Chapter 31 Meanwhile …
I finally got a job. It's work from home, but it pays well. Unfortunately, it will take even more of my time to write this story, but you probably get used to my sporadic update by now. At least I hope you would.
…
Reviews
Trinity Seven: hopefully the next chapter is a glimpse of what happens in Westeros.
Wish granted. I guess.
Zane Tribal Tyne Alexandros: Well…. I must say this is interesting, a little Snow-White fluff, sick and lost alone in the woods. And he ends up saved by a big badass wolf.
I'm glad you like it. I'm afraid I fucked it up mid-way through if I say so myself. If I am going to rewrite this story, a massive overhaul will be needed. But never say never.
…
'What the fuck.'
Indeed. WHAT THE FUCK.
It is all Jon could think for the past hour. The tense stand-off between the cathars and the packs was resolved peacefully, thankfully. Some blood had been shed overheated nasty words but there was no death. Considering that they are on Innistrad, it is as peacefully as it gets. And now they march through the moor toward the dreaded Helvault, in peace. Well. As peaceful as a powder keg ready to be lit, which is a blessing in this situation. He would take anything, not murder involved at this point.
Now, they, as in werewolves, humans, and a single archangel who is supposed to never exist, are walking hand-in-hand toward the cursed Helvault. If someone had a vision about this and told him before tonight, he would tell them to lay off their herbs. It was supposed to be a straightforward job, Avacyn damns it. Get in, kidnap Mikaeus, get out, deliver him to Liliana, kill him before he could unlock the Helvault, escape and hide behind Sorin. Simple. And not even have way done, everything had fallen into pieces.
Further than that, some vampires and spirits even join them on their 'march' halfway in. Jon doesn't know what the fuck is going on and he decides to not think about it any longer.
Amazing isn't it. All the races, factions, agendas come together to achieve the same goal for all the wrong reasons. Had it been on any other planes, it would be a symbol of peace and unity, unlike anything the Multiverse had ever seen. For if these bloodthirsty fiends and saints alike could march side by side for a common goal, what could any plane, say his birth plane, could hope to match?
The answer is nothing. Compared to what's happening, there is nothing worth mentioning happening on Westeros since his first planeswalker.
… Meanwhile on Westeros …
King's Landing. 293 AC.
It is a mess. Total chaos, even. The Vale of Arryns burns. The white wolf rebellion, as some come to call it, rages across the kingdom. The savages take their arms against the faithful. The mountain clansmen attack often with such ferocity no one living had ever seen before. Murmur tales of how the steel weapon of the faithful bounces off the naked flesh of the barbarians doesn't help with the morale either.
Magic is returning. Not that anyone south of the neck believes it of course. With institutions such as the Sept and the Citadel, even when the miracle of magic happens in front of their eyes, they will still find a way to deny its existence. In the North, however, is totally another matter. The faith of old had never been stronger in thousands of years. To think that it starts from the death of one bastard boy.
When putting it like that, it sounds ridiculous. No matter, the dangers are real. The reign of the Baratheon dynasty had never been more unstable. At least when the squid rebelled, everyone and their mothers raised up against them. Now, on the other hand, whispers of dissent from the Targaryen supporters during the rebellion is getting louder and louder. Not that it would be a problem, of course. The eunuch's little bird would handle it, or it would be a good opportunity to get rid of him.
Looking from another angle, the one that is more optimistic, it is a good time for him. Chaos, after all, is a ladder. And a man such as Petyr Baelish knows how to climb it well. So far.
He doesn't care that his 'Ancestral Home' would be endangered. In fact, with his current wealth, it would benefit him to have someone taking that ugly tower down for no cost at all. With his current wealth, he could build a much grander holding to replace it many times over, if he bothers to do it.
He takes great joy in many amusing small council sessions where the old Arryn all but tearing his hair off trying to keep the kingdom in one piece, the incestuous queen screaming about punishing the 'insurrection', the other council members trying to further their agenda, while the fat king is too busy fucking his provided whores to attend. But recently, he had to admit it is getting old.
Well, until the Sept calls for a 'holy war' that is. Finally, those gilded fools start doing something useful. Which, in turn, makes his many plans for 'The North' redundant. Those uncultured brutes will have all but rebelled after the words of the 'war to purge the Old gods' corruptions' reached them.
