Ned

It was bitterly cold as they neared Last Hearth, the wind cutting through their furs and leathers, leaving them chilled to the bone after four days of riding.

Ned bloody loved it.

After his time in the south, slowly roasting to death in that stinking shit-heap of a city, he resolved that never again would he venture south of the Trident. Starks were built for the North, he knew, the ice in their veins melting in the heat of the South. It had happened to his sister, his brother, his father, and himself—even his son, the first King in the North in centuries, was unable to fend off the political machinations of the ambitious southerners he was fighting. No, for him to feel the icy wind and the gentle snowfall was a source of great comfort. He was home.

Robert, on the other hand, was not finding it quite as enjoyable—the former king sat atop his horse, shivering whenever a gale hit him, cursing as he flexed his frozen fingers. 'Gods, Ned. How do your lot ever manage to feel comfortable in this? It's not even winter, for fuck's sake.'

'Practice, Robert. Practice, and a lot of furs. Hot springs didn't hurt either.' He looked at the man beside him, noticing just how young and strong he looked, a far cry from the man who'd needed steps to mount his horse. 'You're missing that extra layering you had last time you came North, I'd wager.'

'Ha! Ned Stark, making a joke! Will the wonders never cease?'

'Let's hope they won't for another moon's turn. I feel as though we'll need a miracle to beat the Bolton bastard.'

Robert shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and pulled down his thick hood, looking his foster-brother in the eye. 'Ned…about the bastard…well, not the bastard, but about yours—'

'Jon? What of him?' Ned's voice was clipped, clearly ready for a confrontation.

'You…you kept him in the dark all those years, let him believe he was a bastard, because of me. You really thought I'd have killed him, just because was Rhaegar's?'

'Aye.' He saw no point in lying to spare Robert's feelings.

'You really thought so low of me?'

'It was not what I thought of you, Robert. It was what I'd seen, the bodies of Elia and Aegon and Rhaenys, all wrapped up in a Lannister cloak on the floor of the throne room, with you laughing over their bodies and calling them dragonspawn. I loved you as a brother but didn't even recognise the man before me, and knew that I'd burn the realm to the ground before I let the same fate befall the last piece I had of Lyanna.'

'Truth is, there's no excuse for it. None. Aye, I hated Rhaegar with a burning passion, and I wasn't exactly in my right mind, having been wounded and then dragged down to the capital, but to laugh at those bodies truly was a monstrous thing to do. You had the right of it, Ned. While there are beasts like Clegane and Lorch and Tywin out there, and weak kings like me, the boy will never be safe. But I loved her Ned. Lyanna. No matter what she thought of me, I loved her more than I ever hated Rhaegar. I'd never have harmed the boy.'

'I see that, Robert. But you understand that I couldn't take the chance?'

'Aye.'

With that, Ned smiled, and they rode in companionable silence until they reached the gate of Last Hearth, the chipped stone walls looming before them. A figure, vast and imposing, looked down at them with one eye, the other covered by a simple leather patch.

'Who the fuck're you and what do you want?' the man bellowed, his voice a deep rumble.

'Tell me sir, do you swear loyalty to the Boltons?'

In response, the man simply spat over the battlements, the glob hitting the snow with a quiet splat. 'That's all I have to say to the Boltons. May they and all that follow them rot as worm food, my thick-skulled brother included. Now, answer the bloody question before my men here pepper you with so many arrows you'll be fit to adorn the shield of a fucking Blount.' He spat again.

'I fear you will not believe us if we tell you our true identities,' Ned shouted back up.

'And I fear that you are three seconds away from being shot in the fucking neck! Now tell me, who are you!?'

The two of them dismounted their horses and slowly pulled down their hoods. 'Our names,' Ned began, aware of how unbelievable it all seemed, 'are Eddard Stark, once lord of Winterfell and warden of the North, and Robert Baratheon, once lord of Strom's End and king of the Seven kingdoms.'

