Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 2: We Are Winter
"You wanted blood? So be it!"
– King Brandon the Bloody
The all too familiar sound of clashing steel echoed in the air of the courtyard as two men fought, many servants gathered around to watch. They stepped around an imaginary circle. One, far older and wiser than his opponent, stepped the opposite way, maintaining his distance and prepared to defend against any blow. The second was young and impatient; tired of waiting, lunging forward with a centuries old war cry.
Their swords locked and sang of steel.
"You're too eager lad," The elder smiled wide.
"And you talk too much!" The youngster growled, using strength beyond his years to push himself free. He swung with all his might and smirked as he seemed to gain the upper hand briefly, pushing his opponent further and further. He swung forward, hoping to end things there and then.
"Fuck!" The youngster cried as his teacher side-stepped, easily dodging the strike, disarming his foe.
"You're also predictable," The elder mocked, standing idle as the boy picked up his sword.
"Predict this!" The youngster lunged wide and his teacher quickly moved to parry only to take a step closer and bring his sword up, wrapping it around his opponents then sliding down the outside of his blade, jerking his own sword inward; causing the youngsters sword to fly out of his hand.
"Thank you," The boy's teacher bowed as the audience clapped. "I'm here all week ladies!"
"You cheated!" The youngster scowled.
"No, little wolf. I won." The elder smiled, ruffling his pupil's hair against his will.
"Well done Willam, you're getting better."
The voice snapped the young wolfs attention aside.
"I lost," Willam sighed, disappointed.
"Cedric is older and more experienced." The man placed a hand on Willam's shoulder. "I taught my son as he now teaches you, young Prince – listen well and songs will be sung of you someday lad."
He smiled at the compliment. "Thank you, Lord Frost."
Soldiers filled the courtyard behind the old lord, his hair white as snow with sapphire blue eyes that shun like stars in the dark of night. On his hip Frostbite rested impatiently, the ancient steel of House Frost, rumored to be forged of pure ice from the Long Night. Will knew why they were here. He was old enough to not be ignorant.
"You go to my father?"
Lord Frost scowled. "Who told you that, lad?"
Not all of Frost's household was so committed to their lord's actions.
"Nobody," Willam lied easily. "just rumors', my lord."
Frost didn't seem pleased, eyes darting to his son.
"I will end this business and return boy," he forced a brave look to his face.
"It'll be fine Will," Cedric placed a hand on his shoulder. "You'll see. We Are Winter"
Willam didn't believe them. He knew his father, even at the age of five-and-ten he knew, it was not in Brandon Starks nature to forgive steel drawn against him or his kin. Willam knew this. How could Frost not?
"Send me home," Willam mustered his courage, knuckles white against his swords grip as if the steel could help him. A sword had a funny way of giving men courage. "It doesn't have to be this way."
Lord Frost looked down at him now from his horse, armored and saddled.
The man's runed sword scabbard seemed to have an aura of dread about it…
"Your father won't listen Will," Cedric's smile faltered only briefly, but Willam saw it clear.
"Take me with you my lord! I can stop this-"
"No," Lord Frost's voice broke through the air, cold and brittle like cracking ice. "No, lad."
There was no arguing with that. None dared argue with Frost, except perhaps Will's father.
Frost rode off to war, leaving his Stark ward behind in the courtyard as dread washed over him. He fought back the tears that threatened to betray him, although it was hard. He'd always been stubborn, even then.
"They're not coming back," a voice in him seemed to suggest. He ran from it, sword falling to the courtyard stone with a clang as he bolted for his chambers, to his bed, to some childish sense of safety.
Willam Stark laid on his feathered bed lost in his thoughts as he often found himself doing of late. He'd been a ward of House Frost since he could hold a sword, sent by his grandfather to ease tensions with the promise of a marriage pact when he came of age. "Time flew," Will thought to himself. "Grandfather passes, now father starts a war to bring me home – to break a pact over petty grievance simply because he could."
Brandon the Bloody. Brandon the Brash. Brandon the Brute.
"All these and more," the young wolf Prince muttered aloud.
His father wanted to take him home.
"Frostfell is my home..."
Another voice broke him from his worries, softer and sweet as honey.
"Will?" She came, washing away the wolfs fears like a wave crashing against rocks.
"Come in," he said too eagerly. "I was just thinking…"
The girl that approached was a year older than Willam but stood a foot shorter, with soft and flawless snow-white hair that flowed to her shoulders, sapphire blue eyes and a smile that could melt ice with its warmth.
