Lomas Longstrider's Wonders Made by Man—An extract

Though I have never dared venture there, the steel-hearted traders and reavers who sail the seas around Asshai-by-the-shadow have told me tales of an odd custom, kept by the nobles and royals of the Shadowlands, in which a firstborn son will always take his father's name. Whilst this is by no means a particularly odd custom by itself—after all, I know a great many men who share their father's name, even on our own continent—the manner in which it is enforced—yes, enforced—is what catches my attention. Should a member of the peasantry attempt to name their child in such a way, he would be killed instantly; stranger still, should a member of the aforementioned nobility try to name their firstborn son anything other than their own name, there would be fear of an almighty curse, and the son would be forced to go into exile, never to return. They know not how this tradition began, only that it has been in place since even the gods were young.

Oswell

He was pulled out of his state of near-slumber when he heard the faint clink of metal against stone coming from within the cell; he stood up and moved a few steps closer.

'Ah,' he said, looking at the stirring form of Jaime Lannister. 'You're awake at last.'

Oswell's once sworn brother said nothing, merely peering at him through the darkness of the cells, trying to make his face out in the flickering torchlight. For Oswell, it had been only a few moons since he'd seen the knight, but for Jaime it would've been far longer. There was an inkling of recognition on his face, but it wasn't until he saw the bat-winged helmet on the floor that his mouth dropped open.

'O-Oswell?'

'Hello Jaime. It's good to see you.'

Was it? He truly wasn't sure whether it was or not. When he'd been bleeding out in the shadow of that bloody tower, he'd felt nothing but contempt for the young knight—he, Arthur, and Gerold had been loyal to their vows to the very end, while Jaime had turned his cloak at the first opportunity, doing nothing to stop the carnage and everything to curry favour with the new king. But then they'd returned and his brotherhood had drastically shrunk—Ser Lewyn and Ser Jonothor long since crow food and Gerold being killed by one of those creatures—and all Oswell could remember was the good times. The patrols, the spars, the complete and utter loyalty they'd had, not only to the king, but to each other.

Needless to say, Oswell felt conflicted.

'No. I'm dreaming, I-I must be,' Jaime said to himself.

'You're no—'

'I'll wake soon and it will all make sense,' the knight continued.

'Jaime!' He wasn't one to raise his voice often, but it seemed the only way to pull him out of his ramblings. 'Pull yourself together.'

Jaime simply nodded, taking a deep breath as he tried to look more closely at Oswell. 'Can-can it really you? How? You died, didn't you?'

'I did. It…it's a long story.'

'And Ned Stark? Was that really him?'

'It was.'

Jaime swallowed. 'How?' He seemed weary, Oswell could see, a far cry from the arrogant young man he'd once served with.

'I don't know how , nor am I completely sure as to why, but a number of people returned from the land of the dead.' He was aware he sounded mad, but at the same time knew that very little could seem any madder than seeing someone you'd known to be dead for years stood before you. 'A number of people I should say, that aren't very happy with you, and, in fact, had to be convinced that you were more useful alive. For now.' Whilst he no longer bore any particular ill-will toward the knight, his voice still had an undertone of steel.

'Who, Ned Stark? I think I can handle him, should the need arise.' There it was—that famous arrogance, creeping back into his voice.

'And Robb Stark? From what he told me, the last words he heard were your regards as a dagger pierced his heart. Or how about Oberyn Martell, whose family you allowed to die in agony and did nothing to stop?'

'I—'

'How about Robert Baratheon?' Oswell continued, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 'You know, the man you cuckolded for years and whose children were really your own? How about him?'

'If that fat fuck thinks he could take me, let him try. I'd be back at Casterly Rock within the week.'

