Chapter 18 Worldwaker

"Bloody seven hells"

It is not an inventive curse, Brynden had to admit. He is not pessimistic. At least, he doesn't think that he was. But all the years that he had been alive, he had seen a lot, done a lot, and even regret a few. Yet, there is nothing in his experience that comes close to the clusterfuck that he experiences in recent years. Not even that time in the war of Ninepenny kings can hold a candle to the crisis that they are in.

"Gulltown was sacked and burned. House Grafton is extinct. Ambushes along the road were more frequent than ever before. The minor settlements were raided and the small folks either got killed or captured. Ironoaks is under siege and all their road got barred so we cannot send reinforcement anytime soon."

He sighed. The savage had become more and more difficult to deal with. Even now, the lords of Vale are busy preparing to defend their own land from the attack. With their lord paramount serving as a hand in King's Landing, there is no true leadership among the lords.

Picking up another letter he received from the raven, he continued reading. Every word is like a mace bashing on his head.

"The savage seems to have a new leader. A painted man." A vein is popping out of his wrinkled forehead as his eyes move along the content of the letter. "A survivor said that they sacrifice their captive to the Great White Wolf."

It couldn't be related to him, right? The old knight could only ponder. He heard a story about the boy as well as the letter from his niece. It's not a good tale to be told. Had it been true, he dreads to think of the consequence.

"Ser Brynden."

A familiar voice calls out his name is enough to bring him back to reality. Yohn Royce, the lord of Runestone, is an old friend of his. He saw the man raised and brought into knighthood while he was serving at the Bloody Gate. Yohn is an honorable and loyal man. A perfect example for the knight of Vale, an Andals through and through. Even though house Royce hailed from the blood of the first men, they didn't cling to their old false way like the barbarian. Instead, they adapt and integrate into civilization as one should be.

"Lord Yohn." He replied.

"I suppose you heard the news. The mountain clans are getting bolder and bolder every day." Yohn claps the older man's shoulders. "With lord Arryn still in King's Landing, we needed someone to lead us against these savages. I'm calling the other lords for action against these savages and I want you there with me ser. Your experience will be needed in an upcoming battle."

Brynden smiles. The lord of Runestone's words strikes true. For far too long they had remained lenient against these savages. They should have wiped them out a long time ago. Those terrains and lands in the Mountain of Moon might not be profitable, but they might be able to find some uses eventually. As long as they are under control of these barbarians, the people of Vale cannot rest easily.

"Your word is wise, my lord. We had been neglected our duty for far too long and the smallfolk suffer for it. We should assemble a war council as soon as possible."

Soon enough ravens are sent. Many of the lords with the holding near the Eyrie had come alone with Lord Royce, but the gathering of this proportion requires a minor lord as well. All of them need to contribute to rid themselves of the menace. Their entourage decides to stay and rest at the Bloody Gate for a day before ascending to the Eyrie. Soon enough the feast is called, much to Brynden agitation. They need to maintain the supply at the Bloody Gate in case the mountain clans are mad enough to lay siege on it. But that isn't his decision alone to make and offending many lords of Vale at once is not a good thing to do when the land is burning.

He doesn't really care what lord does what, nor even bother to entertain them. Many of them are youngsters who don't know war. They are just eager to have a chance to gain glory without thinking about consequences. Yet when those youngsters come to him for a chat, he didn't turn them away. Sure, he read the report from the scroll. But a word from the local lord and knight is also a good way to access what is going on. He needs to confirm whether what he fears is true.

Knowledge is power after all.

"Have you heard the rumor? About Ned Stark Bastard."

Brynden ears twitch as a young annoying knight try to initiate a conversation. What a pathetic attempt of curtesy that was. Of course, he heard the rumor. The mountain clan made it clear about what they did. Of why they attack. As absurd as it was, all the words from the survivors were the same. The Old Gods are coming, and the White Wolf will be their vanguard. Nonsense. All of it.

"Yes. From what I heard; it is said that Lady Stark prayed to Seven to take the boy's life. They said that this is the Old Gods' retaliation." Said another knight who he doesn't personally know. Probably a second or third son of some minor lord, or something.

If he was a mere hedge knight, he would knock that fool's teeth out. In fact, he will check that right now. Actually, if he is a second or third son of an insignificant house, he would still knock the fool's teeth out.

Brynden loudly coughs. It is deep and full of malice. Once is more than enough to silence the surrounding.

"So." Brynden breaks a short-lived silence. He turns and stares right into the fool's eyes. "From the way you talk, you must know a great deal about the problem we currently face, Ser?"

"Lucas Cobray. Third son of late lord Cobray at your service, Ser. It is a pleasure to make an acquaintance with a knight of great renown such as you, The Blackfish himself..."

