Hello all! I've rewritten some of the past chapters, as most of them had some grammatical errors in them. Their pacing should also feel more natural.
This is one of the longest chapters I've written, have a good read!
Jon Arryn
The Lord Hand left the small town with his entourage of guards.
Anyone would find such a host excessive, but the Old Falcon won't be caught off guard again, not after the accident with the wine.
Most of the court was perplexed by his continuous absence, constantly moving between villages in the Crownlands, overseeing the construction of the new workshops. Aye, they would be correct, but they did not know the investigations Jon was carrying out.
He and Robert suspected the strange movements of the Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish. He had never expected the man to be the slithery beast he was. He achieved a miracle managing the Eyrie's treasury, but now it seems he just did so to earn his current position, and in the worst of cases... the power to topple the entire Kingdom.
Baelish was a master at the Game of Thrones, never leaving any visible trace of his meddling. It's hard to fool me, but he played me like a damn fiddle.
But it seems the playing field was shrinking, and Baelish found himself more constrained. Jon investigated the men that Petyr suggested investing in, and found a vast network of unreliable manufacturers. All had suspicious account ledgers, with money sent out to an unknown benefactor. This would condemn Baelish to some years of reclusion, but nothing that would knock him off the board, as he didn't directly siphon funds from the crown. It seems Jaeherys didn't consider this eventuality when he catalogued all the realm's laws.
Yet Jon knew how to incriminate the man, one piece of evidence that would topple the entire rotten building: Baelish's private accounts.
The Lord of the Fingers was a cautious man. When Jon secretly checked the realm's ledgers, he found no suspicious movements. All was regular. No meddling happened with the treasury... or so it seemed.
Many of the entries were interests paid to the Iron Bank. At first, Jon found no issue with that, but when he checked the average rates the bank tended to enforce... there was a minor discrepancy in percentile.
That would incriminate Baelish of siphoning funds directly from the Crown, or the Iron Bank of unjust interest rates applied to the Westerosi. It seemed unlikely for the latter to be true, as the Iron Bank had a reputation to hold on.
Despite this, all of the bank's envoys had always confirmed the interest rates of the royal ledgers. But as Jon was to discard Baelish's guilt and accuse the bank, he remembered a small detail he almost forgot.
House Baelish originated from Braavos.
That means the man had contacts in his ancestral lands. Not only that, but he managed to create a web of corruption inside the world's most ruthless bank. A feat nobody had achieved before.
That's why Jon needed the financial statements of Baelish, which are probably hidden in his establishments. He would need the strength of the Gold Cloaks to investigate every whorehouse simultaneously, leaving no room for Littlefinger to hide the ledgers.
The plan is nearly flawless. Jon will finally get rid of one of the most dangerous vipers of King's Landing.
His entourage suddenly stopped, without apparent reason. Jon reached Ser Willem Butler, who was at the head of the line, "Ser Willem, is everything well?"
The fellow Valeman was a relief to Jon. The Great Spirit said that he would meet the future warriors of the Seven, and look out for them. Jon was sure that Willem was one of them. He felt an eerie feeling when he saw the man during the tourney. Now he felt... safe, having him around.
The man looked troubled, "My Lord Hand, I think I saw some movements inside the woods."
Jon moved closer to the knight, "We need to have someone to scout it then. Warrick, go-"
Suddenly, a volley of arrows descended upon them. "MY LORD!" Willem shouted as he covered Jon from the barrage. They dropped from their horses, the poor beasts being pelleted and dropping dead.
Fortunately enough, no horse fell on them. The two scrambled to their feet, Jon unsheathing his sword. Thankfully, the Lord of the Vale donned his armour, a just precaution.
Now the raiders descended upon them with crude axes and clubs. "PIKEMEN! LOWER YOUR SPEARS!" Jon bellowed, "DO NOT LET ANYONE PASS!"
The men managed to group up, forming a rough circle around Jon. But the enemies were many, and some managed to break through their defences.
A highwayman engaged him in combat, armed with short sword and buckler. He opened the duel with a thrust, trying to compensate for the small reach of his sword. Jon sidestepped and drove his sword's pommel against the highwayman's face. The man staggered, which gave Jon the opening for a slash. The bandit's pitiful armour could not block the blow, and he died clutching his bowels.