'Ha! A fine jape, fine enough that I'll excuse your mockery of our lord, just this once. Now, fuck off.'

'Lord Umb-'

An arrow landed half a foot short of Ned's boot, and he looked up to see another being notched.

'That was a warning! Next time, it'll be your balls!' Laughter broke out from the soldiers on the battlement.

'Mors Umber! That is your name, aye?' Robert at last spoke, the booming volume of his voice rivalling the man above them.

'Aye! And what of it?'

'I fought by your side in the Greyjoy rebellion! Saved your life, if memory serves. At the victory feast in Lannisport you told me that your son—little Daryn, you called him—had died in my own rebellion, and that you blamed yourself for his death every day. Told me how every night you'd dream of cutting the throat of the Dornishman who took him from you!'

The Umber lord stood silently, mouth agape, and Ned took the initiative to continue.

'I visited Last Hearth once, years ago! One of the tips from the gate broke off and near impaled me, remember? A bad omen, you called it, before running off to fix it before your nephew saw. This'll stay between us, Lord Stark, you told me. Now, tell me Lord Umber, do you truly believe that the gods would spare the lives of your guests once, just for them to freeze later while waiting for guest right?'

'Open the gate!'

Robert and Ned led their horses through the gate, where a stable hand took the reins and led the animals away, whilst Lord Umber came down to meet them.

'Lord Umber,' Ned greeted with a slight bow of his head—after all, he wasn't technically a lord anymore, and did not want to overstep his bounds. Robert followed suit, very much in the same boat. 'Might we have some bread and salt?'

'I may be uncouth, but I'm so savage as to refuse a man guest right. Not like the Freys or the Boltons. Now, come inside and you'll receive guest right, as is your due. And then,' he continued, his single eye fixing on Ned with a certain fierceness to it, 'we'll get to the bottom of who you truly are.'

Robert

'Gods, so you…you really are Lord Stark.' With that, realisation dawned on Lord Mors Umber, who turned to Robert. 'Y-your grace, please accept my apologies, I did not recog—'

'Peace, my lord. Now, might I trouble you for some ale?'

Their host stood, leaving the room in search of a servant.

'Robert,' Ned hissed. 'We're not here to drink.'

'Aye, but it couldn't hurt, could it?'

It was late by now, a sliver of moon shining through the windows of a guest room. They'd spent hours convincing him of their identities, trying to explain how they'd appeared beyond the wall, a task easier said than done given how little either of them truly knew about it. It was strangely reminiscent of arguing with toadies in the Red Keep, and RObert found that he didn't care for it one bit. o

'Here we are.' Mors had returned, holding a barrel that Robert was sure would've dwarfed most men under his right arm, his left occupied by some dented metal tankards. 'You'll like this, your grace. Brewed right here, a proper northern drink—you'll not find any of that southern piss in Last Hearth, meaning no offense.'

Robert readily accepted the offered tankard. 'None taken.' He took a deep sip. 'Gods, that's good.'

'Lord Umber, I'm sure you're wondering why we are here,' Ned cut in, his own drink untouched.

'Aye.'

'I'll be blunt. We want the support of House Umber in retaking Winterfell from the Boltons.'

'Who is "we"?'

Ned sucked in uncomfortably. 'When Robert and I came back, there were a number of…other people also present.'

He received a hard glare. 'And these other people were?'

'A few Targaryens, a few Baratheons, some Starks, and a few others.'

'You wish me to pledge my men to fight alongside the fucking dragons? Are you mad?'

'Not mad, my lord. Desperate. We've seen what's out there and know the importance of unity. I assume you've seen how many wildlings have been fleeing south in the last few years?'

'Aye. Never given it much thought though, just happy for the opportunity to crack a few skulls,' Lord Umber responded, much to the amusement of Robert.

'Cold winds are rising, Lord Umber, and the dead rise too.'

Mors scoffed into his tankard. 'You expect me to believe that the Others are coming? The same ones from the stories I heard while at my mother's tit? I'm supposed to think the dead can return?'

