Chapter 4
The Winds of Chaos
Marwyn the Mage 1
For a city tens of thousands of Southerners cursed as one of the greatest bastion of evil in Westeros, White Harbor was looking strangely mundane from where he stood. The ship he was on the bridge of was still far from the shore, of course. But contrary to what these small-minded fools of the Citadel liked to pretend, he hadn't been forced to prostrate himself in front of a demon rising from the depths of the Shivering Sea. There had been no choir of sirens singing to rob him of his mental faculties and lead him to damnation. No sorcerer had appeared in the middle of a magical storm to massacre the crew of the Tireless Lady, one of the Pentoshi carracks which were travelling from Lys to the Northern city twice a year. To be honest, during his journey from Oldtown to White Harbor he had been in danger a single time and it was when the guards of House Hightower had started to hunt him.
Once he had escaped their inquisitorial attentions, the difficulties had been almost non-existent. One of the sailors had been a spy and the former Archmaester had had to throw him overboard two days after their departure but apart from this the days had been devoid of danger. Summer was continuing its long reign, the winds had been two days out of three favourable and the captain and his officers had described the storms they had encountered as nothing but breezes.
The weather had slowly but surely become colder in the last days, however. The sun was shining but its warmth was not the one he had enjoyed when he was living in the Reach. Cloaks and leather clothes had become necessary, for the winds were powerful and made him shiver. No longer did the sailors tended to their duties bare-chested. The skies were not a pristine blue anymore. It was possible those were the first sings the Long Summer was going to end.
The Tireless Lady speed was slowing down, as the wind was now against them and the shipmaster had to take into account all the other ships around them. It was clear White Harbor was no Oldtown when it came to the number of ships waiting for their hulls to be emptied or filled, but it had many fishermen, small galleys and carracks coming to sell or buy during summer.
Behind these quays and ship berths was the city itself. Built in grey and white stone, surrounded by a large wall which looked in good condition, the stronghold of House Manderly was imposing and well-defended. The towers and the ramparts were smaller than the massive outer works of King's Landing, but judging by the siege engines everywhere, the sworn swords of the North were vigilant and not the incompetent bunch of the capital. His specialty was magic, not war tactics, but Marwyn could guess trying to take this city would be anything but easy. There was a large tract of empty land between the walls and the harbour, meaning any assault from the sea which managed to defeat the warships mounting guard would be massacred by scorpions and ballista. Whoever had built and developed White Harbor in centuries past, they had had a sound mind.
He heard the whispers of the men as he walked tranquilly on the bridge, doing his best not to hamper their work.
"A good bed, a good meal..."
"Let's hope the taxes of last time have been removed..."
"You see this ship? It's the Violet Spear of Braavos..."
"This girl had the biggest tits..."
The mage let a half-smile show on his visage. It was reassuring to know that no matter the destination, sailors were as predictable as they always were in other harbours. For himself he would not refuse an evening in pleasant company, but alas his purse was getting smaller and smaller as the days passed. He had stored gold, gemstones and several valuable things over the years in case he fell out of his favour –none of his three predecessors had resigned the title of Archmaester of Magic in what could be called a peaceful fashion – but the timing of the City Watch had been awful from his point of view. Contrary to the rumours, he did not like running naked in the streets...and he had had to disguise himself as an old woman to elude the multiplying patrols. Oh, he had more gold dragons, silver stags hidden at Oldtown and throughout the south...but his face was now one of a traitor and using sorcery tended to signal his presence to his hunters. For all their self-professed hatred of magic, the Faith dogs had minor orders of Art-gifted men and women under their command to track the 'heretics'.
His current clothes reflected the difficult times he was now facing. He was wearing a pointed red hat on his head and the piece of cloth had seen better days. The same could be said with the red cloak he wore and the seedy red garments under it. Marwyn shrugged. He was alive and it was the main objective achieved. As long as there was life in him, he could climb back to the top and live the life of luxury he wanted. It would have not been the case if they burned him at the stake.
At long last, the Tireless Lady stopped moving and Marwyn was free to disembark off the carrack, which he did without a regard behind, his meagre baggage hanging in a leather bag on his back. The air was fresh and smelled heavily the fish – not surprising when several feet on his right and left stones of streaming bass, freshwater wrasse, northern sole, shivering pollock and black cods. Some fishes weren't familiar but he wasn't a fisherman and his knowledge had been gained in the last fortnights among the Pentoshi crew.
A very corpulent Northerner covered in furs of atrocious rose and brown colours placed himself automatically in front of him before he had walked ten paces. By the Seven Hells, the man was ugly. His brown hairs were braided on one side of his head, and to add the lack of presence he had a double chin and a double belly. In short, this was a particular ugly man. Before he had the time to say he didn't know this person, the man was opening his mouth and proving his presence was anything but a coincidence.
"What brings you to White Harbor, Honoured Sorcerer?"
The tone was courteous and succeeded by a bow, but Marwyn could not help but feel a twinge of irritation. He was not a sorcerer, he was a mage! Unlike the latter, his study of the Art and the forces controlled by it had been purely academic. He had not manifested the desire to drown his colleagues in barrels of wine, throwing them out of windows or sacrifice them to monsters. No matter how many deserved it.
The last thought gave him unease however. Where had it come from?
"I am a mage, not a sorcerer..."
"The newcomers always say these words when they're coming here..." replied the Northerner with a joyous laugh. The rest of the sentence was pronounced in a conspiracy-sounding murmur. "But moons later they are sorcerers all the same..."
"I am what I am," Marwyn declared, catalysing his power to his eyes in order to activate his mage-sight. Since the Northerner knew what he was, there was no point restraining his contact from throwing spells. His eyes began to look deeper than this sad reality...and he regretted it a couple of heartbeats later.
The entire city in front of him was saturated with magic. All around him there were storms of pink and vivid colours gathering and erupting in the immaterial realm. This was not the calm, dead vastness he could draw little power from in the South. No, here the aether and the winds crossing it were infernos of power. But there were other beings materialising it. When magic came to his ears, otherworldly choirs began to sing a terrible melody. In a hurry, he cut the connection...but he had the time to see the dark purple inferno in the aura of the Northerner in front of him. It was like the man had his very being sucked by something magical...
"You are not a sorcerer. What are you?"
"My Lord granted me the great honour of Ritual Possession by a Grotesque." The accentuation on the last words made the majuscules impossible to miss. "I am now part of the Court of Gluttony." As he spoke, the man was getting fatter. His jaw was enlarged beyond the capacities of a human jaw, unveiling a set of very pointed teeth.
