My husband would never have surrendered his home!" she defied.

"He would have, if he knew there was no chance." he told, and it flared in her.

"You think you know him?" she tried to pull away again, but he brought her closer.

"He told me, that you are more important than anything! Fuck the castle! When you are secure, I will come to reclaim it." he told, but she glared at him.

"I'm not leaving!" she refused again, met with an almost angry stare. Suddenly a loud crash against the door made her jump, it was answered by those who remained, but he released her arm.

"You're stubborn!" another hard blow to the door released the sword from his back, and he turned to face it. Then another hard clash made her heart race.

"Run! Run, now!" he ordered, and she took a breath.

"Come with me." he didn't look back, but gripped the sword in front of him.

"Run!" she obeyed, flying up the steps of the grand staircase heading for the lord's wing while he took a position at the base of the stairs, watching with a darkening air as the great doors broke and splintered and burst open, then came the flood of mercenaries with swords, spears, maces, clubs, and pikes, running through everyone that stood in their way. Forward... Always forward... He moved forward into the mass that became dismal screams, removing heads, arms, legs and bowels until sixteen more bodies littered the floor, staining the stones with crimson. I will stand... an arm dropped to the ground. I will fight... another lost his leg. I will slaughter... a tangle of red fell from a gaping wound. I will die... A wailing head trailed through the air. He raised the sword as he turned, aiming for more bodies, but then the warmth of battle in his veins froze and died as a scream filled the hall, and he looked up in horror. At the top of the staircase next to the phoenix throne, stood a tall, heavy man with his queen, her arm twisted behind her back and a blade to her throat. His rugged features were drawn in a menacing grin, and the firelight reflected off his leathery skin. In the chaos that filled their hall, the shadow stalking up into the vast halls of the burning mountain was left unnoticed.

"Best put down your sword." he called out, and reluctantly Falgon obeyed while others circled him, aiming the tips of whatever they had in their hands at him. Unstable was often a word used to describe Igon, he was violent and cruel and brash. Kindness and sympathy towards others was never his way, for anyone. If he attempted to reach her, he would not hesitate to harm, or even to kill her, so he lowered his sword while more men swarmed inside. One of the men cautiously moved forward while the others watched him, and quickly seized his sword. He had little choice but to release it.

"Well now, seems our takeover was a success." he heard a voice coming from the doorway, and looked back to see their leader walking in with a hard smile as he scanned the hall.

"Oh, only two left?" he breathed, and then looked at some of the others behind him.

"Search the halls, see what you can find." he ordered, and they headed off through the arches to the barracks and the southern hall before looking up again, his eyes finally settling on Falgon for longer than a moment. He seemed almost happy to see him.

"So, you're still here? Should have known you would be the famous Battle Master." he teased, raising his hands.

"Why did you come?" Falgon asked, and he sighed. His once thick brown hair was thin and greying, he'd lost several teeth, and almost his nose judging from a scar that ran over the side of his face.

"Work." he replied, and then looked up at the figures at the top of the stairs.

"I am sorry about this, but you know the ways we do things. We were paid an impressive sum to take this castle." he explained as he watched them.

"Release her Baret, and I'll let you live." Falgon demanded, and then he looked back with a satisfied smirk.

"You'll let me live? I am well aware of your capabilities, Nomad; but here's the thing. There's three hundred of us, and…" he looked around, the only members left inside were the members of the Black Bannermen.

"Only one of you. The other guards didn't make it, unfortunately. They're nothing like you at all." he told, and then Falgon took a step forward.

"Release her!" he demanded again, but the pressure of a pike to his chest stopped him.

"Oh, oh. I would if I could; but fifty thousand gold dragons, now that's more than we've made in the past ten years." he continued, and Falgon moved again.

"Baret!" more sharp tips dug into his body, and the raging heat started in his muscles again before he heard Baret chuckle.

"Lock him in the cells; and-" he started, looking at the men surrounding the tall warrior.

"What about her?" Igon suddenly demanded from the top of the stairs where he still held Claira in a painful grip. A long silence followed as the two stared at each other, the black eyes waiting expectantly and finally Baret breathed out hard, his shoulders falling in defeat.

"Do what you want. You're going to anyway, whether I tell you this or that. Just... don't kill her." he muttered before moving away, and the grin on the face of the barbarous mercenary changed as he brought the blade away and replaced it at his side, his black eyes settling on the sentinel whose senses were all but alight. No... NO!

"I've wanted to spite you for a long time." he directed as he started to force her towards the wall lining the second level next to the stairway.

"Don't do this!" Falgon called up to him, but his voice was ignored as the mercenary simply laughed. He'd hated him. Hated him since the day Baret asked him to join them, even after he killed five of their men; and then he hated him more for leaving them. Hate, was all he knew...

"You once called her your queen, so kneel you fuck!" A hard kick to the back of his left knee sent him down, and rough hands clamped down on his arms and shoulders as the weight of several men held him there.

"Now watch as I ravage your witch." Igon slammed Claira's shoulder harshly against the wall, and she grimaced painfully for the force as air left her body.

"Release her!" Falgon yelled at him, struggling against the many holds on him, but Igon continued to ignore the sentinel as he turned and stepped closer to her, the fingers of her right hand wound around his wrist trying to push it away from her. Falgon glanced at Baret, standing off to one side against one of the wide pillars, his arms folded over his chest... simply ignoring everything.

"Baret!" He didn't move, he didn't so much as look at him. He wasn't in control any more...

"Let go of me!" Claira demanded as she struggled, pushing against his chest with her left hand, and Igon grinned maliciously.

"Stop it! Release her, Igon! Release her!" Falgon ordered, for the first time raising his voice so it echoed off the walls, and a hard fist struck his right cheek.

"You're a fighter. Good. I like it when they fight back. It makes me boil. I'll fuck the fight right out of you." Igon's right hand pulled violently at the laces holding the bodice of her dress tightly against her to release it, tearing the fabric and ripping the eyelets, but her hands failed miserably to stop him and then his fingers roughly released her shoulders from the neckline.

