Chapter 8

~Robert Baratheon~

Robert stood on one of the outer walls of the Red Keep, facing out towards the sea, as he tugged on the string in his hands. The string stretched far up above his head, connecting to a creation of wood and cloth in the shape of a diamond. It was yellow with a black stag stitched across it.

It was a unique toy, Robert could see the appeal and probably would have loved it when he was a boy but now that he was a man, a king, it was just a temporary amusement.

Might be more fun if I could figure out how to get the cursed thing to go where I want it to though, he admitted to himself.

Despite the difficulty he was having, Robert had to admit it was one of the most unique gifts he had received since becoming king.

Certainly better than the swords and jewelry and other such nonsense the Crownlanders have sent, already trying to gain favor with me now that we've won and they realized we have them over a barrel. Maybe there's something to be said for keeping some foreign types around, their gifts are bound to be interesting if Torrhen is any indication.

Torrhen von Carstein was certainly an odd fellow. Even the giving of this gift, this kite as it was apparently called, was odd. Not just because Robert had never seen anything like it before, but because of how Torrhen hadn't tried to gain his favor with it. He had given it to Robert the day he left the city with the rest of the Northerners, almost as if he had forgotten about it until the very end.

Probably just took him that long for him to find people in this city capable of making it.

Robert sighed as he heard Barristan shift in place off to his left. That meant someone was coming up the stairs.

So much for avoiding my kingly duties. If it's anyone other than Jon I can stall for at least another hour or so before I have to get back to work.

"Your Grace, I see you are enjoying Lord von Carstein's recent invention."

Robert resisted twitching at the voice. Of all the people to come find him, of course it was Varys, the person Robert trusted the least. While the Master of Whispers had bent his knee quickly when King's Landing was sacked, the main reason Varys hadn't been tossed out of the city was because he was too good at his job. While Torrhen may have used subterfuge to win his fights, the man was still a warrior that Robert could respect. Varys didn't even try to hide the fact that he was weak and relied on his knowledge of everyone and everything. Robert and Jon both knew that it was better to have Varys working for them than risk the spider working against them. Robert shook his head, banishing those thoughts and focused on what Varys had said.

"What do you mean 'Torrhen's invention'? He said he saw it in Sunspear and they got it from somewhere in Essos."

"Tis true that kites are flown in Sunspear, Your Grace. My little birds tell me it's become quite the popular activity. However, the practice only started after Torrhen arrived. And the rumors are he commissioned the first kite, one made specifically for Rhaenys Targaryen. Rather than displaying her house sigil on a simple shape, the entire kite looks like a flying dragon."

"And why do you tell me this?" Robert growled out. "Am I to believe that Torrhen secretly harbors loyalty to the Targaryens? After everything he did for Lyanna? After I knighted him? After Ned gave him a lordship?!"

"I am telling you because I am your Master of Whispers and it's my job to keep up with these things. I imagine you would be quite cross with me if you found out several months from now from a traveling hedge knight and I then told you I had already known about it. As for what you choose to do with the information I bring you, that is up to you, Your Grace, not me. I am merely your servant."

Robert grunted, acknowledging the point.

"Continuing with Torrhen's time in Dorne, I am merely reporting rumors. It's entirely possible he just happened to be in Sunspear at the same time as a merchant from Essos that wanted to curry favor with the Martells and presented the kite to them. On the other hand, speaking as someone from Essos, I have never seen or heard of kites before now so I'm curious where exactly the practice came from."

"What are you saying, Varys?"

"Oh nothing notable Your Grace, merely voicing some thoughts aloud. Speaking of Lord von Carstein, while he was in the city." Varys paused. "Well not in King's Landing, we were all still living out in the tent city, he met with several members of the Alchemist's Guild. What was discussed I do not know."

"He was probably doing the same thing I did when I met with them, threatening to kill the whole lot if they didn't get rid of all the wildfire. He was the first person Lannister told about the plot, after all. Makes sense he'd want to see things through."

"I will say that after Lord von Carstein left, the alchemists were in better spirits than before his arrival."

Robert narrowed his eyes as he regarded Varys. "You seem to be saying a lot of words, all with the intent of making Torrhen look bad. If you think he's plotting against me just come out and say it."

The Master of Whispers let out a childlike giggle. "I would not go that far, Your Grace. At least not yet."

"Explain," Robert demanded.

"Lord von Carstein's travel times don't match up. He got Elia and Rhaeynys out of King's Landing the night of the sack yet was in Sunspear less than a week later when the dragon was first seen over the city. He then made it across all of Dorne to Starfall, from there he traveled to wherever Lyanna was being held, made it back to Starfall, before returning to Sunspear. He was out of Dorne's capital for only three days."

Robert contemplated Varys' words. While he had never been to Dorne, Robert knew it was roughly the same size as the Stormlands and it was damn impossible to ride from Sharpe Point to Harvest Hall and back in three days.