"Err...congratulations?" The smile of his interlocutor grew only bigger.
"By order of Lord Manderly, Master of White Harbor, Warden of the White Knife, Exalted Champion of the Gluttony Host, Shield of Desire, Defender of the Drink, all sorcerers must be presented upon their arrival." The voice was bantering and friendly, but the threat could be heard underneath it. "It allows us to avoid...regrettable incidents."
Marwyn tried in a hurry to remember everything he had heard about Possessed humans...unfortunately it was not much. The Faith and the secular authorities of the Andals had long considered the act as a heresy of the worst sort, an abomination which had to be erased at all costs. He knew from some of the most esoteric books he had read a Grotesque was one of the Demon servants affiliated with the Demoness Slaanesh and that they were fat things able to gobble fantastic quantities of food and drink...and that stopped here. He was pretty sure a Grotesque was not an entity which was delighting in battle...but starting a magic duel mere moment after he had arrived did not appear to be an intelligent idea. Undoubtedly there were guards in the harbour and behind the walls ready to intervene at the first sign of hostilities.
"Lead the way, then."
The Northerner saluted again and commenced to zigzag towards the gates, the former Archmaester on his heels. The large grey-steel doors were largely opened and guarded by about a score of soldiers watching the crowd with attention. A hand move of the Possessed in front of him, and the soldiers let them pass. A good thing because for a strange reason Marwyn's eyes were hurting when he looked the runic inscriptions graved on the wood of the spears.
"I'm afraid I didn't ask for your name." The Mage said as they followed a cart – full of fresh fishes, if the odour was any indication – in the main street. It was a pleasant surprise to see the avenues were correctly paved and somewhat straight. The odours were bearable too, proof the Northerners had built a functional sewer system.
"I am Bartimus," presented himself his guide. "Bartimus the Voracious." Like the demon inside him wanted to prove something, the Northern inflated again like a balloon, gaining a third belly in the turn of an eye before returning to a smaller corpulence.
Walking in the streets of White Harbor was an experience like none other. The whispers of magic were more pressing the further they advanced, and the power was coursing through the city in vague pink vapours. Fountains and places were decorated with statues of demons and hellish knights. Instead of septons shouting their sermons in front of their places of prayer, there were individuals cloaked in bright red, pink or purple robes shouting various heretical imprecations to the crowd. It did not feel at all like any Westerosi or Essossi city Marwyn had ever visited...truly the North had chosen to remain apart from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.
Of course, this opened more questions for him. It was really obvious what little knowledge he had of the place was completely outdated. Fishermen and traders must rarely leave the harbour and they couldn't feel the pressure of the Art reigning here.
"I mean no offense, Ser Bartimus, but what exactly is the Court of Gluttony?"
"Gluttony is one of the six Great Hosts honouring our Goddess Slaanesh." Bartimus was clearly searching his words to explain in a simple manner. "Six is the Holy Number of our Goddess, thus Six Hosts are existing at any given time to obey Her Will and Her Desires. Lord Manderly commands Gluttony in Her Name; the five other courts are Fortune, Lust, Domination, Glory and Perfection. Each Host has its Court, its Champions, its traditions, its artefacts and its own interests."
"Isn't it a bit too...chaotic?" Frankly the whole 'organisation' – and it was a generous word for it – was mildly insane. He had seen in his travels what happened when two men bickered for command and power and it wasn't pretty. Having six great commanders was going to result in large problems...and Slaanesh was far from the only divinity the Northerners worshipped.
"Order is abhorrent to the Gods." The response was pronounced like a septon quoting from the Holy Books of the Seven. The next sentences sounded more like the Northerner was giving his own opinion. "In the South, order may be preferable but we are not south of the Neck, sorcerer. Our lands are far more dangerous and each season has its perils."
Bartimus threw nonchalantly three coins of silver to a merchant of fruits when they passed by a small marketplace and took a big yellow fruit the size of a small melon in his chubby hands before eating a disturbingly large bite of it. The gurgle of satisfaction after his guide swallowed was...loud.
"Ah...better." Marwyn feigned to ignore the large rot which came out of Bartimus huge mouth. Or the purple flare surrounding the man of White Harbor. "You want to know more."
"Yes, I do," admitted the former Archmaester, damning his curiosity to the Seven Hells. "You told me you serve Slaanesh and are Possessed by a grotesque. But according to my sources of information, the main demons of your Goddess are daemonettes, not grotesques."
Bartimus chuckled as they turned left and the inner citadel of White Harbor came into view. Unlike the outer walls, those defences had many mermaid banners upon them that would have horrified a Reacher and human-sized runes blazing with the power of the Art. Storming the last bastion of a city was supposed to be a costly affair but the limits between the reality and the immaterial domains were really thin in White Harbor. Any enemy who managed to overwhelm the Northerners would have a series of nasty surprises.
"As we have six Hosts, six forms of Lesser Daemons for our Goddess exist." The explanation made sense...somewhat. Marwyn remarked Bartimus had pronounced the word 'daemon' instead of 'demon'. "Grotesques are the daemons the Court of Gluttony is most often associated though I must admit the daemonettes of the Court of Lust are extremely popular everywhere."
"What are the others?"
The part of the city they were entering was looking far more ancient and impregnated in magic. Some houses and fountains were looking a bit blurry to his eyes, the Art pouring inside them. They were shadows of beings appearing and flickering out of reality. It was not very reassuring.
"The Court of Fortune can count on the treasure seekers," the smile which was shown proved Bartimus thought he had had the best deal of the choices available. "For our brethren choosing the Court of Domination, the dream seekers are their allies. Lust is the domain of the daemonettes of course and Glory those of the adulators. Finally, the Chosen of Perfection have the flawless to conjure."
"Isn't unleashing these...daemons incredibly dangerous?" He had expected a denial, but Bartimus nodded with a pout on his large lips.
"They are a potent force when the Winds are favourable, but they can be quite enthusiastic in the pursuit of Desire...ah, we're here."
The doors of the Manderly dungeon were wide open in front of them, and Marwyn couldn't help but think some of the daemonettes, mermaid and wolves representations carved in the stones were far too realistic. The purple and red gems were shining mysteriously, which should not be possible as the sun had temporarily been hidden by a large white cloud. A powerful smell, heavier than a flower perfume, was making his head turn.
The climb of the white steps was done in silence, like it was a dream –or a nightmare. A mist was permeating everything, limiting vision to a few steps. It was no natural thing, he was sure. The air they were breathing had the taste of the Art and something else. Disagreeable at first, but after every stride it was getting more pleasant.