The fool bows half-way before his face collide with Brynden's fist. The fool's face is sullen with a red imprint of a gauntlet fist. Blood seeps from the fool's mouth. Good for him. Had he continued to speak, Brynden might not just settle with a punch.

"Not only you are saying that my niece for killing an eight years old boy, but also blame her for the death of thousands, smallfolk's and nobles alike?"

The fool staggers back as a cold sweat form on his forehead. His eyes dilate. His hairs erect. A mere sight of angry Blackfish is more than enough to make him halfway shitting himself. He had overstepped his position, said too much, assumed too much.

"Hmph!" He snorts. "I suggest you choose your next word carefully. Ser Cobray."

So much for finding out the truth from these fools. Not that he thought he would gain something more, but he doesn't expect an insult to his family. Not from his fellow knights no matter how much of a fool they were.

Sometimes Brynden wonders what their family did to make the situation end up like this. Sure, Holster selling his daughter like a broodmare to gain more influence was a great strategic move but unwise. Before the rebellion, there was gossip about how the quiet wolf won over the heart of the fairest maiden of the realm. Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne. Clearly, the northerner's heart is not with Catelyn, especially it was his older brother that is the one who is betrothed to her.

Of course, he would sire a bastard. Had he been put into the same situation; he might do the same. Lucky for him, he stood his ground and told Holster to go fuck himself back then.

But if that is so, wouldn't it mean that the bastard is Ned's firstborn. That explains a lot, considering that Ned defeated and Killed Arthur Dayne when he tried to rescue his sister, causing Ashara to hurl herself from the tower out of grief. That's why he needed to take the boy back with him. The boy would not last a day if Ned left him with the Daynes.

It all makes sense. Why he insists on keeping the boy in Winterfell. Why he refuses to speak about the boy's mother. How he acts out of character against the Kraken after the boy died. Perhaps deep in his mind, he thought that we forced him apart from the woman he loved.

It takes Brynden all he has at that moment to resist smiling from what he thought he figured out. He needs to assert more dominance to show that House Tully is not the one to be fucked with. Not even in Vale.

Alas, everything will be much simpler had he not read the latest letter that Catelyn sent to him. He once thought that she was the smartest of the three. Edmure is a bumbling fool that he is sure. Lysa … Lysa is delusional. Catelyn, he thought, was a perfect lady. Smart. Attentive. Strong. Apparently, he was gravely wrong. Even though he read it only once before throwing it in the fire, he still remembers every detail of it.

How long ago he received this letter, he didn't know. Cat had sent him quite a few lately and every single one of them was more troubling than the last.

Dear Uncle,

At this moment, our house words are needed more than ever.

Family. Duty. Honor.

You are my last hope, uncle. Everyone else had abandoned me.

Lysa doesn't answer a single raven. Edmure has stopped writing to me for months. Father's last letter told me to sort it out myself.

I cannot take it anymore, uncle. Every moment I spent up north is another moment I am insulted. Everything changes so much after the bastard died. Ned refuses to let it go. The North refuses to let it go.

It is all that bastard fault. Even in death, he cursed me. He clouded Ned's mind and turns the north against me. Even now he turns the savage clan of the Vale against you. He is coming for me, uncle. He is coming for us all.

The situation here is grim, uncle. These savages are being more and more daring. They refuse to yield, uncle. They refuse to let another sept be built. No septons dares to cross the neck anymore.

'The world is heading right into fucking seven hells' He reminded himself.

Even the Manderleys betrays to help me. They turn away from the light of the seven, uncle. I cannot send my letter directly to the High Septon. It is too suspicious. I hope you can do what I couldn't.

I had never been more of a stranger in my own home. Every eyes in the castle look at me like I don't belong here. The last time I sent you a letter, you told me that time will heal this wound, uncle. It doesn't.

Five years, uncle. Five long years that Ned even refuses to share the bed with me. Not even when I ask him to. He rarely spent time alone with me for years. He became cold and detach. His eyes are lifeless.

It pains me every time I have to answer my children why their father never smiles? Why does he brood all the time? Why does he keep ignoring them? Every question they ask is like a dagger stab into my heart, uncle.

I'm afraid that Robb is starting to take after Ned, uncle. I need to get him away from here. Perhaps you can take him as your squire.

Other children don't fare much better, uncle. Since the day Septa Mordaine died, I cannot hide anyone to fill the position. Without her help, I'm afraid that my girls will be no more different than a wildling. I need them to be a proper lady, uncle. Perhaps a foster in Riverrun, the Eyrie or Highgarden would do them good, but I'm afraid Ned would not allow me.

It pains me to send my children away, uncle, but I need to get them away from here lest they turn on me too.