Just thinking about it makes him smile.
…
Winterfell. 293 AC.
The recent years had been hard for Eddard Stark. Ever since Jon disappeared the relationship between Cat and him was strained. Worse still, His wife had never been recovered from what transpired the night where a giant bipedal wolf burned down the sept. If it was just between the two of them, he would not worry that much. However, with Jon gone, Cat did everything in her power to make him be forgotten. He thought nothing of it a first, but his children, apart from his firstborn, don't even recognize Jon exists. Even then, his heir seems to not fully understand why he still grieves for, in his word, 'a bastard'.
It hit him hard how he failed his promise to his sister. But what can he do? Jon didn't die from the fever. He disappeared out of thin air. 'Magic'. It is the only explanation he could give himself. But that line of thought would not earn him any reprieve from his sister when he joins her. No. This is not about what happened to Jon, for his nephew is now beyond his reach. It is about what happened afterward. How he doesn't even care to preserve his memories. How he dared to even feel relieved about the secret he is forced to keep. How he let his wife a free reign to do what she did.
Now she is gone to Riverrun and will not return anytime soon. She even takes their children with her, but perhaps it would be for the best. The North is not kind to her in recent years. The lords, while giving him some face due to Cat being his wife, show their distaste loud and clear. And with that, many stories spring forth and with them, instability of his kingdom.
Many believe that Cat caused Jon's death. They had even not bothered to be subtle about it. Many more believe that Jon is cursing them beyond his 'empty' grave. Some even said that they should join their brothers south of the Neck against the Andals. The fools, of course, tend to forget that the Wildlings worship the Old Gods too, and the Mountain men of Vale are not much better than their own hated ancestral foes.
Which comes to this moment. A few weeks ago, a letter came from King's Landing. The Sept had called for a holy war, and the Crown agrees in doing so. In any other time, he could not care less about it. At most he would send some support to Robert. Alas, the content of that call is not what he called 'diplomatic'. It all but condemned his faith and the North as a whole. Thus, he calls for a gathering of his vassal lords, for he is sure that had he didn't many would do something he couldn't afford to mend.
So instead of letting each of them do cause trouble on their own, the North will present a united front under the Starks. All he could hope is that the 'front' they are united under would not be WAR.
Well, there is no more time to waste. Everyone that is anyone under his banner is here, in his great hall. Bolton, Dustin, Ryswell, Mormont, Karstark, Umber, Manderly, Glover, the Mountain Clans, and many others big and small are here.
It is a cold day, as any day in the North. The sun shines as bright as it should but its ray barely lights up the land. Shadows grips every corner of castle Winterfell as always. The gale wind mourns the loss that no one seems to remember. Well. That is not true. They all remember a lie he told, a lie that grew into a story. A story then grew into a belief that cannot be stopped.
Not now. It is too late for him to correct his mistakes.
As he walks toward the high table, he could see all eyes in the room following him. They are expecting much from him. Perhaps too much that he couldn't provide. They would still obey his words, of course, for he is their liege, but it will cost all the goodwill they ever had with House Stark. So, a compromise must be reached. It is a lesson that Robb should learn well. That is why his heir of thirteen name-days old is seated next to him after all.
"My lords." He starts. "By now, you should all know the reason I call for this gathering. The letter from King's Landing asks for our aid."
With that, the hall goes ballistic. He couldn't blame them. He doesn't like this situation like any man. It is, however, his duty to answer to his king. Or at least give the king a reasonable answer to deny sending anything but words. Even that might be too much for his bannermen. Never in thousands of years had House Stark's position in the North been this low. Not when he is a brother in all but blood to the king. Not when he is fostered in Vale where the mess is now in full swing. Not when he had a southern wife who followed the Seven Not when the 'death' of his 'bastard son' is the cause for the magic to return and with it the vengeance of the old gods.
*Stomp*Stomp*Stomp*
"SILENCE!" He shouts. "Silence. This is the gathering of lords and you all will behave as such!"
While their anger is understandable, they should have known better than behaving like a common rabble. Sometimes he curses the way of his people. Direct and quick to anger, such as the true way of the north. Very good in ruling and in war, but very terrible when they need to go for a softer approach of southern politics. And the Old Gods forbid, they need such a thing at the moment.
