Time unknown…
Valyria…
For the next few hours, I made my way up the obviously ruined lands. I didn't know what had happened here other than something had gone horribly wrong. Some magic or calamity had claimed the land of Valyria for nature once again – but it didn't feel like a magical disaster. The land was saturated in blood magic, old blood magic, though not of the sacrificial variety. This felt more like what the Vikings or Babylonians used until they found focuses other than blood… It was an extraordinary contradiction that I just couldn't wrap my head around.
Of course, I could have made it to Volantis three hours ago but I had been casting tracking and revealing charms every time I stopped – most of the time, those spells had been successful. I had found two more deposits of Dragon eggs (with five in each clutch) though they were nowhere near the size of the first three. What I found truly interesting was that the eggs were of completely different colors. Back home, you could depend on one breed to have a particular color, here it looked like it was luck of the draw – kind of like Eragon.
Though, based on the skeletons, none of these dragons would have anything in common with the dragons of Alagaesia except a name. Four limbed, long-necked, and horned, the dragons looked like a monstrous Dinosaur skeleton rather than what I have come to find in dragons back home. Their bones were completely alien too – being more iron than carbon – which was probably needed to hold up all the weight they probably had.
I had also managed to find a few more of the strange dragon steel swords along the way, though none were quite as large as Brightroar. There was one that was similar in size to Winter's Bane but, of course, I preferred my sword to any other – though it would make for a good backup. I also found a few suits of armor made from the material but, the problem with that was, their owners were still wearing said armor… While I was okay desecrating a Dragon's corpse, human corpses? Not so much. While I would take their weapons, I'd leave their armor. There was no reason to anger the dead.
And so, six hours after I had found the first dragon skeleton, I found myself in Volantis. I had made my way west, to the coast, and hopped from island to island until I was on the mainland, still following the sea.
Volantis was a rather strange place, to say the least. People with strange markings on their faces populated the city and looked at me with curiosity and, strangely, disdain. I was making my way to the docks to maybe, just maybe, find a ship to Westeros when a group of men with green tiger stripes – of all things – on their faces stopped me.
"Andal," the leader said. "Remove helm."
"And why would I do that?" I asked, resting my hand on Winters pommel. The Tiger men looked at me with lifted eyebrows as the leader stepped forward.
"You may be Knight but no Tiger."
"Knight?" I asked with a laugh, "I'm not a Knight, just a smith trying to get to Westeros."
"Remove your helm and you can go to port, Andal," the Tiger-man leader growled as he unsheathed his sword. I just sighed and waved my hand, casting a weak, wandless confundus hex at them all, it was one of Potter's specialties. For a man who supposedly hated 'dark magic,' he damn well knew a lot of tricky spells.
"There," I said as they staggered backward, "you've seen my face. Can I go now?"
"Y-yes. Go, Andal. Come back to Volantis and I be watching you," the Tiger man growled. I just waved cheekily and walked past them, wondering what the hell that was about.
"The tigers not like you, boy?" a cheery voice said behind me. I turned around and came face to face with a man in his thirties with flaming red hair and beard along with pale blue, nearly grey, eyes.
"Apparently not, though don't expect me to take my helmet off just to talk to you," I said cheerily.
"Smart lad," he said with a grin, "the name's Robard Reyne," he extended his hand, "at your service."
"Benjamin Stark at yours," the man's eyes widened and I couldn't help but lift an unseen eyebrow at the reaction.
"What in the seven hells is a man of the North, and a Stark at that, doing all the way here in Volantis?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Mr. Reyne. It's quite a fantastic tale that I don't quite believe myself."
"Lord Reyne, if you must address me as such, Benjamin. But I'm only a Lord of ashes and rubble now, I'm afraid. Lord Lannister saw to that," he spat before calming, "otherwise, please call me Robard."
"And call me Ben. You tell me your tale and I'll tell you mine." He just lifted an eyebrow at that.
"I thought every Westerosi man, woman, and child would know the Rains of Castamere by now. It's quite a famous song you know."
"Actually, I don't," I said as I followed him through the throng of people. "I'm not Westerosi."
"Bullshite. You're a Stark, you have the Stark sigil on your shield and on your forehead. If you're not a Stark of Winterfell, I'll eat my boot!"
"I may be a Stark but not of Winterfell. Hell, I had never even heard of Winterfell until today," I admitted quietly. The man just whirled around to look at me like I had three heads.
"Then where are you from?"
"Aberdeen, Scotland."
"What in the Seven's name is a Scotland?"
"It's not a what, but a where, and it's my home," I said simply, "and if I'm right it's quite a ways away. But you mentioned a lord Lannister. Any relationship to Tommen Lannister?"
"The Lion of the Rock?" Robard asked, over his shoulder while leading me into an alleyway. "The one who's been dead for nearly four hundred years?"
"Maybe? I found his journal and sword on a wrecked ship. The book asked me to return both of them back to his family." The redhead just scoffed.
"If you had Brightroar it'd be on your back or your hip. Legend says it's a great sword, not something you can hideaway in that tiny ruck of yours." I just stared him down (halfway wondering how he knew the name of the sword just by that little bit of information but figured it wasn't that important) as I took the pack off my shoulders, opened it, and summoned Brightroar to my hand. The Reyne gaped at me for a few seconds before holding his hand out cautiously.
"You know witchcraft?"
"Wizardry. Witchcraft is for women, thank you very much. Most of it's rather benign, like the expansion charms on the pack," I said as I passed him the sword. "Oh, and I'm quite going to need that back."
"You've actually found Brightroar… How'd you survive the Doom? Even the most skilled magic wielders fall to that wretched place." He said in awe.
"Really? I was in and out of there in a few hours." His eyes snapped up to meet mine while I shrugged. "I wouldn't go back for a vacation, of course, but there are some secrets there left to find."
"You must be truly skilled then… Is this all you found?"
"Ha! Hardly," I scoffed. He looked at me with a smile in his eyes as he passed the blade back.
"Be careful not to reveal your abilities. The Faith of the Seven is against any form of Witchcraft just as the Maesters of the Citadel are rumored to be. You will be safe in the North, though if you manage to lord over a castle you will have to decline a maester… Though you would have to train your own ravens," 'why would I have to train ravens?' I thought as he carried on. "Though you could easily become one of the wealthiest men in Westeros if you sold that sword to the Crown or to the Lannisters."
