Andrew

When Andrew got the poisons from Maester Walys and fresh made castle forged spear from Mikken he knew that it was time. His chosen lair was the broken tower. Once it had been a watchtower, the tallest in Winterfell. A long time ago, a hundred years before even his father had been born, a lightning strike had set it afire. The top third of the structure had collapsed inward, and the tower had never been rebuilt. Sometimes his father sent ratters into the base of the tower, to clean out the nests they always found among the jumble of fallen stones and charred and rotten beams. But no one ever got up to the jagged top of the structure now except for the crows stayed there.

He observed two ways to get up there. You could climb straight up the side of the tower itself, but the stones were loose, the mortar that held them together long gone to ash, and Andrew was not ready to put his full weight on them.

The other and the best way was to start from the godswood, shinny up the tall sentinel, and cross over the armory and the guards hall, leaping roof to roof, quietly so the guards wouldn't hear you overhead. That will bring you up to the blind side of the First Keep, the oldest part of the castle, a squat round fortress that was taller than it looked. Only rats and spiders lived there now but the old stones still made for good climbing. You could go straight up to where the gargoyles leaned out blindly over empty space, and swing from gargoyle to gargoyle, hand over hand, around to the north side. From there, if you really stretched, you could reach out and pull yourself over to the broken tower where it leaned close. The last part was the scramble up the blackened stones to the eyrie, no more than ten feet, and then the crows would come round to see if you'd brought any corn.

He crossed the godswood, coming at the base of the sentinel tree near the armory wall. Andrew jumped, grabbed a low branch, and pulled himself up. He was halfway up the tree, moving easily from limb to limb. Somewhere behind him an owl hooted blindly in the dark. The godswood was still as a stone and even the trees did not seem to sway. The silence might have scared him once but he almost welcomed it now.

He climbed to the top and jumped off onto the armory roof and out of sight.

For an assassin the rooftops were his second home. He spent most of his time following or stalking someone from above and even brought death to people from air. Most of the time they never saw him there anyway. People never looked up. That was another thing he liked about being in the rooftops; it was almost like being invisible. His mother often said to Andrew that he could be whoever he wants to be. Will she be happy to know that he is an assassin? Will his father be happy about it? Will the honourable King Eddard be proud to know that his son is an assassin? Somehow he dreaded the answer. He could only hope that they understand him. That he did not choose this path he was walking but instead this path chose him.

As a boy, Winterfell had always awed him with it's massive walls and towers. The place was so big that Andrew had played the lazy boy with his mother just so she would carry him and he would be spared of walking. His father would urge him to walk all his way when he turned four but even he can be swayed in his decisions and none knew the way to sway the King in the North as good as his wife and young son. Being big had its advantages too. It made a great place for exploring for young children. None knew the castle well and full which had left it with many hidden places amongst the ruins.

He moved from gargoyle to gargoyle with the ease of long practice. When he reached the tower near the First Keep Andrew looked down. There was a narrow ledge beneath the window, only a few inches wide. He tried to lower himself toward it. Too far. He would never reach.

He studied the ledge. He could drop down. It was too narrow to land on, but if he could catch hold as he fell past, pull himself up. That might work or he could fall to his death. Yet it was the only way to get there. Andrew closed his eyes, took a deeb breath and let go of his grip from the gargoyle. He shot out a hand as he fell, grabbed for the ledge, lost it, caught it again with his other hand. He swung against the building, hard. The impact took the breath out of him. Andrew dangled, one-handed, panting.

He looked down where the courtyard swam dizzily below him, its stones still wet with melted snow visible only by the light of the moon. Andrew lifted the sack over his back with his free hand and threw it inside the room through the window. He threw up his other hand and grabbed onto the ledge and pulled himself up. He came up to view inside the room and climbed inside.

A flock of crows took flight as he stepped in, their black wings beating against the night air, flying so close and fast that he heard their flapping near his ears. Andrew shielded himself from the dust which swirled around in their wake. For a moment he feared if the tower might collapse all the way to the ground burying him in a rubble of stones. But the moment passed and nothing happened. The tower stood still.

