The North – 265 A.C. / 1860 A.D.

Spring has come, Lord Rickard Stark mused as the overcast skies seemed to carry only cold winds, and not the blizzards of winter.

It had been a long voyage back from the pit of vipers that was the esteemed capitol of the realm, King's Landing. What was originally supposed to be a simple negotiation for grain prices with ambassadors from the Reach had turned into three months of on-again-off-again discussion with the newly crowned Aerys II. While he had been in the capitol for the king's coronation, he had had limited personal contact with the Targaryen king. So, it was quite a shock to Rickard when he received the invitation sealed in red wax with the sigil of House Targaryen. If his summons was a surprise, then the reason for it was even more so.

"I aim to extend the borders of the North, beyond the Wall."

At first, he had thought that Aerys was jesting with him, trying to gauge the character of one of his Lord Paramounts. But then he was peppered with questions.

Questions about the state of the North, its military capabilities, its economy. Inquiries about the North's lack of a navy, about the number of brothers in the Night's Watch, the condition of the Wall, the thoughts of the Northern people on the freefolk, his own thoughts on the freefolk. It all seemed rather idealistic, even for a king as young as Aerys.

Putting away his thoughts on the matter, he stepped out onto the deck of the ship. The carrack that had carried him from White Harbor to the capitol was now safely carrying him back home to the North. As it approached the dock, he could see a group bearing the banners of his house. Stepping of the gangplank, he was greeted with the jubilant form of Lord Wyman Manderly.

"My Lord Stark!" The jolly lord greeted him with a firm shake of the hand. "How was the capitol?"

"Still a cesspit." He remarked, earning a laugh from Lord Manderly. "The negotiations went along without issue, although the prices were a bit higher than last year."

"I'd expect as much from the Reachers." The fat lord grumbled.

"And how are you Lord Wyman?" Rickard asked.

"Not too well." He answered, concern now marring his features. "There have been strange occurrences since you were last in the city."

"Strange? In what matter?" He inquired.

"It would be better if you were to follow me, my lord." He answered, rubbing his fingers together. "I can explain on the way, or at least I can explain what I can."

Furrowing his brow, he regarded Lord Wyman for a second before he nodded in concession. Stepping into the wheelhouse, the small procession made its way through the white cobblestone streets of White Harbor.

"A few days before you arrived, a ship from House Sunderland docked in the harbor." Lord Wyman began. "They dropped off a man who I had first thought to be some sort of fugitive from the dungeons. After some explanation, it was revealed that the man had been shipwrecked out on the Bite when he was saved by a strange group of foreigners."

"Foreigners?" Rickard inquired. "From the Free Cities?"

"That was our first thought, as well." Wyman shook his head. "But he claims that aren't from the Free Cities, or anywhere on Essos for that matter. He explained that the foreigners wanted to establish relations with the Seven Kingdoms, so they dropped him off at Sisterton so he could send a message to his lord. Lord Triston apparently wanted nothing to do with them, so he sent the man to us."

"Hm."

With a pensive sigh, he watched as they passed through the gates of New Castle. Foreigners at the very borders of Westeros?

Lord Wyman seemed to proceed with a nervous energy as he stepped out of the carriage and into the halls of his keep. Keeping a brusque pace, Rickard followed him through the tapestried halls, up flights of stairs, and into a modest guestroom.

Sitting on the bed, with his hands clasped together, was a plain looking man. He noted that he seemed a bit slim but looked relatively healthy. If he had to guess from the man's appearance, he would assume that he was one of the smallfolk.

With a nervous glance, the man stood up and gave a clumsy bow toward the two northern lords. "My lord."

"This is Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell." Lord Wyman began. "You'll answer his questions plainly, alright lad?"

"Of course, milord."

Raising a hand to ease his nerves, Lord Rickard greeted him. "What is your name, lad?"

"E- Errol, milord."

"Errol. Well, met." He grabbed one of the chairs in the room and sat down, bidding the nervous Sisterman to follow suit. "Lord Manderly here told me about your encounter. Is what he says true?"

He nodded furiously. "It's all true, milord. I- I just don't know what to make of it."

"Did these people threaten you in anyway?"

"No, milord. They were quite cordial." He answered. "But they were a strange lot. I- "

He paused, a nervous look entering his eye. Realizing the man's reluctance, he asked for a cup of wine. Once a servant had brought it, he passed the chalice over to Errol. "Drink."