"What's so special about the bloody things? I've got five right now if you include Brightroar," the man looked as if he were going to faint at the casual admittance.
"Five Valyrian steel swords!? Gods… Keep them secret or you will be hunted down until the end of your days."
"Is it really that great? I mean, I can see the appeal but my Dragon iron is lighter and probably easier to make than this Valyrian Steel. Not to mention I can make far better armor like my own."
"Valyrian Steel is spell forged…"
"And most of my metals are as well. Here," I tossed him Brightroar again, "hit me. You won't get through my armor."
"Nothing is better than Valyrian steel," he said matter of factly. "Have you a death wish?"
"Hit me and find out." I raised my arms to invite him to lay a hit on me. The man shook his head and lunged for all he was worth, there wasn't even a clang as the Vibranium absorbed the impact completely.
"What the devil!? That's impossible!" He asked, utterly stunned. To him, it probably felt like he stabbed a brick wall.
"Vibranium, my friend. Now, hand me back the sword and I'll be on my-"
"DRAGON SMITH!" a familiar voice boomed from the mouth of the alley. I turned to see Buln racing toward me with his ax raised, ready to strike down Robard. I raised Hoarfrost and intercepted Buln's axe with it, placing myself between the pissed off Goblin and the Reyne. "Let me pass! He tried to kill you!"
"No, he didn't Warmaster! I was proving a point, damn it! Calm yourself!" I barked as the old Goblin stared down the Westerosi.
"Did you get it across?"
"Beautifully. He thought some Bonesteel Sword could stand up against my Vibranium. I was happy to prove him wrong. But what the hell are you doing here!?"
"When you got thrown backward, you crashed into me and Grashnog, you fool! Damn near flattened me, but then I was on my back in someplace called Myr some months ago. I found work with their glassblowers where I heard tales of Valyria and the Starks of Westeros. I knew that if I found myself in this wretched place then you would as well. I had decided to start my search for you in Valyria as you always manage to get yourself into terrible situations as it is, Stark. I had just made Volantis three days ago."
"And Master Grashnog?"
"Here in Volantis, and has been for three years apparently. He appeared in a smithy, unsurprisingly, in Qohor. He's learned a thing or two about this Bonesteel you speak of. I found Grashnog yesterday but I had already rented a cabin with a group of adventurers who were set to explore the Smoking Sea and Valyria. They're due to set sail in a month but it appears fate has a different plan for us both. Come, now that you're here we're leaving for Westeros."
"So soon? No ships are bound for White Harbor that I know of." The Reyne said carefully.
"Grashnog owns his own ship, Reyne of Castamere – yes, I know who you are, don't look so surprised. Your hair gives you away, Red Lion, just as that stupid ballad the Westerosi are so fond of tells the tale of your house's fate. You cannot join us, for neither the Crown nor Westerlands will help you rebuild what was yours."
"Of course not, Tywin was the one who destroyed my home and he has the King's ear. Why in the name of the Seven would either of them help me? No, I am simply passing through. Meereen was not kind to a Lord without gold or castle. If it weren't for my wits I would already be a slave."
"Slave?" I asked hotly. The man's eyebrows shot up.
"Yes. The cities of Slaver's Bay thrive on the slave trade. The Wise Masters profit from it. Volantis itself has more slaves than freemen roaming her streets – surely you've noticed the tattoos?"
"I thought they had no meaning…" I growled lightly.
"They can wait, Stark. The Free Cities are said," I didn't miss the message, "to not practice slavery and Westeros has long since outlawed the practice. If you want to save some smallfolk, wait until you find yourself a castle and land to work." Buln growled. "Come, Grashnog is waiting." I nodded simply and looked over to the Reyne.
"Go," the redhead said with a wave of his hand, "I will make a life for myself away from Westeros. Though my heart longs for Castamere, Tywin would kill me simply for the hate he bears my cousin still. Never again will I set foot in the West, but I'll happily build a life away from the Lions of the Rock and the Crown. Tonight, I leave with the tide for Braavos – a cabin is waiting for me on a trader already."
"Then take this," I said, summoning one of the longswords from the pack. "You may need it."
"Surely you ca-"
"I am serious, now take the damn sword. It's the least I can do for the information you gave me." He took the sword reverently as I followed Buln out of the alley and toward where master Grashnog was.
XXX
"Bloody hell, it's cold!" I grunted as I stepped onto the deck of the Nirud's Hammer, Master Grashnog's cog. After Buln and I met with the High Smith, we told each other of what we had found in Volantis, Qohor, Myr, and Valyria. Apparently, the Qohor knew how to reforge Valyrian Steel but that was the extent of their magical knowledge, so much for the city of sorcerers.
"It's the North, boy. Go further and you'll find a place they've named the Land of Always Winter. It's a nice pair to go along with their Summer Isles, methinks," Master Grashnog said from his place at the rail. I joined him as we looked over the water. We had been at sea for twenty-three days and were due to reach White Harbor – the Port of the North – today. The captain didn't quite know when since we were quite a bit ahead of schedule – good winds and strong fortune he swore. Little did he know that Grashnog had outfitted the ship with a wardstone that he let me examine. It didn't do much other than make the ship lighter and redirect the currents around us to accelerate more than what was naturally possible. With the wards, she was probably the fastest vessel in the world, now if we could find a world-class crew…
The motley crew the old Goblin assembled was nothing more than a few carpenters, masons, and smiths – all of them were extremely skilled in their crafts but master Grashnog was paying them quite a bit more than they could reasonably expect in their chosen field on a day-to-day basis. The only real sailor was the captain, a repulsive man whose head I was sure Grashnog was going to remove from his shoulders sooner rather than later.
"Maybe… But you said it was a warm cycle. Why's it so cold?"
"This is balmy compared to the height of a Northern Winter, boy," the captain said as he swaggered over to us. "From what the reports say, this won't be lasting much longer. Eventually, the Starks are always right, Winter is Coming… We should be reaching White Harbor within the hour. Be ready to go ashore."
"Winter is coming?" I asked my master sarcastically as the vile man swaggered away. "What is that, some kind of bad joke?"