'Why not? We did, after all,' Robert shot back. 'I'll tell you what, Lord Umber. From what I've heard, your nephew still rots in the belly of the Twins. Help us take back Winterfell, and I'll personally see to having him freed, and crushing the Late Lord Frey while I'm there.'

All was silent for close to a minute before Lord Umber spoke again. 'How do I know you'll do that? If I send my men to fight alongside you, what's to stop you reclaiming Winterfell and sending them on their merry way?'

'You'd really doubt the famous word of the honourable Lord Stark? The same man who not only warned the Lannisters he was coming after them, but how he'd do so and when he planned to do it?'

'I…I would not. My father would be spinning in his grave to see me even consider not pledging for the Starks.' With that, he took the longsword hanging on the wall and knelt before the two men. 'I, Mors Umber, Castellan of Last Hearth and interim head of House Umber, pledge my men to the cause of Lords Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon.' He stood, groaning as he did so. 'Who've you got, then? Which of the other northern lords will be there?'

Ned and Robert exchanged uneasy looks. 'So far…just you.'

'What! I pledged my men to fight for your army, only to find out that they are the army?'

'Lord Umber, please. As we speak, the others we were with will be gaining allies. Tomorrow, we will be off to Karhold to gai—'

'No use going to Karhold, Lord Stark. No-one's been more loyal to the Boltons, not since your boy made old Rickard shorter by a head.'

Robert would be the first to admit that he wasn't the most intelligent, but even he could see the crippling blow that made against the Starks—not only were they down a potential ally, but they'd be fighting directly against some of the hardiest folk the North had to offer.

Shit.

'Any of your lot going to Ironrath?'

'Where the fuck,' Robert rumbled, 'is Ironrath?'

'No. Gods, how could I have overlooked that? I'd have thought they'd have been destroyed by Roose?'

'Ha! They're still hanging on, although not for a lack of trying on Bolton's part. Lord Gregor and the third-born are dead, but I heard a rumour that the second-born had returned from Essos, a load of pit-fighters in tow.'

'That might just work. It'll be tight, but I believe that if we forget about Karhold we should be able to get there in time. What say you, Robert?'

'If it gives us more men, then I'm all for it.' He downed his drink. 'Not that I relish the idea of traipsing across the bloody North again, but when have I ever got what I wanted?'

'So it's us, your lot, whoever else your lot can get, and a single Forrester. Anyone else?'

Ned grimaced. He hadn't been looking forward to this, Robert knew, for the hatred of the man before them was legendary. 'We, uh, we've got the wildlings and perhaps some Dornishmen.'

'Wildlings! Dornishmen! You want me and mine to fight alongside the rapists that absconded with my daughter, and the murderers who killed my son at the Trident!?'

'Lord Umber, surely you can understand the need for every available man to wield a sword?' Robert asked. 'I'm none too fond of the Dornish either, but we'll have to make do.'

Mors glared at him. 'I gave my word, Lord Robert. I will fight for you, but I trust that my men won't be near any of the Dornish or the wildlings?'

Ned and Robert both shook their heads.

'Fine. Well, Last Hearth is yours for the night, but you'll be on your way at dawn.' It wasn't a question. 'I will be in Torrhen's Square in a moon's turn. I can only hope I'm not the only one.'

With that, Mors Umber turned around and walked out without another word.

'Well,' said Robert. 'That certainly could've gone a lot worse.'

Brandon

Out of all the people who'd come back, why was it him who'd been partnered with Orys Baratheon, the grumpiest bastard to ever be born? A week of travelling, with rarely more than a grunt or single word in response to anything he said was close to driving him to madness.

'So from the sounds of things, the Boltons took the moat from the squids, before dropping it to protect Winterfell better. Now, supposedly, it's where all the refugees from that wedding they mentioned at Castle Black have gone.'

Silence.

'Were you ever married?'

Silence. And then-

'Aye.'

'Of course you were. Daughter of Argilac Durrandon? Arianna, or…Agatha?'