But what does it mean? Did Torrhen not rescue Lyanna? Then who did? And why would Ned go along with it?

"Don't mince words with me, Varys. Tell me what you're thinking."

The Spider spread his hands out with a frown. "Ever since the first of my little birds sang a song about him, I knew he was hiding something. To my shame, I still haven't figured out what it is. That is why I'm telling you what I know of him. Lord von Carstein is a man that bears watching."

"You get me all worked up about this and then don't even have anything to show for it," Robert grumbled. "Is it because you're a eunuch so you don't know how to properly finish a job? Feel like I need to go visit a whore after this. Gah."

"I will continue to learn what I can, Your Grace. And if I find definitive proof he is up to something, I will be sure to tell you right away."

Robert glanced up at the kite flying high in the air. A present from a man who's hiding things. Maybe that's why he gave it to me, so I wouldn't suspect him of. . . what, exactly? Is he in league with the dragons? Then why accept a keep in the North, where no one would side with him? If he stayed in Dorne with all the sandy bastards I'm sure he'd have plenty of allies. Fuck, I'll have to write to Ned, ask him to look into it. Robert started reeling in the kite and briefly looked at his Kingsguard.

"What about you Barristan? You've sparred with Torrhen, what are your thoughts?"

Barristan rubbed his chin in thought. "It was only the one time, you'd be better served asking Ser Jaime. That being said, Lord von Carstein is an. . . interesting man. Very well read for a sellsword, we mostly discussed Aegon's Conquest."

"You taught him history while you sparred?" Robert couldn't hide his groan as he finished pulling the kite down to himself. "Gods, I hated lessons in the Eyrie, time in the yard was something to look forward to. I don't know what I would have done if I had had to learn my sums while I was swinging my hammer around."

"I was content to spar in silence, he was the one who brought the subject up."

"Any idea why?"

"At first he was curious about what duties I had as Lord Commander and how much power I had over the decision making process to induct new knights into the Kingsguard. I told him the truth, that I didn't actually know the answer to that. From there, the conversation moved onto the formation of the Kingsguard and then the Conquest."

Robert took a moment to consider how to phrase his question before giving up and asking bluntly, "What do you mean? Who's in the Kingsguard is up to the king, why would the Lord Commander have a say?"

Barristan frowned. "I did and do believe the decision is ultimately yours, Your Grace. We are, after all, your sworn Kingsguard. But I find myself thinking that if the men are going to be under my command, shouldn't I try to make sure they are the best men for the job? And shouldn't that include turning away men that I don't think will be suitable?"

When put that way, I suppose I can see his point. "You didn't speak in favor or against Mandon when I gave him the white cloak."

"That is true. I did not say anything partially because I was still unsure of my opinion and partially because Ser Mandon is. . . well, he has no friend but his sword and no life but his duty."

Robert nodded. "Aye, I see what you mean. No point bringing up something to complain about when it doesn't matter at the time."

Barristan seemed to want to say something in response, but the man simply closed his mouth.

With a sigh, Robert refocused on Varys. "I will admit that Torrhen's story has some holes in it and his behavior is queer so yes, continue to look into him. Just don't over focus on him, I don't want you spending so much time looking north that you miss something in the south."

"Oh, speaking of the south," Varys said with a smirk. "Prince Oberyn has been making inquiries about a possible royal marriage-"

"I'm not going to get betrothed right now, especially not to some gods-be-damned dragon loyalist!" Robert shouted, slamming the kite against the parpete in his anger. He heard some of the wood snap but didn't care at the moment.

"Actually, it wasn't for you, Your Grace. The Red Viper was more interested in finding a match for your brother, Stannis."

That caused Robert to stop in surprise. Stiff, emotionless Stannis married to some loose woman from Dorne? He couldn't help it, Robert had to chuckle at the image his brain was providing him. Stannis sitting at a desk, not moving, while some half naked woman draped herself over him, shoving her bosom in his face while he growled in annoyance and tried to read some boring book. He'd probably see it as a punishment. I could say it's because he took too long taking Dragonstone and letting the Targs get away to Essos.

"Okay, you've got my curiosity. Let's go talk to Jon about this."

~Bartimus~

Trying to ride a horse with only one leg was certainly a challenge, but Bartimus liked to think he had finally figured it out. The trick was realizing his balance had to be different since he couldn't use his missing limb for extra grip.

Though it helps that Chesnut is such a calm girl.

Why someone would name a pure black horse Chesnut was a mystery to Bartimus, but he didn't question it too much. Not to mention that it felt wrong to complain about a horse that his lord had bought for him from some Crownlander.

Now that I think about it, Lord Manderly did tell me to come see him at some point during the journey back to White Harbor. Catching up to him to show that I'm able to ride properly sounds like a good enough reason.

Wyman Manderly was a great man, one Bartimus was happy to serve. He had even saved his lord's life during the Battle of the Trident. Granted, that had left Bartimus open which was why an unmanned horse had fallen on him and meant the maester had been forced to take his leg. Still, Lord Manderly had promised Bartimus a suitable reward for his service.