"No, those are the Stark words. Every house in Westeros has them. Be it a slogan or a boast, every house has them. The Stark's warn that Winter is Coming, the Lannister's are always on about Hear me Roar, while the Targaryen's call for Fire and Blood. To each family their own, I suppose. I never bothered learning any other house's words save the Baratheon's. Aye, that one I can get on board with, Ours' the Fury!"
"A shame, we might have needed to know who it is that governs White Harbor," I snarked lightly.
"House Manderly," Master Buln said as he finally showed his face on deck. "They'll want to meet you if they find out that you're a Stark, boy. Keep that quiet and we can be on our way. We'll have to find Horses and tack to keep up appearances, though. After that we make for Winterfell as fast as we can."
"Keep my name quiet, find horses, go to Winterfell without any undue attention, got it," I snarked casually.
"That means you can't wear your armor, Stark," Master Grashnog said. I stared at him blankly before shaking my head. "It attracts too much attention and you know it. The only men who wear white armor here are the members of the Kingsguard – and you most certainly are not one of them. Wear steel if you must, but your vibranium must stay hidden until we are out of White Harbor."
"I don't have mundane steel armor, master. I have a set of Draganium, Dragon Iron, and my Ice and Snow Vibranium sets – hell, you even made my helmet out of Snow Vibranium yourself!"
"And yet I stand by my word. If this is a problem then you will go without your armor – unless you wear the Dragon Iron suit as it is the least remarkable of them all. Winter's Bane may be safe for you to wear as well. I know you are not lightly parted from it."
"Now I'm never parted from it," I growled. "We ended up in a different world, master! Would you be separated from your hammer?"
"No."
"Exactly. Buln has his ax, you've your hammer, and I've my sword. I understand not using Hoarfrost and can handle myself without a shield, but I will not take up a sword I'm unfamiliar with when we could be killed by any idiot with a knife and lust for gold," I ran my hands through my hand and sighed gently. "Un du evari'nya nosu varda…"
"May the Stars watch over us indeed."
XXX
The landing in White Harbor was mercifully quiet for a bustling Harbor town. Merchants peddling their wares, fishmongers holding up beautiful specimens for all to see, the smell of salt and shit following us everywhere. All in all, it was a suitably medieval harbor. I didn't notice the smell or temperature of Volantis thanks to my armor, but that was my best suit – I was currently in my worst and freezing to death because of it – granted it could have been worse, but it was still suitably bad. The lightweight Dragon Iron would ward off attacks from steel though so I was protected, it was just the fact that it wasn't a full suit of plate. This armor was designed to be as light, and mobile as possible. Half the time I forgot I was even wearing it.
The suit was a riff on a Roman Legionnaire styled breastplate with a flexible iron band covering my legs and chainmail covering my arms. The helmet, also, was in the style of the old legions so I looked distinctly different from the few plate-mailed knights we saw roaming about. Luckily for me, the armor was pretty easy to cover with one of the bearskin cloaks Grashnog had been hoarding since he heard about the Starks of Winterfell. I could never be more thankful to him for doing that. Though, if I had time I would make a few improvements to the skins – Mother always thought that I should at least know how to sew up buttons to a shirt but ended up teaching me everything she knew about sewing. Considering she was a seamstress/tailor? That was a considerable amount. I had come to find that in clothes, stitching runes (as I already had my mastery in the subject by the time I graduated Hogwarts. Runes of any sort had just utterly fascinated me and I ate through the subject as fast as I could: Anglo, Futhark, and Macromannic were specialties of mine) worked far better than ink or enchanting ever could.
Finding horses and tack though… That was easier said than done. Everyone here had horses but not many were willing to part with three on the same day. Not to mention the fact that we had to find a full-sized horse for me and a pair of ponies for Grashnog and Buln, much to their displeasure. I was tempted to do the easy thing and let Buln and Grashnog find their own horses (which was the problem, not many people rode ponies here) but I had struck gold when I found a man in the West of the city who had a pair of highland ponies and a courser.
"Me three harses!? Are ye mad?" The man squawked. "No! Not in the name of me ma, old and new gods rest her… Me wife and me needs dem horses to make it back ta' Ramsgate bafar' the week's end!"
"Say you were willing to part with them," I said as I walked into the pub with him following me all the way. "What would it cost? With an ale on me for your time, of course." I looked at the barkeep and tossed him one of the silver coins Grashnog gave me before we disembarked - being a smith, and the best smith at that, in Qohor pays better than the Goblin Nation ever did… But the currency here was made up of Golden Dragons, silver Moons, and bronze pennigs. The barkeep snatched the coin from the air, nodded, and slid two mugs to me and the stubborn man.
"I'm not partin' with 'em, lad! Thank ye for the ale, but I cannah be sellin' da harses."
"Hmm…" I said thoughtfully as I drew a dagger from my belt and laid it on the bar. The man looked at me strangely before taking the blade and unsheathing it a little. He just looked at the metal blankly.
"An' w'at's t'is s'posed ta be?" he asked in confusion, but I noticed the barkeep had noticed the steel too and his eyes had gotten as big around as the mug I was drinking from.
"Nothing to you, obviously. Barkeep? What do you think I could get for a dagger such as this?"
"A goodly sized piece of land, milord… If I took that to the Manderly's, I'd never work a day again in me life." The man beside me looked at the dagger again with greed glinting dangerously in them.
"You'd give me a dagga' like dis for three stinkin' horses? Take em! I'm off to go see the Manderly's!" He cried as he bolted for the door. I just shook my head at the idiot and looked back to the barkeep who looked like he was about to cry.
"Don't worry about that, the dagger's worthless."
"Worthless?!" He snapped, looking at me like I was an idiot. "That dagger could have changed me life!"
"Aye, if it were whole it might have. The idiot never checked to see if the dagger was completely intact before running off with it. It was a fighting knife, yes, but now there's only about a thumb's length of steel left on it. Stumbled on it in Valyria, figured it was worthless but kept it anyway."
"You've been to Valyria!? And lived!? Go! Get out! You'll curse the both of us!" He barked.
"Oh, I would, but you won't remember this conversation, or the idiot, for that matter, and I quite like this ale… Obliviate!"