'Maybe you're right. But tell me, Jaime, do you notice anything different about me?' At the prisoner's silence, Oswell gestured towards himself. 'When I died, I was closer to fifty than I was forty—my hair was greying, my joints ached, and swinging a sword exerted me more than I'd care to admit. But now? I'm as string and fit as I was when I swore my oaths, and I'm not the only one.' He leant closer to Jaime. 'The Robert Baratheon who currently resides in the castle above is the very same one who caved in the chest of Rhaegar and smashed the Greyjoy rebellion, from what I've been told. Once upon a time you possibly could've won, but…' Oswell nodded toward Jaime's stump and the knight seemed to deflate.

Oswell stood. 'I'd best be off. I'll, uh, see about getting you some food,' he said. He was at the door when he looked back at his old comrade. 'Please, don't antagonize them. Believe it or not, I'd rather you lived to see the end of the war.'

With that, he left the jail and made his way to the great hall. It was early evening, and people were beginning to gather to eat. He made his way to an empty table, only to be joined moments later by Ned and Robert.

'He's awake?' Ned asked. His tone was neutral, but Oswell could detect an edge to his voice.

'He is.'

'What did you tell him?'

'The bare minimum, really. He'd already seen you and I, and I just told him that a number of us had returned from the dead. I alluded to you two, as well as Oberyn and Robb, but that was it.' He paused for a moment to think. 'Well, I also warned him about picking a fight with Robert here. Did you know the man's a cripple now? Only got one hand.'

'Ha!' The old king's laugh was genuine, but his fists were still clenched to the point where his knuckles were white as snow. 'Let the little sister-fucker try it. I'll smack that stupid smirk off his face before he can even lift his sword.'

'Are…are you alright, Oswell?' Ned asked, his eyes filled with concern. 'It can't have been easy, seeing a man you served with before…well, before Howland killed you.'

Oswell frowned. Was he alright? When he'd seen the unconscious form of Jaime Lannister in his cell, half a hundred thoughts had bubbled to the surface, and he'd been sure that his confrontation would've been legendary. But then they'd spoken, and now he just felt…well, empty. 'I'm fine. I suppose if those attempting to sway Daenerys are successful, we'll have to keep him there until she arrives?'

'Aye,' Ned replied. 'Her dragons should be a fair boon in the wars to come, and if we have to hand over the Kingslayer to cement the alliance, that's a price I'll gladly pay.'

At this, Robert looked uncomfortable. 'Ned—gods, I can't believe I'm saying this—if it comes to it, if it boils down to handing me over or losing access to those beasts, I…I want you to know that I'm at peace with it. I've lived and died once before, and I spent years sending hired knives after her and that brother of hers.'

'Robert, I don't—'

'Ned, please. I'd rather anyone else had the throne over my bitch of a wife, and if that means the bloody dragons return, then so be it. Lyanna's boy seems like a good enough lad, and the two Aegons seem decent enough. If she's of the same stock, well, the kingdoms could do worse. But should she be like her father, or like her brother—'

'She'll be dealt with, Robert. I promise. The people have spent too long under the thumbs of tyrants.'

It's hard to believe that this is the man who chuckled at the bodies of the queen and her children. Still, it's one thing to say it, and another to go through with it—is he really willing to put his neck on the line should it come down to it?

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he looked back up and shot a wry smile to his companions.

'Who knows,' Oswell said. 'Should that happen, it's probably a good thing we've got our hands on a Kingslayer. Maybe lightning could strike twice, even if Queenslayer doesn't have quite the same ring to it.'

Rickon

'Dead, my lord. Better, though.' With that, Robar moved his blunted blade from Rickon's neck and allowed him to retrieve his own. He was a curious sort, one you didn't often see in the North; he was polite to a fault, as skilled with a sword as anyone had ever seen, and knelt whenever Sansa came near. Still, given how useless Rickon had been with a sword when Robar had started teaching him and the strange—if unfunny—jokes, he found he didn't mind a little oddness.

He'd been with, but not one of, the Knights of the Vale who'd arrived after the battle, but had stayed at Winterfell when they'd elected to. Given the lack of a master-at-arms, Robar had seemed to slip into the role, aiding and sparring with those in the practice yard from dawn until dusk, striding about in his bronze armour before Rickon ever arrived, and inevitably staying later than him. More often than not, his uncle Brandon would watch from his chair, shouting advice as he did so, but Sansa had told Rickon that his leg had been paining him of late, and so they were alone.