Jon scanned his surroundings. Despite their superior armaments and discipline, his house guard was slowly being overwhelmed by the enemy. How in the Seven Hells have they camouflaged so many?
Ser Willem fought against a bandit with his gigantic two-hander. The poor man had no chance as he was torn apart by the ridiculously oversized sword.
But now their formation was completely broken: the chaotic skirmish lost every form of order. Jon felt increasingly constricted, having no free room to manoeuvre between his soldiers.
When he thought everything was lost, a shout reverberated from the woods. "SLAUGHTER THE BLOODY BASTARDS!"
Are those... peasants? Jon asked himself.
The ragged militia took the bandits from behind, trapping them between two hostile forces. The unexpected help restored the morale of his guards, and they began fighting like devils.
But what got his attention were two figures fighting among the smallfolk. Jon felt that strange feeling again: these two are important. He slowly approached them, cutting his way through alongside his men.
One bandit, better equipped than his mates, charged against Jon. He wore lamellar armour over a gambeson, and used a fencing sword as a weapon.
Jon opened with a diagonal slash, aiming at incapacitating the man's shoulder. His opponent masterfully parried the blow, and tried to lunge at his now exposed torso. Jon sidestepped again and kicked the bandit, forcing him to draw back.
The highwayman still didn't surrender, and charged again with another plunge, aiming for Jon's neck. The Hand managed to parry again, but deflected it poorly. The slim sword cut his armpit, one of the few places he was not protected.
Jon gritted his teeth, and tackled his opponent. Both their swords dropped, and the duel degraded into a barbaric clinch. Jon noticed that the man was nimble... fast, but not strong. It didn't take long to overwhelm and kill him. Despite his age, Jon was still brawny.
One of his soldiers helped him get up. The skirmish still wasn't over.
Jon was now able to see the two figures of before clearly. A man... and a woman?
Jon remained flabbergasted by their towering height. They dwarfed every man of the company, and fought with two lumber axes. They did not have any finesse, but their enormous strength certainly made up for it.
Jon approached them, slaying another man in his way. The man looked at him in curiosity, leaving his guard down for a moment. But suddenly, a bandit managed to sneak behind him. "BEHIND YOU!" Jon shouted.
The man snappily turned back, but it was too late. Thankfully, the bandit pierced only his shoulder, Jon's callout saving his life.
Jon rushed to protect the fallen man alongside the woman who accompanied him. He kicked the bandit, who fell on his knees, and the woman decapitated him with a swing of her axe.
Jon hastily observed his surroundings and thanked the Seven. Their enemy was retreating.
Smallfolk and soldiers cheered, everyone happy about their survival. Jon helped the man get up, aided by the woman. They reached the escort's healer, who bandaged the wound.
"I thank you for your assistance," Jon said, "Without your help, we would've been overwhelmed."
The Woman smiled, "No problem with that. 'Tis better that all the scum are now dead."
Jon nodded, "May I know your names?"
"I am Bernyce, and this is my brother Jaspar."
Jon hummed, "I see the blood of the First Men is strong in you two."
Jaspar was the one to laugh, "Aye! Our family protected the village for a long time. The militia was formed by our grandfather, years ago."
Jon nodded, and studied their appearances. Bernyce was unexpectedly comely for a woman her size, she had faint freckles and long ginger hair. Her brother was no less handsome, but had sun-streaked brown hair that reached his shoulders. Both were a tad less than seven feet tall and had platinum-silver eyes. It was already rare to meet someone with gigantism, but the two didn't appear to suffer the drawbacks of the disorder. Some have trouble walking, disproportionate limbs, and overly strong facial features... ignoring the severe headaches and sweating. He should question them later, perhaps some magic flows in their blood.
"My Lord!" Someone called out. It was Willem, alongside one other soldier.
"Yes, Ser Willem?" Jon Answered, "Any news?"
He nodded, "We sent the cavalry to pursue the routing bandits, we managed to capture one."
"Very good! Bring him here."
Willem left, and Jon resumed the conversation with the twins. "Before the Ser brings the prisoner in... I have an offer for you two. Would you be interested in joining my retinue?"
