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 16: Royalty
"This sword was forged to ruin."
– Prince Willam Stark
Two years had passed since they'd washed up along the Stoney Shore and things had gone – looking at it optimistically – rather damn well. Eddard Stark continued to be a generous host and Willam had taken to sparring with the man's sons in their lessons, since he had truly little else to do, revealing oddly enough that Jon Snow seemed to have more potential than his true-born brother – that he had publicly praised the boy for, much to the chagrin of Lady Stark.
Things in the South had gone notable worse. Jorg Seastark was alive, that was good; but when Edwyn had arrived with the news it was not so good. The boy had abandoned their expedition. Now, this would be considered desertion – because it was – but Willam was in no position to sail south and bring the boy to justice since he'd allied himself to some apparently powerful southern house, even earning himself a betrothal last year; as the boy had proudly announced via raven.
Jorg Seastark was a cocky little shit. Willam would be mad if the rebellious boy didn't remind him too much of his younger self.
"I'll take the Wanderer and drag the little shit back," Edwyn had growled at the news of the boy's betrothal.
He'd denied Ed that wish. Starting a war with these Redwyne's would certainly get them kicked out of the North. They were guests here, after all, and these Redwyne's had wasted no time flying their banner above the Seawolf. Jorg's crew had mostly abandoned him, and been spared for that decision; but again, Redwyne had taken this as an opportunity to replace those crewmen with loyal men of his own. Taking back the Seawolf would be a bloody affair in the least. War at the worst.
On the bright side Arthur doubted in the Arbor's capabilities, but as if every thought Willam ever had; there were always doubts to consider.
"Arth is too proud sometimes," Edwyn had scoffed at the notion. "That island is huge, doubtless they've dockyards elsewhere!"
It was more than likely the Redwyne's kept their military dockyards out of public view – just as the Manderly's had done, where Arthur was now, constructing their new flagship in a secluded cove somewhere up the White Knife. Wrightport did much the same, though still in-city; their Shipwrights were behind strong inner-walls.
That said, from all reports – including Manderly's testament – this land's naval strength was no real threat to the Sunset Islands; unless they all banded together.
"Ships don't win wars though Ed," Willam had scolded his friend when he'd gone off ranting about how the Winter Fleet would destroy the Redwyne Fleet. It would, by all reports, but that wouldn't win the war. "Say you defeated their fleet, what then? Ned says the Reach can field over a hundred thousand men."
That was the truth of things. Aye, their fleets weren't much of a threat to them, but Westeros could field FAR beyond their numbers.
Not to mention, Willam wasn't sure how well their fairly inaccurate scorpions or ballista would prove against small slim fast-moving Galleys. The Shipwright could rip holes into the side of any ship with a broadside – true enough – but only if they could actually hit the target. And not every ship boasted the Shipwrights strength, and generally such artillery was built for long-range volleys on unsuspecting targets and to deter any boarders that might get close enough.
They'd need the element of surprise, or most shots would miss; leaving them open to being rammed and boarded.
It wasn't like a scorpion bolt could magically hit a fast-moving target from miles away after all. That would be silly.
Willam was sat under Winterfell's heart tree beside the pool of black water, simply thinking, running over events in his head and questioning every damn decision they'd made since arriving. He did this a lot. It was rare, truly, that thoughts didn't assault him like some crazed bastard with a battle-axe out to gut him alive – and he'd had two years' worth of thinking to do lately; having grown out a beard in this time, that he'd kept short and neatly trimmed.
"At least it's peaceful here," He thought with a sigh, leant up against the heart tree and closing his eyes – listening intently.
Wind blew through the thick canopy above, birds sang a sharp trilling tune, some squirrels rustled in the branches above him, and-
"Footsteps," He thought, opening his eyes.
Eddard Stark was walking towards him with his usual stoic look.
"Willam," He spoke only once he'd gotten close to the pool.
"Ned," Will answered the man, remaining seated. "Did you need something?"
"Aedan has taken your place in the yard," Eddard replied, curious.
"Aye, he's a fine swordsman; worry not…"
"You haven't missed a sparring session in all your time here."
Eddard's ice-grey eyes bore right into one's soul when he wanted them to.
"Here," Willam handed him a rolled-up letter.