"Thinking?" The girl smirked teasingly. "Careful now Will, you'll hurt yourself."
He scoffed. "All I do is think these days, Elly."
He couldn't seem to stop the thinking, that was the damn issue.
"Our fathers will talk," She sat beside him on the bed, smiling still. "it'll be okay."
Willam merely looked at her. Gods, she was beautiful – he'd felt happier simply being near the girl. All the worry seemed to melt away. "Isn't that enough, father?" He thought, looking into her glinting sapphire eyes.
A hundred thoughts assaulted him, as they often did.
"Isn't being happy enough?!"
"You'll never be together!"
"Take her and leave!"
"Leave this place!"
"Will?" She brought him back from his thoughts, as only she could.
"Sorry," he apologized. He couldn't rightly say for what…
"Allow me," His betrothed leaned in, pressing her lips to his; not for the first time.
They'd been betrothed since they were children, growing up together in her father's hall, closer and closer still; although the kissing was frowned upon her father alone smiled. Whatever the lord's faults, he loved his children.
Will had come to consider the man more a father than his own blood, in truth.
"I'm scared Will," she admitted as they broke apart reluctantly.
He was too. Since his grandfather had died, everything had collapsed. Pride was a frightful thing.
"What if my father doesn't come back?" She asked, fear in her eyes; that broke Willam's heart to see. "What if they fall Will? What if your father doesn't listen to them? What if we can't be together?!"
What if? What if? If only she knew how those words had plagued him, haunted him even.
"Marry me." It seemed so simple now, why hadn't Lord Frost seen it?!
"What?" His love blinked, wiping away a treasonous tear from her cheek.
"Damn them all," Willam snarled, his courage building. "Damn them all; to the very depths!"
She smiled and gods be damned, the act spurred him on like nothing else could.
"Elssa Frost," he held her hand and smiled, near pleading. "Will you have me?"
She flung herself at him, crying as she released the words "Yes, Yes, Yes!" and smothered her betrothed, uncaring of the consequences. She'd become Elssa Stark and they'd all have to accept it. Or so she thought…
They'd say the words among themselves, with no witnesses if need be; besides the gods – and they would be enough. In hindsight, perhaps there was a reason Lord Frost hadn't simply gone ahead with the wedding when she'd first flowered? Perhaps the old lord had his reasons? Perhaps it was a fool's hope, desperate and doomed?
Willam didn't care. The two kissed and fell together, lost in their love, blind to all else.
He was happy. Wasn't that alone enough?
The dawn came, like any other, but this seemed brighter to Willam with his new wife laying aside him sleeping peacefully. He laid there, smiling, happy; all his worries melted away from his thoughts as the morning sun began to creep through the window. "Your father won't accept this meekly." Will's mind seemed to taunt him as joy gave way to worry, as it too often did. He'd made his choice, however. There was no turning back.
"My prince," Elssa interrupted him and rolled over onto her back. She looked up at Willam with a warm smile.
"Princess," Willam said the first thing that came to mind, moving to kiss her.
"Princess," She giggled. "I like it."
"Using me for my title, are we?"
"You have other uses." Pulling him in for another kiss, the prince was clay in her hands.
Willam had lost himself and he didn't wish to leave, deciding in that moment that no matter the future, they'd face it together.
He smirked, leaning over to plant a kiss on her neck. "Such as?"
"Prince Wi-" A guardsman entered the room, almost immediately diverting his eyes as Elssa dragged the covers up to her chest to cover herself; panic etched on her blushing face.
"What?!" Willam growled furiously, less concerned with being caught than being interrupted…
"Lord Frost summons you," The guard made eye contact with the lady. "You too, m'lady…"
"This had best be fucking important," Willam muttered under his breath.
"It's urgent," the guards eyes lingered too long on Elssa for Will's liking. "His Lordship is-"
"Wait outside!" Willam commanded with a snarl.
The guard scurried away eagerly, bowing lazily.
"Father has returned?" Elssa asked, concerned and still holding on tightly to the covers.
"I suppose," Willam sighed as he left the bed to get dressed.
"The last time I was dragged from bed so early..."
"Yes?" Willam asked, half dressed as he watched Elssa get out of bed herself and walk across the room to him.
She gave him a kiss before picking up her own clothes. "The rebellion..."
"War." The word echoed in his head. He'd been too young himself when his grandfather took his father and brothers off to war against Lord Frost and his supporters. It was a short and bloody affair, that led to his wardship here.