They looked surprised. Jaspar was the one to speak, "M'Lord, we are only peasants... we couldn't possibly match-"
"Nonsense! Anyone can be a good warrior with enough determination. Social status doesn't mean anything in battle, an arrow equally pierces peasants and nobles."
Bernyce grasped her brother's shoulder, "Jaspar, this is our opportunity... Father would be proud of us. It was his dream to see us outside of town."
Jaspar looked away, "It was his dream, not ours. But still..."
He sighed, "Alright. But if we choose to return to our village, we will have our leave."
Jon smiled and extended his hand. "Heh, your audacity reminds me of someone... I agree with your terms."
Jaspar clasped and shook it, "It's an honour, m'Lord...?"
"Arryn, Jon Arryn."
At the mention of his name, the two stared at him dumbfounded. "Gods... Lord Arryn?" Bernyce said, "The Hand?"
"Aye, in the flesh." Jon said, "We will now leave for King's Landing, there's a certain issue that needs some fixing. Jaspar, you can enter the wagon, riding won't do any good to your injury. Bernyce, you can ask Willem for a mount when we finish interrogating the prisoner."
Two knights approached them, a bandit in tow. "My Lord, here's the prisoner. He's willing to talk if we spare him."
Jon studied the man, "I am a merciful man, you won't die today. But the black awaits you."
"I accept." The man replied.
"Good. Who employed you?"
The man shrugged, "I don't know who he is, but he wore a green cloak with a mockingbird motif."
Mockingbirds... who has a mockingbird as a sigil? Jon revised every relevant house that might have such an animal as their sigil. But alas, nothing came to mind. He would've counted Baelish to be the culprit, but his sigil was the head of the Titan of Braavos. He couldn't present the attack as proof of his treachery.
"Perhaps a personal sigil..." Jon shrugged, "This will need a more in-depth investigation. How did your party know what road we would've been taking?"
"I don't know, m'Lord. Only the Captain knows how, and now... he's dead."
Jon sighed. It was probably the one with a fencing sword.
Jon waved his hand, "No matter. Let's bring him to King's Landing, Robert would probably want to question him."
"Aye, my Lord." The soldier said. The highwayman was dragged away and clasped in irons.
"Now, let's make haste. The capital awaits us."
Eddard
"My Lord, the Host is on the horizon!"
Eddard nodded, "Good. Return to your post."
The soldier saluted the Lord of Winterfell and climbed the stairs to the battlements. Eddard stood alongside his family and court, waiting for the famed Far Easter Host to arrive. Never before has such a party graced the coasts of Westeros, or the North.
He focused on Robb and Jon, who were talking with young Rogar Barstark...
Or Rogar Baratheon.
A stag in wolf's clothing.
When he first saw the lad, Eddard remained shocked by the sheer... uncanniness. He was Robert reborn, every single ligament of his face matched with his longtime friend's when he was a boy.
Rogar's mother, Barra... was a fierce woman. Proud and stubborn, she rode south during the rebellion to fight against her father's wishes. Eddard remembered the many times he saw her on the battlefield, a true force to be reckoned with.
Then the war ended. Lyanna was dead, and Robert broken. Ned still remembers when he entered his quarters... the smell of alcohol and putrefaction... his best friend was lying down on the floor, unable to shed tears, as there were none left.
Eddard forgot their past quarrel, sat alongside Robert, and cried with him.
Robert was psychologically weakened, and when he saw Barra... he probably laid with her. Robert's mind must've projected Lyanna on her.
And Rogar is the result. Eddard must warn Robert of his bastard north, it's only fair he knows about it.
A horn blow broke Eddard from his thoughts. They are near.
The gates of Winterfell slowly opened, and the host entered its walls. The man on the front wore a peculiar lamellar armour on linen fabric and full mail coif that covered his entire face. There were many hooded individuals, all of them rode beside their leader. It was apparent the host was composed of many ethnicities, all from exotic lands.
The company was a sizable one. Most of it remained outside, as there was no room for them in the gate's square. Eddard recognised some Pentoshi cavalrymen, Braavosi fencers, Norvoshi bearded priests, Ghiscari spearmen and even Ibbenese axemen in their ranks. Many Eddard did not know, perhaps they came from some unknown land.
The leader halted his horse and slowly removed his helmet. The man had short brown hair and a very long moustache, nearly reaching behind his ears.