Mayhaps that's why he wanted me to come see him before we returned home? Bartimus thought as he spurred his horse into a trot. Lord Manderly, as the head of such a notable house, got to ride towards the front of the long column of Northerners who were travelling home. Bartimus was further back, having to deal with breathing in all the dirt that got kicked up in the air from so many people traveling together. Though that would cease to be a problem soon, they were starting to enter the Neck so the ground would be too soggy to create annoying dust clouds.

It took some time for Bartimus to maneuver Chestnut through the column, there were various knights and lords who refused to leave their positions lest they not get them back.

Or maybe it's because I'm newly knighted and they think I must therefore go around them. Either option is reasonable, I suppose.

Eventually, Bartimus was able to catch sight of his lord. Wyman was bent over, clutching at his horse's neck, and laughing uproariously. There was a man riding next to him who was lightly chuckling.

I'm guessing he told a good jape for Lord Manderly to laugh that much.Though who- oh. It's Marlon Manderly, his cousin.

"Hello my lord, ser," Bartimus said as he approached, giving each man a respectful nod.

"There's the man who saved my life," the Warden of the White Knife declared, both happily and loudly. "You look to have gotten the hang of riding without your leg, something I'm not sure I could manage in your situation, so even more congratulations are in order!"

Bartimus tried not to preen too much at the praise. "You flatter me."

"Indeed I do, but it's deserved. The Trident was a right mess, men dying all around me, but you not only stayed close but you blocked the Dornish bastard's weapon from finding my throat. I'm not about to forget that. Now, what brought you up here?"

"Back when you gave me Chesnut here," Bartimus said, giving his horse a pat on the head. "You told me that I should come see you prior to our return North."

"Right, right. I did say that. Marlon, make sure we aren't overheard."

Marlon slowed his horse down, creating a gap as the people behind him had to slow down as well, giving Bartiums and Lord Manderly the space he had requested.

"There are a couple things for us to discuss," Lord Manderly began. "The first would be the proper reward for your actions. Once we get back to White Harbor, I plan on naming you chief gaoler and castellan of the Wolf's Den."

Bartimus had to resist gasping like a fish pulled out of water. The Wolf's Den was an ancient castle, the seat of House Manderly prior to the building of the New Castle, and was now a prison and a spare barracks for city guards. To be given command of such a structure was an enormous honor.

Am I capable of such a task? I can do sums and mostly know my letters. Should I ask for a steward to help me? Or am I expected to do the job myself and not pass it off to someone else?

"That being said, I also want to offer you a task," Lord Manderly said, interrupting Bartimus' thoughts. "You are not required to take it. After what you've done, if you just want to spend your remaining days in the Wolf's Den I won't think less of you for it."

"What kind of task?"

"Have you met the North's newest lord? The one that saved Lyanna Stark?"

Bartimus tilted his head in thought, somewhat confused by the change in conversation. "I've heard plenty of stories, but no, I have not yet met him."

"Lord Torrhen von Carstein, claims to be a mercenary from Essos."

"'Claims?' Does that mean you don't believe him?"

Lord Manderly shook his head. "I was willing to believe him or even ignore my initial suspicions because of his actions in Dorne, but the longer I talked to him the more I realized how much he was hiding."

"Like what, my lord?"

"He speaks with a Northerner accent, but it's not quite right. He said he was raised in the Company of the Rose, which since they're descended from Northerners who refused to bend the knee to the Conqueror sounds somewhat believable, but I'm the Lord of White Harbor, I'm well used to talking to merchants from across the Narrow Sea. I know how people are supposed to sound and he doesn't speak like he spent any time in the Free Cities."

"Oh. Yes, I can see how that would be suspicious," Bartimus agreed.

"There's more, he is far too well informed on the Houses here, and not just in the North. He clearly received an education on the history of the Seven Kingdoms, I don't know if it was from a full maester but whoever they were they at least had earned a chain for history. That being said, I don't care how rich his parents were, no sellsword in Essos is going to waste their money teaching their child that much knowledge about Westeros given how little use we have for those honorless curs. I can understand needing to know the history of a city when they are a client, but what are the chances that House Reed would hire a sellsword company? Yet he not only knew of the crannogmen but also of their feuds with House Frey."

Bartimus nodded along, following his lord's line of reasoning.

"His education wasn't limited to our history. When we spoke he was quite eager to start trade between White Harbor and the Dreadfort. He knew enough about counting coppers that if he went to Braavos I have no doubt he could work for the Iron Bank. I realize that might not mean much to you Bartimus, but I assure you, that kind of knowledge is rare yet he called it basic economics."

Lord Manderly was right, Bartimus didn't understand that beyond the fact that a sellsword shouldn't know such things. So instead he said, "Do you wish for me to do something about him? I'm afraid I'm not going to be much use in a fight with my leg gone."