"Let her go!" it thundered through the hall before another hard blow darkened the skin of Falgon's jaw, but Igon paid it no mind as he continued to pull forcibly at the neckline, bringing the fabric down over her chest and leaving her bare despite a left hand attempting to conceal herself and her right still in vain tried to push the beastly mercenary away. Suddenly the hand that held her shoulder to the wall wrapped around her right wrist and slammed it painfully against the stone while his other wound around her throat, the thumb and index fingers digging into the curve of her jaw, and her fingers went around his wrist trying to sustain the flow of air to her lungs; and he brought his face closer, the stench of his breath spilling over her neck and shoulder.

"I will enjoy this. I want to hear you begging me for mercy..." he whispered, and then closed his mouth over her neck. She screamed in pain, and then cried again, but her chest seemed to refuse the air as her body shuddered in fear and shock, her neck throbbed and burned where his lips had closed, and a trickle of red escaped the corner of his mouth and snaked down her breast.

"RELEASE HER!" More and more strikes to his face and body followed as dozens of fists and boots assaulted him, and he grew warmer and duller with each heartbeat. I can't do this... I can't... I can't do this... Not again... Screaming didn't help then, it wouldn't help him now, and to beg was never his way. The earth wouldn't move like it did then... There was only one thing left... Igon drew back from Claira, and through the painful sear down her neck and shoulder, her eyes took in the horror of her blood reddening his lips and teeth as he grinned. Despite her continued battling against him, he forced her to the floor savagely, a cruel hand tangled into her hair for control and another pushing down on her bruised shoulder. She glanced up through the warm throbbing of pain and tears, where she could see Falgon kneeling as several men held him in place, and others attacked him, an eerie darkness settling over them, so heavy she could barely discern one shape from another. It was the same as back then, in the woodlands; but this time there would be no escape. Their aid will not reach them in time. She closed her eyes as the hand left her shoulder for something else, hearing him fidget and pull at clothing. I'm so sorry, Falgon... this is all my fault... please... please forgive me...She felt the mercenary shove the skirt of her dress up to her thighs, and as best she could steeled herself for the devastation that would follow as she felt him against her. Please forgive me... Suddenly her ears stung as an ear-splitting cry shattered the hall, so devastating that men screamed in agony. There was a flash of black over her, and the pressure against her vanished. In stunned amazement she sat up and turned, reality refusing what she saw. Men lay dead at the base of the grand staircase while others gaped wide-eyed in shock; and Falgon stood behind her, Summit held in his left hand while his right gripped around the throat of the mercenary... No... No, not around his throat. Claira's hand went over her mouth in horror. Her sentinel's strength, and the impact with the wall forced Igon's jaw through his neck, the bone projecting from either side of his spine. His hands wrapped around Falgon's armoured wrist as he gagged.

"I've never liked your smile. It irritated the shit out of me, and now no one will see it again. I believe I've made you a promise once." His hand closed, crushing muscle and veins and bone before a lifeless corpse slumped to the floor. Then he turned and passed her, removing the cloak from his shoulders and lay it over her, then he stood in front of her, both hands around the grip of his great sword raised in front of him. He seemed so different, suddenly. So dark, so terrible...

"Come! How many of you will remain standing against me? I will cut through you all like a stone through water. I don't care how many of you there are, not a single man will make it up these steps!" even his voice seemed darker... he stepped forward, and suddenly sank to one knee, his left hand pressed against his face as he groaned as if in pain, and it seemed he was struggling again. In a moment of insanity her hand reached for him. She wanted to hold him. Wanted to comfort him.

"Falgon..." then he stood again, rising the blade.

"Go… Get to the lord's wing… Lock yourself in…" he said, his words hauntingly soft.

"Falgon…" she felt cold and fragile, the shiver through her limbs near to uncontrollable.

"Go now…" he ordered again, but whether by her own strength or not she stood and ran up the east stairway, clutching the heavy brown cloak tightly around her as the terrifying wails followed her, up the incline where the screams still echoed, through the halls while the horrible cries trailed behind and finally vanished when she stepped through the door to the lord's wing and lowered the beam that would secure the door, and still she ran up the stairway to the highest room where she sealed herself inside, and finally fell down on the floor in front of the hearth shivering, still holding her sentinels cloak, desperately trying to calm her breathing as she prayed for him who stayed behind. He whom now stood in a red hall littered with bodies, the stones seeped through of blood and various macabre items, facing a terrified member holding a blade in his shaking hands.

"Monster! You're a monster!" he shrieked at the mass approaching him.

"True. And my mask..." the eyes cut into him, just the same as a fresh blade would.

"Is a colourful one." Summit's edge came down, slicing the mercenary in half as easily as it would a sack of grain. Fallen over a discarded limb, from his back on the slick floor, Baret watched breathless and quivering as the being in front of him looked back straight at him, but all he could see were the eyes. Bright, hard, stained and enraged. In all of his life he'd never seen anything like him, had never in his most outrageous dreams thought he ever would... the tall mass suddenly walked towards him and his only reaction was to raise his hands in defence.

"Nomad…" he started, hoped he may reason with this man he once thought he knew.

"My name is Falgon!" The tip of the sword came down towards his face and he closed his eyes, but then the strike of steel against stone deafened him, leaving him dazed for a few moments before slowly opening his eyes. The blade was driven into the stones next to his head, perhaps half a foot deep before his attention went back to the fierce eyes looking down on him. There was no emotion to the features, no anger, no pleasure, nothing. Just the frightening glare of the eyes.

"It is the name my queen gave me..." he breathed, chillingly calm.

"I... I never bore you any ill will... Never... This was work..." Baret tried again, and then watched as the warrior leaned down and a hard hand wrapped around his throat hauling him up off the floor, and the fingers tightened as he started to gasp.

"This is my home. My family. You knew that, and still you came here." the warrior told, the fingers starting to dig into the skin, and the mercenary struggled and gasped and gagged, life seeping away and leaving him. Claira looked up at the open doors facing the east, suddenly realizing that the horizon was starting to change, taking on the blush of morning. Regaining her strength she stood from the floor and listened, but there was nothing beside the ominous silence. What happened? She made her way to the door, draping herself with the heavy brown cloak and trying as best she could to rectify the torn garments enough to cover her. She pulled the door open, and again listened, but the stillness continued. She made her way down to the lord's hall, still exactly as it was when she entered. What happened? She lifted the beam and opened the great door, stepping into the hallway, and the quiet that hung there. Many of the torches have burnt out, and much of the hall was shrouded in darkness. What happened? Then she hurried down the halls towards the Hall of Fire, the passages still and undisturbed. What happened? Finally she emerged into the desolation that awaited there, and covered her mouth with her shaking hands. The great Hall of Fire of Mount Ardor was fouled with countless bodies, the smell of death and the red sheen of blood off the stones of the floor, and even the walls; she numbly made her way down the stairway. Again, she felt warm and sick and cold and fragile and petrified. Then she rounded the curve and found Falgon sitting against the wall, next to Igon's lifeless body and Summit against the stones beside him. She rushed towards him, and knelt in front of him.