Nodding, he accepted the chalice and took a large sip. "Thank you, Lord Stark."

"Now speak, I'll hear the truth from you."

"Well… I… I don't rightly know if I believe it m'self." He started, recounting the events. "I was fishing out in the waters between Longsister and the Neck, when my mate and I got caught out in a storm. He was washed overboard, and I thought I was gonna be followin' him soon to the Seven Hells, when I was picked up by these people."

Rickard nodded, listening intently to every word.

"They picked me up and let me stay aboard their ship. They seemed nice enough. The ship's cap'n, a bloke maned Erinmore, told me that they were lost and trying to find the closest local lord."

"Where did they come from?"

"I don't know. When they picked me up though, they brought me to an island where they'd set up camp."

"An island? Out in the bay?"

"No, milord. When they was bringin' me to Sisterton they sailed east. By my reckoning, it was somewhere between Longsister and the Neck." He took another sip of wine before continuing. "It'd probably be a half a dozen leagues south of White Harbor."

Now Rickard understood why Lord Wyman was in such distress. If a group of foreigners hitherto uncontacted by the Seven Kingdoms have set up camp so close to Westeros, only the gods – old and new – would know what they wanted.

"Were these people armed?"

"I don't think so, milord, but they did have soldiers among'em. They were dressed in blue coats with white belts, and each of 'em seemed to be carrying queer-looking staves."

"Tell me," He said gruffly, "did the people you encountered, have a banner of some kind? Something to identify themselves?"

"They did, milord. After they rescued me, one of them gave me 'is coat and a whole lot of papers wrapped up in one of their banners." He turned to the other chair in the room and grabbed a length of deep blue wool that indeed unraveled into a coat. From one of the pockets, he pulled out a strange three-colored banner that seemed to be encasing something. Without a word, he passed the bundle to Rickard.

"This is it."

The two others in the room leaned over with curiosity, as Rickard began to unwrap the strangely patterned flag. Passing the flag to Lord Wyman, he grabbed the short stack of papers that lay inside. Sifting through them, he was initially struck by the fact that while he recognized more than a few letters, he could hardly make out more than one or two words. The language while familiar, seemed almost completely foreign.

Looking up, he stared at Lord Wyman as he observed the banner in his hands.

"Wyman, do you recognize this language?" He passed the papers to him, as he took the foreign flag in exchange.

"No, my lord, I do not." He looked down in confusion as he sifted through the documents. "Perhaps my maester can identify this script."

"Perhaps…" He trailed off, as his eyes drifted back to the foreign banner.

In one corner lay a field of blue, dotted by a symmetrical pattern of white stars. Running lengthwise, there was a series of alternating red and white stripes.

By all regards, a rather unremarkable heraldry. But when Rickard held it in his hands, he felt an odd chill creep through his fingers. It was fleeting but it disturbed him, nonetheless.

Pushing those thoughts aside, he considered his options. If what the Sisterman's words were true, then there was a possibility that there was a foreign delegation seeking to contact the Seven Kingdoms. This meant that he needed to send a missive to King's There was the possibility that these strange new people could be sellswords from some wayward corner of Essos, or beyond.

"If shown a map of the Bite, would you be able to point out where you had been picked up?"

"I reckon I could." He considered a moment before continuing. "But, milord, I was knocked out for some time while I was on the black ship. I can tell you where it was they picked me up, but I'd be of no help beyond that."

"But you would still be of help until then." Rickard responded, assuaging the man's concerns. "It's enough, I assure you."

"As you say, milord."

"Thank you, Errol. We may have need for your assistance in the future, so I hope you understand if we keep you here."

Errrol's expression seemed momentarily crestfallen, but he knew that he could not disobey an order from a lord. "Of course, milord."

Satisfied, Rickard nodded and began to leave with Lord Wyman before turning back around to the fisherman. "I'll have my seneschal send word to your family in Sisterton, as well as some money to make up for your lost catch."

His eyes widening, he stood up and bowed quickly at his feet. "Thank you, milord! Thank you! And may the Seven bless you!"

The two Northern lords stepped out of the room, as they were left to debate the course of action to be taken.

"What do you think, Lord Stark?" Wyman asked. "Should we go to the king?"