"Ah yes, I suppose I was starting to wander a bit there. The point I was making is I don't trust him and need someone that I do trust to keep an eye on him."

"You want m-me to spy on him?" Bartimus sputtered. "I'm honored that you trust me that much, my lord, but surely you have someone better trained for such a plan? I'm a warrior, a knight, what do I know of subterfuge?"

"Ah but you see, I don't want you to spy on him."

Bartimus was now thoroughly confused. "You don't?"

"No, you're a warrior, a knight, you know nothing of subterfuge. You'd fuck it up and get yourself killed." Lord Manderly let out a big laugh. "It's good that you're aware of your limitations though, means you're smarter than the average knight. No, what I have in mind for you is slightly different. You'll be the one in the Dreadfort that the spies report to, they'll do the work, you just collect all the information and send it back to me."

"That. . . that sounds like something I can do."

"Excellent. Don't worry though, this won't be an immediate task. It'll probably be a year or so before I send you. Also, given the length of time this could take you'll need a suitable reward after you're done. I'm not sure what it will be though, maybe I'll pay for upgrades to the Wolf's Den, make it a proper space to live in, assuming you find yourself a wife to live in it with, that is."

~Martyn Cassel~

Something definitely isn't right.

While Martyn had grown up in Winterfell, he had travelled all over the North. He had proudly been a member of the Stark guards ever since he was ten and six. So when Lord Rickard Stark travelled the North, to visit his bannermen as a good lord sometimes would, Martyn went with him. He had been to Bear Island, to White Harbor, Flint's Finger, even all the way up to Castle Black. And because of the war, Martyn had been to the Riverlands, Crownlands, Stormlands, and even Dorne. It was because of all the different places Martyn had been to, that he was confident something was wrong here. He just wasn't quite sure what it was.

The former castle of the Boltons, the Dreadfort, was visible up ahead. It was a strong fortress, with massive towers and high walls topped by triangular merlons that looked like sharp stone teeth. Nestled in its shadow was what could generously be called a small town, but was more accurately described as a collection of huts and houses.

Where is everyone? He realized.

The Boltons had not been part of the Northern army when it was mobilized. Lord Stark had ordered the Umbers and Hornwoods to grab what Bolton smallfolk they could for the march south. But just because they had gotten who they could, did not mean they had as many levies as if the Boltons had been alive to do it. A noble would know his own lands, his own smallfolk, better than his neighbors would know those same lands, those same smallfolk, after all. Martyn has assumed that meant that more of the Bolton smallfolk would still be around because of that.

Maybe they decided to flee the 'gray plague' to one of the more far flung villages in Bolton lands.

Martyn was the only person in the group, other than Torrhen, who was aware that there had not been an outbreak of the plague. He was also the only one who knew who Torrhen really was.

Or who he had been. I'm still not convinced he's the same person. He could just as easily be a demon wearing Torrhen's skin.

Apparently he had even admitted as much, calling himself a corpse kept alive by blood magic or something to that effect. That alone should have been enough for everyone to know not to trust him. But then again, Torrhen looked so much like Lord Stark's twin brother and even acted like him, Martyn could understand the difficulty with separating one's emotions from such a creature.

To the men Lord Stark had sent with him, Torrhen was simply the first noble of a new house as a reward for saving Lyanna. They all liked him, they were all eager to serve their new liege lord, they were all nervous about going into a keep where people had died from the gray plague, they didn't know the truth.

But then that's why I'm here. Eddard didn't just pick me to be in charge because of my skill, but because he knows I'm trustworthy, that I'll keep an eye on things,that I have the Stark family's interests at heart.

That was the nature of being a proper Cassel, they were a loyal masterly House that served the Starks ever since they were founded by Lonnel Cassel, bastard grandchild of Cregan Stark. And Martyn strove to live up to that expectation, not just in his actions as a guard but as a father. He had made sure to instill that same loyalty in his children.

Though only Jory survived to manhood, and Jonelle died on the birthing bed so I won't have any more sons unless I remarry, Martyn thought with a hint of sadness. Still, I'm proud of the man Jory became. And Rodrick is still there to keep him in line if he starts to stray.

As the group approached the outlying buildings around the Dreadfort, Martyn was able to make out a lone figure hobbling along the road, moving towards them. They brought the horses to a stop a short distance from the man, who seemed quite old. His hair was completely white and thin, and the man was stooped over, his back hunched from age.

"Hello sers, m'lords. I greet and welcome you to the Dreadfort, or the outside of it at least." The man paused his short speech with a hacking cough. "Are you here to drive out the. . . bandits?"

Since he was at the front of the group, Martyn decided to respond rather than wait for Torrhen to make his way forward. "Bandits? What are you talking about? We're here because Lord Stark has named Torrhen von Carstein as your new lord and ruler of the Dreadfort."

The smallfolk man gave a slight smile. "Well I'm glad to hear that, but there are three people currently living in the Dreadfort and I don't know if they'll want to give it up so easily. They are. . . not normal."

