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.

Note: The site did a weird error where it posted two copies of Chapter 2 over Chapter 1 so if you missed "The Shipwright" chapter before "We Are Winter" you'll find thats been fixed now, so check Chapter 1 because you may have missed it; or not, just a heads up :)

Chapter 3: The Outlands
"Will you still swear, knowing I expect you to lie?"
– Prince Willam Stark

Two years passed since the Fall of Frostfell. Prince Willam fled from his family not long after his return to Winterhold, disgusted by his own father; having learnt an ugly truth that broke an already brittle mind, he'd stowed away in the hull of a merchant galley heading for the outlands on the edge of his father's kingdom and escaped into an uncertain fate, wandering across the vast grey outlands in search of an outlining village. The Sunset Kingdom's authority didn't spread to all, as many settlers and exiles or criminals had forsaken Stark rule over the years and ventured off by themselves to form small colonies deemed savage and of ill-repute by the Kings in Winterhold.

It was one such colony village that Willam found himself in again two years past his first venture into the wastes, fighting with steel; for the outlands were full of outlaws and worse. Life here was harsh at the best of times.

Steel sang and smoke filled the air as fires burnt brightly in the dark.

"Wraith!" Aedan cried out; his eyes wide with fear as a sword arched downward, moonlight reflecting off the blade as it fell in a flash to end his existence. He closed his eyes and prayed to the gods.

The blow never came. Steel, then the sound of gurgling blood.

"Queer place for a nap, little brother."

He opened his eyes to see a hooded man, smiling wide; with fine steel in hand.

"Brother-"

"No time," Wraith pulled him to his feet. "We've company…"

Aedan got to his feet as sure enough three; no, four men arrived. Raiders and bandits, the very foe they'd been hunting. "Let's take them," he spoke, swinging his sword as to test its weight.

"Gladly!" Wraith decreed, stepping forward in a heartbeat to fling his dagger at one bandit; landing at his chest and causing the man to stagger with a grunt of pain – all the opening he needed. With a dash he cut through a coming spear shaft then a throat for good measure.

Men made ugly sounds as they choked...

"Behind!" Aedan called out to alert his brother.

The Wraith turned, blocking the high blow with ease before piercing the fools' stomach.

"Sneaky," Wraith snarled at his bleeding foe. "Almost caught me there…"

"Bastard wanderer," the foe spat blood. "By what right do-"

The man's throat was cut. His empty words died with him.

"Charming," Wraith sighed, turning his eyes in a flash.

Aedan was still handling his own as riders arrived to witness the young man finish his quarry with a swift parry and bated breath. "Brother?" He asked, sheathing his blade. "Is that all of them?"

"Aye," Wraith turned to eye the riders. "Almost…"

The riders clad in blacks and greys cheered as one dragged a single bandit to his knees.

"Who's this then?"

"Morgan Blackhand," one of the riders explained as he threw said man to the dirt.

"Is that so?" Wraith knelt to look him in the eye. Dark brown eyes, not black. His arm was badly scarred and burnt true but not iron as the tall tales told. They spoke more of a demon than a man, but Wraith supposed the same could be said of the stories about him. He and Blackhand were only men in truth. "It seems tales of your caliber have been grossly exaggerated Blackhand…"

Morgan spat at the cold desert sand. "And what of yours, Wraith?"

"What of mine?" He smiled simply, a hollow thing to any that knew him well; and few did.

"A ghost they call you," Morgan eyed his foe. "Quick as winter winds, untouchable, invincible…"

"No one is invincible."

Morgan scoffed at that nugget of so-called wisdom.

"All I see is a boy," he smirked wide. "Playing at being a hero…"

"And I see a dead man…"

"Aye," the once famous and feared Blackhand laughed as only one without a care could laugh. "that I may be boy. You and I are destined for the fall. Will they sing of us, I wonder?"

This one was as mad as the reports suggested. That much about the tales seemed to ring true.

"I don't know," Wraith admitted. "Nor do I care."

He raised his bloody steel high and readied a single swing.

"WAIT!"

Morgan Blackhand held the smirk of madness on his lips.

"You owe me my final words, boy!"

Ah, traditions, ever a nuisance; but who was he to deny them?

"You're supposed to have a blade of thin air, no? That is the tale." Blackhand sneered to mock him, as if picking apart his story would cause some pain. "Use your blade, boy, it'll make for a greater story!"

