Welcome back everyone. Not much to say this time other than expect chapters to roughly be this length (20k-25k) going forward. The reasoning for this is I try and pace myself at about 5k words a week or so. And keeping the chapters to that length will help me to keep my updating schedule to once every four weeks.

Huge shout out to my beta reader and brainstorm partner Tellemicus Sundace. The help has been invaluable so far. And another huge thank you to everyone who has favorited, alerted or reviewed this story so far. Your support is what keeps me going! So if you feel so inclined to leave a review, please do! They really do help me get my mojo going and get the next chapters rolling on.

Lastly, I do not own Disney, nor am I Lucas or Martin; so I have no ownership of A Song of Fire and Ice, Game of Thrones or Star Wars. This is purely for fun with no profit being made. And with that out of the way, let's get to the chapter! Stay safe out there everyone!


Chapter 18

There were times that Jamie Lannister truly regretted his decision to join the Kingsgaurd. Or, more correctly, stay in the Kingsguard because he truly had no choice when the Mad King had decided that he would join the famous order of knights. And standing guard outside the King's chamber listening to him romp loudly with not one but two whores was one of those times. Honestly, the fat fool went through whores faster than his brother Tyrion did. It was nothing short of a miracle that the man's heart hadn't already given out. Mores the pity on that one. If he had the choice, he would rather be guarding his sister the Queen, his twin, his other half, than standing in the hall with his thumb up his ass listening to the activities going on through the closed door behind him.

Beside him, Ser Arys Oakheart shifted about in his armor, no doubt trying very hard to not pay attention to how their illustrious King was entertaining himself. Even though the newest member of Robert's Kingsguard had been amongst their ranks for almost six years, he was still clearly uneasy with standing guard while the King had 'company'. Ignoring the younger knight for now, Jamie did what he always did when he was left in these situations. He allowed his mind to wander. Specifically, he allowed his mind to wander back to the night prior when he and his sister were able to steal a moment for themselves. He could still feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers. Hear her gasps of pleasure in his ears. And feel her tight warmth clenching around his –

"Halt!" Ser Arys called out sharply, drawing Jamie unfortunately out of his remembering of the rather pleasant night he'd shared with his sister.

Looking down the hall in the direction Arys was facing, Jamie found none other than the Hand's own errand boy – or rather squire – Hugh of… Honestly, he didn't know which House the little bootlicker came from and he didn't really care to know either. The squirmy young man stopped well short of the King's chamber and drew himself up to his full height in some ridiculous attempt to make himself look important. "I come with a message from Lord Arryn, Hand of the King, for his grace King Robert Baratheon."

"Well, you best get to it then," Jamie smirked, pointing his thumb over his shoulder and towards the door behind him. "The king is just in there. I'm sure he wouldn't mind the interruption."

As if to accent his point, the king gave off a loud laugh while a whore gave off what he was sure was a gold induced over embellished moan of pleasure. For there was no way a woman, any woman, could truly find the king's company pleasing without his gold or title. Hugh, looking more than slightly uncomfortable, tugged at the collar of his doublet and swallowed hard before stepping up and rasping his knuckles against the King's chamber doors.

"Who the fuck is it?" bellowed the King from inside his room.

"Lord Arryn's squire, Hugh, your grace," the idiot responded awkwardly while inside the whores continued to laugh and moan over him. "I – uh – I've come with a request from the Lord Hand Jon Arryn, he – uh – he requests your presence, your grace. There has been a raven from – from the North that requires your immediate attention."

Upon hearing that, the laughter and moans from within the room ceased and Jamie calmly and quietly took a slight step to the side away from the door. If there was one thing that was guaranteed to get the fat ass moving, it was any word from the North. And, sure enough, within moments the door to the royal chambers burst open, nearly hitting the idiot boy right in the face as he just barely managed to stumble back and fall onto his ass just in time. Glancing at the King, Jamie just barely managed to hide his disgust. During the Rebellion the man had been heralded as the 'Demon of the Trident' and was considered by many to be a perfect representation of the Warrior. Even during the Greyjoy Rebellion, the fool still could hold onto that, though it was pushing it. But now, now Robert was the furthest thing he could be from the aspect of the warrior without becoming a woman. His hair was a tangled mess along with his beard and the most notable thing about him was his protruding gut. Which was on clear display as the robe he was in the process of putting on did not necessarily completely cover him. At least the fat fool managed to put his small clothes on before barging out of his room. The last thing Jamie ever wanted to see was the 'royal cock' swaying in the wind.

Robert took one look around the hall before finally noticing just where Hugh had ended up. "Pay the whores, boy. Kingslayer, Oakheart with me."

Not bothering to give the simpleton a second glance, Jamie took off on the heels of the king with Oakheart falling into step right next to him as the trio marched through the corridors of the Red Keep towards the meeting chambers of the Small Council. 'For a man of his size, the fat fool can actually move fairly fast when he wants to,' Jamie thought as he had to shift into a slight jog, his armor plates clinking against one another as he hurried to keep up with Robert.

Reaching the Small Council chambers, Robert didn't slow in the slightest as he threw the doors open before either guard stationed outside the chamber could get to them and marched into the room. "Sit your asses down the lot of ya, no need for that shit." Robert growled as the members of the Small Council, almost all of whom where half out of their seats, sat back down while the king went to his customary seat at the head of the table. "Well Jon, I'm here. What news of the North?"

Taking his spot behind the King, Jamie cast a cursory glance at the members of the Small Council. The old fool Jon Arryn sat opposite the King in the place that honestly should've rightfully belonged to his father. But Jamie could honestly admit that the old fool at least knew what he was doing to a certain point. Not enough to turn Robert into even a halfway decent King, but at least enough. Then there was the King's brother Renly, the not-so-secret sword swallower. Honestly, how the entirety of the realm didn't know that the boy preferred the company of men in his bed instead of women remained a mystery to Jamie. Sitting next to him was his father's creature, Grand Maester Pycelle. And next to the Grand Maester was the cockless wonder himself, Varys. Then across from the Maester was the flesh peddler who thought himself a Great Lord, Baelish. And sitting next to the whoremonger was perhaps the most out of place individual in the former smuggler turned Lord turned Small Council member, Ser Davos Seaworth. But despite being so clearly out of place, the former smuggler and Stannis's personal ass kisser was perhaps the most effective member of what passed for the Small Council.

He took his duties as seriously as Stannis did, perhaps even more so if that was even possible. His sister had already tried to feel him out as it were, to see if he could be turned to their cause, but the fool was steadfast in his duty and loyalty to the dullest of the Baratheon brothers. Which was just…confusing. The man had saved the life of Stannis, Renly, and most of what remained of the denizens of Storm's End during the Rebellion when he managed to smuggle food past the Tyrells. And how did Stannis reward the man? By gifting him Lordship of a backwater keep on a small plot of land and chopping off several of his fingers. If the man had performed such actions for House Lannister, his father would've probably given the man Lordship of a significant keep with a harbor to put his skills to use. Just as he'd done for the Cleganes. That was how one inspired loyalty from their subjects.

"We received a raven from the North early this morning, written in Ned's hand," Jon Arryn started as Jamie started to drift off. Honestly, standing guard during the few meetings of the Small Council Robert attended was almost worse than having to stand outside his chamber as he fucked whore after whore for hours on end.

"Yeah, that little shit what's-his-face told me that," Robert growled. "What did Ned have to say?"

"Yes, I am quite interested to know as well, Lord Hand, as are we all," Baelish said in his sickly-sweet voice as he looked over the seemingly never-ending book of numbers laid out before him. "The Lord Hand was quite adamant that we do not begin until you were present."

"Because this is not something I wanted to go over twice," Jon growled, actually growled, which drew a look from Jamie. If the usually calm Lord Arryn was this visibly upset to growl, then something very interesting must have happened. "Over a sennight ago during the wedding feast of Lord and Lady Nox, a contingent of Northern Lords and assassins attempted a coup and tried to assassinate Lord Stark, his family, as well as Lord and Lady Nox."

One could've heard a mouse fart as the entire room went dead silent as every member of the Small Council turned as one and looked at the Hand of the King. As for Robert, the man had gone completely white. "Ned?"

"He lives, as does the sorcerer," Jon said quickly, making Robert sag in relief. "However, there were casualties. Lord Karstark. Lord Cerwyn. Lord Yohn Royce's eldest son Andor. Winterfell's steward Vayon Poole. Ned's youngest son Rickon Stark and…and Lady Catelyn Stark all fell victim to the assassin's blades."

The sound of a quill breaking was the only noise in the chamber. "Cat…" Baelish breathed, a broken quill in his hand.

"I'm afraid so, Petyr," Jon nodded solemnly, "I know you were close with her and Lysa when you were all children. And I was hoping that you might be able to comfort Lysa when she learns of her—"

"FUCKING HELLS!" Robert bellowed as he slammed his fists down upon the table with enough force to crack the table's surface before getting up and throwing his chair clear across the room. "WHO THE FUCK DID TH—?!"

"ROBERT! SIT DOWN AND CONDUCT YOURSELF ACCORDINGLY!" Jon Arryn shouted, rising to his feet and motioning off the two guards who'd barged into the Small Council Chambers with their swords partially drawn. "Back to your posts. Both of you! And get the King a new chair. Robert, you will take a breath and calm yourself."

Calming down did not necessarily appear to be within the King's ability at the moment as the fat, now visibly furious, fool began pacing back and forth as his chair was shattered in a dozen pieces in the far corner of the room. "Who the fuck was responsible, Jon?"

Retaking his seat, the Hand of the King looked disapprovingly at the King before speaking in a calm voice. "According to Ned's letter, the Houses responsible are Bolton, Dustin, Ryswell, Whitehill, Stout and – and Corbray. Specifically, Lyn Corbray."

The first Houses didn't surprise Jamie, not that he really cared all that much in the first place. But the last House, Corbray, was a surprise. Mostly because it was odd that a House of the Vale would bother to include themselves in a plot to overthrow the 'honorable Ned Stark'. But even despite the oddity of House Corbray joining in on the plot, Jamie found little to interest him outside of almost finding the situation humorous. The honorable Ned Stark, so honorable that his own bannermen decided to launch a coup against him. Granted it failed, not that he really expected a lot from the barbarians from the North. And he was sure that the fool Stark just gave the insulting Houses a slap on the wrist and sent them off to bed without dinner.

"I want them dead, Jon!" Robert growled as the guards brought in a new chair before making a hasty retreat from the room and sealing the doors. "I want their fucking heads laid out before me so that I can piss in their fuckin—!"

"It's too late for that, Robert," Jon replied, cutting the King off of whatever fate he wanted for those who dared attack his beloved wolf brother. "Lord Bolton, Lord Whitehill, Lord Ryswell, Lord Stout, and Lady Dustin were all executed by Ned as Northern traitors. Ryswell's eldest son died in a trial by combat against Lord Stark and the other two were gelded and sent to the Wall. Lord Bolton's son and heir was exiled to Essos on pain of death. The last remaining son of Lord Whitehill was sent to the Wall and his daughter is now betrothed to another Northern House to end the line of House Whitehill. And Corbray, he was executed by the Sorcerer himself."

'Huh,' was Jaime's idle thought, feeling surprised. 'Stark executed the Lords and a Lady then ended all their lines in the North. Didn't think he actually had it in him.'

"The sorcerer executed Lyn Corbray?" Renly questioned, scratching at the pathetic excuse for fuzz growing along his jaw. "I thought in the North the one who passes the sentence swings the sword. Why didn't Lord Stark execute him?"

He could see Arryn's jaw tightened like he'd eaten something unsavory. "Lord Stark passed his sentencing on to the sorcerer. Apparently, Lyn Corbray tried to assassinate the newly made Lady Nox. She survived the attempt. But the child she was carrying, the sorcerer's child, did not."

At this, Jamie couldn't help the lifting of his brow that occurred as he tried to fathom just why anyone who attempt such an idiotic stunt. Not the killing of a mother or a babe, that happened all the time in this shitty world. But rather why one would attempt to kill the wife and child of the fucking sorcerer of all people. Well, perhaps if Corbray thought the man was dead when he made the attempt, he could understand his logic then. But outside of that? Hells, it'd been years since the Pyke, and the stories of just what the sorcerer did to the squids had to have made it up to the mountains of the Vale by now. Only a fool would be willing to attempt something against the sorcerer's family while the man was still alive.