"You cannot tell us to help those southern cunts, Lord Stark! Not when they all but spit to our gods and want to eradicate our kin in the Vale!" Shouted Lord Umber. Great Jon is one of his most trusted vassals. That he had no doubt. For him and many others to think that he, Eddard Stark, would even consider helping the Sept shed first men blood, UNBELIEVABLE.
'How much goodwill had House Stark lost under my reign' He ponders.
"Had I decided that you all will not be gathered here. I am of the first man's blood! I follow the Old Gods! I am a Stark of Winterfell! And I find your lack of trust in me disturbing, Lord Umber." He stares at each and every one of them. "Many things had changed in these past few years. Many things had happened. If it were only about me, I would not even consider a reply to the damn letter. But the North cannot stand alone, my lords. To do nothing would be akin to declaring war against the Sept. While it might seem like nothing to all of you, I need to remind you that we rely on food from the Riverlands and the Reach during winter. If we cannot provide a good enough reason for denying them aid, our people would starve this winter comes."
The hall is embraced in silence. The look of his vassal lord's face tells him everything. It will not be quiet for long.
"FUCK THOSE SOUTHRON CUNTS!" And there it is. All it takes is one shout and chaos resumes. This will be a long day.
…
Never in a thousand years had House Manderly been left in such a precarious position. It was true that they had abandoned many things since their exile from the Reach and their settling in the North. It seems that there is still more sacrifice to be done. The concession of faith that the Starks had granted them then is the sole reason for their crisis now. Their faith in the Seven that they were always proud of would be a reason for their downfall. It is a fault that isn't even their own.
Wyman Manderly sits in silence with a grimace as the hall descends to chaos once again. When the first breaking of the faithful a few years ago happened, he decided there, against the protest of many, to reduce the influence of the Sept in White Harbor as well as fully embrace the Old Gods. It was an unpopular move that sour many relationships inside his domain, but it is a necessary one. Had he done nothing then, there might not be House Manderly left now. With the resurgence of supernatural phenomena, the anger of the first men quickly grows from a lit ember into a raging firestorm. Even in White Harbor, the sept was attacked and burned thrice, every time with a higher number of perpetrators. To many it might seem to be dissent from the small folk, but not to him.
The winds are changing. House Stark, no, House Tully had reached too far. Lady Catelyn had no idea what she did, even now. It was bad enough to have a mother of the future Starks worshiping the Seven. Lady Catelyn, for all her years of living in Winterfell, didn't even bother to integrate herself into the kingdom and its people. The discontent had only grown when Ned decided to build the sept inside Winterfell. The death of his bastard, the one that looks more of a Stark than the heir, at first no one did anything for they had a squid to crush then. Besides, the boy was just a bastard, after all.
Then the rumor came. Then the sept in Winterfell was burned and everyone inside was slaughtered. Then the story of how it happened reached the mass, the story of how 'the great white wolf' came back from the dead to reap what had stolen from him. Many cults were formed, many were short-lived, but more so gained influence.
Alas, it is influenced enough to make everything lead to this. To any other houses of the North, the gathering is just that, the gathering of lords. But to House Manderly, this gathering is much more different. One wrong move, and his house would be attacked by his neighbors, a war in all but name. One right move, however, will elevate House Manderly's influence to even higher than that of Boltons and Karstarks. And of course, he already has one plan in mind. All he needs is to guide his fellow lords to it.
"My lords. My lords." He speaks. "I beseech you to listen. We are looking at this problem the wrong way."
Many try to shout him down. He doesn't let it bother him, for he knows that Lord Stark is on his side, for now.
"From what Lord Stark said, I think we all agree that we would not send even a single copper down south. All we need is to give them a worthwhile reason. We can even give them the same reason that they could not even confirm. Think about it, my lords. They want us to help fight those of first men's blood. The same thing we have already done for thousands of years. For isn't the wildlings also a worshipper of the old ways like us. It doesn't matter to them what our faith is, isn't it? They're savage and raided our land all the same."
At this point, he could some tactical savvy lords start to catch on, but many still look at him with disdain. So, he pushes on.