And with that, after finishing my ale, of course, Master Grashnog, Buln, and I were well outside of the city's gates and on our way to Winterfell. But first, we had to make it to something called the Kingsroad. It would have taken us about a week to reach the Kingsroad going by Horseback, but I wasn't about to wait that long. So, I got on my broom and, after casting a few aversion charms and a disillusionment charm, I was rocketing over the landscape to find this so-called Kingsroad. It took me almost an hour to get there pushing the Firebolt II at full speed – so it was nearly two hundred miles… Yeah, that wasn't about to happen. I landed and got a good look at my surroundings, now I was hoping with a name like the Kingsroad it was going to be a rather nice, Roman-like road, but no. The damn thing was a simple dirt path far enough across for a few horses to ride side by side comfortably, but it was filled with potholes and furrows and other nasty things that didn't belong on roads. I just sighed and apparated back to where Grashnog and Buln were waiting.
"What did you find? You were gone for a long while, boy." Buln said haughtily.
"The Kingsroad is nearly two hundred miles directly to the west. I'll make us and the horses some portkeys – I'll have to stun the horses though."
"That would be wise. I do not fancy chasing horses through here." And with that said, I set to work. While I was going to apparate myself, that wasn't going to work for the goblins and horses. It took about five minutes to make the four portkeys, stunned, and stuck three of the four portkeys to the horses. Mercifully, that reduced our journey from what would have probably been a week down to an hour if you counted the time I took scouting.
"You start riding, I'll scout out ahead, see if I can't find Winterfell."
"You'll run into Castle Cerwyn first," Buln said as he examined the map he found at the port. "Winterfell is over a hundred miles beyond – the capital itself is three hundred miles from where we stand. Fly fast, Stark. We should be about five miles up the road by the time you return."
"Yes, Warmaster. I know none of us will want to ride horseback day after day for a week and a half straight. I'll be back as fast as I can."
"Good lad. Let's ride, Buln. Fair winds, my Apprentice."
"And fair road to you, Master," I said, mounting my broom and rennervating the horses.
XXX
Winterfell…
XXX
"Halt! Who goes there!?" The guard at the gate cried as we made it into earshot distance. I had to give it to the Starks – the place was impressive. The walls were staggeringly large, the gate required four men to watch it properly, and just everything about the building screamed power.
"Benjamin Stark, descendant of Jorah Stark, the Prince of Winter and Wolf in the North. I have come to speak with the Stark!" I barked with my shield raised high. I was able to put my Vibranium armor back on so I was on horseback in the white armor at yelling distance from the guards - thank Merlin for that simple deployment system Grashnog and I had been developing.
"The only Starks in the world are here in Winterfell and in the Eyrie! If you're gonna lie, at least be convincing," the left guard said arrogantly but the one on the right looked completely stunned.
"Boris, you idiot!" Right guard snapped at the left, "Look at the bloody shield! That's a Stark Direwolf if I've ever seen one! Not to mention the bloody thing looks like Ironwood!"
"Of course, that's what you'd care about, ya bloody woodsman!" Boris snapped back before turning to me. "If yer a Stark then who's the Lord of Winterfell?"
"Hell, if I know! I've never even been in Westeros before! Something happened to Jorah and I'm trying to figure out what the hell that was! But if I were guessing it'd be a King in the North, wouldn't it?"
"King in the North!? There ain't been a King in the North in nearly three-hundred years! Torrhen Stark saw to that when he knelt to Dragons all those bloody years ago."
"Well then let me speak to this Lord Stark and then I'll be on my way!"
"Lord Stark's not in right now," Boris yelled back.
"Seven hells my father's not!" Another voice called out from behind the gate. "What do you think you're doing denying a Stark entry!?"
"Lord Brandon," the right guard said, whirling around to face the man who was striding through the gate. "I-"
"You are letting this bloody idiot turn these people away!" this Brandon character barked, "whether he is a Stark or not, Father will want to meet him for even claiming he is. Boris! Get out of here, ya swine! Or I'll have you whipped!" Left guard didn't need any more prodding as he scuttled past the tall, young man with the beginnings of a beard on his face. The Stark glared the shamed guardsman down the entire time before turning back to me and the two Goblins. "Hail! I am Brandon Stark, Heir of Winterfell and son of Rickard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Who might you be?"
"Benjamin Stark, son of Lincoln and Alice, Heir of Jorah Stark," I slid off my horse's back and took off my helm. We clasped arms and he looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
"Is that all you are?"
"I'm a smith by trade if that's what you're asking," I said with a small smirk. Brandon's eyes lit up with interest at that.
"Really? Are you any good?"
"I like to think so, but my master here," I said nodding toward Grashnog, "doesn't quite agree."
"Nay and I never will! Someone needs to keep your head from getting too fat as it is, lad. Brandon Stark? I am Grashnog of Clan Anzin. This is Buln of Clan Shegret."
"An honor to meet you, Master Smith. Come, these men will take your horses. It would not do to keep father waiting."
"No, not at all. Lead on, Brandon Stark." I said with a grin that he returned easily.
"He'll be waiting in the great hall, it's this way. You're lucky you know, a few more minutes and you would have had to wait the night before seeing him. He just had his last petitioner of the day, I passed that bloody farmer who wouldn't stop gushing about Lord Stark's generosity on my way in, but I think he'll see you," the man, who was little more than a boy now that I was able to get a good look at him, led us up the path and through another set of gates as we entered a courtyard with men at arms and two boys training with wooden swords. The boy who was looking toward us was distracted as he stopped to look at me in shock, letting his opponent whack him over the head with the wooden sword.
"Lya!" the boy cried as he stumbled away. "Why'd you do that!?"
"You let yourself get distracted, Ben! Did a bird catch your eye?" The voice, obviously a girl's, said mockingly.
"N-no!" The boy, the other Ben, stuttered as he stared at me again. Finally getting the girl to turn around and look at me too. Instantly, her helmet was off and so was she, racing toward us as fast as her legs could carry her.
"Are you a knight!?" She squealed as she got close enough for Brandon to scoop her up and stop her in her tracks. "Bran! Let me down!"
"No can do, little sister. I'm taking him to see father."
"But father's sooooo boring! I want to talk to the Knight before father makes him boring too!" I couldn't help but chuckle lightly at the girl's enthusiasm, getting her to look at me indignantly. "Why are you laughing!?"
"You remind me of my sister… Lya, is it?"
"Lyanna," she said a bit shyly now.