"No,not yet." Rickard replied. "We need to confirm the man's story first. Meet these people with our own eyes."

"My lord – "

"What is it Wyman?"

He sighed before continuing. "I do not doubt the man's words. But I've been sailing across the Bite all my life. There is no one in all of Westeros who knows those waters as well as I do."

"Your point, Wyman?"

"There are no islands between here and Longsister. Not a single one. Not even rocky outcroppings. I can guarantee you that." He lowered his voice before continuing. "So, if these foreigners did set up camp on an island in the middle of the Bite, where did that island come from?"

Rickard could not answer his bannerman's musings. He would have to search for those himself. But to him, his aim was clear – to do his duty by his people and king. If these foreigners have come to invade, then by the Old Gods and New, he would drive them back into the sea. But if not, then perhaps there lay the potential for opportunity for the North.

For now, though, he would have to take this one step at a time.

Lyarra was never fond of winter.

It was odd, she had to admit, given that she was born of House Stark and had married her first cousin once removed thus making her a Stark twice over. But winter always loomed ominous over her and her family. Her house words, "Winter is Coming", seemed a threat to the southron lords who had deemed her and her people as little more than barbarians. To Lyarra, though, those words seemed to be a threat to her and her family as much as it did to those who lived below the Neck. And this last winter seemed to be as much.

The winds had been harsher this winter than they had been in the past two, and the grain stores from the Reach barely lasted enough to keep the various keeps throughout the North from starving too much. Despite her concerns, her distaste for winter was satiated by the arrival of a white raven from the Citadel some weeks earlier. Winter had ended, and spring was soon to come.

But the promises of the white raven were soon followed by the uncertainties of a black raven. Her husband, Rickard, had finally returned from the capitol with good news regarding the negotiations with the Tyrells, but had to remain in White Harbor.

Despite the delay, she was not worried.

There were few things that worried Lyarra Stark, chief among them being the welfare of her children. As she trudged through the last of the winter snows across the courtyard, she headed toward the one place she knew she would find her eldest son. She hadn't wanted to interrupt Eddard's breastfeeding time, but when one of her nursemaids had informed her that her eldest had sneaked away from her and the guards, Lyarra had little choice.

Walking directly toward the horse stables, she saw a small toddler draped in furs trying to reach the door handle.

"Brandon!"

The three-year-old toddler turned around, his eyes as wide as saucers. Shifting her youngest in her arms, she walked over to the stable doors where her son was trying to unlatch the door to the stables.

Grabbing her son's hand, she dragged Brandon Stark away from the potential world of trouble that awaited. Kneeling to him, she looked her son straight in the eye.

"Now, Brandon, what did I say about going off on your own?"

"No go wiout mama!"

The immutable smile that spread on his face despite the scolding didn't faze her anger at all.

"That's right. Not without Mama." She huffed, making sure not to shift little Ned in her arms. "The next time you want to go to the stables, ask mama first alright?"

"Awight mama." He cooed.

"Good, now come on." She stood back up and held out her arm for Brandon to hold. "It's time for your lessons with Maester Walys."

"Awww!"

"Brandon…" Lyarra scolded, brow raised in case her son should try to resist.

"Awight…"

Hand in hand, they both walked across the courtyard and back into the Great Keep of Winterfell. As they walked toward the maester's tower, she made sure to mention the little escapade to her handmaiden and to harangue the guards who were supposed to keep watch of him while she fed Brandon.

"Lady Stark." She was greeted by Maester Walys as she entered his office.

"Maester." She nodded in greeting. "I apologize for my son's tardiness. I fear that his curiosities had lain with the stables rather than your books."

"Is that so?" He kneeled down and patted her son on the head. "I'm afraid to say, my lord, that you're still far too young to learn the art of horsemanship."

He laughed at the frown that appeared on the toddler's face.

"Not to worry my lord. One day you will be old enough, but until then you must learn your letters first."

With a huff, Brandon sat down on the chair and crossed his arms. Lyarra's attempts at disciplining Brandon only worked so much. He seemed much more well-behaved when her husband was with them, but on her own, Brandon always seemed impulsive and undisciplined. She had hoped that this attitude was only the fleeting tempest of a child's mood rather than something that would stay with him through his life. But even her husband had noted that Brandon had the temper of a wild wolf, willful and brash.