'I don't get what I did wrong,' Rickon complained. 'I kept my footing, my grip wasn't too tight, and I pressed my advantage. What went wrong?'

'Simple, lad,' came the reply. Robar looked down at him and smiled. 'I'm the better swordsman.'

'What?'

'What, you think I'm not?'

'Well, of course you are,' Rickon said, flustered. 'But…I did what you told me to, perfectly, might I add.'

'You did, my lord, and that was the problem. In a fight with me, you did exactly as I advised. Tell me, if one of those beasts that your father mentioned asked you to bare your neck so it might kill you more easily, would you acquiesce?'

'No, but—'

'I taught you solid basics, and with more training—which you've been very diligent in, might I add—you will surely be a formidable foe. But tell me, lad, before I disarmed you, how did you intend to proceed?'

'I…' Rickon stopped to think for a moment. 'I don't know. I was too preoccupied with defending myself.'

'Exactly, my lord. The fight was on my terms—it had been from the start and was until the end, and so of course victory was assured for me. When you fight how your enemy wants you to fight, you play straight into the grave they've dug for you. Do you understand, my lord?'

'I do. I don't suppose you'd care to go hunting, would you? My archery could use some practice, and I've grown bored of firing at targets over and over.'

'It would be an honour, my lord. I shall ask you sister for an escort at once—'

Rickon waved him away. 'I have no need of an escort, Robar. Not when I've got you. After all, we're only going to the Wolfswood.'

'My lord, I must protest. Your safety is of paramount importance, and—'

'Remind me, Robar. Am I the lord here, or are you?'

Robar looked somewhat pained at the idea of bypassing Sansa, but nodded. 'Very well. I'll be ready to leave whenever you are.'

'Excellent.'

They'd made decent progress by the time the sun began to set, with three rabbits and a deer now adorning the back of Rickon's horse. Unfortunately, they'd all been Robar's kills, with Rickon hitting naught but air and tree trunks.

'Still yourself, my lord. You always jerk your bow before letting loose, so the arrow flies above the animals. Keep a steady arm, and you'll improve markedly.'

'I am keeping my arm steady! It's this bloody bow, there's something wrong with it!'

'It's a poor workman who blames his tools, my lor—'

'But that's just it! I'm a lord, not a workman. I should be better than this!'

'Well, I—' A twig snapped in the distance, and Robar fell silent, his hand flying to his sword.

'What's going on—'

'Hush.' For the first time since he'd known him, Robar was dismissive, not even looking at Rickon as he silenced him. 'Get behind me, boy, and when I tell you to run, you run. You have your bow on you?'

'I do.'

'Good. Run!'

In the very same instance as his shout, a number of people burst from the trees, their axes and spears glinting in the setting sun, furs shaking atop their shoulders.

Gods, Rickon thought. They're wildlings!

There were six in total, Rickon could see as he made his escape, each of whom seemed to have a crazed glint in their eye upon seeing the shining bronze that adorned Robar's shoulders. No doubt they thought they'd kill him and strip it from him. The first of them was barely a metre from Robar now, his axe swinging down at his head.

Robar didn't even move, but rather turned to Rickon and gave him a lazy wink.

Then he moved.

The Master-at-Arms

By the gods, how predictable. He simply stepped to the side, allowing the axe to pass harmlessly next to him, before he pulled out his sword, slicing into his adversary's jaw with a sickening crunch. The man careened to the floor, blood pooling around his head.

Five left.

The others had reached him now, and he knew exactly what they were trying to do—with their superior numbers, they knew that if they could surround him, they could kill him with ease.

Fight on your own terms, he'd told Rickon. Well, that was exactly what he'd do. Robar nimbly jumped back, landing on a tree root, from which he jumped to another, and then another, leaving the men—some kind of clansmen, it would seem—trailing after him, tripping over the forest floor as they did so.