In an odd way, he was grateful – without the rebellion his betrothal to Elssa may never have came about.
"Father will be angry," Elssa said, putting on her last piece of clothing.
Willam laughed bitterly, placing a kiss on her forehead. "It's my father I worry about Elly." Without further words he opened the door to the chambers, letting her walk through before him with a simple "Princess's first."
It was a short walk to Frost's Court and along the way many of the servants whispered among themselves no doubt thinking rather poorly of their lady as she passed them by, although they dare not say – the fear in their eyes didn't go unnoticed. Something was wrong. All the nagging doubts in Will's head whispered of some danger.
"Sister," a voice far too young to be Lord Frost greeted them as they entered the great hall of Frostfell. "You're late, and you bring the Stark dog. How fortunate, I suppose…"
The boy in his father's seat looked broken, tired, his eyes bloodshot.
"Where's father?" Elssa asked, confused, stepping forward towards her twin.
Eric Frost sat uneasy in his father's seat. "Step away from the Stark, dear sister."
"Willam?" She asked, eyes darting to her side.
"Step away Elssa..."
"They were together m'lord!" The guardsman from before bravely stepped forward. "I was sent for the Stark but found them together m'lord, did me duty as you bid me and brought them to-"
"Together?" Eric scowled, his eyes demanding an explanation.
The guard hesitated. "I found the lady abed with-"
"You dare lie about my sister!?"
"I swear m'lord, before the gods I do, the Stark was mounting-"
Elssa stepped forward, brave as ever. "I love him, brother!"
"And I her!" Willam stepped beside her, taking her hand in his and holding tight.
A silence washed over the hall and something boiled in young Eric's eyes.
"Stark lies," the young Frost muttered angrily. "all of it damn lies…"
"Eric," Willam forced a smile. "You know I love her; you know me brother. We-"
"No!" Eric Frost near jumped from his throne. "My brother is fucking dead, Stark!"
"What?"
"Brother?" Elssa asked, pleading now.
Something softened in Eric's eyes. "They're gone Elly," his voice cracked, boiling anger giving way to sorrow. "All of them. Stark butchered them like fucking livestock! Father… Cedric…"
"No," Elssa shook her head. "You're mistaken, brother – these are rumours! Lies!"
Willam said nothing, drowning in his silence. Brandon the Bloody. Brandon the Butcher. Gods damn him…
"A soldier arrived at dawn," Eric explained, slumping back into his father's seat. "beaten and bloodied he carried word of the slaughter – along with fathers head in a basket. He had a message. Stark sends his regards…"
"It's true, my lady." The castellan of Frostfell spoke sadly, his head bowed.
"No," Elssa muttered again and again weeping into Willam's shoulder.
"Your lovers' father will arrive shortly to finish what he started…"
"I can end this," Willam offered between the sobs of his love. "just let me speak to him Eric."
Eric Frost didn't snarl or shout at the offer. He laughed a hollow empty laughter devoid of joy.
"This began with blood, Stark," He began scornfully. "It'll end in blood. This is how it has always been, how it should be. If your father wants my damn head as he took my kin's then he can come, and fucking take it!"
"Eric," Willam pleaded. "Please brother, listen!"
"You are not my brother, Stark!"
A subtle nod was all it took for the guards to seize him.
"Willam Stark." Eric leaned forward on his seat. "Your family stands accused of murder, deceit, and high treason against the people you swore to protect!" The young Lord Frost looked to his weeping sister and scowled.
"I'm not responsible for my father's actions Frost, this is madness!"
"And you stand accused of seducing my sister!"
"No!" Elssa snapped from her stupor. "He didn't-"
"I name you a rapist dog!" Eric decreed as his guards hurled Willam to the floor with a sharp crack against marbled tiles. "Traitor !", He continued his list of crimes, a boundless fury in the doing. "If your father wants a head, he'll have one!"
"Stop this!" Elssa screamed, held back by the same guardsman that had found her abed before.
"My lord, you cannot harm the Prince!" The castles castellan pleaded with the young Frost to no effect.
"Come the dawn," Eric Frost smiled a broken smile. "You will pay with your life…"
Willam felt another sharp pain, then darkness as he was dragged from the hall unconscious.
Eric Frost slumped back in his father's chair and sighed, his sister still sobbing and wailing and clawing at her guard. He should've been mad at her, for laying with the wolf; but he felt nothing. It all just felt… empty… was this what defeat tasted like? Had his father felt this way after his rebellion? Was it how he felt before the end? It tasted bitter. He didn't like it, not one bit.