As much as I did, when I was his age.

"Thank you Walys." She nodded her thanks at the maester. "If you'll excuse me, I must return to this little one."

Her little Ned seemed only to coo, as she shifted him in her arms.

"Very well, my lady." Walys smiled, as he opened the door for her. "Oh, and my lady?"

She stopped at the door and turned as she watched the old maester grab a letter from his desk and passed it to her. "This arrived an hour ago from a courier in White Harbor."

"My husband?"

"I assume so, my lady. It came in a bundle along with several documents from the maester at White Harbor."

"Thank you, maester." She left, letter in hand as she walked slowly back to the nursery.

After taking some time to finish Eddard's feeding, she set the babe down into his cradle and rocked it gently until he fell asleep. Taking the opportunity for a moment of calm, she sat down and opened the letter from her husband.

My dearest Lyarra, I am sorry, my love, about the delay in my return. Events in White Harbor have prevented me from coming back to you, but for good reason. I write to you from…

And as she read through it, she felt her brow furrowing in confusion at each word.

Surely this can't be true.

But then, it was her husband. And for all the reputation that Rickard Stark had, he was by no means a liar.

Putting down the letter, she decided to obey her husband's order for now. She knew that he was well within his rights to keep such things from her, but his promise to her on their wedding ensured that they'd be equal in all matters. But to keep such a thing a secret could only invite death if discovered to soon.

Turning back to the cradle she saw her little Ned stir in his sleep. Placing a hand on the cradle, she rocked him gently and soon, her son was quiet once more. She wondered, for a moment, what her son was dreaming of.

She had hoped that it would be of spring, but in her heart, she knew.

Winter. Always winter.

The seas were eerily calm, Rickard noted as the Manderly sailors went about their duties. They were the finest seamen that the North had to offer ever since Bran the Burner turned what was once left of the North's fleet into ash. Their voices and jubilant singing did well to lighten everyone's mood, but his.

In the days following his talk with Errol, rumors began circling among the merchants coming in from the Three Sisters. Whispered tales of foreign men dressed in blue crewing strange black ships with smoke rising from their chimneys began earning the concern of more prominent sea captains. He knew that it would not be long before these stories spread down south, and eventually to King's Landing.

And gods only know how the Targaryens would respond.

After sending a raven to Winterfell informing Lyarra that his return would be delayed, he finally set out on the sturdiest of Lord Wyman's ships, the Green Hand and the Merman's Folly, and set sail. Errol, having been grateful for the compensation to his family, volunteered to accompany Lord Rickard.

Stepping down into the captain's cabin, he saw that Errol had still not left his place at the captain's side, so eager was his desire to aid in this venture. They were gathered around a map that was focused primarily on the southeastern part of the North.

"In about half a league, turn southeast."

"Southeast? There's nothing there for hundreds of miles." The captain replied.

"I promise you, this was where that black ship found me, alright."

Taking this moment to make his presence known, Rickard stepped forward and asked, "Are you sure it was here, Errol?"

"As sure as winter, Lord Stark, I guarantee it."

If Rickard was hesitant, it disappeared with a nod of his head to the captain who conceded in turn. Marking the point on the map where they were to turn, he gave one last look of worry toward the Sisterman and left the cabin. As the orders to make ready to turn southeast were barked at the sailors of The Green Hand, Rickard walked toward the map taking in the kingdom before him.

"My lord," Errol scratched his cheek in worry. "What will we do once we arrive at this point?"

"We'll split up from the Merman's Folly and cover the area between the Sisters and the Vale." He answered. "If they went to the trouble to send a message of greeting to us, then they'll certainly be trying to find us as well."

Crashing through the waves, the two ships soon made a gentle turn of course toward southeast. The Merman's Folly began to veer off further east, whilst the Green Hand sailed further south. It was a risky plan given that the waters between the Vale were known to be a hunting ground for pirates in the spring. But he took the chance, given that the white ravens signaling the end of winter only arrived two weeks ago.

With any luck, those brigands won't risk sailing out in numbers before spring arrives in full force.

But he knew that he was balancing this risk with the chance that the winter storms would not be dissipating for another month.