"It's in the old runes…"
"Still can't read it eh Ned?"
"Not all of us are so blessed with your gift for languages, Willam."
That was the truth of it, though he'd spent a great deal of his time these last two years with Maester Luwin sharing their collective knowledge – including the Common Tongue – but not all Will's people shared the sentiment for learning. Arthur Wright still wrote in the old way, both for comfort and security
"It's from White Harbour."
Willam began to read the letter aloud.
Prince Willam Stark,
White Harbour continues to prove gracious hosts and capable seamen in their own right. They have – as my last letter suggested – quickly grasped the basic concepts in deign thanks to my direction, though as suggested; I have taken the liberty of forgoing the additions of a quarterdeck, poop deck or forecastle in the design of their first attempt at a First-Rate vessel. I have recommended she not be used for long ocean voyages as this design has limited storage as a result.
It has however sped by construction considerably, though looking more akin to a spar-decked frigate; she should be due for testing within the year. It's no small accomplishment given the scale of this venture; but Mandery's men are dedicated, and we've had no shortage of timber for the task on our hands. As permission has yet to be granted, I have not taken the liberty to include the design of our long-range artillery, nor do I believe we should consider including such things freely.
Lord Manderly insists on calling his new vessel The Trident, though I thought it would be confusing given the shared name in their Riverlands; but the man is insistent, and I wasn't going to repay his fine hospitality by judging the choice. He has been strongly hinting at his desire to construct more, smaller, vessels of similar design.
I would need your decree on such a thing. As you know, I was already hesitant about this arrangement taking place without your father's approval. On that note, I would request leave to take the Sunwright and sail East, having compared our maps with Manderly's it seems apparent that such a voyage would see us homeward.
I'm confident that Manderly's shipwright are capable of finishing their work here without my direct supervision moving forward.
The decision is as always, your own; my Prince.
My Loyal Regards
- Arthur Wright
That was that. Arthur was more upset than he let on.
"He's still not thrilled about our arrangement I see…"
The man wasn't, no, but he'd followed orders – grumbling or not.
"And the talk about this artillery?"
"Scorpions, Ballista," Willam answered with a bored wave of his hand. "Our higher rated ships are usually lined with the latter on the upper-deck, with lines of fixed scorpions in the lower decks; used largely to batter hostile ships hulls – just imagine a hundred giant javelins being thrown at you…"
"A hundred?" Eddard seemed surprised.
"Only the Shipwright boasts that many, but aye."
He'd leave out mention of how largely inaccurate and slow to reload they were.
"Still," Eddard hummed in reply. "Lord Manderly is beyond pleased with your mans work. He's sent numerous requests for further support in the contrition of more vessels – insisting that smaller but equally well-designed ships would make a marked improvement in trade for the North."
"He's not wrong," Willam could agree with the man on that.
"This flagship of his has already used some five thousand trees," Eddard frowned at the number.
"They've made excellent time, all things considered – the Shipwright took some ten years to design as she is now."
"I worry there is little need for such grand scale projects Will," Eddard was still frowning as he did the numbers in his head.
"You have the timber for it," Willam offered simply. "Back home, we have 'protected' the Wrightwood against common cutting – so the trees there belong to House Stark solely for use by our shipwrights – with re-planting of the trees section by section. It's no small endeavour, but it works."
"House Forrester is glad for the business, but even they have stated the necessity for renewal and moderation…"
That was wise of them. Any fool could cut down a forest for short-term gain, but a wise man knew well enough to ensure future generations could benefit too.
"We know that lesson well enough," Willam began to explain as he stopped leaning against the heart tree. "It's the driving force behind my uncle's 'conquest' of what you call the Thousand Islands. The lumber there and on the surrounding lands is as valuable to us as silver or gold."
"The luxury of expansion isn't something we-"
"You've north of the Wall, don't you? Luwin mentioned that the Haunted Forest is vast and untamed."
Luwin had taught him how the Night's Watch used to traditionally cut all trees within half a mile of the Wall.
"That's true," Eddard found himself agreeing with the thought. "Traditionally at least, the Watch would cut down trees from the Haunted Forest within a mile or so of the Wall – but sadly, they are undermanned. A great many castles have gone unmanned for centuries…"
"You've a brother in the watch, no?"
"Aye, I'll speak to Benjen about this next we meet."