He didn't like using it. Truth was the blade didn't like him very much at all.

"As you wish," Wraith muttered regardless, tired, reaching up over his shoulder with a gloved hand to the scabbard across his back. The blade gleamed an eerie blue as it stretched free of its confines.

"Your time will come." Blackhand smiled wide, the sole listener to a grand joke only he knew was being told. "Upon tides of blood it'll come for you Wraith! I have seen it! They have shown me! THE LONE WOLF DI-"

Morgan Blackhand's life ended with a flick of the Wraith's wrist, a clean cut removing his head at the neck; freeing a black vapor from the man's neck that seeped out – vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

"Who showed you?" Wraith absently asked the corpse. It didn't answer back.

The voice in his head muttered a single word. "K'Dath."

Wraith clenched his fist, knowing without checking that his glove was brittle with cold; frost lingering and already melting as he sheathed the cold blade back into the confines of its runed scabbard. "It's done," he sighed before returning to his joyful mask. Those gathered stood in silence in the aftermath, uncertainty clinging to the air since the darkness had seeped from Morgan's neck like a fog...

"Well done brother!" Aedan smiled confidently, to sunder the lingering tension.

"Wraith!" The riders cheered for him. "Wraith, Wraith, Wraith!"

They cheered for his moniker, for his actions, for the death of a madman that had terrorized the outlands for too long; but he felt nothing for the deed. If anything, he'd only been rewarded with a sense of dread.

"Come," Aedan snapped him from his wandering thoughts. "Father will be waiting for our return."

Wraith gave a nod, offering fake smiles to the surviving villagers who gave his riders food and supplies out of gratitude or fear or perhaps both. They were heroes in a manner, aye, but even heroes needed to eat. They'd take only what was fair payment. Time passed as it always did in the Outlands, very slowly, but it passed; though just a little quieter for their efforts.

At the end of things, Wraith supposed moments of quiet were the reason they fought at all.

Still. Their true prey was ever elusive and, perhaps, deadlier than simple mortal men.

The night was dark and full of all manner of terrible things, men least among them, as three scouts sat at the heart of a vast canyon while an even vaster sandstorm battered at the canyon walls; like a siege few would hope to weather. Their campfire burnt weakly, struggling to remain alight with what pitiful fuel the trio could scavenge. It was not the dark they needed to fear however, nor the wolves or wild beasts that prowled the Outlands great grey waste – for more cunning things hunted them.

Things that cared nothing for the storm that laid siege to these walls of rock and sand...

Legends lurked at the far corners of this world, there for those brave or fool enough to face them.

"At the end of the damn world we are," one of the scouts muttered angrily as he tossed a dry twig onto the fire. "Trapped between rocks and sand, with what pitiful food His Bloody Grace gave us; searching for-"

His companion threw a twig at his head, earning him a snarl.

"Searching for a ghost!"

"They wouldn't send an army for a ghost Dex…"

"No," the one called Dex replied with a scowl. "They'd send scouts, like us!"

"The King-"

"Know what we are to that man Alex?!"

Alex rolled his eyes. "Why waste your breath complaining, old man?"

"We're nothing!" Old Dex spat, his eyes tired and his wrinkles clear in the light of their ever-weakening fire. "Less than nothing. Dirt. Waste. Expendable! We've been sent out here to die for nothing…"

"Scared of a little sandstorm old man?" Alex smiled, his voice taunting and cocky in its youth. This one thought himself cleaver.

"Keep your mouth shut you fucking brat!"

"There are stories…"

Alex and Dex eyed their third companion.

"In the sand, they say. It's-"

"Bedtime stories?" Alex laughed at the notion, ever arrogant.

"I agree with the pup for once," Dex hated to admit that.

The canyon walls made the wind whistle and howl as it laid siege.

"There's no monsters in the dark," Dex began with a roll of his tired eyes, looking to the youngest in their group with a bored expression. "Men is all we need fear Inar. Or was it Anar? I forget ye name boy!"

"Ivar," the young man replied; eyes downcast. "My name is Ivar…"

"Ivar!" Dex exclaimed loudly.

"Commoner," Alex smirked at the boy.

"My father was a Greycloak!" Ivar near yelled with what courage he had, anger on his face.

A moment passed before his two companions laughed.

"Ivar the Nameless," Dex decreed merrily. "That'll be your name boy!"