Martyn frowned. "What are you talking about my good man?"

It was at this point that Torrhen trotted up on his horse. "These people, what do they look like? Is one of them a giant of a man?"

"Aye, that he is. Do you know him?"

Torrhen nodded. "That would be Krell, one of my men that I sent ahead several months ago to start cleaning out the castle."

The man took a step backwards. "Those three are yo-yours? So you are the new lo-lord?"
Martyn narrowed his eyes. Just what have they done while they were here to provoke such a reaction?

Torrhen pointed at the banner held by one of the horsemen behind him. It was a white skull above a pair of white crossbones on a black field. It was the same sigil that adorned the surcoat Torrhen was wearing. While he still had that strange hat on his head and the southern cloth wrapped around his mouth, Martyn was thankful the rest of Torrhen's attire was more normal. For whatever reason, Torrhen was pretending to be from Essos, the less foreign he acted the easier Martyn's job would be.

Whatever that job ends up being. Captain of the guard? Master-at-arms? Castellion? Steward? All of the above? Eddard sent me to keep an eye on things, is Torrhen aware of that?

"Yes, I'm the new lord. Now, what have Krell, Lyanna, and Oswell been up to that has you so concerned?"

"Well, you see, m'lord. . . there aren't many of us left, not after the Boltons all died. Some made it out of the castle, said it was the Gray Plague. . . but they didn't look like they meant it. They just kept repeating it, like they'd been told to do it and were too scared to say otherwise. So most people fled after that. Only ones of us left are those of us too old or too stubborn to leave."

Martyn was tempted to demand the man to get to the point, but seeing as how his new lord hadn't said anything, Martyn felt it best to not speak out of turn.

"Since we're so few, each person becomes more important. My grandson. . . Roose stayed behind to help me. The woman, Lyanna, she broke into my house one night and a-attacked him. I think she was trying to eat him, m'lord. The big fellow stopped her, thank the gods, but that was all he did. They went back in the Dreadfort afterwards. They haven't come out since."

Torrhen let out a sigh. "I'm sorry to hear that. I had hoped she'd have better self control but after everything that has happened I knew it was a risk."

Martyn heard the men behind him muttering amongst themselves. They had been told back at Winterfell that Lyanna was already here. Like Martyn, most of them had watched her grow up in Winterfell, they all knew her to varying degrees. To hear that she had just attacked someone was quite the shock.

"Once we get settled in and I have a better idea of what resources I have to draw on, I'll see about getting you and your grandson something for all the trouble Lyanna has caused."

Martyn saw the man's eyes light up. "Re-really? You are most generous, m'lord!"

"You're welcome. . .err, what was your name?"

"Oh, it's Tomard m'lord."

"Tomard, bring your grandson up to the Dreadfort in a couple days. At the very least I'll make sure Lyanna apologizes to both of you if we don't have anything else ready for you by then."

Torrhen's statement left Tomard speechless. Martyn watched as the old man tried and failed to think of something to say in response.

There's always been rumors of the ways in which the Boltons ruled their smallfolk. That his new lord is looking out for him and his family strikes him as strange looks to be all the proof needed that the rumors were true.

"Now then, while we head to the Dreadfort can you do a favor for me, Tomard?" Torrhen paused and waited for the old man to nod in response before continuing. "Go around to all the people that remain here, and tell them about our arrival. Everyone should be informed I'm their new lord. Also, they can get in contact with the people that left, let them know it's safe to come back."

"I'll tell them, m'lord. But that last part, I'm not sure how many will want to return. With everything that has happened, some will say the castle is cursed and refuse to come."

Torrhen seemed to consider the man's words for a moment before shrugging. "If they don't want to come back I'm not going to force them to. Can only hope they eventually change their minds." Torrhen turned to look at Martyn. "Anything else you think we should discuss with Tomard before we head into the castle?"

Martyn was surprised Torrhen had deferred to him like that. Something I'll have to talk to him about later, a lord should always appear informed and in charge in front of the smallfolk. I realize he was the second son but Lord Rickard should still have taught him a bit of what was involved in ruling. "Not at this moment, my lord."

"Very well then, let's go see what state the Dreadfort is in."

The group set their horses into a trot and began making their way up the castle. While it couldn't compare in size to Winterfell or the Red Keep, Martyn could tell the Dreadfort was a strong fortress. It's walls seemed almost abnormally high and the triangular merlons reminded Martyn of sharp teeth.

The castle matches its new lord. Martyn chuckled silently at the thought.

Torrhen had been careful to keep his mouth covered around the men, but Martyn had been with him in Dorne, knew about his condition, so on the rare and brief occasions the two of them were alone Torrhen hadn't been as careful about keeping the disguise up.

Surely he doesn't expect to hide it forever, does he? The secret will get out eventually, a servant will catch a glimpse or something. Maybe he hopes to have their loyalty by then.