Timber was no issue for the North even without utilizing such options.
"Once the Sunwright makes contact with my father, I'm sure we can come to some arrangement with designing smaller ships…"
"Lord Arthur will be leaving for the east then?"
"Aye," Willam replied with a sigh. "He's grown restless, and I've no cause to deny him the request."
The sooner Arthur managed to contact King Brandon; the sooner Willam would be freed of all this damn responsibility, no doubt – given how likely it seemed that the whole east to get west theory held water – there wasn't any reason to delay further now that Lord Manderly was sated.
It was a short walk from the Godswood to the training yard, where the sound of steel on steel rang out against stone walls.
"Excellent form Robb, but how's your footwork?" Ser Rodrik spoke as he observed, and the young Stark followed. "If Ser Aedan steps-" Aedan took a step around an imaginary circle as Robb moved to step the other way, maintaining his distance. "Very good!" Ser Rodrik was smiling as he nodded at the show.
"And I step again," Aedan said with a smirk. "You step again. And so, we circle and circle..."
Their swords locked and the the young Stark growled at his opponent.
"Your too eager lad," Aedan was smiling at the young heir.
"And you talk too much!" Robb used his strength to push himself free. He swung with all his might and smirked as he seemed to gain the upper hand, pushing his opponent further and further backwards. He swung forward, hoping to end things there and then; finally earning himself a win…
Robb's siblings were watching.
"You've got him Robb!" Bran declared excitedly.
"Yeah," Arya agreed happily. "Get him!"
"Fuck!" Rodd huffed as Aedan side-stepped, easily dodging the strike and disarming his foe with a twist of his blade.
"You're too predictable," Aedan remarked with a twirl of his sword, standing idle to let Robb pick up his sword from the yards floor.
"Predict this then!" Robb lunged wide and Aedan quickly moved to parry but took an unexpected step closer, bringing his sword upwards, warping it around his opponent's steel then sliding down the outside of the blade, jerking his own sword inward and causing Robb's to fly out of his hand.
It landed some feet away with a clang, leaving Robb and the spectators speechless.
"Thank you," Aedan bowed as the audience clapped. "I'm here all week, ladies and gentlemen"
"Show-off," Prince Suko commented from the audience with a roll of his eyes.
"How did you do that?" Robb seemed more interested in learning than caring for his defeat.
"Just something I was taught," Aedan replied, resting the blunted sword on his shoulder.
Willam and Eddard walked closer then, as the former clapped slowly, and the latter held a genuine smile on his face.
"I taught him that," Willam boasted with a smirk.
"Artos taught you it," Aedan pointed out. "My Prince."
"Aye but my dear brother has a big enough head without me praising him, I think."
"It was well fought Robb," Aedan praised the young Stark heir. "You need to think more though, you're relying too much on your strength."
"He's right lad," Eddard agreed from the side.
"I know," Robb said frustrated. "I just thought-"
"That he'd go easier on you than I do?" Willam laughed when Robb seemed to shy away nervously.
"Prince Willam bid me not to," Aedan admitted to the boy.
"Of course I did. How can you learn if your teacher isn't bloody trying!?"
Some might've considered his training harsh for boys of only four-and-ten, but that was old enough to swing a sword; and Willam had started training from the moment he could swing a sword – though he'd gotten less training than Artos – few if any men had trained as hard as Prince Artos Stark.
Ser Rodrik Cassel, the castles master-at-arms, hadn't taken any issues either. The man had welcomed the assistance gladly.
Willem knelt to pick up Robb's tourney sword.
"Snow," He called on the Bastard of Winterfell. "You're up."
Jon Snow was leaner and more graceful than his true-born brother, with his dark brown hair and grey eyes; he'd stepped forward with far more confidence than the boy could boast two years ago – not so much as flinching when the prince called him 'Snow' rather than Jon. It was a marked improvement, Willam thought.
"Ready when you are Prince Willam," the boy remarked, getting into his near flawless stance.
"You got this Jon," Robb offered his support from beside his siblings.
They all knew that Jon had somewhat been singled out by Willam over the last two years.
"Your move Snow," Willam smirked at the boy; forcing him on the offensive – firmly out of his comfort zone.