"Take my sister to her room and lock the damn door, she's not to leave – and nobody is to enter!"
A warhorn blew in the distance. Harooooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, its voice as long and low and chilling as a cold wind from the coldest winter. It silenced the hall, aside from Elssa's sobs as she was led away screaming obscenities at her brother.
"Winter Is Coming," Eric muttered from his weirwood throne.
Stark was here. There would be no mercy, he knew, only death. Only winter…
"So be it," the young Frost decided. He stood from his fathers' seat tall and proud.
The blood of Winter itself was said to flow through the veins of the Frost's. Their legends claimed they descended from the offspring of the Night's King and his beautiful yet cold Queen. Eric didn't know how much truth there were to those tales, truth be told, but if true the Night's King was a Stark and that made him half Stark…
Would that make him a kinslayer? Would the gods curse him for his vengeance?
In the moment, the young lord couldn't care less for the will of gods.
"We Are Winter!" Lord Frost cried out, unsheathing his blade to rally his men.
He didn't know the truth of legends, but he knew one thing…
Winter was Here.
Harooooooooooooooooooooo, the Stark warhorn blew cold as winter winds. King Brandon's banners flew proudly outside the walls of Frostfell daring the poor fools hauled up inside to come face them.
The siege had lasted far longer than they'd have liked. They'd been at this far too long for comfort.
"The boy won't open his gates father," a younger Stark offered with a weary sigh.
"Have faith little brother," another replied, smirking wide. "Frost's have no patience; and this one's a child…"
"That child has our little brother, Rodrik…"
A valid point, but still. "He wouldn't dare harm the lad."
Edrik Stark scoffed at his twin's confidence, his elder by mere minutes; ever confident – never doubtful. The perfect Prince. And yet, their little brother was being held captive by a child whose father and brother they had just killed…
"The whims of an angry child lord shouldn't be ignored, brother…"
Rodrik rolled his eyes. "Will's the lads only hope, he'll not hurt our brother – and even if he's foolish enough to try it his advisors would counsel reason. Father isn't without his mercies."
Now that was the funniest thing he'd heard in weeks. Mercy? What a jest.
"I pray you're right brother," Edrik sighed, looking out at the siege lines.
Harooooooooooooooooooooo, the warhorn sounded again, taunting the castles defenders.
"Well I'll be dammed…"
"You owe me a gold wolf little brother," Rodrik smirked as Frostfell's gates opened wide.
Frost trumpets answered, da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA they answered, brazen and defiant, seeming somewhat smaller, more anxious. A faint cry of "WE ARE WINTER!" rang true as the black and white banners of Frost rode through their portcullis with all the fury of Winter. The twin Prince's had to admire the child lord's bravery.
"A fools hope," Edrik shook his head at the action.
"No hope at all," His brother smiled at the slaughter to come.
Prince Rodrik raised his hand up high and with one swift motion, made a signal.
As the horns died away, a hissing filled the air; a vast flight of arrows arching up from the rear, where Stark archers stood flanking the siege lines. The Knights of Frost broke into a gallop, shouting as they came, but the Stark arrows fell on them like hail, hundreds of arrows, thousands, and shouts turned to screams as men stumbled and went down. By then a second flight was in the air, and the archers were fitting a third arrow to their bowstrings.
Rodrik mounted his armored destrier and drew a fine castle-forged blade adorned with diamonds.
"Winter is Coming lads!" He began to rally his mounted guard, in their proud grey and whites; eager for battle and to protect their Prince's. "Let's finish what we started and end these traitorous bastards here and now!"
"For your Prince Willam!" Edrik shouted from atop his own steed.
"For Winterhold!" Rodrik reared his horse up, then galloped headlong towards the clashing of steel.
The trumpets blared again, da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA. A crescent of Frost spearmen had formed ahead of them, a double hedgehog bristling with steel, waiting behind tall oaken shields marked with the white weirwood of House Frost. King Brandon was the first on them, leading a wedge of armored mounts, half of whom shied at the last second, breaking their charge before the row of spears. The others died, sharp steel points ripping through their chests. "To me!" Prince Rodrik commanded, gaining a following of brave horsemen that saw the battered shieldwall as a weak point, the fools broken and preoccupied with King Brandon, who had lost his mount but continued on foot. "To my father!" Rodrik cried out as he rode hard. "To the King!"
