Ned

Just keep brooding, he'd repeated to himself as the hood had been yanked off his head and he was pushed into the mud. Admittedly, he and Jon were near identical (especially since he'd awoken two decades younger), bit should anyone recognise him as not being Jon Snow, Oswell's entire plan could unravel. As such, he'd fixed his face to match the expression that Jon's own face was notorious for.

Lyanna, however, was clearly having the time of her life, living up to the reputation that Arya had made for herself in King's Landing as the wild wolf of Ned Stark's pack, elbowing and biting at the poor bastard that'd been assigned to "guard" her.

'We found them a mile north of the Twins,' Olyvar Frey had told Merlon Crakehall, the man who was now in command of Riverrun by virtue of the fact that he'd been the first to reach the newly arrived hostages. 'We believe that they were trying to reach the Northern host, perhaps to take command. Why they'd travel just the three of them, however, I wouldn't know.'

'Hmm.' The youngest Crakehall said nothing, merely running a critical eye over the three hostages at his feet. 'I knew the Blackfish must've been lurking somewhere nearby with his tail between his legs. The wolf pups, however…' He'd trailed off, apparently lost in thought. 'Still, I'd assumed the girl was dead. Her majesty will surely be glad when she is delivered to King's Landing—from the rumours circulating the Red Keep, she truly could not abide her.'

Lyanna simply spat at him, to which he responded with a smug grin.

'Although…I suppose we're in no rush,' he had continued, his gaze still on Lyanna. 'And it would be unfair to not show her a true western welcome. I'm sure the men will be able to keep her…adequately occupied.'

As furious as he was at any man talking about his sister, Ned was barely able to hold in his rage at the thought of this man touching his daughter in any way. If only his hands weren't bound, he'd surely gut the craven bastard, damned be the consequences.

'And the bastard,' Merlon said, shooting a distasteful look in Ned's direction. 'I heard rumours that he was at the Wall as well as whispers he'd broken his vows and gone to hide in Winterfell. It would appear that both were wrong. It's oddly fitting, I suppose—an oathbreaker being captured by a Frey. Like attracts like, as my father would always say.' With that, he turned around and beckoned to a guard. 'Take them inside!' he shouted. 'Lord Frey, you and your men are welcome to stay the night, after which we will resume the transport of the prisoners to King's Landing. I'd offer you bread and salt, but, well…what good would that do for a Frey?'

As they'd been dragged away, Ned could see as Olyvar gave a painstaking smile to his host alongside a polite laugh that did precious little to disguise the impulse to give Merlon a clout around the head. Their captors had snaked around the castle, slowly taking them to its lower levels, where they might be securely kept until the Crakehalls could get them to the capital. Gods, the southern willingness to lick the boots of those in power truly sickened Ned.

So there they were, the three of them with their backs against the slick dungeons of Riverrun, calmly waiting for the second part of their plan to begin. A jailer entered, carrying a wooden tray topped with a number of bowls. He stood before the barred gate, clearly enjoying being able to lord his freedom over such a collection of high-profile hostages.

'Here's your food, you fucking ingrates,' he said, bending down slightly before giving up and dropping the tray with a clatter.

'What is it?' Brynden asked, a wry smile playing at his lips.

'Mushroom sou—' the man said before his voice seemed to dry up with a splutter; a splutter, it would seem, caused by the thin red line blossoming just above his Adam's apple.

'How fortunate,' said Lyonel Baratheon, decked out in his Frey livery as he tore of the key ring from the corpse's belt. 'That's exactly what our hosts are eating upstairs.'

Merlon

He was inside a heartbeat. That was the only explanation—the way that the room seemed to be pulsating and melting around him resembled the tell-tale thumping of a still-beating heart. He sat still for a moment, stopping to catch his breath in a vain hope that all would return to normal.

'Are you quite alright, my lord?'

Merlon whirled his head to his left, where Olyvar Frey was sat in the position of honour, his skin rippling and convulsing with a myriad of different colours. He swallowed and nodded. 'Of course.' Gods, he was hot. Sweat was beading on his forehead and dripping down on his face, and he could feel every eye in the room on him—a sea of black eyes and heavy breathing, all directed squarely at him. In the name of the Seven, what was going on?