Orys sighed. 'Argella.'

'We all know the story, of course. How you defeated him in single combat, and then had Argella hand-delivered to you. I used to love hearing that story from maester Walys in my lessons'

'That's not how it happened.'

'Sorry?'

'There never was any single combat. Fact is, we had three times his numbers, had them surrounded, and then he was stabbed in the gut by his own men. I killed him, aye, but that was just mercy.'

'And Argella? What happened with her?'

'She came to me surrounded by guards, but not as a delivery, nor a betrayal. She merely told me that I could either marry her and claim legitimate rule of the Stormlands, or that I could continue fighting, never sitting easy out of fear of a knife in the night.'

'Gods. She sounds formidable.'

'Aye.' A strange smile seemed to momentarily flit over Orys' face before disappearing just as fast. 'She was.'

With that, they rode on in silence.

Moat Cailin rose ahead of them, seeming to slowly emerge from the fog, the broken towers creating an eerie silhouette around the empty shell of the keep as the thick mist swirled around it. As the two riders entered, it appeared empty: no-one was in sight, weapons and armour had been left scatted on the ground , no signs of any recent habitation of any kind. They continued to ride through the keep, the hooves of their horses clattering against the stone path, before dismounting when they reached the door to the main hall.

'Are you telling me,' Orys growled, 'that we came all this way for nothing? Nothing at all?'

'So it would seem. Fuck! FUCK!' He kicked an iron hald-felf lying half-submerged in the mud, the dull clang reverberating off the shattered towers looming over the seeming to cut through the muggy air that came just north of the Neck. Brandon composed himself, before turning to Orys, still breathing heavily. 'Oh well. Nothing for it, I suppose. We'd best be on our way if we want to get to Castle Cerwyn in good time?'

The Baratheon glared at him, a fierce glower evident through his hair and beard, before visibly deflating. 'Aye, you might be ri—'

'Achoo!' A sneeze erupted from behind them, appearing to come from a pile of hay at the mouth of the derelict stables. Were he a less suspicious man, Brandon would have been perfectly happy to put it down to the wind, or perhaps a small animal. Having his sister abducted and his father murdered, before being unjustly executed himself, however, had made Brandon nothing if not immediately suspicious.

'Show yourself!' As he spoke his hand moved slowly toward the hilt of his sword.

Nothing happened.

'Show yourself, or I swear to the Old Gods and the New that I'll move hay, one straw at a time, and use them to smother whoever I find in there!'

Hmm. Maybe that's a bit strong. I wouldn't really do that. But they don't know that.

'Ah fuck's sake.' The noise became from beneath the hay, which immediately began to shift, noiselessly moving to the side. 'Do you promise not to hurt us?' The voice was raspy but strong, with a thick Northern accent.

'Aye.' Unless you're loyal to Bolton. In which case you'll have two feet of steel up your arse before you can even say "flayed man."

As all the hay was cleared, a trapdoor opened in the dirt, from which a man emerged, half a dozen others in tow, each looking beat down in broken in one way or another. Brandon squinted at him in recognition.

'Patrek?' Brandon asked. 'Is that you, you snot-nosed little shit?'

'Who are you?' The man in question was dressed in worn leathers, dirtied and plain apart from the faded silver eagle on the left breas, spattered with dried blood. 'I'll ask you again, who the fuck are you?' The red birthmark on his face distorted as he spoke.

'Little Patrek Mallister, all grown up. I remember you hanging round with Edmure. You drank half a skin of wine, I remember, when I was fighting the Baelish boy. Emptied your guts in the godswood, if I recall correctly.'

'But…only Lord Brandon witnessed that?'

'Aye. You were mightily embarrassed. Asked me not to tell anyone, said there was a lass you had your eye on that needn't know you couldn't hold your drink.'

'H-how are you here? You died! And you, you look the same!'

'That I did, and that I do. It's a long story, one much better enjoyed around a fire. We have food enough to share, if we might join you?'