"Your grace," Pycelle coughed and stuttered. "Should – Should we not consider the possibility that this is all just a – a ruse by the sorcerer to cover his tracks? Surely, a – a man like him would not care for a child if it – it covered his attempt to usurp the North. After all, who knows what goes on in the mind of – of a man like him. And the attack came - came just after the sorcerer returned from Essos. Surely, such coincidences must be – be accounted for, your grace."

It was a twisted logic, but as loathe as he was to admit it, there was something to Pycelle's words that even had Robert stopping in his tracks for a moment.

"That's fuckin horse shite. Eh, parden the language, yer grace," Ser Davos grunted, glaring at Pycelle.

Robert's attention turned from Pycelle to Davos. "Speak."

Swallowing, Davos nodded. "Yer grace, milords, any man who's a father can tell ye that they would never willingly put their child in harm's way and call themselves a man. The sorcerer, I met him and spoke with him at length on Dragonstone. He be a man amongst men. I saw the way he spoke and acted around the little lady Shireen. He might be many things yer grace, but he is not one who would harm a child. Let alone his own child."

Dropping heavily into his seat, the king rubbed vigorously at his forehead. "Does Ned believe the sorcerer had anything to do with the attack?"

"No," the Hand answered immediately. "Ned was very explicit in stating that all the rebellious Lords and Ladies that were behind the attack have been dealt with. And he asks that we trust him to deal out justice as it is required. He's also called upon the maesters of the North to help settle inheritance of the now vacant keeps and says that he will be in conference with the lot of them for some time as they try and settle who will claim which keep."

It may have been just a trick of the eye, but Jamie could've sworn that he saw Pycelle sag ever so slightly in his seat as if in relief.

"Spider," Robert growled, the King eyeing the eunuch out of the corner of his eye. "You're the Master of-fucking-Whispers. Why the fuck didn't you know about this shit? Between your failure to find the dragonspawn in Essos and now this, I'm seriously starting to question your loyalty, Spider."

The Spider didn't even flinch, nor did he appear worried in the slightest. "I fear my little birds are not overtly fond of the cold, nor has the suspicious nature of the Northmen made it easy for them to find a nest. And unless my birds hear a song to sing, I cannot hear plots that remain unspoken."

'A long-winded way of saying you had no idea what was happening,' Jamie just barely managed to keep himself from scoffing. Had he been anyone else, Jamie knew that this failure would've meant his death. Hells, his father would've made him into an example that was song worthy. But the Spider, he was an expert at making it so that it was next to impossible to simply get rid of him.

"Don't fail me again," Robert growled, rising to his feet again. "Keep an eye on the Bolton boy. If he so much as even looks at a boat heading back towards Westeros, I want him dead. And find me the fucking dragonspawn before I decide that your loyalty to the dragons didn't end with that mad fuck or his rapist son."

And with that, Robert stormed out of the Small Council chambers, leaving Jamie and Oakheart almost running to keep up with him. 'Well, at least it wasn't boring.'


Letting his fingers trace across the surface of his father's desk, Domeric Bolton, the last son of House Bolton in the North, wondered just how things had come to this point. Well, the direction from the actions at least were not in question. His father had tried to overthrow House Stark and failed. As it was, Domeric was lucky enough to escape with his life without having to resign himself to a life at the Wall. And that was only because his father purposefully left him out of the planning of this debacle. No doubt as insurance in case they failed. After all, his father was never one to put all his coins into a single hand. It was perhaps the only merciful act his father had ever truly shown him.

Life with his father had never been what one would call pleasant. To be sure, he never raised his voice or his hand to Domeric, but there were expectations. Expectations of the son and heir to House Bolton. He could still remember with vivid detail the first time he watched his father flay a man alive in punishment for murder. It was a sight that would be forever engrained into his mind. And while flaying had been outlawed by the Starks centuries ago, that didn't mean that House Bolton stopped that which they made their name upon. They were just more secretive about it. And the people of their land knew better than to speak out about what might be happening, lest they learn firsthand just how truly sharp the knives of House Bolton were. It also went to explain why there wasn't an outcry from the small folk regarding his father's execution and his banishment. If anything, the small folk around the Dreadfort were more relieved than anything. Which went to show just how truly 'beloved' the Bolton name was in the North.

Leaving what was once his father's desk, he made his way over towards a bookshelf along the wall opposite the only window in the room. Knowing exactly what to do, he reached out and grabbed a dust covered dagger that was set upon a display and pulled it forward. An audible click sounded from behind the shelf as the locking mechanism came undone, and Domeric was able to easily swing the shelf open, revealing a corridor behind.

Picking up a lit candle, he used it to ignite the torch that was hanging off the wall before setting the candle aside in favor of the torch and making his way down the short corridor. The first thing that hit him as he stepped foot into the room at the end was the smell. The stench of dried blood and the remnants of voided bowels assaulted his nose enough that he had to breathe through his mouth just to avoid gagging. 'The true legacy of House Bolton,' Domeric thought was he used the torch to illuminate the room his father had taken him to more than once to 'teach' him the ways of their house.

He hated this room. Hated what it represented. The past. A past which his father, and his father, and their fathers all the way back to the days of the Red Kings couldn't let go of. He could close his eyes and still name everything in the room. The squat table with dozens of sharpened knives and cutting tools. The 'x' shaped cross with straps for the arms and legs to hold its victim in place. A chair with short metal spikes on the seat, back, arms and legs. A device to rip and individuals' fingernails off before breaking their finger bones one at a time. A cold brazier that could be heated and used to scald the flesh or heat iron prongs. Dozens of other implements that served no other purpose than to bring agony to an individual. And lest he forget, the prize of House Bolton proudly displayed on one of the walls. A tanned leather robe that'd been made from the flesh of the Starks of old. Gods. He hated this room.

"Milord? Are – Are you in there?"

"Aye. You may enter." Domeric called out, still standing in the middle of House Bolton's prized room.

The guard who walked was one of the older guards, one who knew not only about this room, but knew that it was forbidden to be entered or spoken of by anyone other than the head of House Bolton. Though that didn't really matter all that much anymore considering he was the last of the trueborn Boltons. And he would soon be leaving the North forever.

"What news do you have of my brother?" Domeric asked as he turned away from the guard and went back to examining the history of his House.

He'd only recently learned of his half-brother during his time in the Vale. A brother born from his father's taking of a miller's wife he believed. And while he hated the fact that his brother was potentially brought into this world through the product of such a vile act, he focused more on the fact that he had a brother. Something he'd always wanted to have. And after hearing of the strong relationship between Robb Stark and his bastard brother Jon Snow, he sought the same type of relationship with his own bastard brother. But judging by the defeated posture the guard wore, that was not meant to be.

"We went to the mill where your brother and his mother lived milord," the guard said, his words steady and measured. "But the mill was burned, and the animals slaughtered. There were a lot of corpses, some we couldn't name because of how badly they were burned. But the ones we could were recognized as some of the men your father sent to watch over your brother."

"I see," Domeric said simply, saddened not by the death of his brother, but rather at losing the prospect of at least keeping a single member of his family alive. "Have the culprits been found? And what did my brother do to apparently warrant such treatment?"

A bit of unease crept into the guard's stoic posture. "It's not my place to say, milord."

Turning, Domeric leveled his gaze at the guard. He might not care for his House's infamy. But he was still a son of House Bolton and knew how to use every instrument in this room. "Say it anyway."

Frowning the guard nodded. "It's been said milord that your bastard brother he…well…he enjoyed hunting. Particularly young girls. No one ever said anything for fear of your father. But he would return to the Dreadfort with…trophies."

"I see," Domeric said simply as he turned his back on the guard once more. "So, my brother was a true son of House Bolton, through and through."

The two men remained in silence for a long stretch of time, the only sound the light clinking of metal plates against one another as the guard shifted his weight. "Milord…you need not leave. The stores are well stocked, and the men are willing to stand with you-"

"To what end?" Domeric asked, turning back around and facing the guard, whose name he didn't know but whose loyalty he was beginning to appreciate. "The entirety of the Northern nobility stood behind Stark's decision to execute my father and to banish myself. And the smallfolk, well, if what you say is true then my bastard brother and father have done nothing to ensure their loyalty beyond fear of reprisal. Fear that is no longer valid as House Bolton no longer holds any power here in the North. And if we were to hold up in the Dreadfort, Stark would round up the entirety of the North to grind us into dust. And that is if the Sorcerer didn't crack the Dreadfort like a rip nut first and do it for it. No. I appreciate the thought, but I will not throw the lives of good northern men and women away just in a feeble attempt to hold onto that which I've already lost."

Handing the torch off to the guard, Domeric went over to a small jug that was kept as far away from the brazier as possible. Uncorking it, he took a quick smell to verify what was within the jug before making his way around the room and sprinkling every surface he could with the oil in the jug. Once he'd made sure that every accused piece of House Bolton's history had a dousing of oil, Domeric took the torch back from the guard and calmly tossed it onto the table, igniting the oil and setting the entire room ablaze. Turning his back on the fire, Domeric walked out of the hidden room of his ancestors without a single glance back or a moment of regret. "Make sure that the fire doesn't spread throughout the rest of the keep." Domeric ordered the guard as he left what was once the Head of House Bolton's solar and made his way out onto the battlements of the Dreadfort.

'Here ends the reign of House Bolton in the North,' Domeric thought with only a touch of sadness. 'But perhaps this truly is a good thing. This is a chance to start anew, away from the stigma of House Bolton. Just as the Sorcerer said.'

The first, and only time, he'd talked to the sorcerer had been just before he'd left the gates of Winterfell to begin his last trek to his ancestral home before heading to the east to begin his exile. The moment the sorcerer crossed his path to prevent his leaving, Domeric was sure that his life was about to end. But instead of killing him, the man handed him a chest the size of a man's head and a purse full of gold. 'To help start you on your new life,' the sorcerer had told him, shaking the heavy purse before tossing it to him. 'And as payment for your delivery of this chest to an asset of mine in Essos. Find your way to Pentos and stay at any of the higher end taverns near the dock, and my asset will find you. They will take what they need, and the rest is yours to do with as you wish.'

He'd taken the offer of course, but not before asking the sorcerer just why he was entrusting him with this. To which the man merely smiled cryptically. 'I'm many things, Domeric. But not wasteful. Especially with someone that I see promise in. Do this one favor for me and I will ensure that you get the chance to start a new life on your own. But, should you choose to stay and aid my assets in Essos, then I will ensure that you find a way to shed the sins of your family's past and forge a new future for both yourself and your future line.'

"Well, sorcerer," Domeric spoke his thoughts aloud, tilting his head back and relishing the feel of the cold northern air on his face. "We will see just how good your word is soon enough."


Sitting alone in the middle of what had once been her mother's sitting room, Sansa Stark idly pulled a needle and thread through the garment she was working on while her wonderful wolf Lady laid on her feet, keeping them warm with her thick fur. Truthfully, she wasn't even sure just what it was that she was working on. But at the same time, it didn't matter. There was a comfort, a familiarity in sewing. It was…relaxing. Which was so strange. She'd always had fun with sewing before, but she never took it for something that could be relaxing. But it was. And she needed this time now more than ever before.

When her father had first declared that she would be the Stark in Winterfell, to sit in his seat while he and her brothers went south to deal with the treacherous Maesters, she'd been overjoyed and honored. Her father trusted her enough to lead the North in his absence! Granted, Lady Nox was the new Stewardess of Winterfell and would be making most of the decisions that couldn't be put off until father returned. But still, it was, by the gods old and new it was hard to put into words just how she'd truly felt when her father had looked at her in the eyes and told her that he believed in her.

And that excitement and honor had lasted right up to the point where she'd taken her father's seat for the first time and looked over the faces of those that'd gathered and realized with a start that she had absolutely no idea what she was doing! Sure, Septa Mordane, may the gods rest her soul, had taught her some and her mother and Lady Nox even more, but as soon as she sat down and truly felt the weight of her father's seat everything she'd been taught went right out of her mind. She could only thank the gods for Lady Nox's presence. The older woman must have seen just how nervous Sansa was as soon as she'd entered the great hall for the first time and had immediately taken charge and started the day's proceedings. Which, mercifully, had been few.

After that first day, Sansa realized just how truly unprepared she was to take on the mantle of a Lady of a Noble House. And for the first time ever, Sansa cursed her lessons with Septa Mordane. She realized now the same thing her father had realized when he'd changed her education to include her mother and Lady Nox. While Septa Mordane was teaching her to be a proper Lady, she was not actually teaching her how to be a ruling Lady. But even with the lessons she'd received from her mother and Lady Nox, she still wasn't ready. Which was why after the first day she'd swallowed her pride and went to her knees before both Lady Nox and Lady Talisa and asked them both to help her while her father was away.