"Lyanna," I said with a smile, handing Master Grashnog my helm as I stepped up to the two Starks and knelt. "Well, Lyanna, I'm no knight. I'm just a smith but…" I raised my hand and took off my gauntlet, letting fire dance between my fingers for a beat before letting it dissipate. "I do know a few tricks." Her eyes were wide as I stood up and ruffled her hair gently, pulling my gauntlet on and taking my helmet back from Grashnog. Brandon was stunned by the little display but recovered quickly, ushering the three in our party toward the great hall and Lord Stark. Lyanna and Ben's eyes followed us the entire way out of the courtyard, along with those of every man-at-arms' as well.
XXX
"Brandon?" the man on the enormous stone throne said with confusion heavy in his voice. He was a grim man but not unfamiliar, in fact he would look almost identical to dad if dad decided to grow a beard and lose forty pounds. He was grim, with hard grey eyes and drab brown hair, but his very demeanor screamed strength and cunning. "I thought you were out riding the Rills?"
"I returned just this afternoon, father. Just in time to meet our guests at the gate."
"Guests? And pray tell, who are these guests you have invited into my hall?" Brandon looked at me and I couldn't help but smirk as I stepped forward, tossing my helm to Brandon as I drew Winter's Bane and unslung Hoarfrost, holding them out for the Lord in the North to see.
"I am Benjamin Stark, descendant of Jorah Stark, the Prince of Winter and Wolf in the North, and I have come a very long way to speak to you, my Lord." The Stark's eyes widened as he looked at the white and grey sword, my shield with the Wolf emblazoned on the front, but, most particularly, he was intently staring at my helmet - more specifically, he was looking at the coronet welded to it. Out of the corner of my eye, I could have sworn the thing actually glowed.
"By the gods of forest and stone… That's Winters Bane… and the Circlet of the Wolf Prince? They were thought lost…" he said as he got to his feet and climbed down the dais to come face to face with me. "As far as swords go, we have Ice - though it is but a cheap replacement for this blade," Brandon made a strange choking noise as Rickard tried to reach for my sword. Immediately, the sword snatched itself away from the Stark – much to my surprise. "Ah… It has chosen you then?"
"I… Suppose?" I said quietly as our matching grey eyes met.
"The legends say that it would only take one wielder while they were capable or until another, greater than they, came to rise from the House Stark. That is Winters Bane, and you, my boy, are a Stark of Winterfell. Now and always will you have a place in the North and in my hall. Ah! By the gods, you even have the look about you! Save for your hair, that is," he said with a smile stretching across his face. I just sheathed Winters Bane again and scratched the back of my head awkwardly.
"My mother was blonde, Lord Stark, though my father could have passed for your brother if he were here," I said as Rickard's eyes lit up.
"Then I would very much like to meet him! Where is he!?" The man boomed happily, "Ah! We must feast tonight! Walys!" A stout man in grey robes with a thick chain around his neck perked up from his place in the corner. "Go inform the kitchens! Another Stark has returned to Winterfell!"
"I… uh… My father is still a world away, my Lord," I said heavily. Maybe one day I would find my way back to them but for now, I would make the best of what I had here.
"A pity… Where is he? We will send ships for him with haste!" Rickard said with a smile that faded as he looked at my grimace. "There's more to your tale, is there not?"
"More than I can understand myself, my Lord."
"The best place to start, I find, is at the beginning. Come, we will continue this in my solar. Brandon, please take our guests to our best rooms and have the servants prepare a bath for them. The road is hard enough as it is, I cannot imagine how it must feel for those of stature as your men, Benjamin."
"Actually, my Lord, this is my master and his acquaintance, High Smith Grashnog of Clan Anzin and Master Buln of Clan Shegret."
"Well met, Grashnog, well met, Buln. I am Rickard of the House Stark." The Stark said with a small bow to the Goblins who returned the greeting in kind. "Be welcome in my hall, meat and mead will be yours tonight but now I offer you bread and salt." He said and a servant came bustling in with a tray with a loaf of bread and dish of salt loaded onto it. The servant bowed to the Lord Stark and gave him the tray which Rickard sat on the table. He broke into fifths and placed it back on the plate, keeping one piece for himself and gesturing for Brandon to do the same. I looked at the Goblins who looked more serious than normal as they took the bread with me following their lead. I dipped the bread in the salt while the goblins just took a pinch of it. Together, the five of us ate the strong, chewy bread paired with the even stronger salt. When we had finished, Rickard smiled at the three of us and spoke. "You are now guests of the House Stark in the sight of gods and men. No one will harm you while you remain under my roof, Masters Grashnog and Buln. Benjamin, you are a Stark, now and always. You are welcome in Winterfell in the heights of summer or darkness of Winter. We will see to getting you a seat of your own, but now? Now we retire to my solar. Brandon?"
"Yes, father," Brandon said with a grin on his face and light in his eyes. "If you would please follow me, I will show you to your rooms. Was there anything…" he asked the Goblins a few more questions but I had already tuned him out as Rickard turned his full attention to me.
"I am sure you wish to be out of your armor, but I ask you not delay our conversation. Will you wear it a few hours more?"
"My Lord," I said with a grin, "I could sleep in this armor," really, I could have it off in an instant but there was no need to tell him that… "Please, lead the way." And so he did. We made our way from the Great Hall and into the Keep. We climbed upstairs and walked through halls until we finally reached the top and a large, airy room with books covering the walls with a ceiling of glass pouring sunlight in. I guess that's why they call it his Solar… Any who, there was a large desk with a trio of comfortable looking, warm, fur covered seats surrounding it. Rickard stepped around the desk and took the seat there.
"May I get you something to drink before we start our talk?"
"Water, please," I said as I took off the bearskin and threw it over the back of my chair, "may I?"
"Please do," Rickard said as I sat down in the sinfully comfortable chair. The Lord stood and walked to a small cabinet, pulling a pair of pewter flagons and bottles from the shelves. He poured one flagon full of a strong-smelling, rich stout while the other he filled with water. I hesitated, looking longingly at the bottle of ale, but took the flagon of water, sipping at it while Rickard drank his beer. "Most Lords of Westeros prefer wine, bah! I'm not one for that grape swill. No, I'll take a good Northern Black or Autumn brew any day over any southern vintage. What say you, Benjamin? What's your poison?"