I need your help now more than ever, uncle. I need our family more than ever. I hope you can convince them. Make father do anything in your power to make Ned agree. Threaten to cut North food supply or something. Please, I beg of you.

We have to do something. If only Ned would see reason. If everyone could see reason as I do.

Your niece, Catelyn Stark.

"Bloody seven hells." Said Brynden before he tosses the letter to the flame.

As a shitstorm is brewing over Westeros, a thunderstorm is brewing in a nearby plane. It blots out the sun as the light dares not shine over the land. But then again, such a thing is common in Innistrad, especially in the Moorland of Gavony.

Besides, there is a much more interesting event happening in the area than just another thunderstorm.

Two infamous necromancers are parleying. A man and a much older woman. One is soaked and wet because of the rainstorm. Another is dry in his casual suit, but not expecting any living company today. Neither of them is amused.

The male necromancer house is somewhat cozy and ironically lively. Considering that no one but Geralf lives in this area, well no one alive anyway, there is not much attempt to hide anything. She sees a jar of preserved spleen being used as a paperweight. She notices candle handles made from dried hand. She even spots a hollowed-out skull being used as an ashtray. Quite romantic and good for the environment at the same time, when you think about it.

Liliana has to say, she is impressed by his dedication to organized things. Too bad that spending time with a stitcher would bring many disastrous side effects to one body, literally. Liliana would not want to wake up with extra limbs or another pair of breasts.

In short, his kind of necromancy is not her kind of necromancy. Seriously, what's wrong with just raising the dead without adding bits and pieces to them.

She doesn't have to wait long before Geralf's unliving serf to bring her a clean towel to dry herself. Clean … in the place is a relative term. If one would like to have a piece of cloth that absolutely no germs on it, then yes, it is clean. But that because Geralf soaked it in an unknown poison concoction that kills the germ so hard they don't dare to land on it again. Even when it dry, it still stinks like hell.

Well, beggar can't be choosers. When an evil genius hand you a stinky clean cloth for you to dry yourself, you take it.

Liliana undoes her tiara and starts wiping her hair. She seductively flicks her hair by instinct as the cloth goes past her face. As her arms raise up as she rubs her neck area dry, her elbows' movement jiggles her breast.

Geralf only rolls his eyes at the sight he saw. This is too obvious. Very suspicious … and nice. He doesn't have a lot of interaction with anything living lately, let alone a bombshell such as the visiting necromancer.

After she finishes with her neck area, she gives the cloth a wring. Then she continues downward. The dress she wears leaves her chest area mostly uncovered, and she enjoys dragging the cleaning cloth over her flesh. She even stuffs it in between her breasts.

She is overdoing it so much it starts to get awkward. The male necromancer soon found that the situation is not the only thing that is hard.

Liliana couldn't do much against her damped dress, but that what the enchantment in her fabric is for. It should dry out quickly enough. Seeing no point in teasing the man, she hands the cloth back to the zombie serf.

Zomberf? Zerf? Whatever.

"I believe I didn't quite catch your name, frau?" The stitcher eyes her with a sinister hunger. He squints and analyses a gorgeous specimen in front of him, then move on to her entourage. They were a ragtag group of zombies, even though quite a unique one. Must be some stupid marching troupe morrons that he heard a rumor about. What sort of fools would travel to Thraben from Kessig via the Moorland when there are much safer routes? In fact, all of them are safer. Even he wouldn't do it, and that a lot when he is part of the problem why.

"Liliana. Liliana Vess." She gestures her hand forward for him to kiss. Any plane that has necromancer should be civilized enough to know this universal gesture.

Geralf, in spite of well aware of the gesture, gives her a handshake instead. "I'm afraid I couldn't kiss your hand frau Vess. Not only it is not sanitary, but it's also old fashion, archaic even. The only group that is still doing it are the vampires, but then again you will probably get sucked dry afterward."

Liliana rolls her eyes. Progressive bastard.

Trying to relieve the dynamic tension, Geralf asks, "Ja. Ja. What brings a fine necromancer like you to my domain? Let me guess. You wish to participate in the Necrowarfare, didn't you? A three-way between you, my sister, and I would be glorious." Geralf claps his hand for another serf to bring in some refreshment which is more akin to a disinfectant than a drink. "I suppose you know the rules. No directly attacking headquarters, no ambush, no spontaneous awakening, etcetera, etcetera."

"No. But even if I was, I would not word it that way." Liliana replied. "I, however, have an offer you might not want to refuse."

"Oooooooooh" Geralf raises his brows. "I appreciate the offer…. However, you and my sister are too alike for my taste. No offense, of course, but I appreciate a necromancer with more … scientific pursuit." The stitcher tilts his head toward the stairs. "Besides, I've been making a woman …. With blonde hair and a tan. And she is good for reliving my t-t-t-t-t-tension."