The winds blew a second time, harder still; howling something dreadful as sand blocked out the moonlight above them.

Dex got to his feet in an instant, his old soldier days sparking life into old bones. "Fetch more shit for the fire boys!" He shouted commands like a veteran, as even Alex for all his bluster obeyed. It was too little too late.

The trio fell silent as their fire extinguished with a gust and the air grew thick with sand.

"Well fuck," is all Dex spoke before falling to his knees; blood in his mouth – a figure some seven feet tall at his rear with long bloody claws and a maw of razor teeth smiling at the pair of scouts. It seemed… hungry…

"Alex!" It was Ivar the Nameless who snapped to his senses first, too little too late.

Alex, a rich captain's son from the islands, found himself shoved to the ground in an instant as the creature leapt across their firepit and bit into him; ripping and clawing at flesh and muscle like a hundred hot knives.

"FUCK YOU!" Ivar screamed simply, drawing his basic castle-forged steel and swinging at the beast.

It hissed with bile and blood as the blade cut into scales and bloodied the young man's sword with a thick green slime that stank of rust and stale water. "DIE!" Ivar screamed atop his lungs, hacking and hacking, more a butcher than warrior. "Die, Die, Die!" He repeated, his breath heavy, his arm tiring quickly. Spatters of thick green blood flew this way and that way...

The creature snarled and thrashed, clashed at Ivar's chest and sent him falling backwards.

"No!" Ivar cried wide-eyed, crawling his way backwards from the limping creature.

It limped towards him as Ivar backed up against a large rock and began to cry, the claw marks across his chest growing numb; his muscles failing him quickly. His breathing started to slow.

"N- No," Ivar tried to breathe. "P- Please…"

The creature exhaled, opening its bloody maw and making some noise.

"I-" Ivar's vision began to darken.

It almost seemed like it was laughing at him.

"I don't want to die," is the last thing Ivar the Nameless thought as his vision darkened to black. Between the flashes, he could swear he saw the creature fall. He'd heard the thud of weight upon rock. Hadn't he?

He wasn't dead. His mind was his own, he could still smell and hear – the dead couldn't do that surely?

"Fine shot," A voice echoed in the dark. "right through the skull. I give it a seven…"

"A seven?!" Another voice argued, clearly disappointed.

"You did crush its prey in the process, left the shot too long…"

"The winds a nightmare Aden!"

"I'm just saying that's negative points mate."

"Enough!" A new voice commanded. "The preys not dead."

If Ivar could speak, he'd have thanked the gods and cried to the heavens.

Aden looked at the boy, bleeding, slashed across his chest; eyes closed and breathing shallow. "The venoms done its trick," he put a hand to the young man's neck and felt a slight pulse. "But this one's a fighter…"

Ivar wanted to open his eyes. He willed them to but found them too heavy.

"You'll be alright," the voice closest to him explained simply.

"Throw him on a horse and blindfold him," the commanding voice said with a sigh. "Father will want to question him, and I'll not have this one knowing our path."

It seemed to Ivar that he'd live to see another sunrise.

"Why does it matter?" Another voice asked.

"Aye, Wraith, won't the lord just use em as bait?"

Wraith eyed their captive's Stark colors and insignia.

Ivar the Nameless felt a cold terror under the man's gaze.

"We ride lads!" Wraith spoke aloud, ignoring the question of bait as a sack was put over Ivar's head.

It felt like an eternity before the light burnt his eyes, as the sack was lifted from Ivar's head and the light of dawn near blinded him in the darkness of the vast cave; lit by torches and set like a lords great hall. Looking around, young Ivar counted men and women and some children in dark leathers of black, greys and browns all looking to him.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the light, and movement in his muscles had returned; though he felt stiff as stone.

"Why did you bring him here?" A voice flooded the cave from atop a makeshift throne of blackened wood.

Ivar eyed the man – or lord, atop his dead wooden throne. His hair was grey, older than even Dex was before his death, his clothing of wolf furs and dark leather with a wolf pommel notable on his sword.

"We thought it best that-"

"That you bring a spy into our home?"

The lord seemed displeased. Ivar kept his silence, lowering his eyes but keeping watch.

"Father," Aedan stepped forward. "He was the only survivor. We couldn't just leave him to-"

"Survivors starve in the wastes every day," the Lord stated a simple fact. "What makes this one special lad? Why not leave him for the wolves or any of the critters that infest our fair wasteland?"