"I'm afraid you wouldn't know of the Irish or Americans and I am sure you do not know of their whiskey, though I may have a bottle of Jack in here…" I said as I reached into my pack and focused on what I wanted, I was rewarded with the familiar feel of a glass bottle pressing into my hand, "hah! There it is! Now where are the bloody glasses…" I muttered as those leapt into my hand as well. I placed the bottle on the desk with the glasses, much to Rickard's interest.
"How in the seven hells did those not break on the road?" I just grinned and poured him a few fingers of the now precious liquor.
"Trade secret, I'm afraid, my Lord," I said with a grin as I picked up my glass. "To House Stark," I grinned as Rickard repeated it with a broad smile and touched his glass to mine. I upended my shot, grimacing as the whiskey burned all the way down but couldn't help but laugh as Rickard swore and sputtered.
"Seven hells! Where did you find this!?" He said, pouring more into his glass, obviously intent on taking his time this go-round.
"Back home," I said quietly. "Rickard, what do you know of Jorah Stark and his disappearance?" Rickard frowned and put his glass down as he dropped into thought.
"Jorah… He was the son of Theon Stark, his eldest son and Heir at that. He supposedly died fighting the Andals but his body was never recovered."
"The Andals?"
"Aye, the Andals. Bloody menaces they were, they took the South of Westeros like a bloody plague – driving out the First Men wherever they found them. There are few First Men left in the South now. They swept through the land conquering place by place before splitting Westeros into separate Kingdoms. There are few houses of First Men not tainted by the blood of Andals in the south. When they first came they were like a plague. They were well-armed, well organized, and they had come to take Westeros as their own in the name of their gods, their Seven gods. The Seven who are One, they call them," Rickard spat as he looked at me. "But the First Men of the North, us of stream, forest, and stone, of iron, bronze, and ice stood firm against them. To this day, our heart trees stand, the mighty Weirwoods all but gone from the South now. Cut down by the Andals who raised septs in the honor of their gods on the roots of ours… Now the Andals rule the South while Valyrians sit on their Iron Throne and lord over us who have stood firm for ten thousand years. We who were the Kings of Winter, we who are still of the first men. Men of Iron and Bronze," he growled. "Though, I fear my children may have to marry into the South, to Andals…"
"Why is that?" I asked curiously, wondering how the conversation took this turn while taking a sip of my water. Rickard just looked at me cautiously.
"Already, one of my sons, Eddard - my second born, is fostered by Jon Arryn to tie us closer to the Vale. I did not wish for this but the North is not as strong as it once was… To refuse this offer would have been a step toward death. We have neither gold nor grain, our men are few and harvest less. A mad king sits on the Throne and demands more and more from the North, resources I do not have."
"I have gold, not much but enough to possibly rebuild a castle depending on the price of things. That's one less expense Winterfell would have to shoulder. And another note, I may be the son of a long-lost Heir to the Kings of Winter, but you have the claim and I don't want Winterfell. I don't know the land, I don't know the people. Brandon would be a better Lord of the North, I wouldn't. What do I know of this land? Of your people?" I looked at him and waved my hand, summoning a ball of fire to my palm. "I do know that I can help defend the North with this."
"Gods above!" Rickard cried, reeling so hard he almost fell out of his chair. "You can perform Witchcraft!?"
"Wizardry, yes, but this doesn't begin to scratch the surface of what I can do," I said simply, letting the fire shoot to the ceiling before letting it die. "But I'm not a stonemason or castle builder, I'm a smith. That's where my talents lie first and foremost. I also happen to be a decent tailor and have studied thousands of years worth of military history. Let me help you, Lord Stark. I frankly don't give a damn about a mad king but you're family, no matter how far removed, and until I can find a way back to my own I'll help you fight any enemy that comes for the North."
"Where are you from? Valyria?"
"No, Lord Stark. Jorah was thrown into a new world entirely; I don't know the specifics but I know enough to know this is most certainly not my own."
"Another world… This is madness…"
"Yes," I said heavily, "yes it is. But I can tell you one more thing, Master Grashnog? He knows how to rework this Valyrian Steel everyone seems so enamored with."
"He knows how to rework it? Truly? Does he know how to make it?"
"No, but I have an idea or two of how to."
"If you can make new Valyrian Steel I'd make you Lord of the Rills to Sea Dragon Point…" he said in awe. "Or the King would make you a Lord Paramount of some place far from my reach. More than likely, Aerys would choose to make you the overlord of the Iron Islands so he can kick the Greyjoys out for spite's sake."
"If I'm given anything, I don't think I would be well equipped to run more than one castle, my Lord," I said with a small grimace. The Lord of Winterfell smiled slightly and looked me in the eye.
"There is no shame in not knowing how to govern. Though, you said you know tactics? Do you know anything of defense?"
"Very little of practical value," I said slowly.
"Better than nothing," the lord said grimly. "I would have you rebuild Moat Cailin. It sits on the Neck, the only causeway connecting the North to the South. It's said you could easily hide a hundred dragons within those bogs with the crown never being the wiser. The castle itself is the North's first line of Defense but it has fallen to disrepair as there is no Lord to oversee it at the order of the king. The Targaryens deemed Moat Cailin unnecessary to man but the Lords of Westeros know that's because it is the only stronghold on the causeway connecting the North to South. No armies can make it through the bogs of the Neck without the causeway – with it unmanned, the North is vulnerable. I have always wanted to see the fortress rebuilt to her former glory but have had neither the funds nor men to do that. Now, I may have the golden opportunity and I would be a fool to waste it."
"Tell me about it," I asked him, now extremely interested in this Moat Cailin.
"For years, the now extinct House Causil manned the Moat and answered solely to the Marsh Kings of old until my namesake, King Rickard, defeated the final Marsh King and married his daughter, striking his name from history. The Causil's then answered to the Kings of Winter until House Targaryen ordered them put to the sword without use of a blade, no, his punishment was much more sinister. He cursed the line to watch as their house withered and died. All the males of their line, Aegon I had sent to the Citadel or absorbed into his kingsguard while the women were allowed to marry into other houses of the North and Moat Cailin was abandoned. But even as House Causil was lost to history their fortress stood firm still, its twenty towers standing strong against the elements and bogs.
"The Southerners and Crown would want the world to think that nature made Moat Cailin a ruin. No, the Targaryens saw to that when they loosed their dragons to roam the Neck during the Dance – one of the many Targaryen civil wars. Now there are but three towers protecting our southern border, three towers that, if manned with but two hundred archers, could break an army twenty thousand strong."