Thankfully, he skies had been somewhat clear since they departed White Harbor but knowing the unpredictable nature of the Bite meant that a storm would not be too far away. One of the seamen on watch noted with worry that there seemed to be a streak of dark clouds gathering from the northeast. It was still quite a way off, but the captain still expressed his concern to Rickard.

"Best turn back, my lord." The captain suggested. A sudden swell of the waves seemed to punctuate his point.

He was silent a moment as he counted his options.

"Keep on course. We sail until we reach the lands of House Corbray." He ordered. "I fought with their liege, Lord Arryn, against the Ninepenny Kings. He'll grant us safe harbor if the storm gets too close."

"Yes, my lord." The captain replied.

The dark streak that seemed to smear the sky appeared to be unmoving, and hopefully it would stay that way.

"CAPTAIN! TWO SHIPS SPOTTED ON THE PORTSIDE! COMING IN FROM THE NORTHEAST!"

The lookout's call seemed to bring a sobriety to the situation, as the sailors all began to tense up in their duties, before carrying on.

Approaching the portside of the ship, the captain turned a Myrish far-eye toward the direction of the ships. "It's the Merman's Folly, but I don't recognize the ship with her."

"Is the ship painted black?" Rickard asked, now at the captain's side along with Errol.

"It would seem so, Lord Stark."

Passing the far-eye to him, Rickard stared through it and could see the familiar outline of the Merman's Folly sailing close behind it was a ship that was either black or a dark blue.

"Have they spotted us yet, captain?"

"It's hard to tell, my lord. They've not changed course yet, but I'll have the signal flags hoisted up to make sure."

Turning to Errol, he passed him the far-eye and pointed toward the ships. "Is that the black ship that picked you up?"

Peering through the Myrish glass, Errol answered. "No, milord. The ship was at least twice as big as that, with a sort of… wheeled paddles. And a chimney billowing smoke."

"Have they replied yet?" The captain shouted up to the lookout.

"Not yet, captain!"

The ships then began to turn in their course, sailing parallel to the Green Hand.

Something's wrong, thought Rickard.

Taking the far-eye out of Errol's hand, he took the opportunity to focus in on the Merman's Folly. Observing the ministrations of the crew on the other ship, he could see nothing out of the ordinary, however there appeared to be fewer sailors working on deck than when they started. Casting his gaze over to the new ship following them, he could see some thirty or so men scrambling on deck. They had no colors to identify them, nor banners. It was when those men started to line up on the side facing the Green Hand, did he realize something was wrong.

Spying a mark on the bow of the ship, he could just about make out a familiar looking shape. As the ship drifted closer to theirs, in such a way that it was lined up directly behind the other Manderly ship did he realize the shape.

It was the sigil of a red eye.

Oh, no.

"TAKE COVER!"

His warning arrived just as the first projectiles landed on the deck of the Green Hand. Five, or maybe six, bodies were strung out, each pierced by multitudes of flaming arrows that had also struck the deck.

Barely collecting himself, the captain began barking out orders as the surviving crew began scrambling to ropes and hoisting up sails. A few of them had even managed to bring out their own bows and began returning fire.

"LOOSE!"

The arrows seemed to do little to stop the onslaught as the attacking ship continued to sail ever closer. Another volley of arrows brought down a most of the archers, and by now the Green Hand had managed to be caught between the two assaulting vessels.

The sound of grappling hooks affixing themselves to the ship's railing heralded the arrival of dozens of pirates who had begun to attack the crew of the Green Hand.

Chaos erupted as Manderly men began a bloody clash against the invading horde. Steel on steel, fist on fist, the fight soon devolved into a melee of blood and viscera. Drawing Ice, his Valyrian steel blade, from his sheath, Rickard began to hack and slash any raider who dared to attack him.

A cry somewhere at his left, brought his attention to Errol who was in the midst of preventing an Iron raider from stabbing his chest with a knife. With a single thrust, he dispatched the brigand and he toppled lifeless onto the deck.

"Behind you m'lord!" Another raider was ready to cut into him with his blade when a sword suddenly burst through the pirate's chest.

From behind, the captain had held his short sword coated in blood.

"Are you alright, m'lord?"

"I'm fine, but we won't be if we don't rally the men."

With a nod, the three men all rushed into the melee picking up more Manderly sailors as their small horde soon found themselves forming a line against the pirates. But whilst they had managed to rally the men, they were still outnumbered two to one. Soon they had found themselves pushed back to the quarterdeck with most of the ship having fallen to the raiders.