Ned took a step forward and asked, "Greetings. I am Lord Eddard Stark, warden of the North. With whom do I have the pleasure to speak to?"
"Lord Stark!" The man said with an atrocious accent, "It's an honour to finally meet you. I am Rotislav Chernekov, third son of Bogdan Chernekov, Knyaz of Mussovy."
So, it was true. A man from a legendary land leads this company...
"Well met, Prince Rotislav. I am sure you have much to tell us, may we move to my solar? My servants will help accommodate your men."
The Mussovian nodded, "I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Stark. May some of my companions come too?"
Eddard nodded, "Aye, no problem with that. Robb, Jon, join us."
"Yes, Father." Robb answered, "Rogar, wait for us at the training field."
The group entered the Great Keep and climbed the stairs towards the solar. Eddard studied the Mussovian's companions: the only one not hooded was an Ibbenese, short and stocky. Eddard could not discern the people under their hoods, but he noticed one even smaller than the Ibbenese, the size of a small child. A dwarf, perhaps?
Another wore a red hood with some intricate yellow patterns. Eddard felt uneasy near them, something was different with this one.
They reached the solar, and Eddard sat on his chair while the others stood. Jon and Robb were on his left and right, while the strangers were before him.
"So, what brings you to undertake such a perilous journey, Rotislav?" Eddard asked.
"Lord Eddard, this is not a very simple question... but I will do my best to explain it as well as possible." The Mussovian said, "I've received a divination, from a certain witch."
That surprised Eddard, it was quite the undertaking for only a prophecy. "And what would it be?"
"She just said that I would be needed west, nothing more. Initially, I scoffed at her, claiming it was just a flam." His face contorted in grief, "But then... she foresaw the death of one of my elder brothers. It needs no explanation that seven days later, he truly died."
'My condolences." Eddard said solemnly.
"No worries, it was many years ago. I've then decided to start my travels. At first, I had a small company of twenty men, but as we progressed, many more joined us."
"Now the host has hundreds of people from every corner of the world, lands no man had ever heard of before. Now, we've reached our destination, and we're here to stay. Lord Eddard, we would wish to offer our services for the coming Long Night. Fate guided us here, and the Fall bolstered our resolve. Whatever the enemy may be, we are ready."
Ned was intrigued by the Mussovian. The way he talked, his gestures, his posture... this man was not only a noble, but a leader of men. His company was composed of battle-hardened veterans, eager to help the kingdoms in future conflicts. He still needed Robert's approval, but Ned already knew what his friend would think about this.
"I thank you, Rotislav, for your offer. I wholeheartedly accept it, but my liege lord, King Robert, must have a say in this."
The Mussovian nodded, "I am aware of your troubles, Lord Stark. We will keenly await his opinion."
Robb unexpectedly asked a question, "If I may indulge, Lord Rotislav, who are these companions you brought in?"
It seemed Rotislav forgot about that, as he flushed a little. "Oh, yes. These are some of the most important members of the host, who joined me as I travelled across Essos. I humbly excuse of their garments, there's a good reason for that." He turned towards them, "Everyone, remove your hoods."
They slowly revealed themselves, and the three Northerners were left open-mouthed.
"Ossiya, one of the Winged Men."
The man was half bird, with black feathery wings on his back and talons instead of feet. His head and torso were still human, and he sported long black hair. His features were sharp and long.
"Agammar, hailing from the Bloodless City."
The Clansman had no hair or beard. His skin was unnaturally pale and was a tall and lanky figure. He had glowing red eyes, and an unsettling aura surrounded him.
"K'dhai, a demon hunter from Nefer."
This one was clad with black leather armour, and a back hood covered most of his face. He had a copper complexion, and a crossbow was hung over his shoulder, alongside two wicked daggers.
"Dong Hui, a Yi-Tish soldier."
The man from Yi-Ti wore a peculiar lamellar armour, partly covered by turtle shells. He carried a long glaive decorated with beautiful carvings along the staff. He sported an odd moustache of the eastern style.
"Aratrim, a Wood Walker from the Kingdom of Ifequevron."
This creature was the one that stunned Eddard the most. He was small, tall as a child, perhaps less than Bran. He had brown skin, the same colour as a pine tree, and pointy ears. His eyes were big and black, and Ned could see his reflection inside them.