"Falgon?" she watched him, he was covered in blood, not an inch unsoiled. But he did not look up, and she felt the sting of tears to her eyes, realizing she was completely alone. There was no one left.

"Falgon." she tried again, her voice a high pitched sob as she hated herself. Everyone died because of her, and she was bound for the deepest of the hells for her selfishness.

"Falgon..." she wanted to cry, and her hands rested on his cool arm, viscous with blood. I'm so sorry...

"Falgon!" she felt lost, and hopeless, and helpless. She was the only one left, everyone was killed because of her, and she survived because of him... Falgon... my Falgon... then she gasped as she felt him move, and watched in paralysing relief as he slowly looked up.

"I'm al right, I'm uninjured. I'm just tired..." he breathed softly, and she broke throwing herself against him, her arms around his neck as she shuddered against him.

"How many times has it been, that you've saved me?" she whimpered against him, and his arms wound slowly around her allowing the burn of her skin against his to ease the stricken muscles.

"I don't know, your grace. The count doesn't matter to me." he said, and then she lowered herself to sit down with him, resting herself against his chest, where they spent what was morning in silence just holding onto each other, here against the wall of the second level of the burning mountain amidst the shadows, the burn of the great hearth and countless dead. The last thing he truly remembered, was her terrified eyes looking up at him as he passed her. Everything after that, was simply a blur of dark images... and then her voice brought him back. He looked up, where the early morning light hung over the bailey, wondering if any of the mercenaries had fled the castle but perhaps that was unlikely. With what one could see in the hall, it may look like there have been more than three hundred men... and he could not keep her from harm completely, but she was alive at least, and Milla and the others were safe, the hosts would arrive soon and they could start to move forward with their lives once more like they did before... and somewhere out there on the fields Berin was waiting as the youngsters were packing up what remained of the camp site.

"Hurry! We're late already, as it is!" he urged, eager to reach home. If their pace held, they'd reach the burning mountain by noon. Then he looked at his daughter beside him, softly rubbing her palfrey's nose as she spoke with her friends, but she was obviously just as impatient as he was. Soldiers were already busy loading chests onto the wagon so the young ladies could take their places. Berin sighed.

"We'll be back soon, I promise." he soothed them, and Bella looked up with a mitigated smile.

"I know." then he laughed, and put his arm around her shoulders with a quick kiss to her brow.

"And if our luck holds, we won't need to leave again until you're ready." he told, and then she shrugged.

"What if I never want to leave again?" she asked, and he sighed.

"Bella..." He'd told her that as she was the eldest, he wished for her to return to Bristlemane with her brother in a few years and assume its rights, however thus far she'd been resistive of the idea. But there was still time to persuade her, and with her dear companions with her it might become a tempting notion. Then his attention was taken suddenly as he felt the quake of hooves over the earth, and the distant rumble coming their way.

"What is that? What's happening?" he looked around, and then met the sight that sent a frightening stab into his chest. A force of one thousand armoured riders came racing over the hill, Foch banners streaming in the wind. Oh, fuck! What now? He moved quickly to the edge of the camp, throwing his arms up at the approaching mass. Lord Foch was at their front, mounted a blood bay charger.

"Where are you bound?" Berin called out when he was close enough to hear.

"Mount Ardor!" he called back, and then Darius drove his horse closer down to a trot as he passed.

"A raven was received last night, the burning mountain is besieged!" he told, and Berin felt his heart stop with a painful, frigid stab as the rest of his body flamed. How? When? By who? But he could ask questions later, then he turned rushing for his own courser.

"Every able man, mount up now!" he commanded, and mounted. Bella looked up at him, her friends anxious behind her.

"Dadda?" his fear had passed to them.

"I have to get home, now." he told, and then she mounted her own horse as well.

"Then let's go." she agreed, and he smiled grateful for his wilful daughter.

"No. I need you to stay here, and lead these mutton-heads home for me." he told softly, and she stared at him for a moment, not hiding the disappointment. But then agreed as she nodded, and he moved away with Darius, passing a soldier that served their house for more than a decade.

"Wyll, watch over the girls for me." he ordered, and the soldier bowed his head.

"Yes, my lord." he agreed instantly. They waited as the greatest part of their men mounted, and they joined the mass racing for the great keep, leaving a handful of others to finish packing up the camp; they would arrive later today. They fell in beside the Foch soldiers, racing home; but soon enough Berin was at the front of the force alongside Darius, every image flashing through his mind. How great was the host at Mount Ardor's walls? Who were they? Why were they there? What did they want? He could only hope... and hope was all he had until they crossed the hill that revealed the village and the sunstone keep in the distance, seeming silent and his hope faded. There was no force at the walls, and the gates were open. They passed the village where several victims lay on the outskirts or on the roads, but was otherwise bereft of life and he feared the worst. More people lay dead on the bridge, and under the gates. This wasn't a siege... it was a slaughter. They entered the outer bailey, taking in the bodies that were strewn over the grounds. Soldiers, nameless mercenaries, and dogs... The stables seemed the only structure that was left untouched. He didn't know what more he could expect, but he leapt from his horse and rushed inside to find the dismay that waited there, and for a moment he felt like he couldn't breathe. Even the aftermath of a battlefield didn't sicken him as much as the sight here did, this devastation within the walls of his home... but he pressed on stepping over limbs and corpses, men unknown and some he'd shared a lifetime with, but mercifully no women or children were seen. What happened? Where are the others? Insensibly he made his way up the stairs to find their Battle Master motionless against the wall, his arms around their Lady as if he were still defending her. Oh, fuck... then he knelt next to him and placed a hand to his shoulder, unable to tell their states.

"Falgon?" he called softly, feeling the hopelessness and helplessness settle on him. They were too late... They didn't make it... Fuck! Again, he had failed... but then the mass moved slightly, and looked up as an elating dizziness washed over him.