Jon swooped forward like a high-soaring eagle falling on its prey, using speed to his advantage; just as he'd been taught – he swooped and Willam lunged to meet him with a series of clashing and singing steel. Their feet were swift as he sidestepped, hands near a blur as they worked to deflect any and every attack.
Jon stumbled back just a little suddenly, only for the flat of Willam's blade to slap the boy's hand.
"Focus lad," He scolded, ignoring how Catelyn Stark had showed up to watch. "Keep your head in the moment, or you'll lose it!"
Jon ducked as Willam's blade swung above his hair, forcing the boy to shift clumsily backwards to avoid the backswing.
"If you're not going to focus," Willam frowned at the show. "We can end this for today Snow…"
"No," Jon shook his head and gripped his sword firmly. "I'm good."
This time Jon made sure to eye contact, and for a brief moment Willam could see the boy's uncertainty those grey eyes.
Uncertain or not, Jon advanced, charging at him with the longsword upheld, going with forewing and following it with a backswing.
"Better," Willam dodged the first and met the second with his own sword. "Much better!"
The weight he put behind blows sent Jon back, back, back, but unlike Robb; it didn't seem Jon would fall for the same tricks.
Striking with a low growl of "Arrgh!" as he swung, Jon arched his slice, but it missed its target by perhaps a centimetre.
Will swung and shouted "Good!" as his longsword missed Jon by an inch, but not close enough to cut; were the blades not blunted. Jon dared to summon a smirk at the praise for his spry dodge. Willam had to admit it was impressive, the boy was agile and a natural talent, but he was still had much to learn.
Swing. Swing. Swing. Willam pressed and the first two were easily parried, but the third, a backswing off the one before it; hit across Jon's stomach. If the blade had an edge it would've ate through its opponent's flesh as easily as air. Jon stumbled backwards with a frown, lowering his sword.
"Well fought Jon," Willam smiled at the boy, meaning it.
"That was amazing!" Arya rushed over to her brother and tugged on his arm.
"You almost had him!" Bran agreed with his sister, all smiles.
"It was impressive Jon," Robb nodded, unafraid of admitting his brother did well. "You're far quicker than me…"
"I still lost," Jon frowned.
"Almost had me once or twice though Jon," Willam offered simply.
It wasn't a lie either, truthfully; the boy was a damn prodigy with a sword.
"Keep practicing, and you'll outshine the best of them someday."
"Prince Willam," Jon bowed his head in thanks for the praise.
The boy still refused to not use his title. Will had given up telling him at this stage.
"You did well Jon," Eddard agreed with a proud smile.
"Thank you, Lord Stark."
Ned's smile faded with the use of his lordly title.
Catelyn Stark was still present, maintaining her stoic expression.
Willam had found his own relationship with the women was an icy one, though he didn't hate her by any means, her presence in the yard over these years had hindered his training of Jon Snow in particular; whenever she'd come to see her sons spar the bastard would crawl back into his shell like a scared crab.
"Cregan," Willam called on his brother who had been watching quietly. "Teach these lads Artos's little trick, would ya?"
"As you wish little brother," Cregan stepped forward and took the blunted steel, swinging it to test the balance.
He motioned to Jon Snow and repeated an old mantra of "we'll train slow" as the bastard and the heir of Winterfell waited eagerly.
The choice to spar and assist in the teaching of Ned's sons had proven to be one of his better decisions, as the act proved a fine distraction from day-to-day worries. Normally he'd stay and spar, but as the shadows grew longer and some time spent reading Luwin's books in the library sounded too tempting.
The next morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer. They set out at daybreak to see a caught deserter beheaded; some twenty of them in total. Bran Stark had accompanied them for what would be the boys first look at death, and he seemed a mix of excited and nervous.
It was to happen at a small holdfast in the moors and the man in question was found to be old and scrawny, bound head and foot to the holdfasts wall and dressed all in black; his furs ragged and greasy. The air was steaming as it mingled with the breath of men and horses in the cold morning while Eddard ordered the deserter dragged before them. Robb and Jon sat tall and still on their horses, with little Bran in between the on his pony, trying to seem older than seven.
Lord Eddard sat solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. Willam thought that the man had never looked quite so grim.
"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark; I do sentence you to die."
He lifted the greatsword Ice high above his head.