"It was-" Aedan paused, looking to his brother.

"It was a Shryke, my lord." Wraith decreed loudly to the mutters and hushed whispers of all those present.

"A Shryke?!" The lord spat the word as if it were a curse.

Wraith gave a nod. "It killed two of the scouts before we intervened."

A hooded man walked beside Wraith, handing him a bag that reeked of rust and damp. He reached into the sack and lifted out a head into torchlight for all to see. It was almost human; but for the scales, eyes and teeth.

"So close to home…"

The lord seemed distressed.

"By the gods," Ivar said aloud, to the attention of all present.

"You're lucky to be alive, scout." Wraith's eyes bore into the young man's soul. "Few can say to have tasted a Shryke's venom and lived to tell the tale. You're either brave, stupid, or exceedingly lucky…"

Ivar simply stared in awe between the Wraith and the severed head of a monster.

"I'm betting on the latter two options…"

Ivar looked at his captor's eyes. Stark eyes.

"Why were you out this far into the wastes, Scout?"

"You're him," Ivar muttered. "You're the ghost…"

The crack across Ivar's skull couldn't have come swifter.

"Stupid it is," Wraith muttered with a sigh.

"Take him away!" The lord commanded. "Everyone out, now!"

Ivar was dragged half-conscious from the hall, muttering about lost Princes.

"I'm sorry my lord," Wraith knelt and bowed his head before the lord. "I was careless. They're here for me, I shouldn't have been so proud; it must've been the sword! I swear I-"

The lord grasped the Wraiths shoulders, picking him up and embracing him.

"It's father boy," the Lord smiled. "How many times must I remind you?"

"At least once more, always; father…"

The Lord of the Wastes laughed, a bitter thing.

"Blackhand," Wraith added after a moment. "There was something off about him…"

In hindsight, the man was supposed to be a demon with a blade; but his riders had subdued him easily. Wraith had put it down to his men's skill out of pride but perhaps it was something else?

"He wanted to be caught," Wraith decided aloud. "To speak with me. To gloat…"

"Why?" The lord asked, confused. "To what end lad? He was simply mad. He-"

"There was black vapor when I opened his throat..."

Silence at that. The lord sat back in his chair, as if a great weight had been placed on his shoulders.

"He'd been touched by them, I know it – nothing else makes sense…"

"K'Dath has been silent for years," The lord argued, shaking his head at the notion. "Since long before you came to us lad. You know this. That evil died long ago, eons ago, even the city is lost to the sand!"

"We of all people should know that legends have some truth to them father." Wraith's eyes flashed to the stinking sack that contained a severed monster's head. "And the Shryke's avoid the south, especially now."

"Mindless beasts," The lord dismissed. The doubt lingered in his tone. He knew better.

"You forget father," Wraith smiled genuinely now. "It was you who taught me how the greatest monsters are sometimes the quiet ones. Sightings of the scaly bastards have been increasing for months now…"

It went without saying the cause, though none had spoken it aloud.

"They've been fleeing from something."

The nights were growing darker by the day.

A familiar warhorn blew in the distance. Harooooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, as long and low and chilling as the cold winds of winter. Ivar awoke to the sound, a cough on his lungs; his throat dry and sore.

The sound gave him hope. The winds of winter had come to save him…

"I know that look," a familiar voice greeted his waking eyes.

The Wraith stood on the opposite side of his cell, behind the crude iron bars.

"Don't flatter yourself scout," he continued as the horns blew again and again.

Ivar eyed the Wraith. "Prince Willam?"

"The last time I heard those horns blow," the Wraith turned Prince began. "I was in a cell not unlike yours. I was younger, hopeful and naïve; thinking even despite my doubts that somehow things would be alright…"

Ivar's throat fought him when he tried to speak, feeling as if a beast had clawed at his insides.

"Here," the Wrath threw him a skin of water. "Drink. The venom is potent, you'll not fully recover for a time."

"T- Thank you, my prince."

Wraith scowled at the old title.

"Frostfell was the last I heard the horns, now they hunt me again…"

"H- Hunt?" Ivar managed through course breaths.

Wraith stared at the man. "Who am I?"

Ivar ceased sipping at his water, confused.

"We're short on time Scout. Answer the question."

"P- Prince Willam," Ivar explained hoarsely. "The fourth born son of-"

"Fifth son," Willam corrected sharply.