Martyn was taken out of his thoughts as they rode through the open gates of the Dreadfort. Standing in the yard to greet them was a man in full armor, his hands resting on the crossguard of his sword, with the tip of the blade lightly digging into the dirt. When Torrhen approached, the man dropped to one knee, pressing his forehead against his sword's pommel.

Didn't take his helmet off though. Is he like Torrhen? Another corpse pretending to still be alive?

"Oswell, good to see you," Torrhen greeted as he swung himself down off his horse. "Heard from a man named Tomard that Lynna got out?"

"Yes sir. I thought she had gained the self control to be allowed to more freely move about the keep. I was wrong."

Ser? Torrhen is his lord, not simply a knight.

"Were there any other incidents?"

"Just that one, sir."

"In that case I'd say you and Krell did as good a job as could be expected given the circumstances. No one died and Lyanna is still alive. Where is she anyway?"

"In the wine cellar. She said it can help mask the taste of bad blood when drank together."

"Hmmm, that's not something I ever thought to try. Good for her." Torrhen paused and glanced at all the men and women behind him. "Martyn, let's you and I go say hello to Lyanna. Oswell, give everyone else a tour of the castle, help them get settled in, answer any questions they have about it, that sort of thing."

"Yes, sir." The man rose to his feet and sheathed his sword. He silently walked off towards what appeared to be the stables.

The men seemed slightly confused by this but Martyn hopped off his horse and, after handing the reins over to the nearest guard (Bran, easily identifiable at a glance due to his long mustache), gestured for them to follow Oswell.

"Now that it's just the two of us, what happened to Lyanna? What did you do to her?" Martyn asked as he walked next to Torrhen, the dead man leading him into the keep. "I never saw her in Dorne, the only reason I'm sure she was even there is because Ned told me so."

"Let's wait till we get to her, she's bound to have a lot of the same questions and I'd rather not repeat myself." Torrhen sighed. "Along those lines, when we meet make sure I stay between you and Lyanna. If she lunges at you I need to be able to grab her before she rips your throat out."

Under ordinary circumstances, Martyn would have scoffed at that statement. He was a seasoned warrior, he had no reason to fear a slip of a girl. But he had witnessed some of Torrhen's spars on the trip; the men wished to know how the new lord fared with a weapon. Torrhen had beaten them all, he was stronger and faster than near anyone Martyn had ever seen, which had been quite the shock considering how terrible of a swordsman Torrhen had been in the past.

I don't care what kind of training Lord Bolton and the Dreadfort's master-at-arms put him through, there's no way Torrhen got that good naturally. It must be because of his unholy magic. And he clearly did something to Lyanna, he wasn't surprised that she attacked Tomard's grandson. If he thinks she's a danger, I best be on my guard around her.

The pair made their way through a series of hallways. While he didn't expect a castle that had been abandoned for half a year to be clean, Martyn still thought that it shouldn't be this messy. There were stains everywhere, mostly the same brownish orange and the smell-

Wait. . . those stains. . . that's old blood. Martyn gave the air a more discerning sniff. That's the smell of death, corpses long since left to rot.

As they walked down a staircase, Martyn kept his hand on his sword, ready to draw it at a moment's notice. His instincts were screaming at him that things weren't right, that danger was nearby, but he had a job to do. He needed to see Lyanna, needed to be able to ask her about what had happened.

"Alright," Torrhen said, stopping in front of a door. "Just remember what I said, keep me between the two of you."

Martyn nodded as Torrhen opened the door. The stench that wafted out was reminiscent of the battlefields from the war. Well, that answers the question of where the smell was coming from.

Martyn followed Torrhen inside the room and had to pause to take in the scene before him. He had killed his share of opponents during the war, he had seen men, women, and even children killed for no good reason just because of whose side they were on during a battle. This wasn't the same.

It's like a slaughterhouse, Martyn realized as he looked at the bodies draped over the shelves and stacked in piles. This wasn't a battlefield, people hadn't fallen where they'd died. This room had been arranged with a purpose in mind. And judging from the fact that Lyanna was leaning against a wine rack, a bottle in one hand and the other hand holding a corpse up to her face, he had an idea who was responsible.

"Hello Lyanna," Torrhen said stiffly.

Lyanna dropped the body and Martyn got a good look at her. She had dark blood smeared around her mouth, confirming that she had in fact been drinking from the corpse. What really grabbed Martyn's attention though, was that she no longer had the grey eyes of a Stark. Instead, they were red and practically glowed in the dark of the room.

"Torrhen." Lyanna's voice was flat, almost lifeless. Luckily, it hadn't deepened like Torrhen's had. "What happened to me?"

"I made you a vampire, like me." Torrhen rubbed the back of his neck and gave a small cough as Lyanna took a long drag from her wine bottle. "At least you didn't get my chompers, you get to remain the good looking sibling."

"You did this to me?!" Lyanna hissed, her anger obvious. "I'm an abomination! The sun burns my skin, even through my clothes! Is this your attempt at punishment for what I've done?! That Brandon and Father are dead because of me?!"