Patrek, still confused, but clearly too fatigued to carry on his interrogation raised a hand, his arm straight and three fingers bent. 'It's alright! They are not foes! At least,' he continued, his voice dropping to a murmur, 'I don't think they are.'

The figure he'd signalled climbed down from the battlement he'd been hiding atop, rocks falling down into the dirt as he descended. He was tall, with broad shouldered and an arrow still nocked in the hunting bow he carried.

'Gods, Brandon,' Brynden Tully remarked. 'Can that really be you? How the fuck are you alive, and what in the seven hells are you doing here?'

Orys

They sat in silence, the glow of the fire illuminating their faces against the rapidly encroaching dusk as they tried to comprehend what they'd been said. The older man who'd been at first hidden was busy adjusting the yellowing bandages on the waist of a woman lying closest to the fire. She looked up at Brandon, her eyes full of pain but her face determined.

'So, is King Robb…' she began, before being racked by a coughing fit.

'Peace, Dacey,' Patrek said. 'You'll be able to ask your questions later.'

Dacey, as she'd been called, glared at the young Mallister lord, before once again fixing Brandon with a look. 'Is Robb alright? I…I was too late to save him. But if he's alright now, then I'd…I'd like to pledge my sword again, if he'll have me?'

'You knew him? Were you…you know?'

'Gods, no. He was far too young. I was his guard, although evidently lacking in that capacity. Got axed in the stomach by a fucking Frey barely a minute into the fight.'

'Don't feel bad, lass,' Orys cut in. 'Seems as though you blame yourself, the boy blames himself, and everyone blames someone else. Fact is, only the Boltons and the Freys seem to are to blame. I mean, should Stark have married that lass from the Westerlands? Absolutely not! and if he were my own I'd give him a swift clout round the ear. But they broke guest right, gave him bread and salt and then stabbed him in the bloody heart.' He spat into the fire, sparks erupting from the flames. 'No greater sin that breaking guest right.'

Dacey smirked. 'And here I thought southerners didn't care for honour.'

'And I thought a woman's place was away from the battlefield,' he retorted, eyeing her bandages. 'But it appears we're both learning new things this night.'

'So,' Brynden spoke at last. 'We know how you came to be here, and as strange as it seems I believe you. That just leaves the question as to why you're here. This isn't the North, after all, and there are quicker ways to get to the Stormlands. So why are you at Moat Cailin?'

'Simple. We mean to take Winterfell from the Boltons so that we might have a base of operations for the Long Night.'

'Gods, Orys! You could've had more subtlety than that!' Brandon shouted.

'Why? It's the truth?'

'You mean to tell us,' Patrek Mallister asked incredulously, 'that the Others are coming? The Others? How about the grumpkins? Or the snarks?'

Brandon and Orys both stood, united in their fury, but were stopped by Brynden. 'I know I shouldn't believe you. There's nothing logical about it, and none of it makes a lick of sense. But then I see you, Brandon. Not some poor imitation, but the flesh and blood man who I found passed out in the stables of Riverrun after your betrothal party.'

'I think you'll find that it was the forge, rather than the stables.'

Brynden had a ghost of a smile on his face. 'See? Only you would've known that. I didn't pull these people from the belly of the Twins just to stay here, licking our wounds. I'll gladly fight alongside you, so long as I'll have the opportunity to stick my sword up the arse of Lord Frey at the end of it.'

'I see no reason that shouldn't be possible. There might be a queue, though.'

'And what of the rest of us?' Patrek asked. 'Five of us won't make much difference against the Boltons.'

Brandon rubbed his chin, deep in thought. 'Are you the head of house Mallister, the Lord of Seagard?

'No. That honour is still my father's. He has remained there since the wedding, fearing for my life as a hostage of Walder Frey.'

'But you are no longer a hostage, are you?'

Realisation dawned on the face of Patrek Mallister.