"Prince Snow?"

"Aye," He confirmed with a sigh. "Continue…"

Cregan may be a bastard but that still made him the fifth son, as far as Will was concerned.

"Fifth son of his grace King Brandon." Ivar fought against the burn in his throat as he spoke. Whatever that creature's venom did had left him feeling like death itself. "You vanished after the events at Frostfell and his grace decreed you missing. It was whispered you'd been kidnapped by some distant relation of House Frost or perhaps one of their friends at court or-"

"House Frost is dead. I wasn't kidnapped, I left of my own accord Scout."

"Why?" Ivar managed, with what courage he had; that was a surprising amount for a mere scout.

Willam looked at the scout, alone in a dark cell with the stench of optimism clinging to his cloths; reminding the young prince of himself in a way. At least, a younger version he couldn't help but pity.

"I'll tell you," he decided. "Ivar the Scout. Listen well for I'll not repeat myself."

Ivar gave a nod in response, unsure what else to do.

"After the fall of Frost," those words hung heavy in the air. "We returned to Winterhold. Father had all the Frost household bodies tossed into a ditch and set alight; including my betrothed. I was unconscious at the time."

"Y- Your betrothed?" Ivar asked.

Will smiled a hollow smile. "Not common knowledge, at least not to anyone fool enough to remember it."

His father had all but forbidden those nobles aware of the pact from speaking of it.

"I awoke later in my bed at Winterhold, with only my mother at my bedside; watching over me." He smiled fondly at that. "I thought it all a nightmare at first until I discovered the waking world was its own nightmare."

"I- I thought…"

"Yes?" Will asked, growing tired of his own story.

"You were made Lord of Frostfell, no?"

A scoff at that. "My father's decree, shipping me off to the very place that haunted my dreams so no others could claim the seat – calling it justice, for the crimes Lord Frost committed against me…"

"So," Ivar hesitated. "you ran from becoming lord?"

Willam stared at the scout, some anger flashing behind grey eyes.

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't," Willam snarled at the notion. "Never say you're sorry for things beyond your control. You've done nothing to warrant apology. Justice should fall on the deserving, never on empty gestures."

Words were wind, as they say. He'd learnt that much was true enough.

"Wraith?" A hooded man walked up behind. "It's time."

Willam took a set of keys from his cloak, opening up the scout's cell door.

"My Prince?" Ivar asked, confusion on his face.

"Come," he replied and turned away. "We're going home."

A trio walked out of the cave network entrance to be greeted by a harsh sun, vast canyon walls and ahead of them; a large military encampment flying Stark banners proudly in the gentle winds. Prince Willam paused but a moment, glancing to his side at seemingly nothing before stepping forward, one foot at a time, steady towards the camp as his ragged black cloak blew gently in the breeze behind him.

"You can turn back Aedan," he offered absently as they walked. "It's not too late Aedan."

Aedan Greystark shook his head. "Never, dear brother. Never..."

His loyalty was commendable, as always; though Willam would never admit how grateful he was for it.

"Halt!" The sentries posted outside the Stark camp commanded, lowering their fine spears and pointing them in warning at the trio. "Who goes there? State your damn business Outlanders!"

Ivar stepped forward. "His Grace, Prince Willam Stark, requests an-"

"Take me to the King," Willam growled his command; anger masking his doubts.

"I-" The guard muttered, unsure of himself as he eyed the outlanders.

"Do you know what your king did the last time someone kept me from his grasp?"

The guards looked to each other as fear brewed behind quiet eyes.

"They were nobles," Willam stepped closer to the men. "Are you? What will Brandon the Bloody do to two lowborn guardsmen that kept his wayward son from him? It's an interesting thought…"

"W- We're under orders not to-"

"Will he drown you in a barrel of blood, I wonder?"

He'd drowned a lord, who were these men to the king? Nobody. Nobody at all.

"Take me to him. Now…"

"Aye!"

"Follow us!"

Willam sighed as the guards scurried into the camp, leading the way to the center most command tent. "Size matters," he scoffed at the thought as they neared the giant royal tend, three times the height of all others.

Lords were gathered inside, arguing; as they tended to do – but all voices died as he entered.