"Thermopylae…" I muttered to myself as I tapped my chin thoughtfully.
"Pardon?" Rickard asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Oh, excuse me, I didn't mean to say that outloud. Thermopylae was a place that would have passed to legend if it were not so well documented. What happened that day is still spoken of in awe back home.
"While I am unsure as to what really happened that day, this is what the legends speak of. There were two nations, the defending Greeks and growing Persian empire, who were at war. The Greeks, being made up of many different city states, were defending their land from the Persians who had an army over a million men strong," Rickard's eyes widened significantly at the number and I scoffed. "Nearly unarmored men with spears and bronze swords, defended with shields of wicker. Their strength was in their numbers.
"The place the Persian king, Xerxes, chose to invade was a small pass just large enough for one hundred men to walk abreast. The Spartans, a group of Greeks well known for military bearing, numbered just three hundred but each of those three hundred men were armored fully in bronze and had a spear, sword, and javelin each. Their shields were weapons of their own, discs of bronze large enough to cover their bodies from chin to knee. They had perfected the shield wall and had been trained to fight since they were but boys. With three hundred men, Leonidas and his three hundred warriors broke an army a million strong."
"What happened to these Spartans?"
"They were betrayed and killed to a man. But they took over half of Xerxes' army with them when they fell. I can make Moat Cailin your Thermopylae, my Lord."
"How long would you need?"
"I'm not sure, but I've got a few ideas to rearm the fortress once it is rebuilt. But I'm going to need iron, lots of it. After all, my side of the family has had two or three thousand years to learn a thing or two," I said with a grin stretching across my face.
"That can be arranged," he said with a grin stretching just as broadly across his. He took my, now empty, flagon and refilled it from the bottle of beer. "If you could make this wonderful glass of yours as well, the North would be the second glass producer in the world." I took the now full flagon and grinned viciously.
"Who's the first?"
"Myr. Commissioning and transporting glass from Essos to here is a bloody expensive endeavor, and one that we cannot afford. We need glass gardens so we don't have to rely on the bloody south for grain and to simply survive come winter. Already, I'm being forced into marrying my boy to the eldest Tully bitch. Hoster may sell grain to us cheaper than the Reach but he sells cheap grain - mainly rye and buckwheat while the Reach supplies wheat - true and buck, oats, and sorghum among others - and is threatening to stop that supply if I don't marry Brandon to his Catelyn. The smug bastard knows that he can make one of his grandsons Warden of the North and there are whispers he's aiming for his blood to hold the Wardenship of the East as well. Hoster's always been a reaching bastard but there's not a damn thing I can do to avoid this marriage without damning my people."
"Bastard," I muttered. I already quite liked Brandon and the thought of him being forced into a marriage was more than a bit unsettling.
"Aye, that puts it lightly, lad… I cannot break the contract now that it is written and agreed upon. When Catelyn turns eighteen, they are to wed - in the light of the Seven, no less," the Lord spat. "Hoster spits on us, the Arryns force us into a fostering I did not want my boy to go through, and the Baratheon Lord will more than likely want my little girl as his own… If Ned suggests the match, I fear I would be powerless to stop the betrothal."
"I am sorry, my Lord, but I'm afraid that I'm unsuited to politics… I have no answer around your predicament." He just waved his hand and held up his flagon.
"Lad, you've done more to help me and the North today than words can say. If you can get the Moat into fighting shape like you say you can? Then the North will be in a much stronger position than it has been in three hundred years. But we can speak of this later. To the North!" he said as he held up his mug. I clanked mine against his with a grin.
XXX
"Tonight!" Rickard Stark's voice echoed through the hall, "we have gathered to celebrate the return of one of House Stark's sons thought long lost! Hail, Benjamin, son of Lincoln, descendant of Jorah, son of Theon, the King in the North!" A cacophony of cheers erupted through the hall as I opened the door and walked in, still in my armor with my helmet firmly on my head and my bearskin over my shoulders. The hall fell silent as I walked up the aisle toward the head table that the whole of the Stark family was sat at: Rickard, Brandon, little Benjen, and Lyanna, all grinning as I removed my helm and turned to the hall, meeting Grashnog and Buln's eyes as I bowed theatrically. The hall roared in approval once again as Rickard stood once more, hushing the roar to a chorus of whispers. "This is Benjamin Stark, the new Lord of Moat Cailin!" This time, nothing was stopping the thunderous cheers that came from every single table in the hall. I grinned brilliantly as I took my spot to Rickard's right and Brandon's left.
"Lord of Moat Cailin, eh?" Brandon asked with an elbow to my ribs and a grin. "Good on you! I thought Ned was going to get stuck in that ruin. Oh well, there's always another kennel to stick a Quiet Wolf in," the eldest Stark child joked good-naturedly.
"Shut up about Ned! He should be here with us!" Lyanna snapped at her brother as food and drink were laid out on the table before us.
"Aye, he should… In fact, I was going to ride to the Eyrie, sneak by the Bloody Gate, and bring him home!" Brandon snarked with a grin. "Truly, little sister, Ned will leave the Eyrie when Jon Arryn says he's completed his studies. He'll run a castle and be my right hand in the North, isn't that right father?"
"Hm? Oh, yes! Now we just have to find him a holdfast since I've given away our biggest ruin," Rickard japed as he dug into the plate in front of him.
"You could run the Boltons out of the Dreadfort, a quiet castle for a silent wolf!"
"Brandon…"
"Aye, father, I know. Royce Bolton is a loyal bannerman who answers to House Stark, yes, yes, you've only said it a thousand times."
"What's the story there?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Oh, you know they, the Red Kings of the Dreadfort who were Boltons, had a nasty habit of flaying people. Rumor has it that they haven't stopped the practice yet…"
"Your grandfather outlawed flaying, as I've told you."
"Yes, and then he went and had a Bolton given the bloody eagle to prove that flaying was quite illegal," I couldn't help but wince at that particular image. The blood eagle was a nasty form of execution.
"What's the bloody eagle?" Benjen asked from his place at Rickard's left.
"Something not discussed at dinner, much less a feast," Rickard said sternly to his son who nodded meekly. "I'll hear no more of it, is that understood?"