The second day went much easier than the first. The jitters she'd had when she first sat down on her father's seat were still there. But now with Lady Nox on her right and Lady Talisa on her left, she felt surer of herself when dealing with the daily tasks. Neither Lady said much during the actual daily proceedings, as it was up to Sansa to have the final word, but both would sit with her once the day was done and help her go over everything that'd happened.

On the third day, just as she was starting to get a handle on dealing with the daily tasks of running Winterfell, a new challenge presented itself to her in the form of her sister. Arya had, mercifully enough, waited for her morning duties to be concluded before roughly dragging her out to the yard. Sansa had tried to protest, but Arya had silenced her by saying that Master Nox had given her instructions as well on how to practice her magic while he was away. Practice which she'd been neglecting ever since Lord Nox and their father and brothers left Winterfell.

For nearly an hour after that, Arya properly trounced Sansa around the yard. Her sister ran her until her lungs felt as if they were on fire. Then she made her jump and walk across a pathway made of standing logs repeatedly until she could do it without slipping. Then, even though her body was begging her to stop, Arya handed her a wooden practice sword and proceeded to defeat Sansa again and again as the two sparred against one another. After being knocked down for the fourth time, Sansa came to the realization that this was her sister's revenge for all those times she'd picked on her during their lessons together. And as she laid there staring up at the sky feeling like a failure at having been bested time and time again, she realized just how she'd made her sister feel during their lessons whenever she would show Arya up in whatever task they'd been given for the day. But instead of holding it over her or mocking her, Arya… She just told Sansa what she was doing wrong, showed her how to fix it and then told her to get up and do it again.

'Gods…I truly was a terrible sister,' Sansa thought, pausing in her needle work as she reflected upon that first day in the yard with her sister. 'Whenever Arya made the slightest mistake, I always threw it at her. Or blamed her for whatever problems we were having. Or…Or, gods, I even made fun of her for things she couldn't control. Yet now, now when Arya has the chance to treat me exactly as I treated her…she doesn't. Instead, she…she's helping me. Sure, there are the snide remarks and looks. But she never treats me like I treated her no matter how badly I mess up.'

After that humbling experience, Sansa had vowed to herself that she would be a better sister to not only Arya, but to her brothers as well. Robb, she had always respected because he was the eldest and that was what was proper. But Bran and Jon…Bran was her younger brother and as shameful as it was to admit, she rarely spared a thought to him. And Jon, Jon was a bastard. So, it wasn't considered proper for her to pay attention to him. Now she realized just how truly naive those views were. Her mother's House words were 'Family, Duty, Honor' and family came first because it was the most important. And Sansa, she had been neglecting her family. But not anymore.

Ever since that day she'd made it a point to spend time with both her siblings that were still here in Winterfell with her. Luckily, both were very dedicated to following Lord Nox's lessons, so she was able to 'kill two birds with one stone', as the saying went. She got to spend time with her siblings and continue her lessons that Lord Nox had outlined for her. The only downside was that she had next to no time for anything else during the day. Now she truly understood just why her father would make time just to sit in the godswoods. It was how he tried to relieve the burden of ruling and calm his mind.

"Little lady," her sworn-shield Osha called out as she opened the door without knocking, disturbing her brief respite. "The old learned-man wants to talk with ya, says he's got some raven or some shite like that."

"Thank you, Osha," Sansa sighed, setting her needle work aside. "Let him in. And next time, please remember to knock."

"Why?" The former-Wilding asked, tilting her head. "Ya ain't got nothin I can't see when I look down at meself. Besides, ya still got a few years before ya truly have something to look at."

'Gods…Osha is an excellent sworn-sword, but, by the gods, does she need some work on proper etiquette,' Sansa thought to herself as she tried to fight back against the reddening of her face as she thought of Osha, or anyone for that matter, catching her while she wasn't fully clothed. The clinking of chains announced the arrival of Maester Luwin before the elder man could enter the room.

"My Lady," Luwin said respectfully, a small scroll held in his hand. "A raven arrived just now from Casterly Rock."

'Casterly Rock? The Lannisters?' Sansa thought, taking the small raven scroll from Luwin and unfurling it. Heart thundering in her small chest, Sansa read over the message several times, trying to look for any hidden meaning or message. "Osha," she called out. "Please fetch Lady Nox if you would, I require her aid."

Osha sent a quick glance towards Luwin, clearly not pleased with the idea of leaving her alone with the Maester. But Sansa merely waved off her concerns with a slight move of her hand and sent her on her way. Recent events had given the people of the North reason enough to distrust the Maesters, but Sansa had known Maester Luwin for as long as she could remember. He was almost a second father to her. And more than that, both her father and Lord Nox had vouched for him. And that was more than enough for her.

"Thank you, my Lady, for your trust in me," Maester Luwin said once Osha was out of the room, his shoulders sagging as a seemingly invisible weight settled on his shoulders. "I am not used to facing such animosity from seemingly everyone."

Frowning, Sansa ran her fingers over her the needle work she'd just set aside. "The people are afraid, Maester Luwin. And in their fear, they are lashing out at what they know. And what they know is that the Maester Order wronged House Stark and the North greatly. Even though you were shown to have no knowledge of what had happened, you are still a Maester."

Maester Luwin gave her an appraising look. "That is quite the insight to have Lady Sansa. And a correct one as well."

Sansa blushed slightly under the praise. "Lady Nox and Lady Talisa have been teaching me much since my father left." 'And Lord Nox gave me a few lessons before they left that were very insightful.'

In seemingly no time at all, the door to her sitting room opened once more as Lady Nox, trailed by her friend Jeyne Poole and Osha made their way in. "Lady Sansa," Lady Nox greeted her, bowing her head respectfully.

"Lady Nox, Jayne," Sansa returned the greeting while ignoring the pain of guilt that rose in her chest at not having spent hardly any time with Jeyne since the attack. "We've received a raven from Casterly Rock, and I would like your opinion."

Lady Nox didn't hesitate to take the raven scroll from her and read over its contents. "Interesting," Lady Nox mumbled as she handed the letter off to Maester Luwin to read over. "Gerion Lannister is requesting permission for his daughter to either be tested and trained as a student of my husband. Or to become a new handmaiden for yourself."

"It may be in Gerion's hand, but this has Tywin Lannister's mind behind it," Maester Luwin commented as he handed the letter back to her.

"If it were any other Lannister, I would say that you would be correct," Lady Nox stated. "I've dealt with them myself over the years with Lord Stark in matters of trade. And almost all the Lannisters won't take a shit unless Tywin allows it. But Gerion, at least according to my husband, is cut of a different cloth and is perhaps the only Lannister that will stand up against Tywin. The offer, though…What do you think Sansa? And remember, think carefully before answering."

This was one of the aspects of learning under Lady Nox that infuriated her. She never gave her own opinion or gave an answer until either Sansa or Arya gave one first. And then she would either agree or disagree and point out why. She supposed it was a good thing, as it taught her and her sister how to solve problems…but still. It was just so frustrating!

"The Lannisters have been the Wardens of the West since the time of Aegon the Conqueror and before that they were the Kings of the Westerlands," Sansa stated, calling up everything she could remember about the Lannisters. "Tywin was once Hand of the King to King Aerys and served faithfully for years until King Aerys delivered too many insults upon him and he left the position. Queen Cersei is his daughter. And his eldest son is on the Kingsguard. They are a – a powerful family and a Great House. It – It wouldn't behoove us to deny the offer. And Lord Nox has stated in the past that he will take on anyone who shows an aptitude for his magic. But we cannot outright accept at the present time as neither Lord Nox nor my father are currently present in the North. We should send a response saying that Gerion and his daughter are welcome to travel to Winterfell, but they will have to wait as my father and Lord Nox are currently setting the North to rights in wake of the attack on Winterfell."

"Excellent response," Lady Nox praised her, making Sansa swell with pride. "Now, as Maester Luwin pointed out, at the very least Tywin Lannister has given his blessing to this move. And Gerion's daughter is a legitimized bastard. Now, why would Tywin agree to sending a legitimized daughter all the way up here to Winterfell?"

Thinking over everything she knew; Sansa was able to quickly come to the answer. "The Lannisters want for little. A daughter of House Lannister is the Queen of Westeros and they are known as the wealthiest family in all the land. Yet, we have something they do not. Magic. The Lannisters want a magic user trained by Lord Nox and Gerion's daughter might be the only one who has shown any ability. But that is just the first reason. The second, well, Joy, she, she is of age with myself. And I am nearing the age of betrothals. As are all my brothers and sister. He seeks a possible betrothal by sending her North and allowing her to get to know myself and my brothers and sister more."

"Well spotted," Lady Nox congratulated her again. "You and your siblings are reaching the age where offers of marriage will start to come in. The Lords and Ladies of the realm will be looking to leverage any advantage they can to make it so that your father, Lord Stark, will be more inclined to accept their offer over others. Sending Joy here to Winterfell, while I doubt the girl herself will be knowledgeable of Lord Tywin's long-term plans, is a step towards making it so that Lord Stark will accept a betrothal with the Westerlands. With whom I don't know, but that is more than likely his goal. But as you said, we cannot simply refuse such a simplistic request from the Lannisters, especially as my husband has made it clear that he will teach anyone who is Force sensitive. So, for now, we will send your initial response that your father and my husband are currently setting the North to rights and dealing with the traitors and cannot currently receive visitors, but that they are welcome to come North and be tested after their return. But we'll have to word it very carefully. Lord Tywin can supposedly get insulted if a man's shadow crosses his path."


If he were being honest, Benjen had been expecting the attack to come as soon as they stepped foot off Umber lands and into the New Gift. But instead, they were able to cover nearly a quarter the distance towards Mole Town before the attack came. The attackers were well organized, hiding within a tree line just off the Kingsroad and launching their attack as they passed them by. But unfortunately for the attackers, the move had been expected. And as such, Benjen was not simply traveling alone with his prisoners and the few volunteers he had for the Night's Watch. No, he was traveling with a contingent of men from House Stark, House Umber, House Mormont and a group of more experienced Wolf Rangers.

The attack had been short and brutal. Despite having the element of surprise, the ambushers were severely outnumbered and out classed in just about every possible way. And while none of those who ambushed them were wearing any identifying markings, it wasn't difficult to tell that these men were some of the last few that held out some loyalty to the Houses that had attempted a coup just a moon's turn ago considering they all but ignored the two prisoner carriages that were transporting the various sellswords and assassins and instead focused on the carriage that housed the last remnants of House Ryswell and House Whitehill.

Surveying the dozens of corpses now littering the ground while working on cleaning the blood off his sword, Benjen once against cursed the folly of the noble's ambitions. There were times, quite a few times in fact, that he truly did regret abandoning Ned and joining the Night's Watch. But then there were times like these when he was reminded of the true nature and cost of the highborn ambitions. And it was times like these that he did not regret his decision to leave it all behind. Life might be hard at the Wall, but it was also simplistic.

"First Ranger."

Turning, Benjen let the bloodied cloth drop from his hands and faced one of the few volunteers from this batch, Ser Waymar Royce. The man's willingness to volunteer for the Watch was commendable, especially now considering he'd lost a brother during the attempted coup on Winterfell.

"Ser Waymar," Benjen stated, sheathing his sword. "Get the bodies stripped of anything that might be useful and then get a handful of the prisoners out of their cages and have them dig a mass grave for the dead. Once we're done, we'll be marching North for a few more hours before making camp for the night."

Waymar did not look particularly pleased at the order, and truthfully Benjen didn't blame the man. Before he joined the Night's Watch, he wouldn't have been pleased with robbing the dead and leaving them in an unmarked grave. But time in the Watch quickly stripped him of those thoughts. He'd more than once used his fallen brother's cloaks and weapons when he was ranging. Hells, there were even times he'd taken Wildlings furs to keep himself warm. The dead had no need for clothes or weapons. And if a dead man's boots or cloak could keep you warm at night, or if they're weapons could keep you safe from the hundreds of things looking to kill you north of the Wall, then you took them. And worried about the consequences later.

"As you say, First Ranger," Waymar nodded before marching off quickly to see that his orders were followed.