The charge was a success as the makeshift Frost line balanced on the brink of chaos.
"About time you showed up!" Brandon spat at his son, cleaving a Frost levy practically in half with his axe.
Rodrik had planned a witty response but found himself engaged. "Shields!" He cried as a flight of arrows descended on them; no doubt from the Frostfell battlements, but they fell on Frost and Stark alike, rattling off armor or finding flesh as Rodrik was thrown from his horse when the beast was struck with a number of the arrows. The hedge of spikes crumbled, the Frostmen reeling back under the impact of assault, flights of arrows and not least, the handful of men that had passed their wall during the first clash. "I fucking hate archers," Rodrik muttered a curse as he got to his feet and went to pull an arrow from his thigh, slamming said arrowhead into the exposed neck of a Frostman before lopping the head of a spear that came for him, raking his blade across a third foe on his backslash.
"For my Father!" A voice rang out. "For Cedric and Frostfell!" Rodrik spun to see the sight of a well armored Frost knight thundering towards his father, swinging the spiked ball of a morning star around his head like a child wielding a toy. King Brandon swung his battle-axe in an arch at the approaching rider, slicing off the forelegs of the stallion with surprising ease to send the beast screaming into the mud and its rider even further away, landing on the ground with a rather amusing thud. The rider struggled in the mud as he tried to recover from his fall.
"Brave boy," King Brandon commented, unfazed; bloodied axe resting casually on his shoulder.
"Do you yield?!" Edrik loomed over the Frostman. A brave man, Rodrik thought mockingly as he dismounted to limp up to his chivalrous little brother and uncaring father. "The battle is lost. Yield and live…"
Looking around the battlefield Rodrik could see that his brother was right. Frost's charge, while an inspiring show of courage and stubbornness, had been crushed utterly. And he thought the last battle had been a slaughter…
"A battlefield is a queer place for a nap," Rodrik couldn't help but mock the young rider.
"Fuck you, Stark!"
That made Rodrik laugh, this one had a bravery bordering on madness.
"You've balls lad," his father seemed to agree. "but this is over. I'm not here to slaughter beat dogs."
The sound of hooves coming up behind him made Rodrik whirl, though any fears faded at seeing the grey colors of his guardsmen – clearly upset at his reckless charge into danger. "Prince Rodrik, you're wounded!"
He shrugged. "Naught but a scratch, Greystark; you worry too much."
The man in question smiled. "It's my duty to worry, Roddy."
"Don't call me that…"
The laughter was short lived.
"Die!" The rider, up from the mud, swung at Brandon Stark with a fine dagger.
"Your Grace!" Grey steel blocked the man, disarming him and severing several of his fingers with great ease, sending the dagger and fingers to the mud as the young man screamed bloody murder and held his hand in horror.
"Little shit tried to kill me," King Brandon scoffed at the notion.
"Who are you-"
Removing the helm revealed snow-white hair and eyes filled with hatred.
"I am justice!"
"No," Brandon replied simply. "You're a Frost, though the name escapes me…"
"Elrin I think, father?" Edrik offered, unsure in all honestly; and uncaring.
"Eric!" The wounded boy screamed his name. "Eric Frost, you bastards!"
King Brandon eyed the boy. Young, about his son's age, and clearly at his wits end; if the suicidal charge weren't proof enough – what the boy hoped to achieve with it he couldn't say. A fool's courage or a boy's courage, all the same thing truly.
"I'd ask you surrender your castle," Brandon eyed the wide-open gates of Frostfell with contempt. "but it appears to already be mine. So instead, hand over my son and your judgement will be swift Eric Frost."
Something dark flashed in the boy's eyes, Rodrik saw; eyeing him carefully since he'd lunged before.
"Look to my hall, Brandon Stark!" Eric Frost snarled, smirking through his pain as blood leaked from his severed fingers. "You wanted your wolf cub on my fathers' throne? So be it, you have your fucking wish!"
Rodrik's eyes narrowed. "What the hell does that mean, boy?"
King Brandon stared blankly at the smiling face of the Last Frost.
"Father?" Rodrik asked eagerly, anger building in him.
The King said nothing, an emotionless look in his grey stormy eyes.
Rodrik scoffed. "I'll bring Will back myself!"
The Crown Prince grabbed the nearest horse despite his leg wound and rode hard for the great hall of Frostfell with his brother close behind, down and under the portcullis into the courtyard of House Frost.
"Will's fine," Edrik assured his brother as they dismounted in the courtyard.