Above him, all the world had gone black, and he could see the faint light of distant stars. The moon was still high in the sky. It is still the hour of wolf Andrew figured by the look of it. Dawn is still a bit away. Below his men would be carrying on the orders he had given them. Andrew was surprised to see them remember him with just a look of him. It only took a look for them to remember him as their prince. The north remembers, he heard his father's voice say somewhere. Or was it in my heart. . . he never knew the answer.

He had told them to put the dead in the places where the Targaryen prince could find them. He will want to find the killers for sure when he finds that it is not a safe place for him anymore. Any luck he might bring his dragon to the ground too trying to squeeze the answer out from the people through fear.

And that might be his chance. Foolish that it may be, it is the only way to root out the Targaryen power from the north. It was no easy thing to slay a dragon, but it can be done. Throughhout history there has been legends of heroes and knights slaying dragons from all times.

Ser Galladon of Morne, the Perfect Knight once slew a dragon with his enchanted sword The Just Maid. Then there was Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, a legendary hero from the Age of Heroes. Andrew had his father tell him tales of Serywn when he was a little boy. The greatest accomplishment of Serywn was slaying Urrax, the largest dragon that ever lived. He approached the dragon behind his shield. Urrax saw only his own reflection until Serwyn had plunged his spear through his eye. There had been a knight who'd tried the same thing with another dragon once. He had heard that story too. He had forgotten the knight's name who had tried to kill Vhagar or was it Syrax. . . it was hard to remember. It had happened hundreds of years ago, when brother fought sister in the war the singers called the Dance of the Dragons. The knight had tried the same ploy that Serwyn had used to slay Urrax thousands of years ago. But unlike Serwyn the poor knight was roasted for his trouble.

The Dornish had killed a dragon during Aegon's conquest. Meraxes, Queen Rhaenys' dragon fell to an iron bolt as it went through her eye. And some tales claim dragons once roosted on Battle Isle until the first Hightower put an end to them. His mother had heard the tales from her mother who was a Hightower so Andrew believed them to be true.

Whatever the tales said, the men who slew dragons were loved and clebrated by the smallfolk. There were songs sung of the valor of Ser Galladon and Serwyn and they remained the favorites of the smallfolk.

Will they sing songs about me? Andrew wondered. Will they call him Andrew Dragonsbane, Andrew the Dragonslayer or will it be Andrew the Absurd? They are welcome to write whatever they want about him and if he should fail let it be known that Andrew Stark went down fighting for his right and family.

But he had his last and best option to slay the beast. He looked behind him and saw Frost on the floor. The crystal on the end of the pommel glimmered blue in the moonlight. From the moment Andrew laid eyes on the sword he knew that Frost was different, even different from the other valyrian steel swords he had seen. His father's sword had been valyrian steel, spell-forged. Andrew had held it more than once when he had been a little boy with the help of his father. But Ice had been dark, a dark smokey grey that the blade seemed black in certain light. His uncle's sword was the exact opposite of his father's Ice. His mother had told him various stories of how the sword was made. Dawn had been forged from the heart of the fallen star by the God of Skies and Thunder whom legends claim as the founder of House Dayne. Though Dawn was different from valyrian steel by no means it was any less impressive than valyrian steel. Dawn was pale as the moon itself and the blade had always awed Andrew as it seemed to have contained the entire power and light of the sun. Every time he held Dawn in his hands he saw that the blade was alive with light. He wondered what happened to both the swords and where they were now?

Frost was different from them as well. Blue and grey the ripples ran, deep within the blue steel. Near the bronze crossguard there were ancient runes engraved into the blade. There were times Andrew could swear that he saw the sword glowing in a frozen blue glow. And it did not stop at that. The blade was so cold that one could barely touch it when it glows. It was a sword fit for a hero. When he was small, his mother and Old Nan had filled his ears with tales of valor, regaling him with the noble exploits of Ser Galladon of Morne, Florian the Fool, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and other champions. His father and uncle had earned their places in that company and each man bore a famous sword, and surely Frost belonged in their company, right beside Ice and Dawn even if Andrew did not belong with King Eddard and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

In the sack he had the things he got from the maester and the armorer. When he had asked for poisons, maester Walys came back from his workroom with his ointments, potions, and medicines which had stood neatly on a little wooden box. Andrew had visited the Maester's turret more than once when he was a child to feed the ravens. Maester Walys' workroom in his chambers had been filled with various medicines and potions and other shiny vials which the maester taught him as poisons. From the wooden box with dozens of blocks all filled with different vials and jars Andrew took a vial of indigo glass, no larger than his little finger, behind a row of salves in squat clay jars. It rattled when he shook it. He blew away a layer of dust. Andrew pulled the stopper and spilled out the vial's contents. A dozen crystals, no larger than seeds, rattled across his hand. They shone like jewels in the candlelight, so purple that he found himself thinking about the amethysts in his mother's jewels and clothes.