It'd taken longer than he'd hoped, but they finally managed to strip the dead of anything useful and bury them by the time the sun was nearing the horizon. And by the time the sun was just about to dip below the horizon, they managed to reach the frequently used campsite of the Night's Watch whenever they were bringing new recruits to the Wall. The campsite was situated atop a hill that overlooked a ravine. The place might not have a name outside of the Gift, but everyone in the Watch knew of this place. 'Cowards Fall' they called it. Because near the site was a sheer cliff that led down perhaps several hundred feet into the ravine. And at the bottom of the drop was a collection of trees and razor-sharp rocks that'd been stained with the blood of countless individuals who'd decided at the last moment that death was preferable to a life in the Watch. Hence the name, 'Cowards Fall'. Though the place did serve a secondary purpose, one again unknown to any outside the Watch and one that was used only in the very rarest of instances. And it was for this purpose that Benjen had decided to make camp this night.

Once the fires were lit for the night, Benjen shared a quick glance with each of his fellow sworn Black Brothers, each of whom gave him a nod of understanding as they silently agreed with his decision. Taking a breath, Benjen made his way between the fire and the three barred wagons that carried the newest recruits for the Watch. The same men who had just a moon's turn ago had tried to end the life of his brother, his good-sister and his nephews and nieces. One of the wagons was full of the sons of House Ryswell and the last remaining son of House Whitehill along with a few men of said Houses and House Bolton and Dustin. While the other two wagons held the various sellswords and assassins that'd been motivated by coin.

"In a few days' time, we will reach Castle Black," Benjen began, reciting the same speech he always gave to the recruits heading to the Watch. "Once we reach Castle Black, whoever you were or whatever crimes you might have committed will no longer matter. You will be Brothers of the Night's Watch. And that is all you'll be."

"That's right, Stark," one of the men from the wagon containing the norther prisoners chuckled. "Pretty soon we'll be breaking bread together. Perhaps us real men of the north will tell you of the fun time we had in Winterfell."

A few of the other prisoners laughed at the jibe, but Benjen kept himself completely devoid as he pressed on. "Every man of the Watch is needed. Especially with what is potentially coming our way. Which is why it is a shame that I will have to report to Lord Commander Mormont that so many of you died trying to escape during the ambush."

With a stiff nod, the few sworn Black Brothers that'd accompanied him removed the logs from behind the wheels of the wagon holding the northern prisoners before grabbing the tongue of said wagon.

"Wh–What are you doing, Stark?!" one of the Ryswell lads shouted as the wagon began to rock back and forth. "What nonsense is th–?!"

"I told you. It's a shame that so many of you died while trying to escape. We really could've used more men on the Wall." Benjen reiterated as the wagon started inching backwards as the men of the Watch let go of the tongue. Several of the prisoners finally realized what was happening as they frantically began pulling at the bars of the wagon trying to escape.

"You – You can't do this!" another of the men shouted as the wagon continued to roll backwards on its own. "We – We took the Black! You – You're a member of the Black! You – You can't do this!"

"Aye, you decided to take the Black, but none of you are Black Brothers yet," Benjen stated flatly as he walked with the wagon as it slowly approached the edge. "And, yes, I am a man of the Night's Watch and the First Ranger to boot. But before that, I was a man of House Stark. And while I might have given up my name, I still carry the blood of the wolf in my veins. The same blood that you lot tried to end."

Stopping a fair distance from the edge of the cliff, Benjen watched stoically as the barred wagon holding the northern prisoners rolled off the edge and disappeared into the darkness. The sound of the men inside screaming cutting through the darkness before they all stopped in an instant as the wagon reached the jagged rocks below. Not even bothering to glance over the cliff, Benjen turned heel and made his way back to the small campsite. His fellow Black Brothers were not phased in the slightest by the display, and the same went for those few men of the North that'd decided to help escort the prisoners from Winterfell. Waymar Royce didn't seem pleased with what he'd just witnessed, but he wisely didn't voice his objection. The remaining prisoners though, they were all clearly scared shitless.

"Is there anything else I should know before we continue on to Castle Black?" Benjen questioned, facing the remaining prisoners, all of whom were staring at him with fear in their eyes. Wisely, none of the remaining prisoners spoke up. "I didn't think so. Get some rest, all of you. There's still a good thirty-and-five leagues to go until we reach Castle Black and your new lives amongst the Watch."


Sitting at his customary spot amongst the other Archmaesters of the Citadel that composed the upper echelons of the Order of the Guiding Hand, Archmaester Ebrose folded his hands underneath his chin as he waited for his fellow Archmaester and brothers in the Order to filter into their meeting chambers and went to take their seats. 'Ryam. Castos. Agrivane. Sandhu. Where is Benedict?'

"Why is Benedict not here?" he asked, more than slightly testy as the latest news he'd received had put him in a sour mood.

"I believe he said that Archmaester Marwyn had something he wished to discuss with him earlier today," Archmaester Ryam answered, taking his seat. "Though what our charlatan 'mage' has to talk with a true man of knowledge and science I will never know."

"Do not underestimate, Marwyn," Castos shot back as he took his own seat directly across from Ryam. "He may be mad for his preference in study. But he is still a man who has more than earned his title as Archmaester of the Citadel. And while you might not agree with him, he is far smarter than you give him credit for, Ryam."

"Enough," Ebrose sighed, not in the mood to talk about the resident thorn in their side that was Marwyn. "Marwyn is a topic that shall be discussed later. For now, we have a far more pressing issue to discuss. An issue with the North."

His fellow Archmaesters all started shifting uncomfortably in their seats. "So, it has been confirmed then?" Agrivane asked tentatively.

"Yes," Ebrose nodded, feeling more than slightly angry at the years of planning and a mountain of coin that'd been wasted on the incompetence of the Northern Lords they'd chosen to carry out their plans. "We've received ravens from Luwin and several of our brothers in the Order that are scattered throughout the North. The plan was a complete failure. Stark, his children, and the Sorcerer still live. The only casualties were a couple of inconsequential Lords, Lady Stark, and the youngest wolf pup."

At the end of the table, Sandhu scoffed and shook his head. "I suppose we shouldn't have expected any sort of competence from the Northern barbarians."

"It wasn't incompetence that led to their failure, Sandhu," Ebrose countered as he narrowed his eyes at his fellow Archmaester. "The fault is ours for underestimating the sorcerer's capabilities. According to the account from Maester Luwin, the sorcerer did indeed ingest the poison that we sent to the North. However, the sorcerer was able to overcome the poison without any antidote."

"That's impossible!" Ryam nearly shouted, his eyes wide. "I made that concoction myself! It had to be transported within several containers because just a simple drop on the skin was enough to cause a violent reaction."

"No one is doubting or blaming you, Ryam," Ebrose replied, trying to sooth the man's clearly bruised ego. "I doubt anyone save this sorcerer could've survived the poisoning. And how he survived it… It only goes to prove just how dangerous he is and necessary our goal of removing him is."

"His necessary removal is not in question, Ebrose," Castos said, leaning forward and resting his chin on his fingers. "The question is: how are we supposed to go about it? This plan took years to enact. And now that it has failed, the wolves and the sorcerer will be much more cautious for some time."

"Then we will bide our time," Ebrose tried to placate the man. "And use this time to develop a new strategy for his removal and the replacement of the Starks. There was perhaps hope for the younger generation of wolves to be shown the correct path. But from everything we've heard, all the pups have the same affinity for magic as the sorcerer and are learning directly from him. It is unfortunate, but we will have to arrange for the complete removal of House Stark and this new House Nox."

Coughing uncomfortably, Agrivane scratched at his near chest length beard. "Planning for the future is necessary my friends, but should we not be more concerned with the here and now? It's obvious that we have underestimated the sorcerer and his abilities. Should we not consider the possibility that our…involvement has been discovered? If the Northern Lords talked before Stark executed them, it could spell disaster for the Order of the Guiding Hand and the Maester Order as a whole. While the wolves are little more than barbarians, we cannot forget that the few times they have ventured south in the past significantly changed the course of the Seven Kingdoms. Aegon's alliance with the Starks and his quick ending of the founding of the Seven Kingdoms. The ending of the Dance. And the fall of the Targaryens. All can be mostly accredited to the wolves venturing south of the Neck."

"That is a concern, yes," Ebrose nodded, a twinge of fear swelling in his gut as he thought of the consequences should their actions be discovered. "We all knew the risks of our actions when we became a part of this Order. And while it would be prudent of us to cease all mechations in the North for some time, I do not believe we need to fear retribution from the wolves. We kept ourselves out of this as much as possible, working through proxies of proxies and leaving no trace of our involvement. And we all know of the current Lord Stark's inability and unwillingness to be tactful. Had he known of our involvement, then he would've sent word immediately to King Robert, and the fat oaf can't keep his temper or mouth shut to save his life. No. I believe that we are in the clear for now. And while we must lay low in the North, there is still opportunity to be had. Stark has called for the Stewards and Maesters of the now empty keeps to establish new ownership. We can use this to influence the ownership of several prominent locations in the North and begin planting the seeds for the removal of magic in the North. So, let us begin discussing who would be best to take over ownership of the Dreadfort, Barrow Town, and the Rylls. Obviously, they will be from the North, but there are still a few amongst the lower nobility in the North that are at least enlightened enough to abor—"

The doors to their chambers opened, cutting Ebrose off mid-word as he rose to his feet to greet their late member. "Benedict, I trust that there were no problems wi—"

Ebrose's words trailed off. The man who entered was wearing the garb of a Maester with a chain around his neck long enough to make him an Archmaester, but it was certainly not Benedict. "Marwyn," Ebrose greeted their estranged fellow Archmaester while his eye quickly did a quick look at the table to make sure there was nothing out that Marwyn shouldn't see. It wasn't that Ebrose didn't trust the man, he was a fellow Maester after all. But he was not a member of the Guiding Hand. And given his love of the arcane, he would never be a member of their prestigious Order.

"Ebrose," Marwyn returned cordially before meeting the eye of each of their fellow Archmaesters, "Ryam. Castos. Agrivane. Sandhu. Forgive me, I wasn't aware that there was a meeting of the Archmaesters today otherwise I would have arrived sooner."

"Nothing to forgive, Marwyn," Ebrose replied, smiling at the Archmaester while wondering just why the man was here considering he usually cared little for gatherings of Archmaesters. "This is no formal gathering. We were just discussing what happened in the North."

"Yes, horrible business that," Marwyn nodded sadly, remaining in the doorway and folded his hands behind his back. "But I suppose that it is no worse than what I am about to do now."

The doors crashed open with enough force to rebound off the adjacent walls as a figure was thrown into the room. Jumping to his feet, Ebrose stared down in horror at the broken and bloodied form of Archmaester Benedict that was now lying next to Marwyn's feet. Opening his mouth, Ebrose made to demand an explanation from Marwyn, but the words died on his lips as he saw several more figures, none of whom were Maesters or Acolytes, barged into the room with weapons drawn. And within the space of a few heartbeats, Ebrose found himself with his back pressed firmly against the far wall from the entrance with a dagger poised at his throat.

"Careful now," the man holding the dagger to his throat smiled. "It'd be a shame to stain those pretty chains of yours with blood."

"Marwyn!" Ebrose cried out, doing all he could to try and put some distance between himself and the blade at his throat. Or at least doing all he could not to give the one holding said dagger a reason to push it closer. "What is the meaning of this!?"

Instead of answering though, Marwyn merely kept his hands behind his back and started a slow walk around the room as several of Marwyn's acolytes filed into the room behind the armed men that he now recognized as a bunch of sellswords. His fear of what was happening spiked further as Marwyn came to a seemingly random stop before one of the many bookshelves in the room.

"I pull here, right?" Marwyn asked, pointing towards a copper bust that was on one of the shelves.

'No,' Ebrose panicked. 'He – He can't know about that!'

But to his ever-increasing horror, Marwyn, with an almost dramatic slowness, pulled the copper bust down. A loud click sounded out from behind the shelf as the locking mechanism gave away and the shelf began to move forward of its own accord. With the hidden room now revealed for all to see, Marwyn made his way past the bookshelf and into the now open room.

"Sellsword," Ebrose swallowed, "I –"

"Bronn."

"What?" Ebrose blinked.

"My name is Bronn, not 'sellsword'," the now identified sellsword said, pressing his dagger just the slightest bit harder against the thin skin of his neck.

"Bronn," Ebrose said, swallowing while trying not to cut himself on the daggers edge against his throat, "I don't know what Marwyn told you or what he's paying you, but we will double it."

The sellsword cocked his head to the side as if he were considering the offer, which gave Ebrose a slight bit of hope. But as quick as the hope came, it went as the sellsword shook his head. "Eh, tempting offer. But the other old man there made a much better offer for my services beyond just coin. Mostly the fact that I wouldn't piss off a few certain individuals and might actually gain their favor."