"His appearance, he looks like a Child of the Forest..."
The creature shook a little, "I-I am not a Child of the Forest, my Lord..." he said with a trembling voice, "They are related to us, but we are a different race..."
"And in what are you different?" Eddard asked.
"We don't sing, m-my Lord," the Wood Walker whispered, "W-We don't have that gift. We practice the magic of silence... the quietude of our forest reflects that."
Eddard slowly nodded and turned towards Rotislav, "How did you find him, then?"
"He revealed himself to us," the Mussovian answered, "We were roaming Ifequevron, shortly after the Fall. While we were camped, the little one appeared before us. Nearly gave me a heart attack."
"W-We hid in the forest for centuries," Aratrim said, "Our people had to - in order to survive. But now the Long Night comes, and with it... horrors beyond human comprehension. I was chosen to come here, to reconnect with our distant cousins."
"So... there are some Children of the Forest left...?" Ned asked.
Aratrim choppily nodded, "Yes, but we don't know where they are exactly... they might be hiding, just like us."
Eddard sighed, "Gods... to think such legends would return so suddenly..." he stared into the Wood Walker's eyes, "Do not worry. We will help you find your long lost cousins. I promise it."
Aratrim smiled thinly, "T-Thank you, my Lord."
"Well, continuing the presentations... this is Tagd, from Ibben. He was a merchant who brought supplies to the city of Mussovia, and a personal friend of mine. He is now my right hand, he takes care of most logistical and economic issues."
The Ibbenese bowed deeply and talked with a deep, baritone voice, "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Eddard Stark. I hope our future endeavours will bring us glory and riches."
He was short and stout and had a mighty beard. He carried a one-handed axe and a shield, the preferred weapons of the Ibbenese. He wore a fine plate armour, crafted by a masterful smith.
Eddard smiled, "Tagd, well met. Your advice will be of great use for the near future." Then he eyed the last figure, the one dressed in the long red fabric. "And who is our last guest?" He asked.
Eddard could glimpse a slight smile under the hood as it was lifted. Suddenly, heat encompassed the room, taking all by surprise. Hiding under that robe was a woman, the most beautiful Eddard had ever seen. She had long hair the colour of deep burnished copper, fiery red eyes, and soft, pale skin.
"May the Red God bless you, Eddard Stark," she said with a deep, melodic voice, "I am Melisandre of Asshai, red priestess of R'hllor."
Eddard exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding, "It's... a pleasure, Lady Melisandre."
Her smile widened, "I am searching for the one who will champion the Lord of Light in the future War for the Dawn, Azor Ahai. R'hllor showed me in the flames that he would be in the snowy North, so I have come to do his bidding."
She slowly approached his desk, the heat gradually intensifying. Only then Ned noticed she was staring at Jon with her deep, red eyes. She grabbed his chin, building up her gaze on the boy. Eddard stayed silent for some reason, as if he had lost his voice. Robb's mouth was open in surprise, and Jon's face reddened intensely. Her smile only grew further, becoming a grin. She released Jon and fell back to her previous position.
"Worry not, Eddard Stark. I won't be of hindrance for the time I stay here." She finally said.
Ned unreasonably nodded, unable to think straight, and the Red Woman left the room.
Even Rotislav and the others were surprised by what happened, "My Lord, I offer you my humblest apologies. She joined us in Pentos, without a true reason." The Mussovian shook his head, "The woman knows how to be convincing, and furthermost... seductive."
Eddard raised his hand, "There's no need, Prince Rotislav. There's no need..." he sighed, "I believe it's enough for today. We could speak again tomorrow morning, after breakfast. In an hour, I will present you to Vayon Poole, the steward. He will take care of the host's needs, and assign your guest rooms."
Rotislav smiled, "I thank you, Lord Stark. Everyone, follow me!"
All the companions left the room with their leader, and left the three Northmen alone.
"Quite the colourful bunch," said Robb, "And the most... unnerving."
Eddard nodded and noticed that Jon still hadn't snapped out of his embarrassment. "Son, are you alright?"
"Ehm... yes, Father..." he murmured.
Eddard sighed, "I wonder who else came along with them..."