"So, we need to ask ourselves this, if the thing is so bad down south was caused by a few savage first men tribes in the Vale, what will happen when those beyond the wall move against us? It would be unreasonable to leave our land so unprotected from what is inevitable. The Nightwatch is so undermanned it would provide us no protection. It is up to us proud Northerners to guard the seven kingdoms from such invasion, are we not?"
.
.
.
"COWARD!"
"YOU WANT US TO LIE!"
"FAITHLESS SEVEN WORSHIPPER!"
Ahh. Typical, Northern reaction. And Wyman wonders why those down south regard the North as lawless land ruled by barbarians. But he also knows enough that even with that outburst his idea is already lodged itself inside their heads. They will argue as they always do, but in the end, their hatred for the Sept's decree would win. Lord Stark, when present with no other viable option, would decide to go with his plan. HIS PLAN. The one that saves the North a ton of troubles.
And when that time comes, by the end of the day he expects, he will not let them forget it.
… Meanwhile in the rest of Westeros …
News spread far and few between each region of Westeros. Due to the sheer size and how underdeveloped it is, it is impossible for a spy to report the latest news accurately. The raven system itself takes days to reach from one major hold to another. For a kingdom so vast and so ignored such as the North, some rumors are created and die out before it could cross the border. Not that it is important. Northerners rarely care for the games of the south. Alas, it is his duty as the Master of Whisper to know everything, apparently.
It makes him rest a little bit easy knowing that his network of little birds is cut from different clothes. Many will keep vigil against foreign merchants. Some will keep guard against whores. No one suspects some random child. And when they grew up to be adults after living there for so long, it is even easier to root out other spies using their own.
Alas, those northern savages give him so little to report. Well, apart from the obvious which the king would not accept from him. Not what Little Finger is feeding him half-truths and lies to further his own agenda. His piece is nowhere near ready yet, and Varys knows the virtue of striking at the right moment.
So, what else is noteworthy going on. Westeros is a big place after all.
Let's see. Let's see.
Vale burns. There is no civil about the war there. Barbarians with magic leave a poor taste in his mouth, but it is a welcoming development. The weaker the Stark-Arryn-Tully alliance, the better for his plan to put 'Aegon' on the Iron Throne. And with the mountain clans consisting only of First men, it will be easy to incite hatred that alienates the North from the rest of the kingdoms. Better yet, House Royce, a major bannerman of the Arryn, is well known as a First Men house. Perhaps some rumor to divide the Vale even further is needed, but he had to play his hand carefully. Or perhaps he doesn't need to do anything because Little Finger will take care of that on his own.
On that note, he needs to keep his eye on Little Finger's actions. With his grudge with the North, the whoremonger will not sit still when the prime opportunity presents itself. It may disturb his ongoing project, it may not.
Riverlands seems to be at peace, but anyone and their mother know that it is not. Riverrun is not a good place to be these days. The castle had hosted Lady Stark and her children 'visiting' for many moons now. It only takes one look to see how the relationship between the Riverlands and the North deteriorated in these past few years. With Holster's health failing, if his little bird's reports are corrected, then the said problems will only grow from here.
Something he needs to keep in mind. It will serve well as a distraction when he needs it.
Crownland, Stormland, Reach, Westerlands are using the Sept as an excuse to gather their army. Which in turn makes their neighbors start doing the same.
Dorne. Nothing worth a salt happens in Dorne. They are all but declared independence but are surely appreciate the excuse to rally their arms. Not that he expects them to send it outside Dorne.
The Iron Islands. Well. No one should talk about the Iron Islands. Not after what Eddard Stark had done to them all those years ago.
And lastly, the North…. Well. It's complicated. His little birds sang many unbelievable songs. And he doesn't believe them. Perhaps his network up there is compromised. He needs to take some time to look at it.
And time is something that Varys had aplenty.
…
A few days later.
A flock of raven flies south from Castle Black. All carry the same message. There are two words in that letter that summarize everything.
"Wildling invasion"
Well. It is like what they say. Be careful what you wish for ….
… Back on Innistrad …
Yes. With a familiar and welcoming feeling in his gut, Jon knows that he is right. In Westeros, they don't even believe in magic. No. According to Vaevictis Asmadi, who is very disturbingly quiet, the magic on that plane is dying out. While he doesn't trust that damn elder dragon, his bare remembered experience agrees with its statement. On a side note, he needs to keep an eye out. Vaevictis is surely up to something. Hopefully, the incoming inevitable fight would not force him to make another 'deal' with it.