Frowning, Ebrose went to ask just what the sellsword was talking about. But the question never came out as Marwyn started laughing from within the Order's vault. "I am not sure if it is just arrogance or stupidity that led you lot to keep a record of every misdeed you've ever performed!" Marwyn chuckled, pulling a book down from one of the shelves within the room. "Gods, you've even kept them not only in chronological order, but you've also kept them separated out by region. Well, this will make our work much easier. Alleras, get our acolytes to start sorting these out. Start with the acts pertaining to the North and House Hightower first as we will need those sooner rather than later. Bronn, take these ones down to the quarantine chambers in the bowels of the Citadel."

"Wait!" Ebrose shouted as the dagger left his throat and the sellsword roughly grabbed his arm. "Tell us what this is about, Marwyn! You owe us that much!"

The look in Marwyn's eyes was downright murderous as the mage of the Citadel approached him. "You really don't know? Well, let me spell it out for you then. The wolves know, Ebrose. As does the sorcerer. And they are coming."

Ebrose could feel the blood draining from his face as his heart raced in his chest. 'No…It isn't possible! They – They couldn't know!' "I – I don't know what you are –"

"Cut the horse shit, Ebrose," Marwyn growled angrily. "You and your little Order of the Guiding Hand here, yes I know all about you lot, have pretty much guaranteed the destruction of the Maester Order. I'm merely doing what I can to try and save as many as I can before the wolves and the sorcerer arrive here in Oldtown thirsty for the blood of us Maesters. Get them out of my sight and ensure no accidents can befall them while they are in the quarantine cells. The last thing we want is for our offerings to appease the wolves to be dead well before they arrive."

Ebrose could hear pleading coming from his fellow Archmaesters, but he couldn't form the words to plead for his life. Even as the sellsword roughly pulled him from the room while Marwyn and his acolytes began rummaging through the Order's achievements. All he could think about was what horrible fate awaited him if Marwyn truly was speaking the truth.


He was floating. Where he was or how he'd gotten to here he didn't know. But he felt weightless. Like he was floating in the hot springs of the godswood in Winterfell. But as he reveled in the sereneness around him, he felt a pull, a tug at his naval that sent him spiraling in a direction though he did not know where. But as soon as it came, it stopped. And he found himself in a room so dark that he could not discern anything around him.

"Who – Who are you?"

Jumping at the voice, Jon spun, his hand dropping to his waist ready to grab his lightsaber to combat whatever threat was before him – and found himself staring into a pair of striking violet eyes on a beautiful face framed by silver-gold hair. While her name was unknown to him, Jon knew who she was. It was the young woman he'd run into in Volantis nearly six moons ago. And the same girl he'd been having these strange dreams or visions about ever since they departed from Valyria. As for herself, the young woman immediately back peddled away from him before seeming to trip over something that Jon couldn't see and fall onto her back, her violet eyes staring up at him in fear as her breathing quickened.

"I'm – I'm sorry," Jon stammered, forcing himself to relax and trying to make himself appear nonthreatening as he held his hands out to his sides, well away from his waist. "I – I didn't mean to scare you. I just…I wasn't expecting to actually, well…this I guess."

The young girl swallowed and slowly got to her feet, all the while making sure to keep a distance from him. A distance that Jon did nothing to change as he held his ground to ease her concerns. "Who – Who are you?" she asked, her violet eyes seeming to flicker around the darkened room as if looking for something. "How – How did you enter my room?"

Blinking, Jon looked around the room and saw only darkness. "Um, I'm not really sure," he answered awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. The last memory he had was falling asleep in his cabin onboard a ship heading south. "I – I don't think I'm actually here. Well, I am but – but not in the way you are thinking or – I doubt this is making any sense, is it?"

The girl shook her head. "Um, no. It doesn't. How can you not be here, when you are clearly in my room?"

Still not sure just how to answer her, Jon thought of something. "If you're comfortable my lady, I think I might be able to show you what I mean. Though it might just raise more questions rather than answers." He said, waiting for her sharp nod before holding out his hand. "Touch my hand."

The girl looked at him like he'd grown a second head, but despite her mistrust, she slowly inched towards him with her arm outstretched. Once they were close enough, she tapped her fingers down upon his hand, and her eyes widened as instead of hitting flesh, they passed right through.

"How?" she breathed, taking a single step closer to him as she repeatedly tried to touch his hand, only to have her own hand pass through where his hand should be. "How is this…? How can this be?"

"The Force, or magic I guess you could say. But honestly, I don't really know. I think my Master might know what's going on, but even he didn't seem all that sure," Jon answered as he allowed the girl to continue trying to poke his hand and arm.

"Your Master?" She said, stopping her prodding and looking up at him sharply, a sudden fear and sadness entering her violet eyes. "Are you a – a slave?"

"What?" Jon blinked, her question catching him off guard. "A slave? No, gods no. Why would you – oh. The Master thing. Well, he isn't my Master like you're thinking. He's more like my…mentor or instructor I guess you could say."

"Oh," the girl nodded in understanding before narrowing her eyes as she looked, truly looked, at him. "I've – I've seen you before. I've seen your face and – and I swear I know you…"

At this, Jon coughed uncomfortably. "We've never been introduced, my lady, but we have met. Or rather, ran into one another literally. In Volantis."

The girl's brow furrowed in thought before her eyes widened in recognition. "You…You're that boy I ran into on the street in Volantis!"

"Aye, that's me," Jon smiled, glad that she at least remembered him. "My name is…Jon…my lady."

He'd been tempted to tell her his true name, though just why that was he didn't know. But for now, it was far safer to live as Jon Snow than it was as Jaehaerys Targaryen. He'd also half expect her to pull back at his bastard name. Or perhaps she wouldn't know the Westeros names for bastards or perhaps she just wouldn't care. Either way, just naming himself as 'Jon' would be a good place to start.

"I'm…Dany."

He waited for her to continue, but it appeared that she was content to simply leave it at that. 'Not that I have much room to complain. I didn't give her my real name or even the full name Lord Stark gave me to hide me as a babe.' "It's a pleasure to finally meet you correctly, my lady Dany." Jon greeted her, bowing slightly at the waist.

"It's nice to meet you as well, Jon," Dany smiled back at him, a radiant smile that seemed to light up the darkness around them. "Um, I don't suppose you could tell me just how this is happening? Or rather what your…Master thinks this might be?"

"I don't know to be honest," Jon sighed, wishing that he had an answer for her. "I told my Master about, well, seeing you before. And he said he could think of a few things it could be but couldn't say for certain at the time. He…He wanted me to try and talk to you should we meet again like this, said it would help him figure out what was going on. I think I can safely say that we can talk to one another now."

"Yes, I believe it is safe to say that we can talk to one another," Dany chuckled, raising the back of her hand to her mouth to cover her amusement. "If you don't mind my asking, just who is this Master of yours?"

"Not at all," Jon replied, liking the way she smiled and wanting to see more of it. "My Master is – ah! What the–?!"

The darkness and Dany swirled in a wash of colors and disappeared as Jon felt something rough and wet attack his face while something poked him in the shoulder. Shaking his head, Jon found himself once more in the cabin he shared with Robb, Theon, and Sam. The wetness was easily identifiable as Ghost, who was laying on his chest and in the process of cleaning his face with long strokes of his tongue. "Gah, Ghost, get off me boy! I'm awake!"

Pushing Ghost off him, Jon rolled onto his side and found the one who'd been poking him. "Um, sorry about that, Jon," Sam apologized nervously. "But, you…you were muttering in your sleep and wouldn't wake when I tried to wake you. So, I started poking you and –"

"It's fine, Sam," Jon sighed, it was a lie of course, but there was no reason to make Sam any more uneasy than he already was. And he also knew that Sam wouldn't have bothered trying to wake him unless something had happened, and he was told to come and get him. "What's going on?"

"Wh – oh! Right, why I woke you, sorry about that," Sam replied, scratching at the back of his head. "Well, thing is we've reached the Whispering Sound and are turning northwards towards the Citadel. Lord Stark and Lord Nox told me to come and wake you because we should be arriving within a few hours or so."

"The Whispering Sound?" Jon questioned, throwing off the thin blanket he'd been using and swinging his legs over the edge of his bed before rubbing at his eyes as he tried to acclimate being awake. "Right, the bay that leads up directly to Oldtown and the Citadel."

"That's right," Sam nodded before looking down at Jon and quickly turning his back. "Um, right, I'll ah, leave you to get ready then."

Watching Sam bolt out of the room, Jon was left wondering why his friend had made such a hasty retreat until he looked down and saw the reason why. He was in nothing more than his small clothes. 'Damn heat,' he cursed, getting up out of his bed and scrounging around the small cabin looking for his pants and a light shirt to wear. 'At least I'm somewhat used to it though. Poor Robb, this is his first time out of the North and he is not taking to the heat all that well at all. I swear he has to change his shirt twice to three times a day just from the sweat. Too bad we're not heading to Dorne on this trip. I'd love to see how my brother handles that heat.'

The thought of heading to Dorne once more, even if it was just a passing thought, was enough to conjure a face in Jon's sight. An olive-skinned face with dark eyes and frame with dark curling hair. 'Damn it!' Jon cursed, feeling his body reacting to just the mere thought of the Princess of Dorne. 'Not fucking now! Think…snow. No, cold water. Yes, that's it, nothing but cold water. Cold water that would prickle her skin and raise her – shit! Not helping!'

Shaking his head, Jon sat down on his bed and closed his eyes and tried to enter a light meditation as he tried desperately to banish the rather impure thoughts that were racing through his mind about the Princess. Thoughts that she had certainly encouraged with her actions and words during his brief stay at Sunspear. 'Shit, this isn't working either,' Jon cursed, realizing he was losing the battle of control. 'I need to get out of here. Find something to do to distract me and fast.'

Getting up, Jon quickly made his way out of the small cabin, doing what he could to arrange himself so that it wouldn't be obvious he was having a…slight problem. Emerging onto the ship's main deck, Jon took a moment to lean his head back and take in the sun before giving himself a shake and looking around the deck. Truth be told, there wasn't much to do at sea for the most part. Well, there was, but only really for the sailors and not those who were just along for the ride. Robb was standing with their father near the bow of the ship having what seemed like a deep conversation that the sailors were obviously trying to stay clear of to give the two some privacy. Theon was standing at the helm of the ship, one hand resting on the wheel and a more than pleased expression on his face. While Jon might not always get along with the ward from the Iron Islands, though lately their relationship had improved, there was no denying that Theon was indeed at home on the sea and an impressive sailor in his own right.

Walking over to the port side railing, Jon watched as the land of the Reach passed them by as they grew closer to the large mouth of the Honeywine river that would take them inland towards Oldtown and the Citadel. Soon enough, they would be arriving at the Citadel. And the North would be reminding once again of what happens when the wolves are given reason to come south.


High above the busting streets of Oldtown within the confines of the Hightower Leyton Hightower; Lord of the Hightower, the Old Man of Oldtown, Lord of the Port, Defender of the Citadel and Beacon of the South stared southwards down the Whispering Sound while behind him his eldest daughter Malora poured over tome after tome searching for any scrap of information the two could find about the arcane arts. To many of his peers amongst the nobility, his fascination with the arcane was something to scoff at or chuckle uncomfortably. To the faith, his fascination was bordering on heresy according to the Seven. But he did not care for ever changing whims of his peers or the fear mongering of the more devote amongst the faiths ranks. He was an old man, a very old man according to many. He had more children than most and grandchildren. Soon he would even have great-grandchildren. He'd long since past the time where he cared to play the great game. Now he only cared about that which interested him. A fact which he found solace in considering the most recent topic of discussion across Westeros.

The news from the North had completely blindsided almost everyone in Westeros. It wasn't the fact that someone had dared to stage a coup to replace a great house. Nor was it the fact that the perpetrators had broken guest rights, though that did play a small part. No. What truly surprised everyone was that someone would dare to try and move against House Stark during what could be considered the height of their power. The current Lord Stark was a brother in all but blood to the King of Westeros and was a foster son to the current Hand of the King. And if that wasn't influence enough, the North had started prospering under his reign unlike ever before. And, most notably, Stark had the only recognized true magician in all of Westeros sworn to his banner. Why anyone, let alone one of Stark's own bannermen, would try and move against the Starks was a mystery that honestly baffled everyone.