He touched one of the crystals lightly with the tip of his little finger.

"Such a small thing to hold the power of life and death," Maester Walys had told him when he gave him the poisons. "It was made from a certain plant that grew only on the islands of the Jade Sea, half a world away. The leaves had to be aged, and soaked in a wash of limes and sugar water and certain rare spices from the Summer Isles. Afterward they could be discarded, but the potion must be thickened with ash and allowed to crystallize. The process was slow and difficult, the necessaries costly and hard to acquire. The alchemists of Lys knew the way of it, though, and the Faceless Men of Braavos... and the maesters of Citadels as well, though it was not something talked about beyond the walls of the Citadel. All the world knew that a maester forged his silver link when he learned the art of healing — but the world preferred to forget that men who knew how to heal also knew how to kill."

Andrew had looked at the maester with wide eyes. He had never imagined that calm and brilliant maester Walys was capable of taking people's lives.

He never knew the name the Asshai'i gave the leaf, or the Lysene poisoners the crystal. Maester Walys had simply called It as the strangler. Dissolved in wine, it would make the muscles of a man's throat clench tighter than any fist, shutting off his windpipe. They said a victim's face turned as purple as the little crystal seed from which his death was grown, but so too did a man choking on a morsel of food.

It may not be of help right now. He dropped the crystals back Into the vial and kept it back in its place. He skipped past the next two rows and took a red vial with a lid fashioned in the shape of a manticore head. Of all the jars and vials before him Andrew was wary of the manticore venom the most. Where the other poisons came were all prepared by the use of natural means the manticore venom was prepared by means of darker stuff.

The venom was extracted from manticore but it was thickened with sorcery and spells to work against different creatures even magical ones.

When Andrew heard that Maester Walys knew to use spells, he had never believed him at first.

The thin maester had regarded him with cool grey eyes. "A maester forges his chain in the Citadel of Oldtown. It's a chain because you swear to serve, and it's made of different metals because you serve the realm and the realm has different sorts of people. Every time you learn something you get another link. Black iron is for ravenry, silver for healing, gold for sums and numbers. I don't remember them all."

Walys slid a finger up under his collar and began to turn it, inch by inch. He had a thick robe for a small man, and the chain was tight, but a few pulls had it all the way around. "This is Valyrian steel," he said when the link of dark grey metal lay against his chest. "Only one maester in a hundred wears such a link. This signifies that I have studied what the Citadel calls the higher mysteries—magic, for want of a better word. A fascinating pursuit, but of small use, which is why so few maesters trouble themselves with it.

"All those who study the higher mysteries try their own hand at spells, soon or late. I yielded to the temptation too, I must confess it. Well, I was a boy, and what boy does not secretly wish to find hidden powers in himself? I got no more for my efforts than a thousand boys before me and thousand since. But the old powers are waking now, my king."

Andrew wondered if his father ever knew that maester Walys knew spells. He would have known, he decided then. His father had known the maester as a boy even before he became king. He should've known.

He sat down with his back against the wall and waited for dawn. As he waited, he sharpened the spearhead with a piece of stone, taking a queer comfort from the scrape of steel on stone. He removed the lid from the vial containing the manticore venom and spilled the venom carefully over the spearhead and coating the steel with it. He kept the spear point facing away from him knowing that a single cut could lead to a slow and agonizing death.

He slept for a while and woke up to the dreams of blood and death. Andrew took his waterskin out and had a large drink from It. He was washing his face when he heard a faint whisper of voices in the air. Andrew pushed himself up and walked to the window and peered down. The yard was filled with the castle's household, all huddled in their cloaks. From the top they looked like gargoyles standing in the dark. But gargoyles did not talk nor did they weep. He wondered how many of the innocents were standing there fearing the punishment.