"If he isn't-"
"He is," Edrik once again assured.
"You don't know that!" Rodrik snapped. "If they've hurt him, I'll-"
Screaming grabbed their attention, a woman's wail, short and sharp from the keeps main tower overlooking the courtyard. "Gods," one of the Greycloaks muttered at the sight of a woman falling from a high window.
She made a sickening crunch as she landed, flat down upon the cobbled stone of the castle's courtyard.
"Fuck me," Rodrik snarled, refusing to divert his eyes as others did.
"The hair brother," Edrik pointed out, noting among the mess of blood and guts were the blood-stained strands of otherwise flawless snow-white hair. "No mistaking it…"
"One less Frost in the world," Rodrik growled, storming into the keep.
Edrik wavered at the sight of the girl. Why had she done this? To die in such a manner…
"My Prince?" One of the Greycloaks asked him, clear concern etched on their face.
"Find something to cover the girl's body," he offered with a heavy heart. "She was of noble birth…"
The cry that followed was louder than the Frost girl's scream, though no less daunting; as his brother's roar was enough to wake the dead ten times over – he rang out atop his lungs and near shook Frostfell's foundations.
"BROTHER!" Rodrik Stark bellowed, calling him; or so Edrik thought.
He and the Greycloaks stormed into the Great Hall to a sight that caught Edrik's breath in his throat. "No," he muttered; wide-eyed. "No, they wouldn't have… this is…"
"BASTARDS!" Prince Rodrik roared, raging and throwing whatever he could find.
"Brother…"
"I'LL KILL THEM ALL!"
"By the gods," Edrik almost fell to his knees at the sight.
Sat atop the weirwood throne of House Frost's lords was Prince Willam Stark, dressed in House Stark finery, exactly where Eric Frost claimed they'd find him, only minus a head on his shoulders.
"We kill them all!" Rodrik grabbed his twin and held him with a storm in his eyes. "All of them Eddy, every last fucking bastard in this castle dies today, do you hear me brother? All of them!"
Edrik had ever been the counter to his brother's rage, ever the calming hand, but this?
There was a time and place for honor and chivalry. This? This was not it.
"All of them Roddy," he growled low. "We'll kill them all."
The doors swung wide as King Brandon stormed into the hall, halting dead at the sight before him. His eldest sons stood in an embrace, his heir in tears, while the younger held him and Willam Stark sat in Frost's chair. Headless. Dead.
"Happy now Stark?!" The captive Eric dragged along to answer for his ramblings taunted.
Rodrik eyed Frost across his brothers' shoulder, and he growled more akin to a wolf than man.
"He died slow; I'm told." Eric Frost smiled wide. "How does it feel Stark? His blood is on YOUR hands!"
The King said nothing at first, eyes empty; staring down into the Frost boy's broken soul.
"You wanted blood?" Brandon Stark asked with cold emptiness. "So be it! I'll fucking drown you in it, Lord Frost, for my son; I'll see that you fucking DROWN IN IT!"
"I don't fear death," Eric chuckled. "you've taken everything from me!"
"Butcher them all!" King Brandon decreed with a raw fury. "From the soldiers to the babes in the cribs, slaughter them all; and drain their blood into a fucking barrel big enough to fit a grown man!"
The average man-at-arms hesitated, but the Greycloaks obeyed without question.
"You're a tyrant!" Eric spat at his king. "Nothing but a bloody tyrant!"
The carnage was swift, the captives brought together in the courtyard and one by one the Greycloaks were stained crimson with innocent blood; from servant to guardsman none were to be spared. Until one spoke.
"Your Grace!" One begged louder than the others, dressed in finery; he seemed important enough to hear – though his face was beaten and bloody. It hadn't shut the man up at all.
Brandon didn't speak a word to the man, merely a glare; but he hadn't ordered his silence either.
"Please, stop this madness!" The man begged. "These are innocents!"
"Innocents!?" Prince Rodrik snarled at the notion.
"You murdered our little brother," Edrik glared at the man. "You'll find no mercy here."
"No!" The man hastily shouted, then realized his error as Rodrik punched him across the jaw and sent him to the floor. "My Prince, please, I serve House Stark and-"
Another punch and another, and another for good measure.
"Rodrik, that's enough – let the fool speak."
"P- Prin- Prince-" The man managed through his injuries. "W- Will."
"You dare speak his name!" Rodrik punched the man yet again, knocking out some of his teeth.
"Willam?" King Brandon asked, eyes darting like a beast stalking prey.