"She's al right now, I think..." he breathed, and Berin almost laughed. They were alive.

"I believe she's asleep..." he added, looking down at her again, but rather than shatter the hall with laughter, Berin released a relieved breath, and would keep his many questions for later.

"Good. That's good. And you?" he asked, and Falgon gently nodded.

"I'm uninjured." he assured, and Berin's hand tightened on his shoulder. That was always his answer, but how he was unscathed despite the odds, was nothing less than startling.

"Good..." then he looked back at the hall, other soldiers had already started to enter, looking around and taking in the ruin that now lay there. He didn't recognise most of the faces inside, although it was of little matter now. Is it possible... that he did this all on his own...? It could be, for all he knew.

"Where are the others?" he asked,

"Your Milla took the villagers through The Lightway. They might be making for the fisher's village, if they're not already there." Falgon told, and Berin looked back at him.

"We'll go find them. Thank you, my friend." then his eyes settled on the figure against the great mass.

"Shouldn't we wake her?" Berin asked softly, but the warrior remained as he was.

"No. Not right away, at least..." he told softly, and Berin nodded. Whatever they've been through, it might be better to allow her to sleep, but this might not be the best place.

"You shouldn't stay here, you've been through a lot. I'll help you up to the wings, and then see to the rest." he suggested, and after a long silence Falgon slowly nodded.

"As you wish." Berin glanced down.

"I'll be right back." he stood and glanced at Darius behind them.

"And you, lord Foch. For rising to our aid so quickly. But we might need your help for a little while longer." he told, and then guided him back to the doors, sending five riders off to find the members of their hold and their village before discussing the state they found the castle in, and what would be needed to restore it, starting with gathering the dead; which he hoped to have mostly cleared by the afternoon. The days that followed will be harsh ones.

Berterin sat his charger on the hill overlooking the northern field with Ormont next to him, watching groups set together far on the other side while his eyes took in the different colours of the banners, orange, white, chequy and green blowing in the breeze. The sigils themselves were too far to make out, but he recognised the colours for Hornwood, Stark, Mazin and Mormont. It was a difficult thing to be here, and the sword felt heavy at his belt. They arrived at Winterfell just a few days ago, by order of lord Ramsay Bolton, and so they came. But they had little choices, to all who gave their allegiance every fighting man was compelled to answer a threat against the liege; but he could not deny how he felt. Liege the false lord all you like. He's a traitor, a larcenist and a murderer...

"This is wrong. We shouldn't be doing this." he muttered, too loud. An older man looked up at him, armoured in studded leather and mail, a spear held in his hand.

"Aye. But what choice we have, lad? When the flay'd man orders ya to shit y'erself, ya tuck down and ya squeeze, or he'll squeeze yer eyeballs from yer arse for ya." he tried to agree, but it was just an annoyance in the situation they were forced into.

"Oh, shut up. Before I squeeze your nuts from your throat for you." he countered, and was then suddenly met by the hard stare of the captain in front of them.

"That's enough!" then he looked back, and sighed.

"We were a Tormont vassal, once. Now we're Bolton fodder. I don't like it any more than you, but we do as we're told." he finished, and Berterin's eyes followed his stare into the far side, but decided to try and keep his thoughts for himself. We shouldn't be here... In the distance, he noticed something moving down the centre of the opposing force where Jon Snow made his way to the front of their mass. The archers spanned the front lines, followed by those mounted and the remaining infantry at the back. Moments later, three more figures came rushing down to the front, and Davos looked up at them.

"You're late." he scolded.

"Our apologies, ser." one of the youngsters pardoned, and he sighed.

"Well, get to it then." he urged them, and they proceeded to take their places; the youngest with the old knight, one to the left and one to the right of their force. But then a voice called.

"Rye." he turned his horse, and looked at Williame.

"Remember." he told, and Rye smiled.

"Yes, I know. A wall, not a spearhead." he acknowledged, then pulled at the reins and quickly assumed his place, some feet to the giant's right facing the horde on the other side beyond the burning crosses. He'd suggested a spearhead, but they hadn't the men to force it, so a wall was the best they could hold at this point. He and Will would have the front of the mounts, while Gaerand held back with ser Davos. Not because he was lacking of skill or courage despite his age, but if this ended the way they prayed it would not, he would remain, at least. The leather and mail armour felt heavy on him, but it would be easier to move in than the plate mail. They waited, and watched, trying to count their odds; not a fair sight, where the banners of Bolton, Umber and Karstark and several others drifted in the wind, but the fields were silent as the grave. And then a figure appeared amidst them all, leading a prisoner by rope to the front, calmly as if simply enjoying a crisp stroll on the northern pastures. He halted his horse on the edge, and then dismounted continuing on by foot another few steps and brought the prisoner up beside him. The air suddenly became colder as he realized, it was Ramsay, with Rickon Stark... They watched as Ramsay brought a blade from his back, holding it in the air to display it, and the intention was made clear. Rye glanced at Jon whom dismounted his charger and walked forward to the edge of the mass, trying to decide what to do. And then his attention went to the other side of the field again. He'd assumed that the blade would be used to cut the boy's throat, there in front of them all to incite rage and disorder... but instead, the blade went down to his hands and cut the bonds that held him, allowing the rope to slip from his wrists and fall onto the dirt and grass. What the hell is he doing..? Lord Bolton replaced the knife where it came from, stood for a long moment and then lay his hands on Rickon's shoulders, seeming to just... talk with him? This can't be right... He brought Rickon in front of him, and then suddenly pointed at them. At Jon. What is he doing? His pale destrier moved restlessly beneath him as he tried to understand the behaviour. They just stood there for another while, still in discussion; but Ramsay seemed optimistic if not excited. And then he pushed Rickon forward... simply letting him go? It's not right... This isn't right... his mind was screaming at him, and he felt the warmth in his fingers. Rickon looked back cautiously, confused and then the warmth became a burn as a soldier walked forward towards the commander of the opposing force, carrying a war bow. He's going to kill him... and then Rickon started to run, sprinting across the field. Again he glanced at Jon, who came running back to claim his own horse and set off across the field towards the sprinting youth. He's not going to make it... his horse trudged around, but he held him back. An arrow came flying down, missing the young Stark by a couple of feet and relief had him groping for hope. Perhaps he could make it... Perhaps some lack of skill, the wind or simply a gods-hand will ward off the arrows long enough... Another dug into the ground, closer as the youngster rushed by and the dark horse still charged desperately forward, its rider's arm stretched out to help the boy mount the moment he reached him. Another arrow struck the ground, the shaft broken as Rickon bound over it, and Rye's hand grew tighter on the reins. You're almost there! Come on! You can make it! Just a little bit more... His hope was shattered in the instant the youth fell, an arrow pierced through his chest, the blaze now working its way up his arms, and he struggled to hold his ground. He watched in dismay as young Rickon Stark lay on the ground, gasping for air with a shaft through his lung, and Jon Snow staring down at him in shock and horror with naught else to do but watch his brother die in a final staggering breath. There was silence over the world, so deep you could feel it, but the hateful eyes that met across the distances told more than any word ever could.