Torrhen shook his head. "No, I wanted to save your life. After you gave birth, that much blood, you weren't going to survive. I had to do something."

"You think becoming a monster out of one of Old Nan's tales is better than death?!" Lyanna shouted. "People smell delicious Torrhen. I want to kill and drink the blood of everyone outside the keep. I nearly did so before Krell stopped me!"

"I know," Torrhen said softly. "Believe me, I know. What do you think happened to the Boltons? To the smallfolk that lived in the Dreadfort?"

Lyanna paused as an expression other than anger made its way onto her face: realization. "It wasn't grey plague, was it?"

"No, it wasn't." Torrhen looked down at his hands. "It was me. I killed. . . well, a lot of people."

"Torrhen," Lyanna trailed off, the bottle slipping from her grasp and falling to the floor with a thunk, spilling its last rementants of wine. She walked forward and pulled the creature that looked like her brother into a hug, which he returned. It was at this point that she finally seemed to notice Martyn.

Martyn saw the way her eyes widened, not in fear or surprise, but in hunger. He heard her sharp intake of breath. Martyn felt his body tensing as Torrhen's words echoed in his head.

Before Lyanna could do anything, a new voice spoke up, "You are not allowed to kill anyone."

Making sure to keep Lyanna in his line of sight, Martyn slowly turned his head enough to get a view of the speaker. Standing in the corner of the room was an absolutely massive man in armor that Martyn had seen around Sunspear, Gregor Clegane. The man that Torrhen had killed in order to rescue the royal family and had later raised. The chestplate still had that fist shaped hole in it.

Lyanna growled but seemed to somewhat relax in Torrhen's grip.

"I'm glad you didn't attack Martyn."

Lyanna blinked at Torrhen's words and then looked at Martyn more closely. "Oh, Martyn! It is good to see you."

"It is good to see you as well, my lady."

Lyanna took several deep breaths and then pulled back, stepping out of Torrhen's arms. "Okay, I'm not that hungry. I can control myself. So let's talk."

"Yes please," Martyn agreed. "I have quite a number of questions I'd like answered myself."

Torrhen reached over and grabbed a bottle off the nearest shelf. He inspected the label for a bit before shrugging and pulling the cork out. Torrhen took a draught of the wine before handing the bottle to Martyn. "Alright you two, ask away."

"How did this happen?" Lyanna asked. She gestured at herself and then at Torrhen. "You said you made me a vampire, but how did you become one? And why?"

"'Why?' Because I was arrogant and deluded. My magical studies weren't progressing as fast as I wanted and I knew vampirism would give me a large boost to my power. I thought I would be able to control my thirst, that I could use animal blood as a stop gap. And that did work for nearly a week. But then I was passing through the kitchens and one of the chefs cut himself with a knife. That scent - it was like smelling bread fresh straight from the oven after not eating all day. Next thing I knew I had latched onto his neck and everyone was screaming and. . . I didn't care. The smell was one thing but it couldn't compare to the euphoria for finally drinking fresh human blood, straight from the source."

Martyn couldn't help it, he took a large swallow of the wine at that. When Torrhen had started his explanation, he had sounded sad and resigned. But as he finished his breathing was heavy and there was a wistful tone in his voice, as if he was reliving a cherished memory.

Even if he isn't some demon wearing Torrhen's skin, if that really is him, he's still a monster. No one should sound like that.

Torrhen cleared his throat, seemingly realizing how he was sounding to Martyn. "It is no exaggeration to say I went insane from that, crazy with bloodlust. I tore through the guards, locked down the keep, and trapped the servants in whatever rooms I found them in. I barely practiced my magic at all, forgetting that that was why I became a vampire in the first place, and spent my time either sleeping or. . . feasting."

"And, the grey plague?" Lyanna prompted.

"I had moments of, well not quite sanity exactly, but I was capable of more long term thinking. I knew the Dreadfort couldn't stay cut off from the North forever, at some point someone would come knocking. I told some of the smallfolk they'd be free to leave if they said it was grey plague that was responsible. I think I ate someone in front of them to make sure they were aware of the danger of telling the truth, but I can't really recall all the specifics." Torrhen paused, rubbing his chin beneath his face covering, before shaking his head. "Regardless, it was after I had killed everyone in the Dreadfort and was prowling around, looking for rats because even they taste better than stale corpse blood, that my brain finally pulled itself together. Thanks to you, actually."

Lyanna gave a small smile. "Me?"

"Turns out, Roose would read all of the letters I was sent before he let the Maester give them to me. There was a message from you sitting on the desk in his solar that I hadn't read prior to my rampage. You complained about how much you disliked your betrothal to Robert. That was enough to break through the haze and make me remember that events were still ongoing outside these walls."

"Never heard of a letter from family curing a man's mind, but if it worked it worked," Martyn said. He had seen enough men break during the war, sometimes during a battle but other times it wasn't till afterwards, when they hadn't been properly trained on how to kill someone and were trying to adjust to what it was like.