The combat soon slowed as the pirates held back. From behind the horde, a man stepped forward in a worn gray doublet and an eye patch painted with the red-eye sigil.

"Well, isn't this a surprise." The man sneered, taking in the haggard forms of the surviving sailors. His eyes turned toward Rickard as he pointed to him, "You're Rickard Stark, aren't you?"

"I am." He answered stoically.

"Yeah… yeah… I thought so." The man stepped forward, blade in hand. "I'd never forget the blade that killed my captain."

He pointed the tip of his blade toward the hilt of Rickard's sword.

Ice.

Rickard remembered it well, the war against the Ninepenny Kings, campaigning in the Stepstones. He could recall his bloody dance across Grey Gallows, Ice in his hand, as he and five thousand Northron men-at-arms brought winter to the southern isle.

And the last of the Ninepenny Kings to die in battle, Nine Eyes.

He could still see the anguished faces of Nine Eyes's men as they watched Ice deliver the King's justice. They were called the Jolly Fellows, Nine Eyes's men, but when they saw their captain's head fly clean from his body their jubilee was replaced by disheartened fear. They scattered.

It was only by his own hand did the whole affair was saved from being a massacre, at least until the king's orders came. And Grey Gallows lived up to its name.

But what he remembered most deftly of all, was the surprised face of man with the sigil of a red eye on his cloak. He had heard of how the captain of the Jolly Fellows was always accompanied by his right-hand man, known only as the Tenth Eye.

So, here's the so-called "Last of the Ninepenny Kings".

"I'm surprised you couldn't remember the face that did it." Rickard replied.

"I've been rather busy these last few years." He shrugged.

"Indeed." Rickard replied. "Looting, raiding, and kidnapping, I suspect."

"Oh, you've heard of my exploits then, Lord Stark?"

"The actions of one craven bear little difference to that of other cravens."

"You insult me m'lord. I would think that I at least add a flourish of creativity to my crimes." Tenth Eye laughed derisively as he observed the other survivors. "While I am curious as to why the Lord of Winterfell is busy wandering the waters of the Narrow Sea, this opportunity is far too good to pass up."

"Opportunity?"

"Yes," He smirked. "Opportunity for… what was your king's words again… oh, yes – fire and blood."

"Fire and blood?" Rickard scoffed. "Leave it to a craven thief to steal the words of another."

"And leave it to cowardly wolf to be the bitch of a dragon." Tenth Eye sneered, drawing his falchion from his scabbard. "But it's no matter. Now you will know my captain's fate."

"Your captain's fate was his own doing." Rickard leveled. "He dared to support a usurper of the Iron Throne."

"You killed him!" The pirate screamed back at him.

"And that was the consequence of his choice."

"You're right Stark." He spat out in rage. "Just as this is a consequence of yours."

Raising his sword, he struck a blow that Rickard had blocked with ease. Tenth Eye's rage could be felt with each move that was struck on Ice. If his sword were not made from Valyrian steel, he would be sure that Tenth Eye would have fulfilled his quest for vengeance.

Around them the melee erupted once again, their duel being engulfed by a sea of combat. Inch by inch, the Northmen were being pushed back. And through all the blood and steel, Rickard's focus lay squarely on Tenth Eye. Rickard was a skilled swordsman, and well aware of the advantage that Ice had provided him. But the close quarters combat that was inherent in fighting on the cramped decks of a ship rendered him incapable of delivering a serious killing blow. All Rickard could do was parry every slash and cut that was wrought upon him.

After barely managing to block another downward stroke from Tenth Eye's blade, he felt a shot of pain course through his arm. Turning around he thrust his sword forward and fell another jolly fellow, only just escaping another killing blow from Tenth Eye.

While the men of the Green Hand were holding, he knew that they'd be breaking soon. If he could find a way to kill their captain, then they might have a chance of surviving.

Seeing an opening in Tenth Eye's stance, he rushed forward, thrusting and hacking at every opportunity given. The harsh clang of steel kissing steel signaled an impasse. Tenth Eye held firm against Rickard's assault, hatred filling the sellsword's single eye.

The steel of Rickard's blade could hold up against Tenth Eye's and a strong downward strike could be enough to disarm him. But around him, he could see more pirates climbing onto the deck of the Green Hand.