"Don't..." came someone's hard whisper from the mass, but whatever sense was still had, left most in that moment.

"Man the charge! Man the charge!" Ser Davos ordered from the back, and the archers made way for the mounted units. It was time... Hold the line... Hold the line... Hold the line... his mind repeated, over and over as his war horse started to move forward steady, then evenly to a powerful canter and he tried to focus on those around him. Hold the line... Jon, spurred his horse forward in an enraged attack as arrows showered the ground where he stood a moment ago.

"Go! Go! Follow your commander!" was Davos's frantic commands, and the horses charged forward boundless, followed by the footmen. Hold the line... Rye drew his sword, ready to engage the foe. Every heartbeat was an hour, every sense sharpened, and he took in all of it. The shouts and curses, the thunder of thousands of hooves over the soft earth, the smell of dirt and searing flesh, the sun in the sky, and the heat through his veins, the glint of blades, the ring of mail and the pulse of battle... A flurry of arrows came down, and their commander fell as his horse was struck down. But he stumbled to his feet, and took the sword from his side, ready for the oncoming swarm. Far to his left, Will's unit held a steady line, but his own had fallen back and the realization struck him hard as he cursed. In the discord, and with a young steed he'd named Storm for his colour whom was as green as he was at six years old, they'd charged into a spearhead. He tried to reign his horse in, but it was too late and they ploughed into the enemy at force, many run down as they went and others breaking off to engage on their own. Only two men stayed with him, flanking his sides. Men he'd known all of his life, men he'd trained with for years. A rider came his way, arm raised, but as he passed he gripped the pommel of the saddle and leaned back, the sword passed over him while his own came forward, cutting through the unprotected flesh under the arm, and the enemy fell. Another two followed, and he managed to ward them off. In the distance, he could hear lord Bolton's commands to the archers, and another shower of arrows met them, two missing him by mere inches. He looked at those with him.

"Don't worry about me, help the others where you can!" he ordered, and one gave him a shocked look.

"But, my lord-" he started to argue.

"Do as I say!" he told, and turned his horse before moving off again. It was utter turmoil, men cutting down one another every which way, perhaps simply aiming for the colours they wore. A man ran at him aiming a spear, and in an instant he reeled his courser to the left allowing the spear to pass him, and brought his sword down hard, slicing through the neck. With his heels digging, he moved forward again, towards their commander who cut down a foe. Gaerand watched the chaos, hearing the screams in the distance.

"Ser Davos, we have to do something..." he breathed, and the knight grimaced.

"We may as well be taking shits back here!" he muttered and then dismounted his horse, drawing his sword.

"Forward!" he cried out, and they ran, forward. Rye wheeled his courser to the right, bringing his sword back and through the neck of another man, a Karstark soldier judging from the soiled black and white over his shield. More arrows whistled through the air, and sudden pain filled him as the impact knocked him from his horse. He struck the ground hard driving the air from his lungs, gasping for breath the daze left him but the searing pain remained, and he noticed an arrow driven through the armour of his left shoulder. He cursed, releasing the sword and reached up taking hold of the shaft with both hands, hardening himself; but a scream escaped his chest as he broke it, and cast the wood away. He took a moment to claim another breath, and then a shadow fell over him where a soldier stood, blade raised. He brought it down, and suddenly his body responded and he rolled into the legs of his attacker, knocking him over. He took the dirk from his belt and drove it into the man's unprotected face, then stood and reclaimed his sword. More people came at him, and he responded. But the pain made him suddenly sluggish. He parried and cut one down, leaving a deep gash to his leg when the other raised his blade to strike at him. I won't be fast enough... he suddenly realized, but then as he prepared for the blow, a sword stabbed through the attacker's gut and he fell. Someone stood behind him, blood and dirt across every feature, but he recognised the deep green eyes staring at him.

"I told you, you can hide yourself behind a mountain and I'll find you." the youngster said, and he smiled, relief dulling the pain.

"Good thing, too." he said, then looked left suddenly, bringing his blade up through someone.

"So let's do it together." he told, and Berterin turned.

"To the light!" he screamed, and nearby Scharer arms started aiming their attacks at Bolton men as the clash continued. More distant shouting drifted over them as more men joined them, and a man was struck down, horse and all as the last of their host joined in and Wun Wun the giant unleashed his tremendous strength. But the sounds of marching boots caught their attention, and a swarm of soldiers with full length shields circled them, forcing their group together against a wall of bodies, Hornwoods, Mazins, Mormonts, Scharers, Tormonts, Freefolk, all... and they watched in dismay. Spears protruded from the openings, and each time they struck forward men were driven through. Then the shields would move two steps forward, and the spears would strike again. There was no way to move forward any more... Men started to turn and run for the wall, pressing together and trampling those who fell, trying to climb their way out, but they were struck down as Umber soldiers came from the opposite side. Some even tried to break through the shield wall with little success, throwing their weight against the counter while the giant struck at them. But more swords came through, forcing their group to retreat. It seemed hopeless, and they were pushed back. Those facing the wall stabbed, and those climbing the wall cut down. Again, men ran for the wall of corpses, men falling under them and others crushed by the pressure of bodies, then Rye heard a voice gasping for air. A hand flailed by his leg, the fingers grasping desperately; but he reached down taking hold of the armour and he pulled with all the strength he had left, trying to lift the body from the ground.

"Get up!" he screamed, and pulled. The weight of the body sent agony flooding his left side, but he pulled.