The easiest answer was simply for power. But it had to be more than that. The rivalry between the ancient Kings of Winter and the Red Kings was perhaps the oldest and bloodiest rivalry in all of Westeros. But descendants of the Red Kings had been idle for centuries. And there would've been plenty of times for them to act. The latest of which would've been during the Rebellion against the Targaryens. Had the Boltons switched sides and brought the North back to the dragons, they would've been immediately awarded with Wardenship of the North. But they had not. Which again raised the question: why act now? What was there to gain from this? And why did they think that they're plan would work? Even if they had succeeded in ending the Stark line and the Sorcerer, King Robert would've been out for blood. And he wouldn't have stopped until everyone responsible for ending the wolves was dead.

'I suppose their motivations don't really matter now,' Leyton thought, fiddling with his short cut beard. 'The Bolton's and their allies are dead, exiled, or on their way to the Wall. And the only thing of true note that they managed to accomplish was to kill the current Lady Stark and one of Stark's pups along with a few other lords and ladies. Though, that isn't necessarily true. They did manage to do one other thing, though I doubt it was their intention. And that was to reaffirm Lord Stark's and Lord Nox's reputations throughout the land.'

While it was true that both men had suffered loss during the attempted coup, both had come out at the end with reputations that would make even Tywin Lannister envious. Stark was now seen as not only one of, if not the, most honorable men in all of Westeros. But he now had a reputation for doing what needed to be done even if it got his hands bloodied. The way that he executed the Lords and even a Lady… It wasn't the most gruesome or inventive execution he'd ever heard of. But it was still quite the statement. And Lord Nox…By the Seven. If the rumors about what and how he executed, or rather imprisoned, Lyn Corbray were true then… Well…he wasn't even quite sure just what to think then. Only that the Sorcerer was holding back on them all and they had yet to truly see just what the man could do. Though considering the word was that Lyn Corbray had run the newly made Lady Nox through with his sword and ended up killing the babe in her womb, Leyton felt that the punishment fit the crime. If anyone were to harm any of his children…he would make sure that their end was a memorable one.

And outside of the tale traveling through simple word of mouth wasn't enough, apparently the bards across the land were all scrambling to try and create the next 'Rains of Castamere'. 'I doubt those fools could've imagined a larger failure on their part,' he thought, thinking of the Lords and Ladies that tried to revolt against the Starks. 'They not only failed to end the line of the wolves and the sorcerer. And in the end, they only made the Starks and the Sorcerer seem that much more impressive.'

For not the first time, he truly cursed his daughter and her actions that led to him losing his only connection to the North. When he'd first heard of the Sorcerer after the Greyjoy Rebellion, he, like every other noble in the land, immediately started to try and find a way to get a set of eyes and ears in the North to learn everything they could about the man. And as if it were a gift from the Seven, an opportunity was presented at the very next tourney hosted by the King after the failed rebellion when Jorah Mormont managed to win the joust and asked for his daughter's hand in marriage.

Part of him knew that the marriage would lead to disaster. His daughter was, to put it bluntly, a spoiled child who had never truly faced any hardships. And while the Mormonts were a family of note across Westeros, they were also recognized as perhaps one of the poorest of the nobility in the realm who were consistently fighting off raid after raid of pirates and wildlings. But in the end, he'd been convinced to go along with the marriage. Jorah had proven himself on the field of battle and was an epitome of curtesy every time they spoke. His daughter was at least infatuated with the man from the North, so there would be no problems there. While there was a fair bit of distance between Winterfell and Bear Island, the Mormonts were considered one of Stark's principle bannermen. He also would get his set of eyes and ears in the North perhaps before anyone else. So, with no small amount of trepidation, he gave his blessing.

Unfortunately, it all fell through rather quickly. His daughter who'd grown up in the comforts of Oldtown was nowhere near prepared for the harsh reality that was Northern life. Within a few moons of their marriage, she was writing home constantly complaining about one thing after another. He tried to focus her, turn her into a proper lady, but his attempts failed. Within a few years, the union between his daughter and Jorah had gone sour as the Lord of Bear Island spent nearly every coin his House had trying to keep his wife happy. And then the day inevitably came when he could not provide her with what she wanted, and he had to resort to selling poachers into slavery to make some coin to please her. Of course, Stark found out nearly immediately and called upon Jorah to answer for his crimes. But instead of manning up, the Lord of Bear Island fled Westeros with Leyton's daughter and the two had not been seen or heard of for moons.

Members of his family blamed the North for forcing Lynesse to flee Westeros in disgrace. And many in the North blamed House Hightower for the dishonoring and bankrupting of House Mormont through his daughter's actions. And while there was validity to both arguments, the truth of the matter laid in the middle. Both his daughter and the foolish Jorah were at fault. And now he was stuck with trying to figure out a way to salvage relations with the North. If for no other reason than to once again try and gain access to the Northern Sorcerer.

"My lord," a servant called out as a knock sounded on his door. "You have a message from Archmaester Marwyn of the Citadel, my lord."

"Enter," Leyton said, not bothering to turn around as the servant quickly entered and gave him the message before scurrying back out of the room.

Unfurling the message, Leyton carefully read over the words of perhaps the one other man in this city that shared the same passion for the arcane as he did. 'My Lord, I regret to inform you of a grave injustice committed by a group of my fellow Archmaesters. A plot has been hatched, one that you no doubt have heard about. And I am ashamed to admit it, it has come to my attention that the true minds behind the plot reside here in the Citadel. A fact which is known to those who have been wronged. And they are coming to see that justice is meted out. I implore you, my Lord, to come to the docks with all haste and meet with those who are coming to seek justice. While I know that this will end in bloodshed, my lord, my hope is that with your presence we will be able to minimize the life that will be lost to only those who truly deserve it. Your faithful servant, Archmaester Marwyn.'

'What does he mean by this?' Leyton thought, lowering the letter as his gaze shifted towards the Citadel. 'A plot has been hatched by the Citadel? And it is one I know of?' As much as he enjoyed the company of the Archmaester, there were times when he wished the man would cease his cryptic tongue and talk plainly.

"Father?" Malora asked, nearly making him start as he'd been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't even heard her approaching until she'd laid a hand on his shoulder. "What did the Archmaester say to put you in such a state, father?"

"Just his usual cryptic tongue, daughter," Leyton sighed, handing over the letter to his daughter and letting her read it. "You understand his mind better than I, daughter. What do you make of this?"

Taking the letter, Malora turned it around twice before reading it over. "It seems obvious, father," his daughter said, handing the letter back. "The Maesters wronged someone greatly, and they are coming to take revenge. And Archmaester Marwyn is asking for your help in not stopping the revenge from taking place, but rather in preventing unneeded bloodshed."

"That much is obvious," Leyton sighed, taking the short missive back and reading it over once more, trying to see if he missed anything. "But the question is: who is coming?"

His daughter's head cocked slightly to the side as she stared past him out towards the city scape. "Perhaps them?"

Following her line of sight, Leyton squinted towards the south. Far south of the city, still little more than dots on the horizon, were several ships traveling up the Whispering Sound towards the city. Picking up a nearby Myrish Eye Glass, a prized possession of his though now he began to doubt just how 'prized' it truly was with the North making similar objects, Leyton brought the cylinder up to his eye and tried to make out the ships on the horizon. They were still far away, perhaps a quarter of a day at most. But with the eye glass he could just barely make out the blurry colors flying atop the mast of the ships. "A grey wolf on a field of white," Leyton mumbled lowering the eye glass, "House Stark. But why–?"

As soon as the question came, so too did an answer. A terrible answer that he hoped beyond hope was wrong. 'A plot has been hatched, one that you no doubt have heard about. And I am ashamed to admit it, it has come to my attention that the true minds behind the plot reside here in the Citadel. A fact which is known to those who have been wronged. Those were Marwyn's exact words. Could he…no…It's impossible. The Maesters would not be that…well… Shit.'

"Guards!" Leyton shouted, prompting the two guards of House Hightower that were constantly outside the room to rush in. "I'm descending from the Hightower and heading to the port. Get an honor guard assembled to meet me at the base of the tower immediately!"

The two men didn't hesitate before slamming their fists to their chest and running back out of the room to see his orders done.

"Father," Malora called out tentatively as Leyton began rushing about the room.

"Not now, daughter," Leyton snapped at his eldest daughter as he got himself ready to head to the port. "The wolves only come south when they've been given reason to do so. And it never bodes well for the South whenever they do. And now, if Marwyn is indeed correct, then the Maesters might as well have just given the Starks the justification they need to make the entirety of the Order of the Maesters just a little memory. And if Stark brought the sorcerer with him…then I fear there is little we can do to stop them."


Standing on the bow of the ship, Nox let his senses flow freely before him as the three northern vessels made their way up the Honeywine towards perhaps one of the oldest and largest cities in all of Westeros. 'Oldtown,' Nox thought with a small amount of mirth. 'These primitives surely are inventive in their nomenclature. One of the oldest, largest cities in Westeros, perhaps the world. Let's call it 'Oldtown'.'

Name aside however, Nox could admit that the city itself was indeed impressive for a primitive world such as this. Oldtown was a city divided by the Honeywine, yet at the same time it managed to seemingly remain one city. The banks of the Honeywine were lined with docks and buildings with hundreds of people milling about their daily lives. And scattered within the river itself were dozens of small isles that had also been turned into one building or another. There was even one such isle that was only large enough to house a single structure, and low and behold, someone had decided to build what he sensed was an inn of sorts. But what truly surprised him was the smell. There was very little stench that he would've expected in such a large city given this world's current age. In fact, the air smelled almost…flowery. No doubt either the artisans and flower merchants of the city were obscenely numerous, or whoever oversaw the cisterns and sewers took their job extremely seriously.

And standing tall above everything on an isle all to itself was the impressive Hightower, the seat of House Hightower. The tower, or more accurately an oversized lighthouse, was a structural marvel. It easily stretched well over seven-hundred feet into the air if he had to guess, easily classifying itself as a skyscraper amongst any civilization under the Empire or the Republic. 'Just when I think I have seen all I can of the capabilities of the people of this land, they keep finding new ways of impressing me with their engineering prowess.' Nox thought as he carefully felt out the Hightower.

But as interesting as the massive lighthouse was, Nox quickly set it aside as he felt a peculiar disturbance in the Force. A disturbance emanating from the northern portion of the city. A part of the city that he knew held the Citadel. 'Interesting. There appears to be at least one Force sensitive in the Citadel. Though, they are either incredibly ill trained or too young to have received proper instruction. Either way, given the Maesters' apparent feelings on anything they cannot rationally explain, this individual's presence is…surprising.'

Pushing away from the bow of the ship, Nox turned his attention back to those onboard with him. The men of the North were thirsty for blood. And after weeks of boredom and with their target now so close, the tension on the ship was thick enough to cut with a knife. Unfortunately, he and Ned were of two different minds on how to approach the matter. Ned wanted to approach Lord Hightower and explain their presence before going to the Citadel. And while that option was prudent, it was not in line with what Nox was thinking. Nox was more inclined to go the true Sith route. Which also happened to be the same mindset almost every other man and woman of the North had as well. Simply walk up to the Citadel and start killing anyone who got between himself and this apparently hidden order within the Maesters' ranks.

Ned held firm in his belief of less violence for a time, but eventually his own desire for vengeance and the pressure he was getting from his bannermen wore him down and he agreed with Nox's plan of storming the Citadel directly. Though he had insisted that they would not start executing anyone until they had absolute proof of their misdeeds that they could present to Lord Hightower. While Nox was more than confident that he could simply sweep aside any token force the Lord Hightower could muster in retaliation for the attack on the Citadel, he decided to at least humor his friend this time around and follow his lead on dealing with the Maesters. And in return, Ned had promised not to get in his way of raiding the Citadel for whatever lost knowledge he could find within its depths. After all, he was still the former Head of the Pyramid of Ancient Knowledge of the Sith Order. And to him, while there wasn't anything better than destroying those who'd dared to wrong him, raiding a repository of knowledge that was fiercely guarded and coveted was a close second.

Making his way towards the helm, he found Ned standing tall with Robb and Jon beside him each with their direwolves beside them. It still amazed Nox slightly just how seamlessly the Starks were able to bond with the wild beasts. Granted, bonding with an animal was something even a novice Force user could do with ease. But in this case, the bond seemed to form with little force or action required. And the effects of the Force on the wolves was already starting to become noticeable. Winter, Ned's direwolf, was nearly the size of a pony when they'd first come across her months ago in the North. Now, her lean frame had filled out slightly as she had grown several inches making her bigger than the average pony, though still not as large as a horse. While the changes in the mother wolf might not necessarily be too noticeable, the changes in the wolf pups were very apparent. Despite being only a few months old at best, both Grey Wind and Ghost look at least a year old if not more. And both had started to mimic their bondmates personalities to a degree. It was a fascinating phenomenon. And one that made him want to investigate the 'skinchanging' that was said to still be alive and well north of the Wall.