"L- Lives!" The man managed, spitting blood out and groaning in pain.
The courtyard halted their executions and awaited King Brandon's decree.
"I was castellan," the beaten man managed. "I defied Lord Eric…"
"What? You fucking traitor!" Eric shouted at the man, only to be silenced by the butt of a Greycloaks spear.
The castellan found his voice, swallowing a mouthful of blood and remaining on his knees. "Lord Eric demanded Prince Willam killed, Your Grace; but I knew it folly – so I hid him in the dungeons and told no-one!"
"The body in the hall?" Brandon asked, daring to hope against hope.
"A stable boy Your Grace, dressed in Prince Willam's clothes. I swear it!"
"SEARCH THE FUCKING CELLS!" King Brandon bellowed atop his voice, louder than even his sons.
Rodrik was off in a heartbeat with his men to search the cells, leaving his father and brother in the courtyard with the smell of blood and shit, terrified smallfolk and an unconscious Eric Frost flat out on the stone.
"Do we have enough, cousin?" King Brandon looked to one of his lords, dressed in a fine but bloodied surcoat that boasted a black anchor on white. "For the barrel? It should be enough…"
"Far more than enough, Your Grace." The lord nodded grimly. "Lot of blood in a man, less in a woman; even less in a boy. You're certain about this action though Bran? It's extreme even for you…"
"No less than the bastard deserves."
"If Willam is alive, father?" Edrik asked hesitantly, hopeful even.
"It doesn't matter," the King dismissed. "The rat aimed to murder my son!"
Winter had never been a forgiving thing.
The crack to the skull had hurt something dreadful, even now; the pain taunted him like a sharp knife.
It was dark when he'd awoken, though comfy for a cell; it seemed someone didn't want him to be bitter about his imprisonment. "They cracked me over the head and threw me in a fucking dungeon," Willam spoke aloud to himself spitefully. "Hard not to be bitter, no? How long has it been? A week? Longer? I'm talking to myself already…"
What was Eric thinking? Had it been some ploy to scare him, with the threat of taking his head? He'd grown up with the youngest Frost and had never seen him like that before… he was wild, scared, angry, like he'd never seen before.
"Well," the voice in his head offered sagely. "your father did cut his father and brother up into tiny pieces…"
"I doubt it was tiny pieces," Willam replied aloud with a groan. It hurt to think.
He didn't know how everything had gone to shit so quickly, but he blamed himself for it all. He should've stopped Lord Frost, or convinced Cedric, or his father, or snuck out of the castle with Elly, or done anything at all.
How long had he been down here? It was only a week or two, he thought; surely not longer?
He was hungry, if a growling stomach was any indication. The food had stopped some time ago.
"Elly is going to be upset. I'm sorry love…"
"-every fucking cell!" Will heard a voice echo through the halls but dismissed it as madness.
"Excellent, another voice in my head. I've finally gone insane…"
"In here!" A man yelled, standing in front of his cell now with a hopeful expression.
"A Greycloak?" Will asked aloud, unbelieving.
"My Prince," The man smiled. "Please, hold still; we'll have you out in moments!"
Huh. If the Greycloaks were here, so was father…
"Will!" A bigger man shoved the Greycloak aside and slammed open the cell doors.
"Roddy?" Willam managed a course reply as the man hugged him tightly and refused to let go.
"By the gods you're alive!" Rodrik held his brother in a vice.
"Is father-"
"Have they hurt you lad?!" His brother demanded with a scowl.
"No," Willam lied easily. "Just a wounded pride is all."
"We'll kill them all little brother," Rodrik swore with a weary breath. "I promise!"
Yes, because more bloodletting was the answer to everything. Hadn't there been enough?
"Eric is just angry brother; he lost his father and-"
"Eric?!" Rodrik spat the name. "That little shit tried to knife father!"
"He what?" Willam found that surprising – Eric was never the fighter his brother was…
"No matter," Rodrik lifted his little brother to his feet. "come. Father and Ed are waiting."
The courtyard was a bloody affair when Willam laid his eyes on it, more blood than he'd ever witnessed; more a butcher's shop than a castles courtyard – stained red and smelling of death. Willam gagged on the stench on reflex alone, bending over to empty his stomach only to find it empty of anything but an acid that burnt his throat.
There was a barrel in the center of the courtyard with a pair of legs sticking out of it.
"First time's always the worst little brother," Rodrik offered with a comforting smile.