"Don't look away," Jon muttered to his little brother. "Father will know if you do…"
Bran Stark kept his pony well in hand and did not look away.
His father took off the man's head with a single sure stroke and blood sprayed out across the snow.
The man's head bounced off a root and rolled straight to Theon Greyjoy's feet. He was a youth of nineteen, lean and dark haired, who seemed to find everything in life terribly amusing. Willam hadn't paid much mind to the boy, partly because he was an Ironborn; and partly because he was a cocky little shit.
"Ass," Jon muttered low enough so that Greyjoy did not hear when he kicked the several head away, laughing all the while.
Greyjoy acted half his age, in Willam's honest opinion.
"You did well," Jon said to young Bran, offering the boy a comforting smile.
It seemed oddly colder on the long ride back to Winterfell, though the wind had died by then and the sun was high in the sky.
"The deserter died well," Robb reckoned aloud. "He had courage at least…"
"No," Jon disagreed quietly. "It wasn't courage, he was dead of fear – you could see it in his eyes."
Robb didn't seem impressed. "The Others take his eyes," he swore with a scoff. "He died well. Race you to the bridge?"
"Done," Jon said, kicking his horse forward. Robb cursed and followed. And they galloped off down the trail, Robb laughing and cheering as the rode while Jon was silent and intent. The hooves of their horses kicked up a storm of snow as they went away.
Bran had not tried to follow, as his pony could not keep up.
Willam found, as he rode casually besides the others, that he agreed with Jon Snow. He'd glanced at that man's eyes before the end, and there was little there – besides a cold commitment to his fate. He hadn't cried or begged; answering what questions Ned had asked, admitting to his crimes.
There was a certain bravery in accepting one's fate, he supposed.
"Are you well Bran?" Eddard asked his young son.
"Yes, father," Bran told him. He was wrapped up in his furs and leathers, as his father loomed over him.
"Do you understand why I did it?"
"He was a wildling," Bran guessed. "They carry off women and sell them to the Others…"
Willam laughed aloud at that, much to the boy's embarrassment.
Eddard smiled at it. "Old Nan has been telling you stories again. In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Night's Watch. No man is more dangerous. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime; no matter how vile. But you mistake me…"
Bran looked confused at that, tilted his head to the side in question.
"The question was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it."
"King Robert has a headsman," Bran said, uncertainly.
"He does," Eddard admitted. "As did the Targaryen kings before him – yet our way is the old way. If you are to take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die…"
Young Bran seemed to think deeply on his father's words as he taught him about the old way.
"A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is, Bran."
In that moment, Jon Snow appeared on the crest of the hill before them. He waved and shouted down at them. "Father! Come quickly, see what Robb has found!"
And just like that, he was gone again.
"Trouble?" Willam guessed.
"Beyond a doubt," Eddard said with a scowl. "Come, let us see what mischief my sons have rooted out now!"
The horses broke into a trot and they quickly found Robb on the riverbank north of an old bridge, with Jon still mounted beside him.
"Gods!" Theon Greyjoy exclaimed as they grew closer, struggling to keep his horse under control.
Jory Cassel's sword was already out from its scabbard. "Robb, get away from that thing!"
Robb grinned and looked up from the bundle in his arms. "She can't hurt you," he said. "She's dead, Jory."
Willam had dismounted before the others, with Aedan at his side; they approached Robb slowly.
"What in the seven hells is it!?"
"A wolf," Robb answered.
"A freak," Greyjoy argued. "Look at the size of it!"
Half buried in the bloodstained snow was a huge dark shape slumped in death. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of decay clung to it like a woman's perfume. Its eyes were crawling with maggots, its mouth wide and full of yellow teeth. Most notably however, was the size, being bigger than Bran's pony.
"That's no freak Greyjoy," Willam shot a glance at the young man. "It's a damn Direwolf…"
"There hasn't been a direwolf south of the Wall in two hundred years!"
"I see one now," Jon replied.
Bran Stark gave a cry of delight as he rushed over to the bundle of fur in Robb's hands.
"Go on," Robb held out the little direwolf pup. "You can touch him."
He gave the pup a quick nervous stroke.
"Aedan," Willam turned to his friend, muttering quietly. "Something is off about this…"
Flash was sniffing around the tiny puppies curiously, his tail wagging happily as they squeaked at him.