He turned around, surprising even himself with the spontaneity of the action. Robar had long since learnt that it was better to trust his instincts in a situation like this—they'd saved him many times before, and likely would again. His sword was swung in a wide horizontal arc, slicing through the throat of the enemy who'd been closest, spraying Robar with a fine mist of deep crimson.

It blinded him for a mere moment, but when his vision had returned, a spear was barely a foot way from him. Robar jumped back, hoping to avoid contact, but even as the tip broke off against his chest plate, he was still knocked back, hitting the leafy floor with a thud. The spear came at it again, but this time he was prepared for it, rolling to the side and grabbing it in one swift motion, yanking his attacker down to him. Within a second he was on his feet again, his sword already out of his enemy's throat.

Three left.

At last, decent odds. Robar dodged and parried, swung and ducked, his blade no more than a blur as he swatted away the weapons. Two left, with his sword slicing through the midriff of another, one, when he turned a man's own spear on himself.

The sword slid out of his last enemy's gullet and he fell to his knees, exhausted. He should call Rickon, he knew, but surely the boy could wait a minute for him to catch his breaths.

'Put the sword down slowly, cunt.' The voice came from behind him and Robar slowly turned around, to see a man with a bow and arrow aimed straight at him.

'Please, my good man, I have no wish to quarrel. I—'

'Shut the fuck up, or I'll make you shut the fuck up. You killed my people, so now I'll kill—'

His words were cut off and an arrow was in his neck, with the man falling to his knees, gurgling blood and gasping for breath as the world inevitably became darker. Behind him stood Rickon, bow arm outstretched, a shocked look on his face.

'I…I didn't mean to, I- How could you fight like that?'

'Let's get back to Winterfell. Then, I…' Robar's eyes turned dark. 'Then I'll tell you everything.'

He looked around at the group, each of their eyes meeting his determinedly. Robar couldn't particularly blame them; it was bloody freezing in the Godswood, and all had places they'd rather be. Still, it was unavoidable

'My story is a strange one, but I'd ask that you leave any questions until the end. Much will seem fantastical, and some like outright lies, but I swear on the bones of my father that it is the truth. Is that acceptable?'

At the nods of Brandon, Sansa, and Rickon, he sighed, pushing a hand through his hair.

'My name is Robar, son of Arron, father of Roose and Arron. And until a few months ago, I was dead.'

Sansa's face was stone, but Brandon's eyes had widened slightly, and Rickon audibly gasped. 'You mean, you're one of…them? Like father?'

'I suppose so. Well, with one notable exception. From what I'd gathered, none who returned died any more than a few hundred years ago, with the Rhoynish queen mentioned being the only outlier, having come from a thousand-or-so years ago. I…I'm from further back than that. Much further back.'

'How far?' Sansa asked. She did not seem shocked, nor offended that she'd been deceived, but Robar was wholly aware that it was likely a mask. She was smart, this one, and knew better than to let someone know they'd had the better of her.

'As far as I can tell, six to eight thousand years ago.'

Sansa's mask finally cracked and she gasped, while Rickon's face was as surprised as ever. Brandon's face, in contrast, was stony.

'Did you see them? Those creatures that seem to be at the bloody centre of everything? The…' he trailed off, before swallowing and looking at Robar. 'The Others?'

'Gods,' Robar laughed. 'You lot certainly haven't got a particularly good grasp on leaving questions to the end, have you?' Seeing the serious stares, however, he straightened and nodded. 'I did. I fought at the Battle of Winterfell to end the Long Night and was one of the few survivors. After that, however, I left Winterfell and stayed in the mountains until I died, many years later.' He chuckled. 'For the duration of the war, I was considered the mountains' Winged Knight.'

'The Winged Knight?' Sansa asked. 'But that was Artys Arryn, wasn't it?'