He had asked his men to show themselves out as the murderers so that the innocent people won't be punished. But even that meant bad for the ones who took the blame. They are innocents too and they might very well be put to death for his actions if he fails.

Andrew looked up to the skies and searched desperately for the dragon. The sky was still grey and clear as a silent pool. There was no sign of the beast. He stood by the window and watched everything happening beneath his tower. He would have liked to hear what the Targaryen prince was saying but he was too far away from him.

He knew that trouble was brewing below when Ser Rodrik and the others came out from their hideout. Andrew saw them walk to the prince, steel in hand. He unsheathed Frost. If it came to fight the Targaryens outnumbered his men. He would not stand aside and watch them get slaughtered for his actions.

He was about to vault out of the window when a shadow rippled across his face.

Too big to be an eagle's or a raven's. In the yard the voices stilled. Every eye turned skyward. A warm wind brushed Andrew's cheeks, and above the beating of his heart he heard the sound of wings. The people below dashed for shelter. Andrew saw the Targaryen prince stand still where he stood.

Above them all the dragon turned, pale against the gloomy dawn. His scales were cream, his eyes and horns and spinal plates gold. Of all the creatures Andrew Stark had seen in his life he had never seen a larger or more magnificent one. His wings stretched twenty feet from tip to tip, pale as skin. The dragon flapped them once as he swept back above the fresh fallen snow, and the sound was like a clap of thunder. The dragon raised his head and roared, filling the morning air in terror.

Andrew leaned against the wall, hiding in the shadows. He could hear the shouts and screams from below. The spear was on the other side of the room. He rolled over to the spear and clutched it in his hand, tightly.

Andrew stayed in the shadows and looked down to see where the dragon was. The dragon was snapping at his men. How long would it take for that thing to lay waste to Winterfell, he wondered. I have to kill it before it does that.

He saw his men surrounding the dragon, raising their swords and spears above to fight. For a moment he it felt as if the dragon did not want to fight but it bared it black teeth all the same. Everyone in the yard was so occupied with the creature that none noticed him there.

The dragon was only some ten feet away from where he was. His men were doing a good job of keeping it distracted. I could make the throw right now. He gripped the spear hard and willed himself to move . . . but his legs won't. He was scared. Scared like a little boy upon seeing the dragon.

I cannot let him see my fear. If I let him see me scared, I'm good as dead. Ser Rodrik saw him from the ground when he somehow made himself to look at them again. He had a chance to thrust the poisoned spear at the dragon's neck when his long serpentine neck bent like an archer's bow. But he waited for a little too late and the moment passed. He looked at Ser Rodrik and his men again, fighting against the monster believing in their king and felt ashamed.

Ser Rodrik gazed up at him with a fond look. With that the old knight raised his spear and darted forward towards the dragon.

No, Andrew thought. I only told you to lure him towards me.

"For Winterfell," Ser Rodrik shouted and leapt onto his back and drove the iron spearpoint down at the base of the dragon's long scaled neck. He leaned into his spear, using his weight to twist the point in deeper. The dragon arched upward with a hiss of pain. His tail lashed sideways. Andrew watched his head crane around at the end of that long serpentine neck, saw his white wings unfold. Ser Rodrik lost his footing and went tumbling to the sand. He was trying to struggle back to his feet when the dragon's teeth closed hard around his forearm. He opened his mouth and a stream of pale golden fire with streaks of red engulfed Ser Rodrik.

"No" was all that he had time to shout. A dozen other women and men alike screamed as they saw the burning body of Ser Rodrik Cassel.

Ser Rodrik's spear remained in the dragon's back, wobbling as the dragon beat his wings. Smoke rose from the wound. As the other spears closed in, the dragon spat fire, bathing two of the runners in pale flame. His tail lashed sideways and caught Fat Tom creeping up behind him, breaking him in two.

The world seemed to slow as Andrew watched everything happen from atop his tower. He had asked those men to fight for him. He came all this way to . . . not to stand idle while others died for him. Andrew did not knew what he was afraid of. He never feared the dragon the whole time he stayed here.

I planned to kill the thing and I'm going to kill it. And if I'm wrong, if I die here, then . . . what more could I lose. He had nothing else to lose in this world other than his life. He would sooner throw the thing away to be with his father and mother and Joy. In the ground he saw Desmond shouting, "Me! Try me. Over here. Me!"