Brandon continued. 'We passed a farm, not three miles back. They had horses, young and strong, easily able to reach Seagard in a few days of hard riding, for you to ask your father for support in avenging the Red Wedding. As much as I loathe the idea of stealing from the poor, I fear there may be no other choice.'

'Aye, I can do that. Marq, will you go to Pinkmaiden?'

The handsome man who'd remained quiet thus far nodded. 'If I'm to reach Pinkmaiden, I'm not sure we'll be able to make it to Winterfell in time for the battle. Chances are, however, the Freys'll see the Mallisters on their journey north. If we can't get North in time, we'll be damned sure to slow down the weasels before they can reach the Boltons.'

Orys gave a slight grin. 'Excellent. Brynden, what of you?'

'I'll head to Castle Cerwyn.'

'That's where Brandon and I were headed next.'

The Blackfish shook his head. 'There's no point. Did you ever meet Lady Janelle, Bran?'

'Is Lord Medger not still the lord of Cerwyn? Decent enough fellow, as I remember. But no, I never met Janelle.'

'He died at Harrenhal. Anyhow, Lady Janelle is a proud woman, who won't simply believe that the late heir to Winterfell and the first Baratheon have returned. She'd laugh you out of there, and likely send word to Bolton.'

'They're loyal to the Boltons?' Orys asked.

'Yes and no. They'd rally should he call them, but if there was a chance to reinstate the Starks as the lords paramount they wouldn't hesitate to turn on them.'

'Can they be trusted?'

'That's what I intend to find out. I know the catacombs underneath the castle fairly well since I stayed there for a while when I was young, and so should be able to get to lady Janelle without being seen.'

'Excellent,' Brandon responded. 'In that case, me and Orys shall leave at dawn for Torrhen's Square. We will see you there in three weeks.' With that, he made to go to sleep, before turning back to Brynden. 'Was Cat…was she happy, married to Ned? I never loved her, and I won't try to claim that I did. But she deserved to be happy.'

'She thought the world of you, Brandon. Marrying Ned was a step down for her at first, I think. But aye, she found happiness and, dare I say, love in the end.'

'Good.' With a sad smile, Brandon lay his head on the ground, Orys swiftly following suit.

Sleep came down quickly, bringing dreams of storms, of winter, of a flurry of snow and a distant pair of blue eyes.

Then came the dawn.

A/N: Another chapter done, cheers for sticking with it. Quite talk-ish for the moment, but should soon begin to heat up in terms of action and character interactions. Cheers to anyone who's favourited, followed, and reviewed, and if you haven't feel free to do so!

Again, I'm a very lazy person for who'd rather have their nails torn out than proofread and I don't have a beta (nor do I particularly know what one does), so please forgive any mistakes. This chapter was a right bastard to write, and I just wanted it done tbh.

Given the amount of pure shite that's going down at the moment with the pandemic, the political rise of shitheads (Johnson and Trump, looking at you) and the Black Lives Matter movement finally gaining some traction, I encourage all of you to do all you can to help those in less fortunate positions-donate, sign all the petitions you can, and for the love of god VOTE.

Hope you're all staying safe, xx

-Kinginthenorth1

christargaryen-cheers!

Cali-Glad you like it! I was just sick of Rhaegar being some poor misunderstood soul. Fact is, he abandoned his wife and children in a place he knew was ridiculously dangerous, seduced and impregnated a child before leaving her out in the middle of nowhere without any medical aid, and handled it all so badly that the continent fell into war, with thousands dying and thousands more suffering because of it.

Moshi-Mountain clans will be making an appearance closer to the long night, as will a (hopefully) more united North. Don't worry. Sansa's not gonna be a joke-she's got all the lessons she learnt from Baelish and Cersei, but now with enough support to back it up. As for Brienne, most people are still sexist pricks, but I'm sure they'll be put in their place ;)

Force Smuggler-Glad you're looking forward to Baelish getting what he deserves (or will he? who knows?), as well as Arianne making an appearance. More returned will be POV's after Winterfell is taken as 'Part II' begins.