"You have to get up!" he called again, and the hand clasped around his wrist.

"GET UP!" he screamed again, and felt the weight shift and a face appeared. It was Jon. He looked up at the sky breathing in deeply, free from the crushing weight, and the distant sound of a warhorn washed over them. Again, and again, and again... and when they looked to the south, the falcon of Arryn came gliding through the sky. The knights of the Vale had come. They came racing down the hill, swords drawn and screaming, then slammed into the enemy destroying the wall. Then he looked back, Jon was gone. He'd managed to make his way through the men and climbed the wall, looking at the height where Ramsay glared back. Then he turned, and fled back to the walls of Winterfell, and Jon followed with the Wildling headman named Tormund and the giant Wun Wun with him.

"We have to go after them." Rye breathed, and Berterin looked at him.

"You're injured." he cautioned.

"That will have to wait." he told, and then dragged the youngster along, and they followed, running after them, feeling the pain of each step and the burn of the cool air. They rejoined them as the giant was breaking through the gate, slamming a great fist through the wood. He cried out in pain, but then leaned back and threw his full weight against the barricade, breaking it open and soldiers poured through, overwhelming what remained there and Rye cut down an oncoming soldier. More were sent down with arrows, or thrown over the railings of the catwalks. Jon looked up at the giant, riddled with arrows and spears, exhausted and weak. But then, an arrow through his eye sent the great warrior down, and Jon looked at Ramsay, utter hate in his stare.

"You suggested one on one combat, didn't you?" Ramsay spoke, and then rose his hands, looking at the men standing throughout the bailey with bows raised.

"I've reconsidered. I think that sounds like a wonderful idea." he said and then raised the bow in his hands as Jon threw himself forward, seizing a fallen shield and brought it up the moment before an arrow struck through the hard oak. Then he lowered it and moved forward as Ramsay claimed another arrow, and fired. Again, the tip bore through the shield, and he moved forward. Another arrow shattered the wood, and he pressed on. Then, as Ramsay lifted the bow a fourth time, Jon struck forward with the shield, knocking the bow from his hands and sending him back on the ground. He threw the shield aside and planted himself on his adversary, bludgeoning the face with fists until naught remained but a blood soaked mess... Then he glanced up, and noticed Sansa standing a few feet away before drawing back, and standing. There was no need to prolong it, the battle was won. The soldiers replaced the Bolton banners with the wolf of Stark, and their fallen were gathered, and the wounded were tended to while others discussed their paths going forward. Rye sat down on one of the wood steps with his cousins and Berterin beside him, feeling cold and drained, except for his left shoulder which was still aflame.

"You al right?" Berterin asked softly, and Rye smiled up at him.

"I'll be fine." he assured, and then met Will's blue eyes.

"Did you forget?" he asked, and Rye laughed.

"No, I didn't forget. I just... wasn't paying attention." he confessed, and Will nodded.

"Oh. Well, you're al right, at least." he breathed, and then they looked up at two men came through the gate with a body, reclaimed from the field and Jon looked down.

"I'm going to bury my brother in the crypt, next to my father." Jon said, and the men moved forward as he turned.

"Jon..." he faced his sister, and she looked up.

"Where is he?" she asked, and he breathed out.

"Where he belongs." he said, and moved away again coming towards them and Rye forced himself to his feet. Jon stopped in front of them, examining them with his black eyes. Then he smiled and extended a hand to Berterin.

"Thank you." he breathed, and Berterin took it before the black eyes came to Rye, Will, and Gaerand.

"All of you." he said, and they too shook hands.

"You are very welcome." Rye returned, and a sudden rush of dizziness washed over him, making him sway before strong hands steadied him. The shaft was still lodged in his shoulder.

"You should see the maester." Jon suggested, and Rye nodded.

"There are worse wounds than mine, let him finish with them first." he said, and Berterin stared at him.

"You've lost quite a bit of blood." he cautioned, but Rye smiled.

"Don't worry." he breathed, but they had him sit back down on the wood step he stood from, bringing a deep breath into himself to calm his chest and soothe the burning ache. His fingers touched the broken wood of the arrow, but any contact or movement hurt more than just leaving it. He'd thought of pulling it out himself, but doing that could do more damage, or mean the loss of use in that arm.

"Why were you late, by the way?" Jon asked, abruptly curious that they were some of the last to arrive; then Rye smiled up timidly.

"We were praying."

Claira sat in her common room, staring at the flames of the hearth and reflecting on the events that struck them while Milla and the youngsters sat silently at her side. They tried hard to comfort her, for which she was grateful but it did not lessen the guilt she felt. Provisions were made to repair the damages to the village and the castle, and their fallen honoured and buried. Maester Adlyn tended to her injuries daily. The lesions to her neck, and the bruising to her hand and shoulder had started to heal. The blemish to her wrist changed to dark brown and green while her shoulder kept its blue-purple hue for the moment. But she kept the wounds to her neck open, to remind herself of her shame. Of the price she paid for her arrogance... the lives lost for her selfish pride... and her mind continued to go back to her fallen sentinel, masters, soldiers and smith. Wymon had suffered a spear, a sword and a club before he fell. Then she heard heavy footsteps enter the room, and a short silence followed.

"Might I beg for a moment alone, with her grace?" Falgon's voice asked softly, and she could hear the others stand.

"Come, we can meet with Jeody." Milla suggested, and a moment later they departed, leaving them alone.

"Are you al right?" he asked coming closer, and she scoffed.

"He wanted to be like you, you know." she told him softly, and then looked up at him. That was why he never took a wife, or returned home as much as the others. Her devoted Wymon...

"I made a terrible mistake, and everyone paid for it but me... If I hadn't, they may still be alive..." she muttered, and he looked down.

"You saved the lives of hundreds of people. They gave theirs, in honour of their duty to you." he reminded her, and she suddenly laughed looking away from him.

"Don't try to make me think I did the right thing. Can you justify sacrificing the lives of someone you cared about, for those you barely know beyond their name?" she asked him, and he knelt next to her.

"You did. They all knew that, and they accepted it so." then he sighed.

"I cannot justify it. No more than I can justify sparing the life of one person, for the sacrifice of hundreds." he said softly, and she looked down at the stones in front of the glow of the fire. It didn't matter how you chose, you would be condemned either way... Then she felt him take her hand in his, the fingers running gently over the discoloured skin.