He shook his head. 'There is not a single Winged Knight, my lady—rather, he is simply the best a land has to offer; a champion, if you will. But anyhow, I digress. I led the Men of the Mountains against the armies of ice, alongside an alliance of men: Westerners—that is, men of our continent—Children of the Forest, Giants, even a few Andalosi, all united against the evil to the north.

'Still, we were losing. The wall had been unready when they reached it, and we were slaughtered by the hundred. We fell back to Winterfell, where all hope seemed lost, when a party arrived. They were a small band—six people, no less human than you or I—from the further east than you can imagine. But when they arrived, the tide turned.'

'H-how?' Rickon asked. 'Surely five men can't make such a difference?'

'Three men, my lord. Two were women, and one was a boy. And true, they were among the best fighters I've ever seen, but it was not solely a physical boon they provided. Their tactics seemed centuries ahead of our own, and as strange as it might seem, it felt as though they returned hope to the walls of Winterfell. Smiles were abundant, even in the face of oncoming doom, and there was a queer happiness found in the idea of dying for a righteous cause.

'And then came the battle. We were outnumbered, that much was clear, with legions upon legions of those monsters marching on us whilst we were behind the walls of Winterfell. We—'

'Did you have dragons?' Rickon interrupted. 'From what I heard father saying to Jon, Robb went to find dragons. Did you have any?'

'We did not. The thing about the wights—that is, the dead raised up by the Others—is that their physical condition is largely irrelevant. Should there be enough of them to be held together by that foul magic, they will continue to fight until it is physically impossible. So yes, whilst dragonfire would've been useful, the sheer magnitude of their numbers would've made their effort a vain one—burning them, a small number at a time, until they were naught but ash? It would've taken aeons.'

'Anyhow. We fought through the night, the deaths mounting up into the thousands—the dead were over the walls, breaking through the last defences, and we were certain we'd met our end. And then, they dropped. We'd won.'

'What?' Sansa asked, brow furrowing in confusion. 'How could that happen?'

'I must confess, I am not completely sure how it happened. It was two of the easterners. Their leader and his son. They rode into the tundra, and when the boy returned, the enemy was no more.'

'You mean the was finished by two people? How is that possible? I, I don't believe it,' Brandon said.

Robar's mouth curved ever so slightly into a smile. 'You'd believe it if you'd ever known the man. His name was Azor Ahai…'

A/N: Another chapter, with the Winged Knight at last making an entrance. As has been a staple with this story, the older, more mythological characters will not be exactly as expected based on contemporary understanding (I considered making him Artys Arryn, but he was explicitly said to be around at the time of the Andal invasion, and I didn't think that I could credibly stretch that to fit with the story). Also some exposition for the first long night, but still with a lot to be explained/told.

As always, feel free to follow, favourite, and review, and a massive thank you to those of you who have-you guys are my motivation for writing. Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and see you next time,

-Kinginthenorth1 xox

Miguelgiuliano .co: I've gotta disagree completely-not only is Daenerys the legitimate heir to the throne (with Aerys having named Viserys his heir, and Viserys naming her his), she is also the only Targaryen who is at all well known (with no-one knowing about Jon or Aegon's true identities) who would not be seen as a pretender. She also has dragons, which would count for a lot in battle, as well as allies in Dorne, the Reach, and now the North/Riverlands/Vale since the alliance was agreed to. On top of all that, it definitely would not be easier for her to stay in Essos, since she'd just remain a threat to anyone who did take the throne. I appreciate the feedback though.

kingmanaena: Thank you!

Force Smuggler: Glad you like the pairing, and yeah I'm also excited for the big Targ reunion.

Guest: The thing is, after news of Rhaegar's death at the Trident, Aerys II named Viserys as his heir (most likely because he was a pure Targaryen, given his distaste for the Dornish), and as no one knew about Jon or Aegon, Viserys named Daenerys his heir. As such, from the "legitimate" power of the throne, Daenerys is the person with the best claim to (and chances of reaching) the iron throne.