The dragon roared and the sound filled Winterfell. His head turned. Andrew saw that his time had come. All the training and hours spent in the yard was right for this moment. He held the spear over his shoulder and threw it at the dragon with all his might. The spear rushed past in the blink of an eye. For a moment he thought, he missed and then he heard the shrill cry rippling across the world trying to crack the earth. The beast's dying scream sounded almost human. Smoke rose from his wounded eye. His blood was smoking too, where it dripped upon the ground. He beat his wings again, sending up a choking storm of white snow. The dragon tried to claw his way up the air.

He is trying to escape, Andrew figured. He unsheathed Frost and leapt out the window and into the air. In his haste to get away from death, the dragon showed him it's most vulnerable parts, his gullet and belly where the scales were not so thick as the ones upon his body.

Andrew buried Frost right at the dragon's long throat. His heart stopped for a sudden moment as he hung there, dangling from the hilt of his sword buried deep in the dragon's throat.

His roar was full of fear and fury, full of pain. He lashed his neck right and left and spat pale fire around him. The beast gripped the tower with his black claws and inched up higher. Andrew yanked Frost down, putting all his weight at the hilt. The blade did not budge. He tried again and again and again. Frost cut through the dragon's hide halfway on his fifth try. It startled him as much as it should've done the dragon. The sword cut through the scaled neck as if it was a cheesecloth. Andrew felt the ground approaching quickly and jumped away from the dragon, twenty feet from the ground. He landed first, on a patch of old snow followed by the huge crash of the dragon behind him. His wings beat once, twice...

... and folded. The dragon gave one last hiss and stretched out flat upon his belly, dying. Gold and red the blood was flowing from the wound where Frost had opened it's gullet and half the belly, steaming where it dripped onto the snow.

The spear pressed in its neck wrenched free and fell on the ground in the crash. The point was half-melted, the iron red-hot, glowing. The air was thick with snow and ash.

When he stood up, he glimpsed the northerners and the southerners alike had gone pale and looked at him with eyes blown big and wide.

He was used to those looks so much that he did not trouble himself with it now. Desmond and the others who survived the bloody thing looked relieved that it is dead now. There was a sharp pain at his waist where he had collided with the dragon.

"Who are you?" the Targaryen prince asked looking at his dead dragon.

Andrew straightened himself, a hand clutching at his waist. "The Prince of Winterfell."

There was a sudden gasp in the croud. "It's Prince Andrew," someone whispered from the crowd. "It's His Grace," someone else said. There was a sudden shift in the crowd as they moved to his side.

His violet eyes snapped back from the dragon to gaze at him. "It's not possible."

"Dead men walk the earth now, haven't you heard?"

"It is you who killed my men?"

"Aye," Andrew told him.

It was not done yet. Jaehaerys Targaryen has more men than him. The dragon had killed four of his best men and would've killed more give more body ached terribly where he slammed into the dragon and he would not fare well in another fight. He will need the help of Ghost. Andrew hoped that the white wolf was somewhere near. He came for his aid once when he needed him the most and the need has arisen again.

"Desmond," Andrew called his guard.

"Yes, Your Grace?" the man went down to one knee.

"Open the gates."

"At once, Your Grace." He did just as he said. The gates of Winterfell were soon opened and Andrew waited for Ghost.

A Targaryen guard approached his prince. "Should we fight them, my prince?"

Jaehaerys Targaryen eyed his band with a sharp look. "Take the pretender as a prisoner. Father will deal with him." He looked at the people who were once his own. "As for the others who joined him, well, they can answer for their treasons with their lives."

The people behind him all took the weapons they could get and got ready to fight. Even with all of them it was still not enough to fight trained soldiers. He cannot hope to with this fight without Ghost.

The Targaryen guards approached him hesitantly. Before they could come half the way, a blur of white fur rushed to his side. The white wolf never made any sound and no one saw him there until he showed himself to Andrew.

Ghost circled him and put himself between Andrew and the dark cloaks. The direwolf bared his white teeth in a silent snarl and the guards stopped in their tracks when they saw Ghost before him.

"Needing the help of a wolf, Stark?" his cousin asked.

"That's gall," Andrew told him, "coming from the guy who brings in a dragon to burn innocents."