"Here you go," Jon handled another pup to his little brother. "There are five of them."
"Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years," muttered Hullen, the master-of-horse for Winterfell. "I like it not…"
"It's a sign," Jory suggested.
Willam was inclined to agree.
Eddard simply frowned. "This is only a dead animal, Jory," he said. Yet he seemed troubled. "Do we know what killed her?"
"There's something in the throat," Robb told him, looking proud to have found the answer.
Eddard knelt and yanked out the object for all to see. A shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood.
A silence washed over the party. The men looked at the antler uneasily, and no one dare to speak.
"This isn't a convenience Ned," Willam muttered.
Eddard tossed the antler aside, replying once again that it was "only an animal" as he cleaned his hands in the snow.
"I'm surprised she lived long enough to whelp," Aedan spoke up.
"Maybe she didn't," Jory said. "I've heard tales. Maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came…"
"Born with the dead," another man added. "Worse luck…"
"No matter," said Hullen. "They be dead soon enough too."
Bran gave a wordless cry of dismay at that.
"The sooner the better," Theon agreed. He drew his sword. "Give the beast here Bran."
"No!" Bran refused fiercely. "It's mine!"
"Piss off Greyjoy," Willam scowled at the young fool.
"Put it away Theon!" Robb barked, sounding almost commanding. "We're keeping these pups…"
"You cannot do that boy," said Harwin, who was Hullen's son.
"It'll be a mercy to kill them," Hullen agreed.
Bran looked to his father for rescue only to see a furrowed brow. "Hullen speaks true-"
"They're the sigil of our house," Willam snapped at that. "To kill them would be an insult, Ned."
"It's better a swift death than one from cold and starvation."
"As if we'd leave them here," Willam scoffed, unamused.
Jory and the others seemed uneasy at the two men arguing.
"Ser Rodrik's red bitch whelped again last week," Robb interrupted before things could become heated. "It was a small litter, only two live pups."
"Then there's enough milk to spare," Aedan found himself agreeing quickly.
"She'll rip them in half when they try to nurse…"
"Oh for god's sake," Willam sighed, frowning deeply. "If you won't take them Ned, then I-"
"There are five pups," Jon Snow spoke; earning the eyes of everyone on him. "Three male, two females."
"What of it, son?"
"You have five trueborn children," Jon said, betraying nothing. "Three sons, two daughters. Your children were meant to have them."
In that moment, it seemed that Bran Stark had never loved his half-brother more than this moment.
"The lads right Ned," Willam was quick to agree. "It's a gift, you can't refuse it."
Eddard's face seemed to change. "You want no pup for yourself, Jon?"
"I'm no Stark, father…"
"I'll nurse him myself, Father. "Robb promised. "I'll soak a towel in warm milk, and have him suck from that!"
"Me too!" Bran echoed quickly.
The lord weighed his son's words long and carefully with his eyes. "Easy to say, harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servant's time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves and train them yourselves. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Father," Bran said first.
"Yes," Robb agreed.
"The pups may die anyway; despite all you do."
"They won't die," Robb refused. "We won't let them die."
"My family has some experience raising wolf pups," Aedan offered, kneeling to scratch Flash's ear. "I can be of assistance, Lord Stark…"
"Keep them, then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It's time we were back to Winterfell."
Halfway across the bridge home, Jon pulled up suddenly.
"What is it, Jon?" His father asked.
"Can't you hear it?"
They couldn't, but Jon turned his horse around and only a moment later he was riding back to them, smiling wide.
"They must have crawled away from the others," Jon assumed.
"Or been driven away," Eddard said, looking at the sixth pup. It was all white with eyes as red as blood.
"An albino," Theon said with a wry amused smirk. "This one will die even faster than the others."
Jon Snow gave his father's ward a long chilling look.
"I think not, Greyjoy," he said. "This one belongs to Me."
It was across the bridge once more that Flash halted in his tracks, nose to the air – sniffing for some whiff in the breeze – as it found it; the wolf bolted off the pathway and flung itself into the treeline. "Aedan," Willam motioned after the wolf with a roll of his eyes. "Fetch the damn fluffy idiot, would you?"
Aedan dismounted and made after his wolf, muttering curses about damn wilful the wolf was.