How long they marched in these corridors he was unable to tell. At one moment or another they entered a large hall where people were feasting. Columns of food and uncountable barrels of wine were spread out for hundreds of participants. By the looks of it, the celebrations had begun long before their arrival and would continue for far longer. Not all the beings present were human. In fact, about a third were demonic and were serving and dancing. This was a spectacle of madness, debauchery...and gluttony.
And then a rumble resonated at the end of a table. Startled, Marwyn saw the mass he had taken for a large and ugly decoration the width of a small elephant rise up. This was a man...or at least someone who had been born in this world as a man but had long evolved beyond mortal comprehension. Today, he was more like a grease mountain. The number of bellies and the overweight surplus in this charnel envelope were supernatural. And yet he lived.
Marwyn bent the knee after Bartimus for the true Master of White Harbor was in front of them.
"We were awaiting impatiently your arrival, Mage," rumbled Lord Wyman Manderly. "Slaanesh expects great things from you."
Asha Greyjoy 2
Asha watched the coast with bitterness and resignation. This was it, then. Despite her best efforts to escape her fate, she had failed. Her attempt to get away from the Iron Islands before someone loyal to her father noticed her absence had been done too late, though she must have had a traitor in her crew for the Bloody Hunter and her consorts to catch her Black Wind the way they had. Every time she had bargained with one of her jailors her freedom with gold, silver, spices or a view of her tits, the man was replaced by a more stubborn and thick-headed bastard, never to be seen again. It did not matter if she was at Pyke or on the bridge of a longship. She was watched night and day by Ironborn who had no reason to be loyal to her. Of the Black Wind's entire crew, the only person staying was Brigit – Hagen's daughter – and Asha was certain she had only been granted the permission because she was a woman. Qarl, Hagen, Cromm and the rest of her crew had according to the rumours been dispersed on the hundreds of crew the Iron Fleet needed to sail. Asha would reach the Northern shore in a few turn of hourglasses and the moment she came ashore her destiny would be sealed.
King Balon Greyjoy – everyone who could hear the lightning and thunder knew the coronation was only a question of days – really wanted this war and a crown, and not necessarily in that order. He didn't want a daughter. Asha tightened her fists in impotent rage. Her last days at Pyke had proven how little the man pretending to be her father cared about her fate. She was a piece of meat and a shiny gift thrown to the wolves. The Lord Reaper wanted the armies of Winterfell fighting on his side and he wanted to get rid of his only child not born with a dick. This alliance had offered him both.
Rodrik was going to wed the Stark's Heir eldest daughter, a pretty little thing named Saara. She would marry the Winterfell's Heir eldest son, Torrhen Stark. Her demands that Theon came with her had been outright refused, meaning her little brother was going to be beaten and terrified by the two brutes she was supposed to call 'brothers'. Maybe Uncle Rodrik would be able to protect him but this was a forlorn hope.
"I hope you're happy." She said without turning her head when she heard heavy steps walking towards her.
"I obey my brother, my captain, my liege lord, my King," replied her uncle Victarion, which had recently become her least favourite uncle as he and his men prevented her evasions. There was no hesitation or compassion in his words. The more time she observed him, the more Asha was convinced the rumours and whispers were right. Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, was as dumb as a bull and his balls had been severed by the Crow's Eye. He was a mindless brute, wearing his plate armour in all circumstances. "Remember your oaths, niece."
Asha remembered them very well, since she had never sworn any at all. Men when they were of age sailed to Pyke or to Old Wyk to swear fealty. But she was a woman, and the Drowned Priests had been hysterical at the idea of a woman fighting and commanding men. The Black Wind had come out the shipyards of Harlaw, not Pyke, and House Greyjoy had ignored her adventures. In the couple of years, she had travelled to the Summer Sea or stayed at Harlaw. No oath, no promise and no recognition, but 'father' had sold her at the first opportunity.
She didn't answer back and Victarion Greyjoy, ever the brilliant speaker, turned around to bark new orders at the crew of the Iron Victory. While the sailors reduced the speed of the great longship, Asha continued to watch the sea and the contour of the fortress appearing in the distance.
"This is an ugly thing," remarked a black-bearded reaver twice her age. "The greenlanders do not build castles like this."
"They call it Bloodsteel Motte." Grumbled another man on Asha's right. "My father told me these men drink in the skulls of their enemies..."
This may well be true. Uncle Rodrik had sent her several copied of his books on Northern culture before her final departure and the Northerners living here were savage fighters and merciless to their vanquished enemies. If the black spikes on the beaches and atop every wall weren't impressive enough, the large flag flying atop the greatest of the three towers was a warning to all. A bloody-red armoured fist on a sable field was the heraldry of the flag, and seeing it felt like you were drenched in cold water. It was like the vision of Bloodsteel Motte had been purposely worked to scare enemies away. It was ludicrous of course, and yet...
"This is the fortress of House Glover." She told the growing number of crews watching the land in front of them with mutters and disbelief. The Motte was a mass of black and grey with spikes and skulls everywhere. Behind it, there was a dark forest with gigantic dark-green trees. The stronghold was the sole human construction visible leagues around. The rest was covered by the huge woods. "I don't see many ships."
"They must have less than a squadron all told," approved a crewman in Wynch colours. "Northerners have a lot of trees but they don't build enough ships." And this was the greatest resource the Ironborn had often bought or stolen on these shores. Who cared about the miserable bronze and the paltry silver the Northerners had in their coffers? The Ironborn of old had been attracted to these cold battlegrounds by the wood. The smallest grounds of the Wolfswood had trees so old they could build ten Iron Fleets with them and leave behind them the materials to build twenty times more.
"The Lord Captain wants us to prepare the rowboats!"
Usually, they would have come ashore with the longships, but there was no way the small harbour in front of them was ready to greet ten big longships in addition to their own ships. Moreover, House Greyjoy had placed many big spikes and other surprises on their shore to prevent Ironborn ships from launching an amphibious assault. Oh, and the former had many skeletons attached to them. Apparently some reavers had tried to raid Bloodsteel Motte in the past and the welcome had been...eternal.
Asha took her place in one of the small embarkations, glaring at the coffers which went in the third and fourth rowboat. A few of those had her clothes, armour and weapons but this was not the cause of her bad humour. No, the source of her dissatisfaction was directed at an ebony coffer with the golden kraken of House Greyjoy as the main decoration. This was the container where her wedding dress had been stored. If she had been able to be five feet away from it, she would have put this abomination to the torch...