For a moment, it felt like that this dance of death between the two was the eye of the storm. A conflicting moment of serenity amidst the cacophony of battle. Not one worthy of the songs that the southron lords and ladies were so keen on repeating, but rather and epilogue to one. A conclusion.

One way or another, someone would lose their nerve.

But which of us will break first?

A howling screech, that seemed to bellow from the seven hells, echoed across the sky before a wall of water erupted on the open side of the Jolly Fellows' galley. Another screech pierced the sounds of combat only to land on the deck in a volley of splinters and wood. The mast of Tenth Eye's galley collapsed into the sea dragging men down with it.

Massive towers of water shot up around the galley, causing the attacking men to panic and waiver. The panic soon turned to fear, and the fear into outright mayhem as the sailors of the Green Hand soon rallied and struck back, beginning to cut down the retreating brigands.

Taking the opportunity, Rickard knocked his head against Tenth Eye's own, causing the sellsword to double back in pain, his nose dripping with blood. Going in for a final thrust, a killing blow to end this madness once and for all, Rickard reeled from the sudden shock of another explosion ringing out against the galley. Splinters and human limbs seemed to be painted against the blood red tint of the deck, only to be washed away as another wall of water erupted near them.

Soaked with the ice-cold waters of the Bite, Tenth Eye screamed, "Fall back! Back to the Scourge!"

Steadying himself on deck, Rickard rushed forward trying to capture the pirate captain before he could escape. But he could only watch helplessly as the one-eyed brigand swung back onto his ship with ease.

Turning back to his men, he raised his sword high. "Men of winter! To me!"

His personal retinue from Winterfell had formed up with their lord and proceeded to strike swiftly into the still-ensuing fray.

The pirates hastily made to climb back onto both their war galley and the Merman's Folly but from the bowels of the captured Manderly ship, dozens of men in clad in woolen blue coats and caps emerged from the below deck. With them, the liberated Northern sailors of the Merman's Folly, all armed to the teeth, ready to exact vengeance on their captors.

Nearly three score swords and spears acted as a pincer squeezing the panicking sellswords into a corridor of death. Some fell to the men of the Green Hand, some to the men of the Merman's Folly, but what struck Rickard the most was the blue coated men.

Each bluecoat was armed with a strange looking spear and wore no armor, but all seemed to be uniformly dressed.

One particular bluecoat, armed with a curved sabre that seemed Dornish in style, led a detachment of men to the other side of the deck. He shouted a command at his men, and they aimed their spears at the surviving pirates as if they were crossbows.

What are those damned fools doing? He thought, as the melee continued around them.

Any criticisms he had, died the minute the bluecoat commander yelled, "Fire!"

Twenty piercing cracks, like wet canvas being shaken with a sudden violence, erupted from the spears and caused the same number of men on the retreating galley to drop dead.

"Reload!" He heard their commander shout.

By now the soldiers had begun to produce paper packets full of black powder and pour them down the apparently hollow spears, followed by a bullet that they would ram in with a rod secluded with in the spear.

It was a fascinating process to watch as they then attacked a small cap to the lever of their weapon, which they then pulled back, took aim with and fire. And fire they did. The sparks the emerged from the weapon caused a strange and acrid smoke to linger in the air.

The same cracking explosions to his left shook him out of his wonder as more pirates fell to the bluecoats' weapons, and soon the last of the pirates were cornered by the Manderly sailors and bluecoats alike. By now Tenth Eye's ship, the Scourge, was rowing away and the Merman's Folly had been recaptured by her crew.

Pointing his sword at the surviving pirated, Rickard growled out, "Drop your arms."

Resigned to their fate, the last of the pirates dropped their swords, spears, and bows as he gave orders to the captain of the Green Hand to lock them in chains.

"Lord Stark."

Turning to the voice, he was greeted with one of the sailors from the Merman's Folly.

"Ser Woolfield." He greeted the young knight. "Where is your captain?"

"He was killed, my lord, by the pirates."

Rickard could only nod as he mused on the young knight's words.

"My lord, I wanted to introduce you to our rescuers." The knight continued, as he led Rickard to one of the bluecoat commanders. "This is Captain Jerome. He's in command of the soldiers who liberated us from captivity. Captain Jerome, this is our liege, Lord Rickard of House Stark."