It wasn't a minute past before a shout of "Will, you gotta come see this!" echoed out to the party.
Willam had doubted in a heartbeat, pulling Frostbite from its runed scabbard; expecting trouble.
"What in the fuck-"
"By the gods!" Jory was behind him, sword out, in awe at the sight.
The trees opened to a small clearing, where the frosted gras was stained crimson in patches of blood and the body of a giant stag laid limb in the middle of the grass – its antlers shattered, its throat ripped clean away; its belly torn clean open, and its entrails sprayed out for all to see.
"Looks like he found what killed the mother," Jory commented, looking slightly pale.
"And we've found the father," Aedan pointed out.
It was huge, with pitch midnight black fur and dulled green eyes – days dead at the least.
Flash was by the fallen direwolf nudging at the corpse with his nose, pushing aside the creature's paw – five times the size of Flash's own – only put pick up something in his mouth and come bounding over to his master with a gleeful look in his eyes. In his mouth was a direwolf pup, as black as midnight; with emerald eyes.
"A seventh pup?" Aedan asked, kneeling beside Flash who gladly accepted head scratches as his reward.
The pup sat silently in the snow-covered grass, looking up at Willam curiously. It was near all skin and bones.
"How the hell did it get so far from the mother?"
The pup was beyond skinny, to the point the word 'malnourished' didn't quick cut it.
"Here you go little fella," Aedan picked the pup up gently, wrapping it in his grey cloak and handing it to the Prince.
"It should be dead," Willam found himself staring at its unnaturally deep emerald eyes. It was a reasonable guess that the father had died fighting the stag, and the mother had only managed to crawl her away to the bridge past the trees – where she whelped the pups – only for This one to crawl away; back to its father.
"He's stubborn," Aedan remarked with a smirk. "Remind you of anyone Will?"
Willam scoffed, but truthfully the thought worried him. Those eyes. He'd seen them before, in a raven…
"I'll call you Wraith," he decided, thinking the name fitting. "How does that sound?"
Wraith managed a squeaking yip noise in reply. The damn thing was an inch from dead, truly.
"Let's get back to Winterfell, sooner rather than later…"
"I like it not Will," Jory commented, eyeing the skinny pup.
"The gods work in strange ways, Jory. It's usually best not to ask too many questions…"
Willam didn't know if it was coincidence or divine intervention – and he cared not truthfully – for whatever the reason or the cause; he'd be damned if they left the pups to die in the snow. Little Wraith might not survive the night, yet alone a week; but time would tell. The little guy seemed like a fighter.
It was a month or so past when ravens arrived carrying news of Jon Arryn's death, an old mentor of Ned's according to the man – the letter brought with it news that King Robert of the House Baratheon would be arriving in Winterfell, and the whole damn castle had been franticly preparing ever since.
Visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver, some three hundred strong. Over their heads a dozer golden banners whipped back and forth in the northern wind, emblazoned with what Willam had been told was the crowned stag of House Baratheon. He scanned the head of the column for Robert Baratheon, a man that Lord Eddard had described as clean-shaven, muscular, blue eyed with hair to match Willam's own raven black.
In the place of this heroic description stood a tall fat man with a full beard that processed to crush Lord Eddard in a hug.
"Ned! Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours!" The king looked his old friend over before his eyes darted to the only persons present that had not knelt upon his arrival. Willam stood tall, only slightly shorter than Robert was; as the man sized up the strange Princely man dressed in all his finer and silver.
"Allow me to introduce Prince Willam Stark," Eddard motioned him over with a look at said 'let's get this over with'.
"Your Grace," Willam bowed respectfully, but did not kneel. "Lord Eddard has spoken very highest of you, it's an honour…"
Robert had been aware of their existence, Willam knew; though perhaps the man had forgotten somehow – he knew that Ned had sent the man a raven detailing their situation upon arrival. "Prince Stark, eh?" Robert sized him up, then smiled incredibly wide. "We'll speak more over drinks, you and I!"
"It would be a pleasure, Your Grace." Willam shook the stag king's hand when it was offered, and found the mans grip was firm as iron.
A golden-haired woman walked up to them, staring at him like he was prey to be hunted. Lord Eddard knelt in the snow to kiss her ring, while the king embraced Lady Catelyn like a long-lost sister. Then the children were brought forward, introduced, and approved of by both sides one by one.