Liliana raises her brows. She doesn't know whether to be impressed or creeped out by his statement.

"Why don't you come up to the lab…. And see what on the slab." He turns away and flicks his hand for her to follow him. When he reaches the stair, he turns toward her.

Liliana's face becomes deadpan and she replies with one word. "No."

"Nein?" Geralf's head snaps back.

"No." She reassures. "No. No. No. and for the last time. No."

"Why not?"

"I do not come here to see your fetish, Geralf. I want to attack Thraben but I am not greedy enough to hog all the fun for myself."

She could see a sinister smile dawns on his face as soon as she finishes her sentence.

"Ach So! Why don't you say it in the first place? I am dreaming of that as well. Hmmm. The great mind thinks alike indeed."

At the two necromancers hammering out the details of their sinister plan, two werewolves that are hidden in plain sight encounter something that troubling them. Their journey toward the Moorland is slow. They sensed something amiss in the air. Something that seems out of place. Something primal. At first, they thought it would be the necromancer they are tracking, but they soon discard the notion as soon as they look closer.

The nearby wolf pack is restless. It is as if something is wresting their total control over the beasts from them. Something, or someone.

Furthermore, they found something they could describe as a site of a battle. The side of the road is littered with a mound of corpses. The werewolves had seen a slaughter site before, but this one is different.

"Something is wrong here, mother." Said Jon. "These are not freshly dead. The corpses are old. Very old. Many of them are already half-rotten."

His mother nods. "That is quite obvious, isn't it?" his mother smiles. "I trained you better than that, Jon. Look harder. What more do you see?"

"The bodies are hacked and smashed with an overwhelming force. An ax perhaps, albeit a very large one wielded by a very large man." Jon crouches down and examines the footprints that he found. "The footprint is deep, which means the man in heavy. The size of his feet indicates that he is massive in size. Body size, I mean."

"Only body? Hmm."

"I'm not sure the size of his cock would have anything to do with this, mother." Jon annoyingly replied. "It is highly unlikely that he swings it around as a weapon."

"Well, if he does, Avacyn saves us all." His mother laughs. "So, from your conjecture, what happened?"

Jon scratches his chin and goes deep into his think tank. He lists all the clues in his head and links them together. He might not be the sharpest blade in the armory, but he was not a slouch either. Years of training and hardship he suffered from his instructors and planeswalking family had honed him into a great hunter.

"This should be a fight between a giant man and a cabal of necromancers if a sheer amount of the dead indicates anything. None of body found is freshly dead, so all of them walked out of this alive."

An ambush perhaps. The quality of corpses varies, which means the necromancers didn't prepare an army for this ambush, so the one who initiates the fight is the large man. The necromancers raised the dead in haste and sought to use them to overwhelm the large man while they themselves escaped.

However, there is also a chance that it wasn't a cabal of necromancers at all, but a very powerful lone necromancer. Our target, Liliana Vess, fits that criterion. If that is so, the one that is hunting her would be Garruk that lady Tamiyo told us about."

"Well done, Jon." His mother claps her hand. "I could not put it better myself. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you, mother." He smiles. His eyes gleam in adoration. The praise is nothing to him, but the recognition from his parent means a plane to him. "I learned from the best."

"Oh, stop it you!" his mother waves it off. Her humbleness is very uncanny, but pleasing, nonetheless.

"I'm talking about Uncle Vol and Auntie Narset." He smirks and dodges his mother's spear that she swung at him. "You have to be faster than that, mother. I'm twice as quick since the last time."

*Whack*

Jon had learned indeed, but he didn't prepare for the follow-up. It struck him right on his face and sent him face-first to the ground. Lucky for him, his mother hit him with a butt of her spear. It was a tongue and cheek hit aimed for teasing, not harm. Had she used the bladed tip; his face would already have a hole in it.

"Twice the pride, double the fall." She laughs. "You should remember that as well, Jon."

Jon stands up and wipes the dust off him. It's hurt like a bitch, but compare to his training lately, it was nothing. "Anyway. If that is so, it would complicate things for us. I assume that this Garruk would not appreciate a hunting competition."

"Bah." His mother snorts. "Screw that Jon. A true wolf guard its hunting ground. Assemble the pack. We have one hell of a fight ahead of us."

Custom Card of the Chapter

Name: Discordant Letter (Help-fixed by airistal)

Mana Cost: 5

Type: Artifact

Card Text: At the beginning of each end step, each player discards a card, then put a omen counter on Discordant Letter.

3, T, Sacrifice Discordant Letter: Draw three cards, then discard for each omen counter on Discordant Letter.

Flavor Text: "Bloody Seven Hells"

Rarity: Common