"Captain," Rickard sheathed his sword as he greeted the bluecoat. "I must thank you for your assistance in rescuing my men."

Stepping forward, the blue-coated captain snapped into an odd salute, his right hand resting flat at an angle against the side of his head. "Lord Stark, it's a pleasure to meet you."

The two shook hands, as Rickard tried to get a read on the captain. His blue coat and cap was not dissimilar to how Errol had described. But the matching white trousers and belt were certainly odd. The chevrons on his sleeve looked almost exactly like the patterns of some of the landed knights down south if they were inverted like the captain's. From what he could tell, the man was by no means uneducated. He seemed polite enough to understand the basic courtesies of the nobility, but he noticed that the man did not bow to him. Rickard did not regard himself as one to follow such stringent protocols of address and greeting, but the fact that the captain showed no regard in doing as such interested him.

Perhaps a quirk of their culture? He thought, a part of him hoping that these foreigners were not of the same regard as the sellswords that they had just repulsed.

"Forgive me for such directness, Lord Stark, but you wouldn't perchance be the Lord of Winterfell?"

"I am. Who told you as such?"

"Some of the local fishermen. We've been wanting to talk to a person of authority for a while. They said we should be head to a place called White Harbor, but no one could give us a precise location. We sent someone earlier to a place called Sisterton to see if we can get in contact with any local leadership, but it had been a week since we dropped him off and still no answer. We would've looked for him, but we didn't want to cause too much trouble, not that that matters now." He answered, looking around at the aftermath of their battle.

"Well, I am the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Whatever business you desire to address, you may speak with me on the matter."

"Excellent." The captain broke out in a smile. "If I have your permission, I can bring you to my commanding officer. He'll want to talk to you."

With a hesitant nod, he turned to Ser Woolfield. "Fetch the Sisterman, Errol. Tell him to come with me."

"Yes m'lord." The knight responded as he went off to fulfill his duty.

Turning back to the bluecoat, he asked. "We have someone your people rescued from the sea a few days before. I would like him with us to confirm that you are the foreigners we're looking for."

"I understand, Lord Stark." The bluecoat captain nodded.

"Aoooooooohhhhhh!"

The noise had frightened most of the sailors, a few redrawing their swords, until Captain Jerome turned to the horizon and a smirk appeared on his face. Fast approaching was the outline of three black ships. But these were different from the pirate galley that they had encountered. The ships were longer, larger, with their sails unfurled of which there seemed to be enough to service no less than ten galleys. But what stood out to Rickard the most were the two massive wheels that were flanking both sides of the lead ship.

It's just as the Sisterman described.

"I apologize if the flagship alarmed your men, Lord Stark." Captain Jerome smiled slyly. "I assure you Commodore Sullivan will be most welcome by your presence."

He could only turn to nod at the captain as he watched some of the bluecoat soldiers climb down from a ladder on the Green Hand into two smaller white boats. As the black vessels neared the two Manderly ships, Rickard's eye seemed to be filled with the flagship alone. His eyes followed the ship's immense length, trailing across the deck to the massive side-wheels, and up the large chimney spewing out puffs of black smoke. His eyes then caught the familiar banner that he had seen back in White Harbor waving atop one of the masts.

"That's it, milord."

Errol appeared from behind with a blue coat wrapped around him, presumably granted to him by one of the soldiers. "That's the black ship."

Nodding he turned to find the captain of the Green Hand and gave his instructions as to what to do with the captured mercenaries-turned-pirates and what to do should these foreigners turn out to be of the same stock. Fetching his surviving guards, and the bundle that Errol had first delivered to him, he found a waiting Captain Jerome out on deck.

"Lord Stark, are you ready?"

Giving only a plain nod to the captain, he was gestured to the rope ladder where he climbed down onto one of the smaller white boats. He noted with interest as he saw a number of sailors clad in a white tunics and caps manning the oars. Once the Northern party had boarded, the ship rowed toward their flagship.

Its shadow draped over him, Lord Stark looked up at the black ship as a line was thrown down to pull them close.

Now it begins, Rickard thought grimly.

Reaching out, he grabbed one of the steps protruding from the ship and climbed aboard.

"Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith, let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it."

A/N: I do hope I've managed to make Rickard more than just a proto-Ned.

Next up, the Vale...