At least he had the grace to be ashamed of that. Jaehaerys looked at him again, his defeat written clear upon his face. None of his guards were brave enough to come against Ghost and none tried to check their risk.

"Now," Andrew said to his cousin. "You have nothing to worry about. I have no qualms with you. It is your father I seek. You can go back to King's Landing in peace and tell him that Eddard Stark's son is coming for him."

"Screw that," Jaehaerys told him. "The dragon does not bow before a wolf. We could end this right here and right now. Call back your wolf and let us settle this in the old way. You fight for the Starks, I fight for the Targaryens and let's end this here and now in single combat."

"I'm offering you to go back in peace even after all this."

"What's the matter Stark?" Jaehaerys asked him. "Afraid to fight your own battles? Didn't Ned Stark teach you how to duel? Didn't Ashara Dayne teach you manners? Huh, didn't mum teach you proper manners, Stark? Yeah, she was dead before you could wipe the drool off your chin."

Andrew fisted his hand, trying to contain his anger. "I'll tell you one last time. Run back to your father. I don't have any problem with you."

"My prince," a guard called his cousin. "I request you to see reason. We're lost. We can't win this fight."

"Shut up, Gwanye," Jaehaerys snapped at him. "I'll not run back to my father as a failure. Get my sword and shield."

"Yes, my prince," the guard hurried away.

Andrew turned back to the dead dragon. If he wants to have a fight, he shall have it. He found Frost still buried in the dragon's belly. When he removed the sword he saw that the sword was untouched by the heat of the dragon. Where the spears had melted off, Frost was unaffected from it.

"Do you want a shield, Your Grace?" Desmond asked him.

"No." He had never used a shield before. Using one now will probably get him killed.

His waist was still hurting whenever he moved. He would want to make this as quick as he can.

Jaehaerys Targaryen was clad in a cloth of mail and a black shield with a red dragon painted upon it. He was eager for the fight. Perhaps he sought to avenge his dragon by killing him or to earn the approval of his father.

The prince was fast, blazing fast, as quick as any man Andrew had ever fought. In those hands, the longsword became a whistling blur, a steel storm that seemed to come at him from three directions at once. Most of the cuts were aimed at his head. Jaehaerys was no fool. Without a helm and armor, Andrew was less guarded.

He blocked the blows calmly, Frost meeting each slash and turning it aside. The blades rang and rang retreated. On the edge of his vision, he saw the people watching with eyes as big and white as chicken eggs. Jaehaerys cursed and turned a high cut into a low one. Andrew found the cut at last moment and parried it away. Andrew's answering slash found the prince's left shoulder, moving past the mail to bite the flesh beneath. If there was blood it was hidden in the black tunic.

Jaehaerys was losing his temper as Frost slipped past his sword continuously to bleed him. Andrew could see it in his eyes: doubt, confusion, the beginnings of fear. The Targaryen prince came on again, screaming this time, as if sound could slay his foe where steel could not. The longsword slashed low, high, low again.

Andrew blocked the cuts without much trouble. When the Targaryen prince lunged so close to slash at his throat, Andrew darted below his sword and slashed at his calf as he emerged on the other side. Jaehaerys dropped to one knee but still slashed his blade wildly at his face. Andrew grasped his hand and slammed his elbow in his nose and pulled the blade away from his grasp. When Gwayne rushed forward coming to the aid of his prince, Ghost blocked him by putting himself between. When the loyal guard saw the direwolf he found the reason to back off.

He threw the sword away and watched the man kneeling before him, a boy. A boy, nothing more than his own sixteen years. Vengeance would've had him cut down but he had turned from that path a while ago.

"Desmond," Andrew called.

"Your Grace."

"Put him in irons," Andrew commanded. "We'll decide what to do with him after."

When the Targaryen prince and his men were bound and taken, it was Maester Walys to come before him and kneel at first. As he stood there, sword in hand with Ghost beside him, one by one the entire household of Winterfell dropped down to one knee and bowed their heads. Andrew looked over to the walls. The dragon banners of the Targaryens were pulled down and in their places the Stark direwolf once again flapped proudly. The wolves are back again, Andrew Stark thought and there was only one shout from the throats of all the people there, which seemsd to tremble the entire castle. "Stark, Stark, Stark."