Duncan

The first few steps of the plan had gone off without a hitch—their so-called hostages had been taken without question, their company had been admitted into the castle, and the wine and ale they'd brought as a gift had been snatched away greedily. Still, given the importance of the plan being executed flawlessly, Duncan had been tense and irritable, refusing to relax even the slightest bit while the various parts were in play. When Oswell had returned from the kitchens without the bag of mushrooms he'd entered them with, with bowls of hearty-looking soup coming out minutes later, however, Dunk allowed himself a smile as he went to do his part.

Still in his mail with a tattered red gambeson depicting the Twins, he didn't receive a second look as he made his way to the main gate, save for the odd sneer from old Riverlanders that appeared to be reserved for Freys, and the occasional envious glance at the barrel under each arm.

'Oi!' He called up to the turnkey, who jumped at the shout and whirled around, his spear quivering wildly. Upon seeing Duncan, however, he appeared calmer.

'What do you want!' the man called back. 'Some of us have jobs to do!'

Dunk placed a barrel down, gesturing to it with his now free hand. 'Lord Crakehall thought that those on the battlements might want a drink. It's a cold night, and it's not bad stuff!'

'We've got jobs to do, ser! Your lot may not see any problem with drinking on duty, but we take our responsibility seriously!'

'Come on Eryk,' a shorter man said as he approached the turnkey. 'It's bloody freezing, and what harm could a pint or two do?'

The turnkey—Eryk, it would seem—glared at the man for a moment before letting out a sigh, proving his point with the mist that emerged from his mouth and nose. 'Fine. One drink.'

Within half an hour the guards had dropped, and Duncan had them tied up and gagged in the nearest privy. Admittedly, it wouldn't take too long for anyone to escape (after all, knots had never been his specialty, and he'd been in a bloody great rush), but he didn't need long—if all went to plan, they'd have the castle within the hour.

And then, in a classic example of his luck, all did not go to plan. He'd lowered the drawbridge and had nocked his bow with a flaming arrow, ready to send the signal to the soldiers hiding in the nearby woods when a man had come barrelling into him, knocking him over and sending the bow clattering to the ground.

Merlon Crakehall was hunched over, his breaths heavy and his pupils massive, and the angry stare he shot to Duncan was eerily reminiscent of a mother cub protecting her wounded. His sword was out, and pointed squarely at Dunk; Dunk, who, unfortunately, was presently unarmed

'What have you done to us!?' he cried. 'Everyone's gone mad! You had the ale, you cursed us—some are sleeping, some are dead, some have utterly lost their wits! Not me, though! After I kill you, the curse will be lifted!'

Oh, for fuck's sake. Why did it have to be me who carried the bloody ale? Why couldn't it be some other bastard who didn't have the entire plan hinging on them who got the blame? Gods, it wasn't even the ale that made him like this-why couldn't Oswell and those bloody mushrooms of his get the blame?

'Lord Merlon,' he began, his eyes not moving from the point of the sword as it inched towards him. 'I swear, I have not cursed you. You are unwell, and naught will come from these insane accusations.'

Merlon's eye twitched at the mention of insanity, and Duncan realised he'd made a big mistake. 'You think me mad? I'm the sanest man here!' he cackled slightly, the laughter catching in his throat as though he was unused to such an action. 'No, you are a sorcerer, and the curse will be lifted with your death!' With that, he plunged his sword forward, and Duncan was forced to move, using his arms to push himself to the side. The blade scratched into the red sandstone barely an inch from where Duncan had been a moment ago, eliciting an angered snort from Merlon.

Duncan was on his feet now, but still lacked any means to defend himself, putting him on the defensive as he was forced to dodge the barrage of blows Merlon aimed at him. Ordinarily, he'd simply outlast his attacker, as swinging a longsword with such wild abandon would tire out even the strongest man. The mushrooms and the anger made a powerful combination, however, with the hallucinations and the fury each providing fuel for Merlon's actions.

And then he saw it.

When Merlon had barrelled into him before, the bow had been thrown and was now a good few metres away. He'd been under assumption that the arrow was positioned similarly; an assumption proved wrong when he spotted the iron arrowhead glinting in the evening torchlight through the gap between Merlon's legs.

Duncan leapt forward with a distinct lack of technique that surely would've had Ser Arlan turning in his grave. The sword was narrowly avoided, with Merlon lurching out the way of such an unconventional attack—sure he'd have been trained to fight a man with a sword, but a scenario in which a near-seven-foot man leapt at you was less common to say the least.

And then, it was over. Merlon had scarcely been able to turn to face his opponent once more as the arrow—still in the hand of Duncan—entered his eye, warm blood spurting from the wound as his body began to convulse. He fell and was troubled—by the curse, by the supposed sorcerer he'd just faced, by the petty squabbles of running a castle a hundred leagues from home—no more.