Taking his place next to Ned and Jon, Nox turned and faced towards the Citadel as the ship they were on slowly started approaching the massive structure that stretched over both banks of the Honeywine and was interconnected with arching stone bridges. Truly, yet another marvel.

"There's a set of docks up ahead, Lord Stark," Theon called out, the young lad had all but refused to leave the helm ever since Oldtown came in sight. No doubt the boy felt a need to prove himself seeing as how his sister had managed to 'raid' Valyria and come back to tell the tale.

"The Weeping Dock," Ned responded emotionlessly. "Bring us in, Theon."

Theon's chest puffed out at the command from Stark as he began issuing commands of his own to the crew of the ship. "Aye, Lord Stark, alright lads! Get your asses moving! Drop all sails and get ready to throw the ropes!"

While the others focused on getting the ship ready to dock, Nox turned his attention once more to the strange Force presence he'd sensed. The presence was closer now than before. Much closer. In fact, the presence was on the very dock they were heading towards. Focusing on the dock, Nox felt his brow raise at the tangle of emotions he felt emanating from nearly two dozen or so that were present. Fear. Anxiety. Hope. And an unmistakable air of superiority that could only come from those born of privilege.

"It seems that our arrival has been expected, Ned," Nox said, pointing towards the docks. "It seems at least one Maester and some nobles have decided to throw us a welcoming party."

Taking up the eyeglass that they had onboard, a recent addition to the ever-growing portfolio of the Northern glass trade, Ned stared off towards the dock. "City guards, the guards of House Hightower, and…Lord Hightower himself. Along with a Maester," Ned counted off, lowering the eye glass. "Are they hostile?"

Reaching out once more, Nox made a brief pass over the lot assembled. Though he nearly did a double take as he felt something push back against his probe momentarily. 'Apparently not as ill trained as I first thought. Still has a lot to learn however.' "No," Nox said, answering Ned's question. "Plenty of fear and anxiety. But I do not sense any open hostility coming from those waiting to receive us."

"Do they know why we are here?" Robb asked, giving voice to the question no doubt everyone was thinking.

"Perhaps," Ned answered before Nox could. "Either someone else figured out the actions of the Maesters and had them thrown in the cells. Or, more likely, the Maesters responsible learned of our impending arrival and all fled. Either way, Lord Hightower's presence here says that he is hoping to avoid as much bloodshed as possible. And unlike some, we will honor guest rights if they are given."

If he could, Nox would roll his eyes at his friend. Granted, Nox had managed to loosen the stick that'd been firmly jammed up Ned's ass years ago. But it was still stuck up there and held in place by the man's sense of honor. "Oh, very well. Take all the fun out of it," Nox sighed dramatically. "We'll do this your way Ned."

"Aye," Ned nodded before sweeping his gaze around all the Northmen on board. "Everyone will keep your weapons sheathed at all times. The first man of the North to bare steel without cause will find himself manning the Wall the moment we step foot back in the North."

The northern men were clearly not pleased with the order, especially the Greatjon and the She-Bear. But their loyalty to House Stark combined with Ned's threat of banishing them to the Wall was more than enough to override their displeasure. As the ship drew ever closer to the docks, the sailors onboard began tossing ropes over the side of the ship and into the waiting hands of the deckhands that quickly went about tying them off. Nox, Ned, Jon, Robb and the wolves were all moving even as the gangplank was still being lowered down onto the deck. Winter, ever the protective mother, jumped in front of Ned and with one move leapt off the ship and down onto the dock, scaring away all of the dock hands and causing more than one blade to be drawn as the she-wolf bared her fangs at anyone who dared approach her.

"Winter, enough," Ned's calm voice was like iron, and the wolf immediately ceased her growling and sat back on her haunches as she waited for the rest of them to disembark from the ship.

Stepping off the gangplank, Ned reached and gently scratched between the wolf's ears as if she were nothing more than a house dog, rather than a pony-sized wolf who could easily rip a man's arm clean from its socket. As they approached the end of the dock, the city watch and guardsman finally overcame their shock at seeing a supposedly mythical beast and moved quickly to place themselves between those on shore and the northern contingent.

"Put your weapons away, all of you!" a powerful voice ordered from behind the wall of men.

Stopping next to Ned near the end of the dock, the two of them waited as two elderly men all but forced their way through the guards. The one on the left had an air of confidence and strength that spoke of years of leadership. While the other made Nox want to immediately reach for his lightsaber as he heard the telltale sound of chain links rattling against one another with each step he took.

"Lord Hightower," Ned greeted the elderly man on the left with a little more than a slight lowering of his head in respect for the man's reputation. The Maester was ignored.

"Lord Stark," Lord Hightower greeted him in return before Nox felt his attention shift over to himself. "And you would be Lord Nox, would you not? Your reputation proceeds you."

Nox merely hummed before turning his attention towards the Maester who was standing just behind Lord Hightower. Strangely enough, the man wasn't afraid. Yes, anxious and cautious, but not afraid. If anything, he felt…excited. An odd emotion to be so dominant all things considered. But now that he was this close, there was no doubt in Nox's mind that it was this man that was giving off the strange Force presence. "I take it that you are the reason that our arrival was not a surprise." Nox stated, nodding his head towards the Maester.

"That I am, Lord Sorcerer," the Maester said, swallowing hard as he stepped up beside Lord Hightower. "I am Archmaester Marwyn of the Citadel and – and I know why you have come. Why all of you have come. The Citadel, or rather those in charge particularly my fellow Archmaesters. Have wronged you all greatly. I am here to make amends for that wrongdoing."

"'Amends?'" The Greatjon all but shouted, rushing forward and prompting the city watch and the guards of House Hightower to all drop their hands to their hilts once more as the gigantic man raised his damaged right arm. "You fuckers did this to me! You lot made the North bleed the blood of her own! The last to willingly spill the blood of the North were fucking dragons and look what happened to those cunts!"

Jon's wince was thankfully internal as his Apprentice managed to keep his face stoic despite the sharp reminder of just how and why he came into being. The Archmaester, much to his credit, did not back down from the angry giant standing before him.

"Let go of your weapons, now!" Lord Hightower demanded, his voice and sheer aura leaving no room for argument as he addressed both his own men and the men of the north. "Lord Stark, there is clearly much that needs to be discussed. I ask you now as a Lord of the realm and a man of the North, will you abide by guest rights once they are offered?"

"Aye, we will," Ned answered immediately, sending a look towards the Greatjon which immediately made the larger man huff and backstep so that he was once again standing behind Stark.

"Good," Lord Hightower nodded. "Bring forth bread and salt. Then we will talk."

A handful of servants weaved their way through the line of soldiers timidly, each carrying a tray of cut bread and small piles of salt needed to complete the guest rites. Taking a small piece, Nox added a pinch of salt and quickly ate his bread as he wanted to get on with this as quickly as possible. Feelings that were reflected in the rest of the Northern contingent as they all did the same as him.

"Thank you for your willingness to listen, my lords," Marwyn said gratefully, a bit of his anxiety leaving him now that the guest rites had been completed. "Please, walk with me to the Citadel. There is much to discuss and none of it pleasant I am afraid."

"The Order of the Guiding Hand," Ned stated without any sense of tact, something that Nox was still working on with his friend, as they began walking down the cobbled streets of Oldtown. "Who are they?"

The spike of anxiety returned full force in the Archmaester as he led the procession through the streets and towards the Citadel. "A group of fools with delusions of grandeur. They believed themselves to be the 'true rulers of Westeros' since before the time of the Targaryens. For centuries they have been hiding in the shadows and manipulating events within Westeros to try and create what they felt was the best future possible. I wish that I could tell you that the atrocity that was committed in Winterfell was the worse of their crimes. But that is not so."

"And how do you know that?" Robb piped up from behind his father, his anger simmering like a low burning fire.

"Because, while they're very secretive and selective, even within the halls of the Citadel, they were arrogant. Arrogant enough that they kept immaculate records of their members and every deed they have put into motion since their inception and even some that have not yet been planted." Marwyn answered, shocking almost everyone present.

"They…wrote down what they've done?" Lord Hightower asked, completely flabbergasted at the audacity. "Why?"

"I'm afraid I know not, my Lord," Marwyn sighed. "Arrogance? A desired to gloat? I cannot say. But for the past few days I have had acolytes that I trust, acolytes that have sworn themselves to silence, going over all of their notes and categorizing them based on which Houses or people in Westeros were affected."

"I want to see what you have," Stark demanded with the chill of winter in his voice.

Marwyn nodded as if he expected as much. "And we'll give you what you desire, Lord Stark. However, I fear I can only give to you that which pertains to your House or the North as a whole. Some of what we have found has been quite…personal in nature. Facts and acts that could and will affect the landscape of the nobility of Westeros. And because of the Maesters' oaths to observe, record, and advise only, I cannot simply give you something that would give you leverage over another House. And before you ask me again, Lord Stark, ask yourself this. Would you want all of the Houses in Westeros to know of every secret that House Stark has kept over even the last few centuries?"

Nox immediately had to reappraise the man as his words settled in. Apparently, the man was a far better player of the game than he'd originally let on. Giving out information of sins committed against the families of Westeros was all well and good, but he also hid a thinly veiled threat in there as well if you knew what to look for. He said point blank that some of the information in the notes left by the Order of the Guiding Hand could all but destroy the political landscape of Westeros and lead to war. Information that only he and those he trusted most, knew about. And then the question on whether Ned wanted House Stark's secrets to be revealed to the realm. In translation, 'I die and I'm taking as many down as I can with me'.

Mercifully, Stark seemed to be taking some of Nox's lessons to heart as he caught onto the hidden meaning behind the Maester's words as well. "Then we shall see if you hold true to your oaths better than your fellow Maesters have."

As they moved through the cobbled streets, Nox could feel hundreds of eyes peering at their group as they made their way down the short distance towards the Citadel. 'Not surprising,' Nox shrugged, used to being an object of curiosity. 'A contingent of Northmen arrive with a wolf the size of a small horse and are being guided down the streets by an Archmaester and the Lord Hightower. This is probably the most interesting sight these people have seen in their entire lives.'

But where Nox was used to such attention and Ned was able to ignore the pointed looks, Jon and Robb were not. The two boys were constantly looking around as more and more eyes peered out from their homes to try and get a look at what was happening.

"Is it always like this, Master?" Jon asked lowly enough so that only the two of them could hear.

"Usually," Nox replied plainly. "Get used to it, Apprentice. As a Sith, you're going to be garnering a lot of attention in your day. Both good and bad. Best you learn now how to block it out."

As they approached the main gate leading into the Citadel, Nox tilted his head as they came across a pair of large stone sphinxes that stood guard on either side of the gate. 'Appropriate,' Nox mused as their group passed between the large sphinxes. 'Those creatures vary across the galaxy, but they also tend to represent the same thing. Guardians of knowledge.'

As they entered the main yard of the Citadel, their group came to an abrupt stop as they were greeted to an interesting sight. The yard was filled with a combination of Maesters and their acolytes as well as a large group of armed and lightly armored men who were clearly not part of the City Watch or the House guards.

'Sellswords, smart,' Nox thought, approving of what was no doubt Marwyn's actions in securing the Citadel. 'No doubt some of these men had ties with both the City Watch and House Hightower. Using either would've tipped his hand. So instead he went out and hired outside help. Risky, but smart.' And in the middle of the yard surrounded by the armed men was a group of over thirty Maesters who were bound and chained and being forced to stay on their knees.

"Lord Stark, Lord Hightower," Marwyn said, coming around so that he was facing them. "I present to you the members of the Order of the Guiding Hand that are here in the Citadel for your judgement."

Whatever careful hold Stark had on his anger left him as he was brought before the very men who'd set in motion the events that led to the death of his wife and son. Without saying a word, Ned's hand dropped to the hilt of Ice as all thoughts of guest rites left his friend's mind. Not that Nox blamed him. Force, he barely had control of his own want to make these men suffer for what they did and what they tried to do. But unlike his friend, Nox had far more experience with this sort of thing. Like Prince Oberyn had once said, revenge was not a cheap drink that you tried to get through quickly. No, revenge was like the finest of wines. One that you sipped and savored. And Nox was fully committed to savoring every moment of what was about to come.

"My lord!" one of the Maesters shouted from his position as he tried to rise, only for one of the sellswords to force him back down to his knees. "I – I don't know what they told you! But–But it's all lies!"