With the vigorous arms of the Ironborn rowing, the journey to the Northern shore was short and barely worth mentioning. Men being men, it was Victarion, his first mate and his helmsman who debarked first. Asha, Brigit and the rest of the oarsmen followed.
The group waiting for them not ten feet away was large, at least three hundred men and women by her best estimate. Some looked like simple workers and ship crewmen – several scores rushed to help the other rowboats discharge the coffers and other goods. The rest on the other hand, were definitely warriors. There were many in ordinary steel armours, common soldiers that could be seen in the taverns of Harlaw, Tyrosh or the other greenlander lands. And in the back, standing like a line of death, were about three scores of tall men in black plate armour.
Their helmets were in the shape of skulls, their armours were covered in runes hurting the eyes and all had the red armoured fist of House Glover painted somewhere on their protections. This was...impressive. House Greyjoy could of course field more men in plate armour than this, but Asha's family had the title of Lord Paramount of the entire Iron Islands. According to Rodrik's vast knowledge, the Glovers were renowned bannersmen of the Starks but still minor players on the ever-changing Northern political structure. Mustering so many warriors in plate for the arrival of allies proved they were definitely a force to be reckoned with.
"Greetings, men and women of the Iron Islands," boomed a colossus in black plate with the Glover sigil a flamboyant mark on the dark breastplate. He was not wearing a helmet unlike his companions, and as a result the Ironborn party could watch his visage. Maybe at one point in the past, the man could have been considered 'fair', but now he had several big scars on the cheeks, forehead and jaw. "I am Ethan Glover, Lord Galbart's Master of Defences. I bid you welcome to the North in the name of Lord Galbart Glover, Master of Bloodsteel Motte, Exalted Warlord of the Host of Wrath, Axe of Ruin, Chosen of Khorne, the Last Wall."
"WE ARE THE LAST WALL!" Shouted like a single man the warriors with the kind of conviction telling you these armoured black figures would stop at nothing to kill you and mount more skulls on their standards. It would not surprise Asha if the red and black flags the heralds had had been drenched in blood. Due to the ferocity they uttered it, the sentence had to be House Glover's words.
"I have readied the blood, bread and salt," began Ethan Glover. "Promises of brotherhood and oath-binding will be made before the evening's meal and-"
"We do not intend to stay long," interrupted him Victarion. "My Lord Brother has urged me to come back at Pyke without losing a single day. I must prepare with my commanders the Iron Fleet for the conflict to come. There is no time for frivolities." Trust the Lord Captain to be as blunt and insulting as possible. Truly this was a good thing Uncle Victarion was born on the Iron Islands, Asha reflected. Serving under a greenlander Lord, someone would have murdered him. Several Northerners were looking at him with something looking like deep reprobation in their eyes. The others appeared to grit their teeth and wonder if the head of a Greyjoy would look good on a pike.
"It will be as you decide," answered the Glover soldier, graciously but with a frosty undertone which let her guess Victarion had not made a friend here. His head turned to one of his men in clothes of grey and brown, a woodsman or something of the sort. "Present my excuses to Lady Saara but the date of her departure has been advanced."
The woodsman nodded and raced back to the fortress like the hells of the greenlanders were after him. Asha took this opportunity to leave the ranks and close the distance with the Glover swordsmen. She pointedly ignored the glare her uncle sent her. She was well past the age to ask for his permissions.
"Lady Asha Greyjoy," said the Northerner. "This is an honour." The tone was respectful and the black eyes examined her from head to foot with a thin smile. Asha congratulated herself to have ignored the 'recommendations' of her father. If the Lord Reaper had had a choice, she would have landed shore in one of those horrible dresses and probably been the laughingstock of the North in days. She had opposed this decision based on Rodrik comments and it looked like the Harlaw wisdom had triumphed over what passed for intelligence at Pyke one more time.
Today Asha was wearing a midnight-blue cloak over a comfortable dark leather armour. It was not a set she would be comfortable wearing on a battlefield – her chest and her breasts were too lightly protected – but for a formal meeting like this one it was the solution.
"The honour is mine." She replied, trying not to sour more tempers than her ox of uncle. By the Drowned God, she hoped she wasn't going to have to play the greenlander emissary every time Northerner and Ironborn met.
Then the beast howls were heard.
Asha knew the noises many beasts of Westeros and Essos made, but these howls were making her shiver. It was a very detestable feeling. It was a sound telling you there was something bigger than humans in the woods of Bloodsteel Motte. And the 'something' was a hunter, not prey.
"How big are the wolves making this racket?" She asked to the Northerners.
Ethan had the shadow of a smile on his lips, but Asha saw many of his men were looking afraid.
"See for yourself." The Glover told her. The gates of the fortress opened totally and the creatures making the howls galloped out of it in a disorganised formation.
At first sight, Asha thought her eyes were tricked. But at each heartbeat the vision didn't stop. There were really two huge wolves racing to their location, with people riding them like the greenlanders usually rode coursers.
No, not wolves. Direwolves.
She had heard the rumours like many reavers but seeing them...it was entirely different. The animals were the height of war horses...big warhorses and probably larger. The two predators were a deep grey in fur and they were near the sheer size of their jaws and fangs made her breathe more rapidly. The Glover workers and sworn swords separated in two deep lines to let the monsters approach unimpeded.
Moment after moment the direwolves closed the gap and several Ironborn around Victarion clinched to their weapons in fear. Asha herself had to admit she wasn't very reassured. The distant cousins of the 'normal' wolves were impossibly big and their paws and their fangs were awe-striking. At least she knew why each and every one of the men and women here was on foot. If the Glover party had brought horses near the animals, they would have gone crazy with fear...and she wouldn't have blamed them.
The effect of the direwolves and their rumblings growls had made such an effect it was only afterwards that Asha watched the riders of the great predators. Pleasant surprise, the two were young women and she was pretty sure the two had less name days than her under their belts. The direwolf of the right had big golden eyes, the fur was slightly darker than the other one and it was mounted by the youngest. The Stark girl – for who else would ride such predators – had a rather fair face, long dark brown hair styled in a warrior's fashion and deep grey eyes. She was wearing no helmet, but the rest of her attire was light black armour. On her chest was a luminescent grey direwolf eating a fish, surrounded by an eight-pointed star. Everything in her screamed 'warrior' and it wasn't at all the description the Ironborn who had went northwards the first time had described Saara Stark, so it had to be another youngest daughter.