"Yes, father," came from all three Stark children and I couldn't help but hide a smile in my cup. If I wasn't leaving for the Moat in a few weeks I could get used to Winterfell. Rickard had sent ravens and called all the Lords of the North to Winterfell… I wasn't sure why but I had the strangest feeling this wasn't something that happened very often. That suspicion was doubled down on when Rickard asked me to stay for at least another two weeks or until all the Lords had left for their own homes. I agreed and now Winterfell was preparing for another banquet in a fortnight – another thing that I guessed was a rare occurrence.
But I put that out of my mind as dinner was placed before me and the Starks all chatted amiably. Benjen was a good kid, a little broody but that didn't surprise me too badly considering he had a mother for all of two years before she died of a fever – something that I suspected I could have helped with rather easily… Anyway, for as quiet as Benjen was, Lyanna was loud. She was a rambunctious child with the wolfsblood, as Brandon called it, howling through her. She took to archery, riding, and swordplay like a duck to water, something that worried her father to no end but he indulged her hoping the urges would die down as time went on. Unfortunately, the exact opposite happened. Instead of mellowing out, she was now a fiercely independent twelve-year-old who would rather die than lose her independence – something that boded badly for a woman in a feudal, patriarchal society…
Brandon… Well, he was Brandon. I suspect that there's little better way to put it than that. The way a few of the women were looking at him, and the way he was looking back, was all too familiar. There were at least three women in this hall that he had bedded at some point or another and a whole host he intended to at some point. After all, who better to learn body language from than a bunch of hormonal teenagers stuffed in a castle year-round when the ladies could enter the boy's dormitories while the teachers couldn't go into the dorms at all without permission – something the founder created to protect the students, apparently.
His blood ran hot, I understood that, but I feared what would happen if he didn't get a handle on that it probably wasn't going to end well for the future Lord of Winterfell. I didn't know what this Catelyn Tully was like, but I certainly hoped she would get a handle on Brandon before he got himself killed – if he hadn't already… Before any more of the darker thoughts could cross my mind, Rickard stood up and addressed the hall.
"I thank you for gathering here tonight, but I fear I must retire. Goodnight to you all, to Benjamin, the Lord of the Moat!"
"TO BENJAMIN!" The hall roared and immediately fell silent as every man in the hall upturned his mug and drank. I couldn't help the smile that crossed my lips at the men of the North – up until I caught sight of Grashnog and Buln trying to slip away, without me. I stood up too and collected my helm from the table, raising my cup to the hall in a salute before downing the rest of my beer to the cheers of the hall starting in full swing as the band struck up a song. Another roar sounded through the hall as the tables were shoved to the sides and they all started singing about a bear and maiden? I wasn't too sure what was happening but managed to slip off in the chaos to find the two Goblins.
"Lord of Moat Cailin, eh?" I had just made it out the door when I heard that voice. I whirled around to see Buln and Grashnog leaning against the stone arch of the door to the great hall. "Now tell me, Stark," Buln said, "how in the name of the Ancestors did you manage to convince the Warden of the North, one of the ten most powerful men in this country, to simply give up a fortress like that?"
"Honestly, it didn't take much convincing. He was the one who suggested it, actually. Said he wanted to rebuild it for years and would be a fool not to waste the opportunity while it was here. Oh, he also told me how the castle really fell into ruin."
"Time didn't do it then?" Grashnog asked with a lifted eyebrow.
"Master, the castle had only been abandoned for a few hundred years. There are castles back home that have been abandoned for a thousand and haven't lost a single stone yet. Do you really think twenty towers could be reduced to three without help?"
"He has you there, Grashnog. Tell us how they fell then, Stark."
"Dragons," I said and the two Goblins just nodded.
"That makes quite a bit of sense, actually… What else could bowl over towers like tenpins?" Buln asked quietly.
"Nothing currently here, I suspect," I said with a smirk.
"They have elephants across the narrow sea, a private army called the Golden Company uses them to great effect. They could do it given enough time," Grashnog growled.
"The Golden Company? What is that? The discount French foreign legion?"
"Nearly, yes. More like the Roman empire but more eclectic in their formation. The Sellsword company, that's what they call mercenaries here, is comprised mostly of men-at-arms, knights, squires, and two dozen war elephants at any given time. Of course, that's no match for a fully grown dragon with a wardstone attached to its back but still a formidable army of ten thousand men."
"What can the North field?" I asked cautiously.
"Just under double that."
"Twenty thousand men for a whole bloody country?"
"It's mostly tundra and the winters are harsh here. No man wants to move from the warm south to face a winter so terribly harsh that it could last for years at a time with the snow never disappearing."
"Years?!" I barked, "was anyone planning on telling me that!? Bloody hell, now I know why Stark wanted those bloody greenhouses so badly…"
"Fortify the Moat and then work on this greenhouse project, I know the basic recipe to make glass," Grashnog said gruffly, "but the Moat will have to be reinforced and warded to standard. We cannot have enemies at our door when we are trying to turn a profit."
"All too true… I have to stay here for another two or three weeks at least but Lord Stark never said anything about you two… I'll apparate down to as far south as the Kingsroad near White Harbor and fly down to the Moat, I can have you down there by tonight or tomorrow, you can trigger it when you want. Either way, you should have enough time to at least assess what can be done for the fortress while I play politics," I grunted.
"Politics were never your specialty anyway, Stark. Make us a portkey to White Harbor proper, I'll need to assemble my crew to survey the extent of what needs to be done," Grasshnog said as he massaged his temples. "This endeavour would be far simpler if we had wands of our own to cast your magic to assess the castle."
"Aye, it would be," I muttered thoughtfully. "Have you tried casting with a knife?"
"Mithril is a pure magic damper, you know that Stark. It amplifies Alchemical reactions but nullifies extant magic. You would need something like Dragon iron and that is only semi-decent at conducting magic." I nodded thoughtfully and unstrapped my newest dagger, holding it out to my master.
"Try this."
"Valyrian steel? Boy, I have worked with this for three years now and I have yet to see it work for casting spells!"
"Have you tried?" The old goblin was stopped short at that and snatched the knife from my hand.
"Lumos," he muttered as light bloomed from the tip of the dagger.
XXX
AN: no new update save for a removal of a holdover from the previous version of this chapter. Next update - Chapter 4: The Lords in the North, due 17 March, 2021.