"I'm sorry for this... I'm sorry that I couldn't protect you." he suddenly said, and she looked at him.

"You did protect me, Falgon." she said, and his eyes met the flames.

"If I protected you the way I promised to, the way I was meant to, this would never have happened." he said, and she sighed.

"Falgon, look at me." she told him, and his eyes met hers.

"What do you see?" he studied her a moment.

"My queen." he said softly, and she turned slightly towards him.

"And what am I doing?" she asked, and he shrugged.

"Sitting? Talking?" he seemed unsure, but she smiled.

"If you did not protect me, would I have been doing either of those things right now?" she asked, and he breathed out. And smiled.

"No. I don't think so." he agreed, and she laughed placing her arms around his shoulders.

"For all you've done for me, I will never be able to thank you enough, never be able to repay you, even if I lived to be hundreds of years old. My fierce, gentle knight." he held her. I need nothing, so long as I may love you... But it may be a cruel thing to tell that to her.

"Simply being at your side, is all I will ever need." he whispered, gently pressing her closer.

Rye sat in a small room within the walls of Winterfell, morning light spilling through the narrow window overlooking part of the godswood, the crimson leaves visible over the small woodland. A fortnight had passed since the battle, waiting for the northern houses to assemble, and maester Wolkan saw to his injury, which among the youngsters was determined to be the worst while his cousins and friends escaped with little more than several cuts and bruises. With a good dose of poppy milk, he was able to remove the arrow from his shoulder, and it was redressed regularly. Cleaning the wound was torture, but with screams and curses the maester did so no less than five times in the first week before being satisfied that the wound was thoroughly purged. The herbal paste used to treat the wound stung the broken skin and flesh, but now had been reduced to a burning itch, signalling that it was starting to mend. Then a soft knock drew his attention, and he looked up from the floor.

"Enter." a familiar face met him as a youngster stepped through the door, and he smiled.

"How's your arm?" Berterin asked as he stepped inside, and closed the door.

"It still stings when I move it, but I think I'll live." he smiled as he stood, and met his friend happily as they shared a laugh. He hadn't imagined reuniting with him the way he did, but was immensely grateful for it.

"How did you know it was me?" he asked as he drew back, and Berterin sighed.

"You remember that I told you, I see you better?" he asked, and Rye nodded. It was in the garden, and he watched Berterin, looking at the floor for a moment like he was thinking. Wondering how he would explain it.

"When I look at you, I can see flames swirling around you, like you're burning." he started to explain, and then looked up.

"It was the same with your father. And your mother. But with her, it was just a sparkle, like flakes of frost in the sunlight. I can see light around other people as well, but it's never quite the same as with you. Except..." he broke off for a moment.

"Ser Falgon didn't have a light around him, like most people do. There was a darkness behind him, like black wings." he told, remembering the day in the woodlands. It plagued him for a long time, though. Then he saw the blue eyes staring at him in wonder.

"Have you always been able to see this?" he asked astonished, and Berterin shrugged.

"Yes. Since I could remember." he confirmed, and Rye smiled.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, and Berterin glanced away.

"You wouldn't have believed me. Everyone just thought it was my imagination." he told, and then felt a hand to his shoulder.

"It sounds marvellous. I wish I could see it." his friend breathed, and they laughed. Another knock at the door made them look back as another figure entered. It was Will, and he smiled at them.

"Good to see you're up." he told as he closed the door, and then looked at Berterin.

"Well now, brother Bertie." he acknowledged him, and the youngster frowned.

"It's Berterin." he corrected him. He hated when people shortened his name, it made him seem some witless fool. Williame laughed as he approached.

"Sorry." he examined him, the dark hair, green eyes, and slender build. He was a couple of inches shorter than himself and Rye.

"You're gallant, for your age. Son of the Crimson Knight, clearly." he said, and Berterin smiled.

"You know my father?" he asked, and Will shrugged.

"Heard about him. A lot." he said, glancing at Rye. And then took a breath, as he remembered his reason for coming.

"All houses have assembled, the conclave will be held later this afternoon." he announced, and then started to turn.

"Uncle Rhegard is here as well, he is rather anxious to see you." he added, and Rye sighed.

"You told him I got hurt?" he asked, and Will started to the door.

"I didn't need to. There's lots of talk about 'the boy lord who took an arrow to the chest'." he told and Rye glanced away,

"It was just my shoulder." he muttered, and Will laughed.

"Close enough. Come down, when you're ready." he said and then left them.

"Well then, I should probably go and show him that I can still walk." Rye jested, and they left the chamber as well to meet with their family. The rest of the day was spent on the grounds while the lords assembled, greater and lesser, and finally Jon Snow sat at the high table with Sansa Stark at his side, looking over Glover, Manderly, Cerwyn, and all of them set at the tables down the length of the great hall with the Tormonts and Scharers amidst them. And lord Royce's harsh voice was heard above all of them.

"You cannot expect the knights of the Vale to side with Wildling invaders!" he declared, but then the fiery man answered him.

"We didn't invade. We were invited." Tormund countered, and lord Royce gave him a sour glance.

"Not by me!" he refused, and then Jon stood from his seat.

"The Freefolk, the Northerners and the knights of the Vale fought bravely, fought together and we won. My father used to say that we find our true friends on the battlefield." he tried to mediate the situation, but then lord Cerwyn stood from the bench he sat on.

"The Boltons are defeated. The war is over. Winter has come! If the maesters are right, it will be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home, and wait out the coming storms." he suggested, looking towards the others.

"The war is not over." Jon countered, and the lord looked back at him.

"And I promise you friend, the enemy won't wait out the storm. He brings the storm." he assured, hearing a rise of flouts and murmurs echoing through the extent of the hall. Then young lady Lyanna Mormont stood, she was no more than a girl of ten years, but she had every intention to make her own voice heard.

"Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding, lord Manderly. But you refused the call." she directed at a tall, heavy man with hair white as the snows. Then she looked at another, just a few seats down from her own. A grizzly man, hard and stern and grey.

"You swore allegiance to house Stark, lord Glover. But in their hour of greatest need, you refused the call." she told, and her dark eyes met another's.

"And you, lord Cerwyn. Your father was skinned alive by Ramsay Bolton, still you refused the call." she further stated, watching a younger gaunt man with chestnut hair and a thin beard.