And on the second direwolf –this one had pale eyes and was a bit lighter in fur – sat a Northerner with bright red hairs and blue eyes. Asha had no doubt this was Saara Stark, Eddard Stark's eldest daughter...and in her heart she intimately knew her father had no idea the doom they had just invited on their shores. The Northern woman wore an enticing blue robe that...in all honesty Asha had seen many whores work of diverse harbours entice their clients without wearing such transparent clothes. The female workers of whorehouses usually showed far less skin too. The robe had to be magical somewhat, because even a Lysene pleasure-slave would have difficulties wearing a cloth like this. It gave everyone a good view of her cleavage and her legs, although the back was covered by her long red hairs, which were a corona of flame nearly arriving on her hips. The same emblem of the wolf eating a fish and the eight-pointed stars was engraved on her silver belt. A sceptre resplendent with many gemstones was in her right hand, an heirloom surrounded a sort of blue-red halo. Her blue eyes were like sapphires...and having slept with several women she could tell this was not a fair maiden the Starks would offer. Fair was fair, Asha wasn't either, but she could recognise a beautiful snake when she saw one.
Rodrik is so fucked.
And she didn't mean it in a pleasurable way.
Asha wanted to open her mouth, shout to Victarion and the rest of the reavers assembled here they were making the biggest mistake of their lives. But she didn't. May the Drowned God forgive her, she didn't.
What was she supposed to tell anyway? Her father –the great and invincible Balon Greyjoy – had had Saara Stark presented to him several fortnights ago and evidently found nothing wrong with her. The last moons had proven quite clearly that her words had no weight at all at Pyke.
She is the dagger in the dark the Starks will use to control us.
It was a sobering realisation but not one difficult to make. The entire affair wouldn't be difficult; Rodrik and Maron had never been the sharpest captains navigating the Sunset Sea. Victarion always obeyed her father and was still in denial with the affair which had ended with him beating his wife to death. Aeron was drunk most of the time. The Crow Eye had been exiled years ago. Her father wanted to be a crown above all else. No, the trap was perfect...
Ethan Glover and all his black knight-warriors – or the Northern equivalents since the Northerners didn't believe in the stupid superstition of knighthood established the Andals – bent the knee like a single man. Some lesser warriors and ship workers outright prostrated in front of the women as they dismounted their direwolves.
It was quite disturbing to see two of the men who had run behind the beasts out of Bloodsteel Motte were humiliating themselves by serving as footrests for the Starks.
"Lady Saara Stark, Lady Arya Stark."
"Rise, Ethan Glover." The youngest –Arya – told the Glover commander. "You have served House Stark well."
For a few heartbeats, there was silence from the entire assembly. The melody coming to her ears was the one of the birds' cries, the sound of waves and the gust of winds.
"Rise, all of you," declared Saara Stark in a haughty tone. Her voice was beautiful, but her behaviour and her expression were exposing an incredible arrogance. The fact many Northerners watched her like she was a goddess made flesh was also sickening. And to her great shame, many Ironborn of the Iron Fleet's retinue looked like they were ready to throw themselves to her feet if it gave them the slightest chance of attracting her favours.
The two Stark sisters rapidly hugged in a gesture of farewell, speaking in a harsh foreign tongue before the eldest marched away, a direwolf and ten armoured soldiers on her heels. The blue robe and the seductress under it were such a pretty vision in this weather, and Asha wondered how the Stark daughter could wear this kind of attire here. It was not exactly freezing, but neither was it the hellishly hot sun of the Reach.
Asha had turned her eyes to the future bride of Rodrik and almost jumped when the other Stark sister hugged her with an iron embrace.
"So you're the Greyjoy Torrhen is going to marry." The grey eyes of the warrior-lady shone with a mischievous expression. "He's going to like you I think. Lord Greyjoy didn't tell us you were a warrior."
How typical of her father...although to be honest he didn't know much of her life in the last years.
"I am a warrior and a captain," the sole daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Islands amended, giving a last look at the departing group of her uncle Victarion. She stopped watching however as Arya Stark firmly pushed her with an iron grip away from the shore. By the Kraken how strong was this girl? She was shorter than Asha by a good head and far younger, but the muscles she had under this armour appeared to have the strength of steel.
The force of her new guide was ignored a moment later as she came face to face with the massive grey direwolf.
"This is Valkia," presented the Stark sister with humour. Asha tensed, there was a joke coming and she had a good idea who was the target. "Valkia, this is Asha, Torrhen's new mate. Greet her, Valkia."
"Don't you dare-" The warning was completely missed by the huge grey-furred animal and before she had the time to blink, a great tongue was licking her profusely.
Balon Greyjoy, you will pay for everything.
Waymar Royce 3
Waymar shivered and tried not to vomit. He had seen some bad things in his life before sailing north, but before today the most horrible had been a smallfolk's corpse after one of those seven-damned clansmen tortured him and then cut him apart piece by piece.
It was nothing compared to this. What had been a human arm was now mutated beyond recognition. The skin had taken a green colour and instead of fingers there were three octopus-like tentacles. By itself, it would have been already been horrible and a damnation of the highest order but the changes had not stopped there. From the forearm to the edge of the tentacles, there were yellow eyes emerging at irregular intervals and one could almost feel the malevolence in those irises-less pupils.
The recruit of the Night's Watch who had formerly owned said arm – a Tyroshi-born pirate the Gulltown fleet had captured and sent to the Watch – was muttering incoherent sentences, his attention desperately trying to evade the ugly vision of his diseased appendage.
"Gather the recruits," the chief of the patrol, an Ironborn called Cotter Pyke ordered in a tone that tolerated no debate. "Let them see the consequences of failure."
It did not take long for Waymar and the rest of the men present to assemble. They had all been in the small outpost a day east of Castle Black when the magical storm had hit and they were impatient to finally reach the main fort of the Night's Watch.
When they saw what had happened to the former pirate, a score vomited or fell on their knees, babbling prayers to whatever Gods they believed in. Samwell Tarly emptied again his stomach on the no-longer white snow, but this time he was just one of many.
"You were told to don your armours and stay armoured in them until we reached Castle Black," began the Black Brother in a tone where there was no sympathy. A finger was pointed at the mutated arm. "You were warned storms here were incredibly dangerous. The Wall stops most of the antique magic from Beyond-the-Wall, but the closest you are from the Wall, the more you are in danger. The Lord Commander and the Black Castellans want men to serve in the Watch, not beastmen, spawn or other mindless abominations." The fingers tightened in a fist of black steel. "This recruit chose to disregard the advice we repeated eight times to you before we started this march. He thought he knew better than veterans of the long vigil."