"It - it wasn't just that," Torrhen admitted. "After I left the Dreadfort and started traveling south, I had to sustain myself on animal blood. The North isn't exactly densely populated, after all. The trip was basically a purging process, getting me clean and building my willpower back up. Also. . . I tried to remember all the people I had killed and realized, there had been too many. It wasn't possible for me to recall all their faces. I didn't know their names, they were just gone, because of me."

Is this performative? Martyn wondered as he drank some more wine.Is he only doing this because I'm watching? Or does he truly regret what happened?

Torrhen reached up, grasping Lyanna's shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "An overwhelming sense of guilt can be a very effective motivator to do better, but it's also not one I would wish on you. That's partially why I was so insistent that Krell and Oswell kept an eye on you. Yes, I didn't want you killing anyone but I also didn't want you going through what I have. It broke me Lyanna, and it's by the grace of God that I'm standing before you in as good of shape as I am."

The pair embraced in another hug while Martyn pondered Torrhen's words. He said God, not Old Gods. Torrhen has always been an odd one, that's half of why Lord Stark sent him to foster with the Boltons, but when did he convert religions? And what did he switch to? The Black Goat? I've heard that god demands blood sacrifices, that could explain why Torrhen has to drink blood, he sold his soul and got the Goat's curse and blessing. . . which he avoided mentioning, now that I think about it, despite Lyanna asking him.

Martyn cleared his throat. "That does bring us to the present, but you started the story slightly too late. How did you become a vampire? And how were you studying magic? I can't imagine Lord Bolton would track down a woodswitch to teach you."

"Oh that, no. I'm self taught," Torrhen explained as he dropped his arms and Lyanna did the same. "There is quite the collection of old, old books in the library here. I'm sure I wouldn't have been allowed to read them if the Boltons had known the magic described in some of the books was real."

"Those books, they have spells you can cast? They have the. . . method, ritual, whatever on how to become a vampire?" Martyn asked. If I can get my hands on them, should I destroy them? Take them to Winterfell?

Torrhen wiggled a hand back and forth. "Sorta? Part of the issue with the books is that they lack a lot of the necessary context to be understandable to most people, like explaining what the 'Winds of Magic' are, for example. Only reason I figured that out is because I had heard the term years before, had actually forgotten about it entirely until I read the passage in one of the books."

"And what does 'Winds of Magic' mean? How'd you hear about it in Winterfell?"

Shaking his head, Torrhen said, "Explaining that would be like trying to teach sailing to someone that has never been on a boat. As for where I heard it, I dunno. It was a long time ago."

Is he lying because he doesn't want to explain? Doesn't want to give up the secret of his power? I suppose he might be telling the truth, I'm no sailor but I know the job can be hard, knowing how to turn the sails and whatnot. Magic could be similar.

"Alright, so what's the plan for us, going forward?" Lyanna asked. "You do have a plan, right?"

"Making you a vampire was a spur of the moment thing, but yes I have a plan. The people currently in the Dreadfort are all smallfolk from Winterfell, guards and servants, so they like you. I'm sure at least some of them will be fine with giving you blood periodically. Once you've proven you have self control, good self control with no issues mind you, then we could see about either sending you to Winterfell or having Jon brought here."

"Who is Jon?"

"Oh right, you weren't there for that conversation. Jon is what we named your son."

"My - my son?" Lyanna asked, genuine confusion flitted across her face back that was followed by a host of other emotions, moving so quickly between them Martyn wasn't able to identify what she was feeling. She seemed to stop breathing as she looked at Torrhen with unfocused eyes.

"Yes, Lyanna. You gave birth to a healthy, baby boy. He's with Ned in Winterfell, he is safe. I left Arthur with him, to keep an eye on things. Robert even legitimized him so Jon is a proper Stark."

Lyanna didn't seem to know what to say, she just stared at Torrhen. Martyn wasn't sure why she seemed so shocked, Robert had gone to war for her, of course he'd want to make sure her child wasn't a bastard.

"Re - really? Robert did? From what you and Ned said, I thought he hated the Targaryens, that he wanted them all dead."

"That's still true," Torrhen admitted. "Robert didn't have any good things to say about Elia or Rhaenys from what I heard. But he does love you, or the idea of you, and that's enough to make him think of Jon as a wolf rather than a dragon. Which reminds me, you should write him a thank you letter.

"That's-" Lyanna cut herself off and took a deep breath before continuing, "Torrhen, you're throwing too much at me right now. Vampirism, my son, and now Robert. Just. . . just leave me be. I need time to think about all this.

Lyanna turned and walked over to the nearest corpse, hefting it up off the pile without a struggle.

She's as strong as Torrhen but without his control. How am I supposed to keep everyone safe until she develops discipline? Should we all walk around armed? But what about the womenfolk? I doubt any of them can handle something more complicated than a knife.