"Lord Stark!" Lord Hightower all but yelled as a few inches of Ice began to show itself, "I understand your anger my Lord, and you have the right to it. However, the law must still be followed! These men have served the realm and this city for years. And I have yet to see evidence of this treachery you speak of! Before I allow any bloodshed in my city, I must see what evidence you have of their guilt."

Before either Ned or Nox could respond, one of the acolytes of the Maesters stepped forward and handed off two thin books to Marwyn. Cocking his head, Nox observed the acolyte closely, a slight smile coming to him as he saw immediately through the guise they were trying to hide behind. 'Clever.'

"Would you recognize Archmaester Ebrose's own hand my Lord?" Marwyn asked, flipping through one of the books while behind him the Maesters that were on their knees began to tremble in fear.

"Yes," Lord Hightower answered without hesitation.

"Then I trust that this passage here will provide you with all the evidence you need, my Lord, pertaining to their actions regarding the attempted coup in the North. With Lord Stark's permission, of course."

After Ned gave a nod of acceptance, Lord Hightower took the book from Marwyn and started reading. The sweet taste of fear and thoughts of impending doom fill the air, acting as an almost aphrodisiac to Nox as a few of the Maesters began to whimper and cry. It'd been so long since he'd been in this position, of holding your enemy's life in your hand and watching them squirm as they waited for the death blow to come. To a Sith, there were few better moments that times like these.

"And if their actions against House Stark are not enough," Marwyn added as he held out the second book for Lord Hightower to take. "Then I believe this will be sufficient. It is in Archmaester Benedict's hand. And it concerns both House Hightower and House Mormont."

Lord Hightower, his anger threatening to boil over, all but threw the book he had been reading towards Ned before snatching the second book out of Marwyn's hands. And he wasn't the only one who was now interested as Maege Mormont came over and stood next to Hightower, her one remaining good eye reading what was within the book just as quickly as Lord Hightower's two. If the two had been angry before reading whatever was in that book, they both were now apocalyptic. And with that change, the fate of the Maesters was sealed.

"Is there a way to discern who is a part of this…Order…and who is not?" Lord Hightower asked through clenched teeth, his rage to such a point that the man was visibly shaking as he tried to keep himself in check.

A resigned feeling settled in over Marwyn as the elder Maester nodded. "Yes. On top of keeping record of all their misdeeds, they also marked all those involved in the Order. Bronn, bring one of them forward."

One of the sellswords kicked one of the kneeling Maesters away from the rest of the kneeling Maesters. Once they were close, the sellsword put his fist into the Maesters gut, forcing him to bend over before roughly grabbing his hair near his right ear and pulling it back painfully.

"They all got this mark here," the sellsword stated, pointing towards a spot behind the Maester's ear. "And all of these fuckers behind us all go the same thing in the same spot."

Through the Force, Nox was able to see what the sellsword was pointing at. A small black mark reminiscent of a handprint but smaller than a fingernail had been tattooed onto the man's skin near the fold of his ear. A good place to put a mark as no could see it without moving aside the person's hair and folding their ear. And if on the off chance anyone did catch a glimpse of it, it could simply be passed off as a birthmark or a something else.

'Well, this just keeps getting easier and easier,' Nox thought with a smirk as Ned and Hightower both leaned over to inspect the man's mark.

"And there is one more thing Lord Stark." Marwyn said while motioning for the sellsword to bring the gasping Maester back into line with the others. "Something that I believe you will want to take care of personally. Bronn, bring him forth."

The sellsword, Bronn, frog marched the bound and gasping Maester back to the others before grabbing a hold of a younger Maester by the hair and dragged him forth. While Nox could only sense a vague recollection to the lad, who was more than likely somewhere in his early twenties or so, Ned did recognize him. "Ebbert Whitehill," Ned hissed, drawing more than a few curses and spits from the northerners. "Son of Ludd Whitehill."

"He is a man of the North, not yet a full Maester." Marwyn stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "As such, I felt it prudent to single him out should you wish a separate fate for him."

The young Whitehill trembled as his fear spiked and the unmistakable smell of piss permeated the air. "Ah shit," the sellsword Bronn cursed, cuffing Ebbert on the head hard enough to drop the lad, "fucker pissed himself. If ya got any piss on me, boy, I'll be taken the cleaning out on you."

"There is no need to single him out," Ned declared, motioning for the sellsword to bring the lad back in line with the others. "The Whitehills are no longer of the North, and this one gave up his family name well before that when he decided to join the Maesters. His fate will be the same as the others."

"One moment," Nox called out as the sellsword was about to drag the young man back to await his fate with the other Maesters. Walking in close, Nox spoke loud enough so that everyone could hear him. "There's something you should know first. The letter you sent your father, the one where you begged him to trust in the order and their plan to overthrow the Starks, your father didn't burn the letter, he kept it. With the express purpose of using it to leverage his freedom should the need arise. He was more than willing to throw you to the wolves, literally and figuratively, if it meant that he could keep breathing for a few more years."

Ebbert's breath hitched as anguished washed through his fear and took hold.

"That's right, boy," Nox smiled, leaning over so that his cloth covered eyes were pointed towards him, "take heart in the fact that it did no good. Your father sang like a songbird barely a few moments into my questioning of him and willingly gave up both yourself and your letter to make the pain stop. How does it feel, boy? To know that your father was willing to sell you out to save his own life? You tried to get back into your family after leaving for the Maesters, only to fail. You betrayed the North and failed. You betrayed the Order of the Guiding Hand by sending that letter, the same letter which led us right to them. Everything you have done is centered around betrayal and failure. That, boy, that is the legacy you will take to the grave with you."

Ebbert's anguish reached a fevered pitch as the boy collapsed in on himself and began crying, his world destroyed. 'Ah, such a rush! I have missed this sensation!' Nox smiled, feeling euphoric at having completely destroyed one of those who helped bring about the death of his son. "And now, Ebbert Whitehill, you have my permission to die."

Righting himself, Nox walked back towards Ned and the boys, more than pleased with the way things had been going. Though, he would admit that he had been hoping for some small token of resistance. The fact that the Maesters just rolled over for them was, mildly disappointing. But the fact that it was an Archmaester who ended up selling out his fellow Archmaesters to save himself and most of the other Maesters made the outcome slightly better to his more Sith side.

"Fetch a block," Lord Hightower bellowed, his murderous intent almost as great as Ned's own. "With Lord Stark standing as witness, I, Lord Leyton Hightower, do hereby find you lot guilty of attempted sedition, oath breaking, and hundreds of other crimes that I'm sure we haven't uncovered yet. And I hereby sentence the lot of you to die."

"There will be no need for a block, Lord Hightower. Unless you press the issue." Ned stated loudly and clearly, his attention shifting towards Nox and his other vassals momentarily before focusing in again on the condemned Maesters.

This had been a point of contention between Ned, Nox, and the Northern Lords and Lady since they left port. Ned, originally, had been of the mind to simply take their heads and be done with it. But that did not sit well with the others. It was too quick in their minds. The Greatjon especially had wanted all of the Maesters to suffer the Northern Traitors fate. But that argument was placed aside when Ned pointed out, rightfully, that that form of execution was reserved only for Norther Lords and Ladies who betrayed the North. And while the Maesters had certainly broken their oaths and betrayed the people of the North, they were not of the North. And therefore, by the letter of the law, could not be subject to that form of execution.

The idea was then floated around to have them suffer the same fate as Lyn Corbray. And while Nox agreed with the idea, in practicality he had to shoot the idea down. The creation of a single Mind Prison, and an incomplete one at that, took far more out of him than he cared to admit. The idea of creating dozens of them over a short span of time…it was just not feasible. With those two methods of execution ruled out, the Northerners had started to become quite…creative in how they wished to dispatch the Maesters. Some of which had surprised even Nox with their brutality. In the end, a compromise of sorts had been verbally agreed upon. Now it was time to see if Ned truly had started to shed his 'honorable' self and embraced the lineage of the Kings of Winter.

"These men betrayed not only the North, but the entirety of Westeros as well," Ned stated, his voice as cold as the coldest of winter nights. "An example must be made."

As dusk neared, a large crowd had gathered upon the wall of Oldtown facing towards the north as they watched the spectacle unfold on the side of the Roseroad. The sound of the steady beating of hammers on nails and the screams of agony and pleas for mercy drowning out almost all other sounds. Along the Roseroad at equal intervals thick posts nearly twice as tall as a man had been secured into the ground while a second post roughly a quarter the length of the first had been set aside. One by one, the Maesters who'd been part of the Order of the Guiding hand were led to each post and stripped down until they were in nothing more than their small clothes. They were then forced onto the ground with their legs spaced out upon the smaller beam on the ground. Their legs were then secured to the beams with large nails driven through their ankles and then further secured with leather straps to ensure their weight would not pull them down.

Once a Maester was secured, a team of men would lift the beam and set it atop and secure it to the standing post, leaving the Maesters to hang upside down with blood running down their legs from where the nails had pierced their flesh. Then, to ensure that there was no mistake as to what their crimes were, a writ of their crimes and guilt was then nailed into their chests, taking care to make sure the nails avoided their hearts lest their suffering end too soon. And as a last act, to make sure that their identities were known to all, their Maester chains were wrapped around their hands and attached to the posts holding them upside down. And to make sure that the message stuck, all of the surviving Maesters and Acolytes of the Citadel had not only been forced to come out and watch alongside the road as their fellows were strung up, but they were also required to write out the writs of condemnation and prepare the posts and beams to which the Maesters would be executed upon.

By the time the last of the Maesters were strung up, the line of still suffering men stretched for nearly a quarter of a mile beyond the walls of Oldtown. And through it all, Nox, Ned, Lord Hightower, Marwyn, Robb and Jon all stood and watched as each man was strung up. Ned and Lord Hightower never once faltered; their faces set in stone as they watched the executions take place. The boys though, he could feel their unease as easy as one could feel the cold during a blizzard. But both boys impressed him as, while they might be uneasy on the inside, both remained just as stoic as the rest of them. But as the last of the bodies were strung up and the group started the slow walk down the line of the condemned back to the city, Nox could feel the boys' strength start to waver as the sheer brutality of what they were witnessing began to wear down on their young minds.

"I take it that you will be making your way to King's Landing next, Lord Stark, to explain what happened here to the King in person," Lord Hightower half-stated, half-asked as they made their way down the line of still-suffering Maesters.

"Aye," Ned nodded. "Robert will need to be informed of this. And despite my history with his grace, this will require my presence to explain."

Lord Hightower nodded in understanding. "I will have a team of horses prepared for the journey. And I will add my voice to your own in explaining this, Lord Stark. I will also speak with the Septons at the Starry Sept and gain their approval as well to help quell any dissent that might come. All I ask is one day to set things in motion before we head out to speak with his grace about what happened here today."

Nox was surprised that the old Lord of Oldtown was willing to make the trip to King's Landing. Though, he supposed given what he had allowed to happen with the Maesters he would need to present himself to the King to explain what happened and how he had no knowledge of their plots.

"In your absence, my Lord, I would like to request the service of some of your riders to deliver messages," Marwyn said as the city gates drew closer.

"Why?" Hightower asked, his tone, much like Ned's, completely ice when addressing the Archmaester.

"Because there are still many scattered across Westeros that are part of this 'Order of the Guiding Hand'," Marwyn explained as they crossed under the archway leading into the city. "And while normally I would send such messages by raven, I fear that in this instance the ones who would be receiving the ravens first would be those who are guilty of treason. And would thereby escape justice from those they have wronged."

Lord Hightower pondered Marwyn's words for only a moment before giving his consent. "Very well. I'll send the orders out tonight and the men will report to you first thing in the morning for instructions. Lord Stark, Lord Nox. I invite you both to the Hightower. I shall have rooms prepared for you and your men until we depart."

"The offer is appreciated, Lord Hightower, but you need not spare the expense on my part," Nox stated, earning a look from both Ned and the Lord of Oldtown. "We are only spending a single day here. And I intend to spend every moment of it going through as much of the Citadel as I can before we leave."

"I would be more than happy to escort you to the Citadel, my Lord," Marwyn nearly shouted as whatever lingering fear and anxiety he had quickly became overridden by excitement. "I will have my acolytes prepare a workspace and be ready to assist you in any manner you need."

"Good," Nox nodded before clapping Jon on the shoulder. "And you won't need to worry about this one either. He'll be joining me as well. As will Robb and Theon, lest they fear falling even further behind my Apprentice here."

"What?" Both Jon and Robb said nearly simultaneously, stopping in their tracks as the four elder men kept marching towards the Citadel with the cries of the condemned fading behind them.