"Your Grace," the two guards knelt. "Your son, Prince Willam, is here to-"

"Out!" The King decreed, cold as winter. "All of you, leave me with my son…"

Aedan and Ivar made to leave too as the lords all eyed him with a mix of doubt and curiosity. "These two remain," Willam said aloud, eyeing Aden and Ivar in a glance. "Or I leave, and you'll not find me a second time…"

The King of Winter scoffed at the notion, some thought held back from his lips as he looked to his youngest and fought a smile; unknown to his boy. "As you wish lad, sit; you've a story to tell no do-"

"I've not come for stories, old man."

King Brandon frowned at his son, saying nothing as he held his cup of wine.

"You'll not harm those that sheltered me."

"Won't I?" Brandon asked simply. Uncaring. "Why not? These outlaws kept a Prince of the Realm from me." The whole realm knew the price of such defiance, even if the outlanders weren't sworn to Winterhold. "Men have been hanged for lesser crimes..."

"They saved me," Willam explained angrily. "I'd be long dead if not for them!"

"Prince Willam came to us starving and weak, Your Grace." Aedan stepped forward to his friend and brother. "We took him in, and my father wasn't aware of his identity until he trusted us enough with the truth."

"And you didn't return him, boy; whatever you name is…"

"Aedan Greystark," he bowed slightly. "Shield to Willam Stark."

King Brandon stared at the man. "A heavy burden you claim, Aedan Greystark; if that is your true name – that would make you a sand wolf? There are tales of your branch, ancient as they are…"

Aedan smiled bravely. "All speak well of us, I hope?"

"You're dead," Brandon smirked mockingly. "As far as they're concerned boy."

"It's just Me and my father left…"

"And you, quiet one?" Brandon eyed the scout with a raise brow.

"I- Ivar, Your Grace…"

"Ivar is a scout," Willam added. "One of the poor fools you sent as bait into the wastes."

The King barely gave a nod to that, eyeing his wayward son with a blank expression.

"You're coming home lad," he declared simply; walking up to the young prince. There was something foreign to Will behind those eyes, threatening to break the surface as the old king paused. It faded as quickly as it came. "And I'll naught have your little desert friends hung and quartered – if you swear, on your dead girls' ghost that-

Willam stared at his father, snarling like a wolf. "You dare!"

"-you'll never run from your duty ever again. Is that understood?"

"You fucking-" Willam tasted iron, bloody; as the kings fist found his stomach and sent him to his knees with a grunt. King Brandon was a giant, half Umber, at seven feet tall – it was like getting kicked by a very angry horse.

"Is. That. Understood?!"

"Y- Yes," Willam groaned on his knees, eyes downcast. "Father…"

Aedan's hand fell quickly off his swords pommel and down in a heartbeat to lift his prince back to his feet. Willam, releasing a harsh cough, walked idly to the center table where a pitcher of wine sat unused.

"Will?" Aedan asked, worry thick in his voice.

Willam poured himself a cup of wine and drank deeply from it as his father left the three men alone in his royal tent without any words spared. "I've never been one for drinking you know Aedan," he looked down at the red liquid that reminded him too closely of blood. The very same red sea that Erik drowned in all those years ago. "I'm just... so tired of it all..."

The Prince seemed different as he spoke, and Aedan could see it; in his eyes.

"I ask myself, sometimes, why not?" Willam still glared into the dark wine cup with a blank stare. "I have loved and lost, seen men I called brother drowned in barrels of blood…"

In his mind's eye, the wine was blood; and he drank from the cup.

"The woman I loved was splattered upon cobblestone…"

"Will," Aedan interrupted with a warm smile. "Let's put down the wine brother; come and-"

"My father lied to me," Willam snarled as he refilled his cup beyond filling, spilling wine over the wooden table. "He allowed the men who raped her to go free, brother – I told you once; did I not?" Frost's own guards had broken into her chambers as the castles garrison sallied out that day.

Willam's eyes lacked all emotion as he began to drink deeply from his cup.

"My Prince, I-"

"Brother…"

"Brothers!" Willam laughed, a hollow bitter thing; devoid of all joy. "Where were my brothers then? Who were they to question a King?! Who was I? He kept it from me and had the damn gall to call ignorance a mercy!"

Willam drank from another full cup, before throwing it aside; staining the wooden table red.

"Why not?" He began to ramble, leaning absently against the table. "You saw him, my father, even after all this time he cared nothing for me! The bastard punched me for god's sake! Should I be sad? Angry? Hungry perhaps?

It was Aedan who answered, his eyes pleading. "How do you feel, brother?"