"But house Mormont remembers! The north remembers! We know no king, but the king in the North, whose name is Stark! I don't care if he's a bastard, Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins. He is my king, from this day until his last day!" she declared loudly, and then took her seat as lord Scharer stood from his seat.

"Here before all, I confess my guilt that we did not ride with you. But with your blessing, we will swear all we have to you." he said, but then lord Mazin laughed.

"The Scharers fought with Ramsay, they are nothing but turn cloaks." he quipped, and feeling a sear through his blood Rye stood, irrespective of the hand clamping down on his arm as he slipped away.

"They did what they needed to, to protect their people. As do we all." he said taking a space in the centre of the hall, and then looked over the others.

"But in spite of it all, they did not favour the obvious side, wouldn't you say?" he further added, then looked at Rod still standing a few feet away.

"They did not start with us, it's true. But when our men were being slaughtered inside that snare, it was with us that they stood." he said, just noticing the lord smile weakly before he turned to face Jon at the high table.

"I believe you may find that they were loyal, in the end." he finished, meeting the black eyes solidly, subtly aware that lord Royce was staring at him from where he stood against the wall near the window.

"Who are you, boy?" the old knight asked, and he glanced at his uncle seated next to the space from where he stood. After a moment he nodded, and the youngster looked back at them.

"My name is Rychon Taugere. Son of lord Raeghun and lady Claira Taugere of Mount Ardor." he suddenly revealed, and more voices rose through the hall.

"Information we received told that you were at Hightower." lord Baelish put forth, but then Rychon smiled.

"My mother wanted that to be believed, of course. The boy sent to Oldtown did resemble me, but he is a maester's page, sent there to learn. I've spent the last four years in the north, hidden by the mists." he explained, hearing the muttering voices throughout the hall. But then he looked back at Jon who sighed with a smile and a small nod, and they died down as lord Manderly stood as well to share his own words, and Rychon retook his seat.

"Lady Mormont has spoken harshly. And truly." he agreed, and then took a deep breath.

"My son died for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. I didn't think we'd find another king in my lifetime, didn't commit my men to your cause because I didn't want more Manderly's dying for nothing. But I was wrong. Jon Snow avenged the Red Wedding! He is the White Wolf! The King in the North!" the elderly lord announced, drawing his sword and kneeling in the hall. Lord Glover also stood, slowly to face Jon.

"I did not fight beside you on the field, and I will regret that until my dying day. A man can only admit when he was wrong, and ask forgiveness." he told softly, and for a moment Jon only stared back.

"There's nothing to forgive, my lord." he finally said, softly. There was only kindness in his words.

"There will be more fights to come. House Glover will stand behind house Stark, as we have for a thousand years. And I will stand behind Jon Snow. The King in the North!" he too, removed his sword, and knelt beside lord Manderly. Rhegard stood, removing Talon from his side, and rose it into the air.

"The King in the North!" he declared, and more swords joined his along with his voice, sounding over and over and over off the stones. The King in the North! Later when they left the hall, Rhegard walked at Rychon's side. Still with a limp, but fortunately without the aid of a brace.

"That was a fine thing you did, Rychon." he praised softly, and he looked up to meet the bright eyes.

"They're a part of our family, uncle. How could I do otherwise?" he asked, and Rhegard nodded placing a hand on his shoulder. Then a shadow approached them, and they looked up to see Rod joining them.

"Rychon..." he paused for a moment, and then smiled.

"Thank you, for standing for me." he said gratefully, and Rychon smiled.

"You are welcome, my lord." he returned, and then Rod looked at Rhegard.

"Lord Rhegard, I understand that you could not defend us, even if you tried. Our fathers were killed, your brother was killed, the greatest part of our fighting forces were killed. But I hope you're not offended that I offered my house directly to our king." he said, and Rhegard laughed.

"Of course not. I was your brother before I was your lord, and with both of us sworn directly to house Stark, you will be my equal rather than my vassal. Honestly, I might prefer that." he returned lightly, and they continued their way down to the bailey where Williame, Gaerand, Berterin and Ormont joined them as well. Rhegard's attention went to his nephews.

"I need you two to stay here, and assist his grace in any way he is in need of until I return." he told, and they glanced at each other curiously.

"Yes, uncle." Will agreed, and the lord of Pale Haven smiled as he regarded them.

"You have both grown into fine young lords. Your father would be so proud of you." he praised, and then Rychon felt a hand to his arm. He turned to meet the black eyes of the King in the North with a kind smile.

"Your grace?" he acknowledged him.

"I should have known, that you were the son of the Phoenix." he breathed softly, and Rychon regarded him curiously.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, and Jon laughed.

"Your eyes. I've seen them before." then they made their way down out towards the courtyard, while Rhegard continued his discussion with the youngsters.

"We have not met before you came to Pale Haven, though." Rychon thought, and saw Jon staring off into the distance.

"No, we haven't. But I've met your father, many years ago when I was still a boy." Then he looked towards him again.

"Eyes like his, like yours, are not easily forgotten." he mentioned, but Rychon wondered at that.

"I've always been told that I have my mother's light eyes." he said, and then they stopped for a moment.

"True. But, there is a blaze to them that no one else has." he told, and Rychon nodded.

"Once, a jester came to court here in Winterfell. He told us the tale of the Ardent Kings, and their lineage. The burn of their blue eyes is a clear mark of their line, and it shows in you so vividly." then he sighed, as he glanced at the sky.

"And now that we know what is coming for us from north of the Wall, we will need every kind of strength." he mentioned, and Rychon knew what he meant.

"I am not the liege of the Corridor yet, but I give you my word that I will speak with my mother as soon as I am able to. We will face whatever comes, by your side." he told, and Jon nodded with a grateful smile.

"Thank you." then a discreet shuffling drew his attention, and he turned towards Rhegard coming up next to him.

"With your permission, your grace. We should start our preparations for our journey." he pardoned, and Jon acknowledged him.

"Yes, of course." he allowed and then Rychon looked at his uncle.

"So, where are we going?" he asked, and his smile widened as he glanced at Berterin who came to join them.

"You are welcome to join our company, young lord Trentin." he hinted, and then brought his attention back to Rychon, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Well then, I suppose it is time that I took you home."