And time sure flies fast because lo and behold the Helvault is right there in front of them. The silver moon of Innistrad is already high in the sky when they reach where the horde of zombies gathered. He can hear some kind of music in the distance. If he isn't mistaken those are the dead bards that followed lady Liliana and keep insulting her. She must have a patience of a saint to not take offense and dispel them.
Yes, he knows how ironic that sentence sounds.
Then again, intelligent zombies are hard to come by. From his lessons, Jon knows that it is possible to achieve by those who have high enough mastery in necromancy and had enough power to back it up. Perhaps that is the reason why lady Liliana still keeping them with her.
Nevertheless, it makes him have a hard time behaving in front of her. His mother beat him enough times that he shouldn't laugh at a lady when she is in a dire situation. Instead, help her with a charming smile and she might be grateful enough to join you in the …. On the second thought, it is not that good of a lesson.
Anyway, it is time to initiate the final step of his half-assed plan.
"Jon, my boy." He heard the male necromancer calling him. "You brought a lot of friends here, hmm. I'm sorry, I don't take you that kind of a party animal. Hmm. Anyway, I don't want to be rude or belittle your accomplishment, but your main cargo seems to be brain-dead."
What.
"I know. I know. We are necromancers. One of the best Innistrad had to offer if I want to be boastful. But from what I head in the morning, you want him alive. Am I understanding it right, Liliana dear?"
.
.
.
"Anyway, it might sound a bit harsh, but I didn't intend to discourage you from trying your best the next time, young Snow. You achieved an excellent feat that few could claim today. But as an adult here, I feel the need to provide some constructive criticism. I assume that you check his pulse before taking him here, which was great. But ….."
The male Cecani then starts sprouting something about medical professionalism for 15 minutes, which Jon doesn't understand about 9 out of 10 words he said. Probably. Jon tuned him off about few nonsensical words in.
*Cough*
"Thank you, Geralf. That was very …. Enlightening. But we had a guest here." Said Liliana.
The Dominarian necromancer was dressed in purple garb that shows a lot of her assets. And a crest that screams 'Necromancer' more than anything Jon has ever seen. Not a dress one should don in the cold night in the moor of Gavony, in the midst of zombie siege at that. Then again, as good as a fashion sense their kind is uncanny well known for, so does the lack of common sense. Seriously, somehow, when their spark ignites, some fundamental knowledge of compliment color is instinctively known to them, hence the color of their clothes. Yes, it is mostly the same color as the mana they tapped into, but that is yet another mystery of the multiverse.
Perhaps it is because Richard Garfield deems it so.
Wait. 'What is he thinking about again?' Oh. Yes. The necromancer. In a split second he took to access the situation, just to make sure he didn't appear impolite, Jon find that lady Liliana had done something during his flight of attention. By that, he means she killed the Lunarch and raised him as a zombie. Typical necromancer stuff.
Wait. What?
Jon looks around and finds that the Cathars are on the verge of attacking. Granduncle Tovolar's howl pack is smiling. The spirits are laughing. The angel is … he has no idea.
And Thalia is glaring daggers at him twice as hard as before. At least she is alternating between him and lady Liliana.
"… So." Liliana seemed annoyed after listening to the doublespeak from the Lunarch for some time. "Your flowery nonsense aside, you are telling me that you don't have a key to unlock the Helvault. But you are the Lunarch! You are the highest authority of the Church!" She screams.
"Yes. That is correct." The undead lunarch replied. "But I don't hold the key. Never hold the key."
"Then who is?" countered Liliana. "Tell me!"
.
.
.
The zombie turns and points at Thalia. When its mouth is opened, Jon's heart drops. "Her"
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH" Out comes the undead chorus. "SHEEEEEET"
At this moment, Jon realized that he had just entered another realm of trouble.
…
Custom Card of the Chapter
Name: Dim Wish
Mana Cost: BB
Types: Sorcery
Card Text: You may reveal a card you own from outside the game and exile it. As long as that card remains exiled, its owner may play it as though it has flash. A spell cast this way costs 2 more to cast.
Exile Dim Wish.
Flavor Text: "Be careful what you wish for."
Rarity: Mythic Rare