The contempt in Pyke's voice was evident and the rangers to his sides all regarded the arm with the kind of expression one reserved to worms and insects.
"Please," begged the recruit, facing their superior on his knees. "Please, the whispers...it was the whispers which made me do it!"
Cotter Pyke struck at a speed Waymar knew he was unable to equal. The throat of the Tyroshi was seized in an implacable grip.
"So the whispers told you to remove the protection of your right arm," grated the member of the Night's Watch. "Next time they will surely tell you to throw yourself from the top of the Wall. Will you obey?"
The mutant recruit stared for a few seconds his mouth wide open before attempting to shout his denial. Too bad the pressure on his throat did not really allow his pleads to be heard.
"No! Of course not!" he shrieked as loud as he could once the grip was released and he fell on the snow.
"By Khorne, I am glad to hear this!" The sarcasm in Cotter's exclamation could not have been greater. "For a moment, I was sure you were destined to provide the beastmen a few good laughs when they will descend again southwards."
The senior Black Brother punched without warning. The attack was done slower than the previous actions but the cry of pain from his victim's lips proved armour had its limits –though given how many spikes they were on the fists and the rest of Cotter Pyke's equipment, this was not exactly surprising.
Waymar gritted his teeth but didn't move. This was completely contrary to the chivalry code, but his first days in the Gift had made painfully clear there was no code of honour here. You obeyed the Black Brothers until you were one yourself...or you died. Intervening would not save the Tyroshi from whatever fate they had planned for him.
It was difficult to stay inactive like this, in an armour decorated with heretical runes that nothing distinguished from the others – well, except from the one of Tarly because the Reacher was so fat they had to mix the largest set parts they had around for him.
"What I am going to do with you?" The former Ironborn mused, contemplating the black-haired recruit. "You just lost your sword arm. Not that you knew how to wield a sword in the first place, mind you."
The man flinched but didn't answer. There was a new series of noises from the arm and a new tentacle emerged, this time where the wrist should have been.
"You are pathetic." The judgement was merciless and blunt. "I I had it my way, your little friends would use you as target when we practise archery this evening." The young Valeman could not believe his ears. He wasn't going to do that, was he? It was a scare tactic, it had to be...
"But I am a brother of the Night's Watch and I obey orders." The 'unlike you' was not uttered but everyone heard it nonetheless. "The Lord Commander will decide your fate once we arrive to the fort. Pray Nurgle and prepare good arguments. The Great Bear doesn't like recruits who believe themselves above our rules."
A last look was given at the mutation.
"And if I see you use this arm to attack the other recruits or practise sorcery without proper supervision, I will end your miserable existence myself. Understood?"
Lady Saara Stark 1
It was dark in her cabin and working at the light of only eight candles was not easy. The Lord of Change providing, it would have to do. The body of the Ironborn next to her was losing more and more blood, a crimson river flooding in the ritual cups, soaking the ancient eight-pointed star she had traced in a few turn of hourglasses and she didn't fancy 'inviting' a second reaver in her cabin for the night. It would raise too many questions, enchantments or not enchantments, especially when the pirates in question never reappeared once they arrived at Pyke. She had Queen mounting guard before her cabin to warn her of potential intruders but it was best not to tempt her luck.
Saara breathed louder before uttering eight words of power. Each burned her throat and her tongue. The language of the Gods had not been created for human mouths and the pronunciation required years of training, since the tiniest mistake could result in the most terrible accidents.
For several heartbeats, nothing happened. The young daughter of House Stark forced herself to remain immobile.
Then drop by drop the blood began to rise in the air. A cold wind from nowhere made the candles flicker and Saara shivered. Like her siblings, she had received several boons from the Gods and those included an inhuman resistance to the cold and the heat. This was not a weather issue alas but the side-effects of her ritual and she wasn't immune to it.
The blood coalesced to form a humanoid figure. It was an ugly thing, but it had mouth, eyes and ears. The purpose of the ritual being to communicate on extreme distances, beauty could be forgotten for the time being.
"Sister,"
"Sister," answered the voice of her sister Arya. "I trust everything is well?"
It was a polite way to ask if there was no one to listen to their conversation.
"So far there have been no obstacles I've been to overcome." The Ironborn were not worthy of the title 'obstacles' but it would have to do for now. Saara had not been impressed by the commanders who had been chosen to accompany Victarion and his niece Asha northwards. "Six out of the ten longship commanders have sworn their swords and their souls to me." She let Arya see her satisfied smirk. "They were barely a challenge, sister."
"You're the most powerful sorceress of our generation, Saara." The chuckle in her youngest sister voice was unmistakable. "I would have been surprised if they were able to resist you without any training."
Saara smiled widely but Arya had not finished. "Be careful, sister. Asha Greyjoy saw partially through your charms and enchantments. Our 'allies' are iron-headed but not every lord of the Iron Islands are willing to close their eyes and their ears when their Lord Paramount commands. There will be resistance to the plans grandfather and father gave you."
"I know," she admitted. "The Drowned Priests and their fanatics, the Harlaw Houses, the veteran captains, the old and new generations of reaver...they all have good reasons to fear us. But they are not united and I can use their enmities to create my power base. The war will be useful to get rid of the biggest opponents and once it is done, well..."
She opened her hands and readjusted her posture, conscious she was letting Arya have a full view of what laid under her opened black night robe.
"I don't care how many Ironborn and thralls you invite to your bed," said her young sister in an amused tone. "And I don't think father and grandfather will choose to make an issue of it."
"Of course not," It would hypocritical from the Stark and his Heir to lament this when they had been many women invited to their quarters in the last years. "Speaking of inviting someone to your bed...you haven't yet found a lover, do you?"
Blood communication rituals like the one they were using did not describe well the visage of the recipient but Saara knew the signs of blushing on her sister's face.
"I'm sure you will find someone once the Hosts gather for the war...may I suggest a Umber or a Mormont?"
"Saara..." The manner Arya growled was very reminiscent of their direwolves. Oh, how her sister was easy to make fun of. "You are lucky to be hundred of leagues away." Bah, Arya was still young and with the bloodshed coming on the horizon, she would certainly find lovers. Year after year, her little sister was taking more and more after their aunt according to father.
The ritual was devouring more and more blood, so Saara came back to more serious subjects, all the while cursing in her head the evidence she wasn't in Khorne's favour anymore. The God of War and Blood didn't like sorcerers and if her name hadn't been Stark, her abilities in this domain would have disappeared a couple of years ago. Like every member of her family, she tried to worship the Four equally. This was the theory behind the worship of the Undivided Pantheon. In reality, it was anything but simple. Her ties to the Gods Khorne and Nurgle were breaking off one by one and by the time she celebrated her next name day it would probably be over.