Eyes scanned the courtyard as Willam adjusted to the sight, bodies everywhere; barely any spared his father's wrath. "Father?" He called out loud, the tall near seven-foot man storming over to pick him up like a ragdoll; embracing him and swinging him about with abandon - surprising the starved prince to no end. This was... unlike the man he knew as father...
"My boy!" Brandon cheered, echoed by a cheer from the Stark men present.
"Hello Father," Will managed a muffled response.
"Your Prince lives!" King Brandon shouted for all to hear, earning another wave of cheers.
All this blood and death for him? He felt sick to his core thinking on it…
"Where's Elly?" It came to mind, and it shamed him he hadn't asked before. In his shock he'd forgotten to ask for her.
"Who?" His father asked, only half listening with a smile on his face.
"Elssa," Willam managed to find his courage. "My betrothed. Where is she?"
"Ah, the girl…"
Willam narrowed his eyes.
"Eddy," He opted to seek his most reliable brother. "Where is she?"
Edrik Stark eyed his little brother with hurt in his eyes.
"Ed," Willam asked again. "Where is-"
"Dead." It was his father who answered.
What? No. No, that was…
"Impossible," Willan shook his head. "She was safe – Eric would never have hurt her!"
"He didn't hurt her," His father answered. "She flung herself from her window. Foolish girl…"
"No," Willam refused to hear it. "You're lying! You never wanted us together!"
King Brandon scowled. "I'd planned to see you wed, on the contrary boy."
"It's true," Rodrik added. "you were to marry her and be Lord of Frostfell little brother."
"I'm sorry Will," came Edrik, the only voice that seemed genuine to him.
"No!" Willam shouted, backing away from his kin. "She's alive, you're all lying!"
The youngest Stark found himself backed up against the tower wall. His breath caught in his chest, as if a horse were sat on it, suffocating him. A thousand thoughts rang loud as thunder against his skull.
"I'm sorry little pup," Edrik said, as only Edrik could. "I saw her fall. There was nothing to be done Will."
This wasn't happening.
It was lies. All of it!
"Greif does strange things to the weak," His father added, wholly uncaring.
"The dutiful one wouldn't lie," the voice in Will's head counselled, turning to his brother now.
"Where is she Ed!?"
His brother hesitated, his eyes darting to the Stark banner that covered a body in the courtyard; all soaked a deep crimson red and courted by flies. It called out to Willam now with an aura of dread.
"She's dead," the voice came again, louder this time; almost smug.
"No," Willam muttered as he walked over without realizing it.
No, No, No, NO, GODS NO!
"I told you so," the voice mocked him with a shrug.
He flung the red-stained banner aside and fell to his knees.
"Dead," the voice seemed to beam at being proven right. She was bloody, her clothes torn, her body broken; but it was his love. The voice's smile grew wide at the sight as tears built in Willam's eyes. "Dead, Dead, Dead."
The world grew dark as Willam Stark cradled his betrothed, with her hair between his fingers.
"Will?" Another voice echoed in the dark, his brother, or perhaps his father?
It seemed unimportant. The voices were muffled and dull.
"She's gone," the voice offered sagely. "You're alone."
Willam screamed with all his heart, as if to roar at cruel gods.
"Hang in there pup," Edrik had since knelt by his brother and held him close. "It'll be okay."
"It's just you and me now," the voice offered; glad and smug.
The last Willam heard clearly. It only served to anger.
"We're going home," King Brandon the Bloody declared coldly.
It seemed that hindsight was indeed a bitch; for all the things he'd have done differently none would haunt Willam like the sight of Elssa's broken body. She'd thrown herself through that high window out of grief, the loss of her father, brother, home and it seemed she thought; her love – for she'd thought Willam dead. He'd come to wish he'd died there. At least he'd be with her again.
In some ways, the boy Elssa Frost loved did indeed die with her in that courtyard.
Life rarely works out as you'd expect.
My Notes: At some stage whenever I actually finish Sunset (that I'm quite determined to actually do) I've found I quite enjoyed the concept of House Frost and would like to do something with them in the future, only back in Westeros; an alternative history of sorts where they never left with the Shipwright and instead remained in Westeros. I might do that one day or if anyone wants to take on that concept to write themselves then I'm not opposed to hearing out the request. I doubt I'll have the time to write it myself, with this and others fics plus life and a personal side-project I have in the works. I'm rambling again, huh?
Chapter 3 should be up within a week, followed by Chapter 4 ideally soon afterwards, so on and so on...