Shit, Duncan thought. The Crakehalls won't be happy about that. I suppose that's a bloody great target I've painted on my back. Still, there was no use getting stuck on it—what was done was done, and he had a job to do.

The flaming arrow blazed a trail through the sky, and five hundred soldiers knew that it was time to attack. They charged toward the defenceless castle, stomping over the drawbridge that had been lowered for them moments ago. They met no resistance—how could they, when every knight, lord, and soldier was seeing images beyond their wildest fantasies? The men, harmless as they were, were disarmed and neutralised, being taken down to the dungeons until they were packed full.

With that, the castle was essentially taken. The hostages wouldn't sober up until the next morning, but even then would be hard pressed to offer any real challenge. Riverrun, the once thought impenetrable holdfast of the Tullys, had been taken with the mere loss of two lives.

'Gentlemen!' the Blackfish called, holding a tankard of ale aloft with his face was etched into a rare smile. 'Riverrun is ours!'

The Kingslayer

He was sore and he was tired, and he wanted nothing more than a hot bath. How they'd acted at Pennytree, shithole that it was, had left a sour taste in his mouth—after all, who could truly blame the locals for their distrust of the king's men after the atrocities that had been committed in the Riverlands over the past years? Still, the thought of the corpses they'd created before the settlement yielded didn't sit quite right with him. At the sight of the lion sigils on the red walls, however, Jaime felt a spark of relief in his chest.

It's not home, but it'll do for now.

He remained atop his horse until he reached the main courtyard of Riverrun, all the faces around him seeming like naught but blurs in his sleep deprived state. The reins of his horse were tossed to a nearby stable hand before he entered the keep, making his way straight to his chambers. No lords had approached him with the usual bootlicking and vain attempts to win favour yet, for which he was more grateful than he could say. The politics of running a castle could damned well wait until he was somewhat lucid.

Jaime opened the door and made a beeline for his bed, ready to collapse into it and forget about his troubles, even if just for a few hours. His plans, however, were interrupted by the presence of a man in his chambers, looking through the window at the picturesque views beneath.

'Jaime Lannister,' the man said, his voice harsh and northern, yet oddly familiar. 'It's good of you to finally arrive.' The man turned, and Jaime fell to the ground, exhaustion and shock coming together in a brutal barrage. Surely, he must already be asleep, with the spectre before him being no more than a figment of his imagination, a bad dream that would soon be no more than a hazy memory? As the last of the consciousness slipped out of his body, Jaime was only able to formulate one final thought?

What in the name of the Seven is Ned Stark doing in my chambers?

A/N: Hey! Another chapter is done-it's not the longest, I'm not the happiest with some of the writing, and I'm aware that it's lacking any real kind of believability, but I'm hoping you'll enjoy it nonetheless. As always, feel free to favourite, follow, and review, and a massive thanks to those of you who already have.

Now that the Lannisters have lost any real foothold north of the crownlands, the northerners/those who've returned will be able to prioritise their preparations for the Long Night-at least, until Daenerys makes it to Westeros. This chapter will also act as the introduction of Jaime, who will now be a more prominent character.

Cheers for reading and see you next time,

-Kinginthenorth1

Kingmanaena: Cheers!

MiguelGiuliano .co: Thank you!

Supremus85: Yep, 6 dragons-three relatively grown, three hatchlings, with eight people that could possibly control them being alive.

ZenJack: Cheers, glad to hear you're enjoying it.

Moshi: I'm not claiming that they are, but rather that their blood (which, even if it's not magic in canon, is in this AU fic) reacts well with blood magic/sacrifice (e.g. Mirri Maz Duur). If you want a story with a consistent and airtight system of magic, I reckon that this fic in which a load of people magically return from the dead may not be for you. As for Daenerys, I frankly don't give a shit if you're not a fan of her and Robb, and given how the right of conquest works, her claim was never 100% valid in canon anyway. By your logic, shouldn't Aegon I have the most legitimate claim to the throne, if death doesn't affect the line of succession? And yes, she's in over er head, but that's the entire point of character growth.

Viktor's: Don't worry, they'll be getting started with that soon, when those currently in Essos return to the south of Westeros and journey north. As for Aegon visiting, time was of the essence on the journey down and he knew he'd see it anyway once mining began (not to mention, I wanted the three OG Targaryens to see it again for the first time together). Glad you liked the chapter!