Like it or not – and she definitely enjoyed her powers and the boons coming with them – she was now the agent of the God Tzeentch and the Goddess Slaanesh.
"Have there been important news since my departure?"
"Oh, plenty," Arya shrugged. "There are two which may be of interest for your plots. First, Euron Greyjoy is sailing back to Westeros."
"The one they call Crow's Eye? The failed sorcerer?" Thank the Gods she had studied lengthily the genealogical trees of the Ironborn Houses before the longships arrived. "His brother banished him years ago and forbid him to return."
Arya rolled her shoulders in ignorance. "The information from our spies and our sorcerers is in agreement this time. He is still very far away but he sails westwards for Lys. Lord Manderly suggests killing him as soon as you are able."
Given the succession problems the man could cause, this was certainly not a bad idea. The problem would be how to do it before the Silence and its infamous crew reached Pyke. Magical storms had their appeals, but relying on her new 'allies' to bury the brother of Balon Greyjoy under the numbers may be the most efficient solution.
"And the second?"
"There has been evidence the Renegades have created a new base of operation at Casterly Rock."
Saara sighed loudly.
"There is a new imbecile thinking destroying the Gods by using their own weapons against them will succeed." It was not a question. The idea was not new and from the point of view of unbelievers raised in adoration of the Seven-Who-Are-One, an entity willing to fight against the Gods worshipped north of the Neck had to look like a good idea. But by the time they realised they had made the greatest mistake of their lives, they were generally a thorn in Winterfell plans and their souls were enslaved to the will of the Renegade. "Who leads them?"
"The dwarf son of Tywin Lannister," revealed Arya.
The eldest daughter of Eddard Stark grimaced. This was not the sort of target which could be removed quietly and discreetly. Any action she took was going to take was going to require a lot of preparation and given how secure the Rock was, success was not guaranteed.
The levels of blood had decreased fast and the ritual was going to end. There were only a few heartbeats of communication left.
"I will deal with it." Or rather the Ironborn and the best assassins gold could buy would do it. "Give Torrhen and the family my love, sister."
"Love you too."
On these words the red midst was devoured by the magic and the only things which were left of the ritual were the eight-pointed star and the Ironborn corpse. Saara rose up, thinking this ritual was really useful but tiring and not very practical. The Blood God rarely made things simple when the rituals and sorcery were concerned.
Opening the door magically, she let Queen enter her cabin and take the dead man outside. The door was closed and she fell on her minuscule bed. The Iron Victory would soon reach Pyke and she needed to be at her best for her wedding and the damnation of the Iron Islands.
Lady Catelyn Stark 1
As long as the blood flowed in her mouth, the sensations were truly heavenly.
But it never lasted. The blood of every living thing was a finished substance. The feasting never lasted long enough. The warmness of the life just extinguished was a delectable meal but she always wanted more.
Then her victim held its last breath as he was bled white and Catelyn felt like a complete monster.
Fair was fair, she was one.
Retracting her fangs from the throat she had just torn apart, she wondered what her appearance looked like now. In all likelihood, a mirror would show dishevelled red hairs, piercing blue eyes and a mouth dripping of blood.
The first times she had done this, Catelyn had tried to convince herself this was just temporary. She would beat the curse of the demons. Once she escaped the North, she would stop drinking blood. After all, whatever sorcery the Northerners heretics had inflicted upon her body, she was a proud follower of the Seven. She believed in them, they would protect her!
It had taken her mere moons to realise that in this like in many things, she knew absolutely nothing. The Seven could not protect her in this realm of chaos and magic. No, north of the Neck it was the Four who reigned over mortal lives.
And these Gods had long memories. They had memories of the last Justmans betraying their First Men allies. Usually the divine masters did not care about lordly matters but the betrayal had been shortly followed by the Riverlanders betraying their sacred oaths and denying their millenary-old religion.
"Better?" asked her husband, regarding her with a calm demeanour which always half-surprised her.
When she was in one of her feeding frenzies, a red veil fell on her vision and at that moment she was no better than a rabid beast. Many veterans and champions of Winterfell had chosen to remain out of sight after they had watched her lose control the first times.
"Better," she answered, giving a last regard to the corpse tied to the altar stone. The man – a spy from Essos the Stark cavalry had found between Winterfell and the Cerwyn castle – had really had a nasty death under her fangs. There were daemons and predators in the North who had weapons making death almost pleasurable. She was not one of them. When she had refused to worship the Ancient Pantheon after her arrival inside Winterfell walls, the punishment had been the straegai curse. If she wanted to survive, she had to drink human blood and the new dentition she had been given made death extremely painful. No doubt Tzeentch or Khorne had thought it would be a good joke. "It should be enough until we return to Winterfell."
Eddard Stark gave a nod of approval, remaining silent and caressing gently her long red hairs.
By Slaanesh, how she loved this man. She loved and she hated him. If there had not been an abundance of Northern pirates and raiders plaguing the frontiers of the Riverlands, she would not have been sent northwards for a marriage with a heretic. She would not be forced to drink human blood from spies, traitors and criminals – at least those were their 'crimes' from a Stark perspective.
To be fair, Eddard Stark was in no way responsible for her situation. Her marriage had been the final result of one of Aerys II's ideas. The ones the sovereign of the Iron Throne found 'excellent' but which made the rest of the Seven Kingdoms aghast. Her father could have refused but instead had used the opportunity to wed Lysa to the Heir of the Vale. Eddard had not even been the intended husband for her; he had taken the place of his deceased brother Brandon, dead in a Black Crusade Beyond-the-Wall.
This did not mean she didn't hate him for the methods he had used to transform her into a monster. She hated what he had done to her...how he had broken everything in her and remodelled it to fulfil his desires. She had accepted other women in their bed, succumbed to a lust of war and debauchery and her beliefs had been destroyed one by one. Eddard had made her strong and made her happy with strong children...and for this she loved him. May the daemons of the North forgive her.
"Will you join the shield wall this evening?"
"Yes," she bared her teeth in a parody of smile, though she knew very well Eddard wasn't scared at all by her actions. But then it was difficult to worry someone able to wrestle a direbear with his bare hands, summon daemons with a flick of his fingers and beat ten Umber warriors in a free-for-all melee. "Yes, I will Eddard. You do not have to worry. I know where my duty lies."