How did he feel? Drunker, at present; he'd never tasted wine before and yet…

"Tired, brother." Willam knew, it seemed the correct answer. "So, indescribably tired, my friend; exhausted truly. I'm rambling, aren't I? My apologies. It seems I have strayed too far into madness…"

"I don't see madness brother," Aedan stepped forward. "Only anger. How can I help you Will?"

Help? It would be Greystark that offered that, now wouldn't it? Loyalty was carved into his very soul…

A wise man would sooner take one Aedan than a hundred others at his back.

"Loyalty." The voice rang in Will's head, seeming louder for the wine.

"I once felt honor was the truest virtue," Willam sighed, looking to Aedan and Ivar with a serious glance. "But I've seen too much cruelty and deceit for that to ring true. Loyalty, ever fleeting, is all that remains…"

"You have mine brother," Aedan knelt, as one might to a king. "Now and always. I swear!"

As if there were any doubt. Ivar however…

"And you, Ivar?" Willam eyed the scout. "Where is your loyalty?"

"With the House of Star-"

"No!" Willam snapped. "Loyalty to whom, not what – never what!"

Ivar looked confused, his eyes glancing to a kneeling Aedan; who offered him nothing.

"Is- Is this a test?"

"In a matter," Will answered. "Will you swear?"

"I will, my prince…"

Words were wind, as they say…

"Will you?" Willam doubted, stepping forward and offering Aedan his arm; lifting the man to his feet and placing a hand on his shoulder. "I have heard those words a thousand times Ivar and thought them true…"

Prince Willam sized the young scout up. He was young, perhaps a year or two younger than even Will's few years; eager to please and serve – his words rang true and yet… others had rung truer before too. Forgiveness was a hard thing but trust? That often proved impossible.

"We've been here before," the voice in his head sang like tower bells against his skull. "We'll be here again..."

"What will you do, Ivar the Nameless?" Willam took a step forward, a hand on his swords pommel. "What will you do when the darkness comes? When your words are tested, will you crumble I wonder, as others do?"

He withdrew Frostbite from its runed scabbard and held it to the young scout's throat in a flash.

"Will you make excuses to help you sleep at night perhaps?" The blade shun an eerie blue, an aura of cold radiating against Ivar's neck; putting the fear of winter in him. "Will you lie to me? To yourself? To the gods? Will you surrender your virtues because it is easy perhaps; or will you refuse? I ask you again Ivar my friend, knowing that when you swear, I understand it may ring false…"

Willam lowered Frostbite and gazed at the fear in Ivar's wide brown eyes.

"When you think to swear, will you still swear, knowing I expect you to lie?"

Ivar the Nameless dropped to his knees and looked up at his prince.

"I am yours, from this day to my last…"

"We shall see." Willam sheathed Frostbite. "Oh, and Ivar?"

"Aye my Prince?"

He clasped Ivar on his shoulder, smiled, and threatened his life; all in a heartbeat - as if it were the simplest of things. Will smiled as he made his promise. "Speak a word of what I've said here today Ivar, and I'll cut your fucking throat; friend or not, is that understood?"

"I- I wouldn't," Ivar stumbled over his words. "I'd never-"

"Excellent." Willam smiled wide, whatever foul cloud that hung over him before having vanished; as if the conversation had never taken place. Aedan followed his brother-prince like a dutiful shadow in his leave, exiting the tent as Willam called out "come Ivar the Loyal, we're going home!" and the young scout scurried to follow his new wayward and slightly unhinged prince.

Ivar's life would, for better or worse, never be dull again.

My Notes: Lizard men and Lovecraftian cities in the sand. This'll all be expanded on as we go, we're still extremely early in what is essentially a long prologue Pre-Westeros, but I do like writing about the stranger / mystical side to the world. Will's mental state is a matter of debate, he's certainly a little cracked - seeing your first love splattered on the floor and your adoptive brother (who ordered you killed) drowned in blood; not to mention the whole household being slaughtered you being locked up in the dark for weeks will tend to have an effect on anyone let alone somebody so young as Willam was. The kids got his demons.

Speaking of kids with issues, gotta love 'reviews' that consist of "Boring" or "Male Sansa" - they make me chuckle, reminds me how stupid humanity is :) and isn't that the funniest shit? In reply to actually valid reviews tho I thank ye for taking the time to say something that wasn't retarded.

You know who you are :)

My Regards
- Soul