The Catelyn Tully of the Riverlands would have been horrified by this answer. Catelyn Stark, who had lived over eighteen years in the North, was conscious of the reality. The very nature of the lands ruled by House Stark meant they were extremely dangerous. There was a reason the House words of the Masters of Winterfell were 'Winter is coming' and not 'Enjoy Winter in this warm bed'. The North was extremely dangerous to live in. There were huge fantastic beasts living everywhere, the worst storms could transform you into a mindless mutant if you had not the adequate protections and there were always many servants of the Northern Gods wanting to show their prowess in duel or battle. North of the Neck, everyone trained for war. If you had the strength to wield a sword or a spear, then your duty was to participate in the defence of your home. The Gods worshipped here all had a point in common: they despised weakness and not knowing how to defend yourself was a major one.
For a moment, her husband stood silent, his gaze on the frigid waters of the Long Lake. The ground was not frozen but great herds of herbivores like the winter moose were descending south from their pastures near Last Hearth. Summer was not yet over, but it wouldn't be long before the change of seasons arrived. The uncountable sorcerers spread from the Gift to Moat Cailin all agreed autumn would arrive from three to five fortnights.
"Winter is coming," started Eddard, taking her right hand in his black armoured fist, never stopping looking at the natural mirror formed by the lake. "Our enemies grow in strength. They feel the great battles of our time coming."
For a moment she said nothing, delighting in the united picture they had to present to the outside world. Him, tall and broad-shouldered, dark-haired and grey-eyed, wearing a formidable set of grey-black armour most men would find impossible to walk in. Her, average in height and slim built, red-haired and blue-eyed, wearing the dark red leather of the Morghon-Sidai – the only clothes she could wear when the time to feed was near least she dirtied her attire beyond redemption.
"You always knew the beastmen and the skavens would come." She said after a moment. "The spawns, the mindless remains of the Giants and the old Free Folk tribes will march soon too. And the servants of the Great Enemy will follow..."
Names had powers and even here many leagues away, Catelyn Stark would not dare uttering loud the name of the Abomination amassing her undead legions in the deep north. For all her hatred and distrust of the powerful entities enforcing her curse, there was no denying that men and women could live their lives worshipping them. The evil rising in the darkest and coldest parts of Westeros wanted the death of everything.
"I had hoped we would have the time to finish the first part of our conquests and secure them." Her husband admitted. "As it stands, our armies will need to fight at the Wall and in the South. And as you know, our supply of soldiers is not limitless."
This was at the same a truth and a lie. Yes, the North could not field the great armies the Reach and the Westerlands could muster in a few moons. The kingdom was simply too vast, their centuries-old internal issues would not go away in a single year and the presence of magic in the tactics did not change the fact men and beasts had to eat and drink. But the North had the daemons to summon on the battlefield to change the odds. And they were an unstoppable force when unleashed by someone competent.
"Saara will give you the Iron Islands." The mention of her eldest daughter brought conflicted feelings. On the one hand, the Gods had granted her a daughter who had her very appearance unlike her other daughter and her three sons. On the other hand, said daughter had nothing of the old Catelyn Tully in her. Saara Stark was a powerful sorceress whose main interests these days were the practise of sorcery, riding her direwolf Queen and inviting young men to her couch.
Not that the rest of children were any better. Rickard of course was far too young to enjoy the vices of his eldest siblings but Cregan had exploded many rocks and trees in his sorcery experiments. Arya was Arya, a warrior born. And Torrhen was sorcerer and warrior...
"The Iron Islands are weak and led by a man who understands nothing to the noble art of war." Eddard was more amused than anything else by her comment. "They are like the worst of our berserkers; point them at the enemy and let them slaughter everything on their path."
The Heir of Winterfell – though this may change any day now since the Grey Wolf was well past his prime – turned his head towards the massive grey direwolf resting near a tree. Redfang had been born in the wild like all direwolves mounted by the Starks, but the complicity between the animal and his master had been forged in blood and steel many years ago.
"If you don't trust the Ironborn," and no one appeared to do that these days, "perhaps marrying Torrhen to a girl of the Riverlands would have improved our relations with my father's bannersmen."
The occasions Lord Rickard and her husband asked her opinion were rare and the invitations to their war councils were rarer. On this subject however she had been authorised to open her voice. Asha Greyjoy didn't bring anything to the union a modest Noble House could give. The axes and swords of the Ironborn would go to war with the marriage of Rodrik Greyjoy and her daughter celebrated. The girl dowry was small-sized.
"Except the Blackwoods, no Lord south of the Neck is interested in marrying a Northerner my dear wife." The hands of her husband went in her dishevelled red hairs, a cold sensation under the mild winter sun. "And Lord Tytos' girl is far too young for Torrhen."
Her husband shook his head negatively. "I heard the reasons why Asha Greyjoy isn't suitable, but the point is a bigger dowry and an ally in the Riverlands which will turn his cloak the war horns will sound isn't what Torrhen needs. The next years are going to be fraught with peril and the daughter of Balon Greyjoy is a resourceful captain. She is a fighter and will give him good advice."
"As you wish my Lord husband," She made no effort to disguise the mockery but this was just an appropriate retort for the insinuation Catelyn had certainly been anything but a loyal wife in her first years of wedding – and one might argue it had continued well after this. She had sent many letters to her father and the rest of her family to inform them of the heretical and treasonous actions of the Lord Paramount of the North in her first moons at Winterfell. All had been intercepted and modified to suit the Starks' goals but still. "I just pray unions with Ironborn aren't what you have in mind for our three younger children."
"Oh, have no fear on this." Eddard's face was impossible to read as usual, but there was light of malice in them. "Our little daemons won't marry Ironborn, I promise you."
This was not as reassuring as she would have liked but there was no time to tell him this. Faster than her enhanced eyes could discern, Eddard Stark had abandoned his contemplation and was now kissing her passionately.
Their kiss was like one of her bites when she needed to feed. Deep and terrible, the lust overwhelmed her senses. The beast she resisted as long as she was awake roared inside her chest. Her nails sharpened into claws. It was good her blood needs had been satiated because otherwise she would have lost completely control here and there.
"Monster," she growled once they stopped the embrace to breath.
"Monster," he agreed. "But don't tell me you hate it."
"I hate you." The Northern warlord she had sworn her life to raised an eyebrow before giving her a second deep kiss. "I love you." She managed to articulate once it ended. "Now take me."
"I found a trout and turned it into a shark," laughed her husband, his grey eyes terrible to behold so close. Then they abandoned everything for passion. One day they would kill each other, but not today. No, this was still summer. Winter had not yet come for their union of hate and love.