"Prince Willam, was it?" The golden-haired woman stopped ignoring him, holding out her ring for him to kiss. She'd said the word 'Prince' like it was a dirty thing.
He bowed and kissed her ring, seeing no reason to anger a queen. "Queen Cersei, was it?"
She gave him as look that seemed to speak "Obviously, you simpleton!"
"Lord Eddard's praises did not do your beauty enough justice, Your Grace."
She seemed to like the flattery, hiding the hint of a smile poorly. "I would hear more of your tall, Prince Willam…"
"As would your lord husband," Willam smiled his best smile. "No doubt we'll talk more at the feast?" The discussion was done at that as the queen lost interest and turned her back on the alleged prince, despite her attempt to mask things; the idea of a Stark calling himself a Prince clearly didn't sit well with her lofty ideals.
After she left Willam moved over to Robb and the other Stark siblings. "That went well, I suppose…"
"I think the king likes you Will." He answered, forgoing the title as he seemed to relax in the absence of their guests.
"I think he likes drink," Willam jested, partly. "He seems a good enough man, although I am not certain about the queen…"
"No?" Robb seemed surprised by that. "She seemed courteous enough, didn't she?"
Theon made himself apart of their conversation, nudging Robb. "Not to mention damn attractive!"
"Aye," Willam didn't like the woman, he'd decided. He knew the type; proud and arrogant beyond measure. "Sickening beautiful that one." The King and Eddard returned from the crypts by the time Willam had finished talking to Robb and the others, as all made their way to the great hall for the welcoming feast.
The Great Hall of Winterfell was heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread all on a far greater scale than what few modest family dinners Willam had experienced before. The grey stone walls were draped with banners. White, gold, crimson; the direwolf of Stark, Baratheon's crowned stag, the lion of Lannister. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad as Willam sat on the raised platform beside Lord and Lady Stark along with the King and his wife.
It was the fourth hour of the welcoming feast and he'd spent most of his time filling in King Robert of the history of the Sunset Islands and how he came to be in Westeros, and to his credit the man seemed more excited by the prospect of these new lands than he was concerned. His wife didn't share the sentiment.
"To His Grace," Willam held up his wine, being on his third of fourth glass by now. "Here's to future relations between our two peoples!"
King Robert drank deep as he'd been doing all throughout the feast, while Willam scanned the room. Lord Starks children were seated below the raised platform where Suko was regaling the Stark brothers with stories of his homeland. All but Jon Snow, who sat at the far rear of the hall drinking with Cregan.
That placement was all courtesy of Catelyn Stark's apparent belief seating bastards with the nobles would somehow upset the king.
Looking at the man drinking and laughing and grabbing the arse of every passing servant lass, one doubted he'd have cared in the least about bastards.
"Enough stalling Will!" Robert shouted, having quickly taken to forgoing his title. "You mentioned a rebellion, I want details lad!"
Willam smiled at the king's drunkenness, the man had taken a far greater interest when talk of war had first come up. "I fear my homelands rebellion cannot match that of your own counties struggles against those Targaryen dragonlords I've heard so much about, Your Gra-"
"I told you to call me Robert lad," He pointed at him for a moment, spilling some of his drink. "Now tell us, be out with it already!"
Queen Cersei had that irritating look of a woman that was either planning on killing you or fucking you, or both. Willam hated the gaze with a passion.
"As you wish Robert," Willam drank the remains of his wine before continuing to address the room, that had fallen silent to hear him speak. "I'll start at the beginning I suppose. My ancestor, Brandon the Shipwright, made the Sunset Islands our home; where for generations we held only the title of Prince – under the guise of fealty to the Kings in the North. My grandfather along with his most loyal bannermen strayed from this tradition, crowning himself King of Winter and the Sunset Islands."
"Yes, yes," Robert waved his hand, spilling wine on the table and cursing under his breath. "Get to the battles lad! THE BATTLES!"
"Lord Frost rose up in rebellion," Willam continued with his best stoic mask. "I was a ward to the man at the time, betrothed to his only daughter and-"
"Daughter eh lad!?" Robert took interest in that, leaning forward in his seat. "Is she a looker!?"
Imagines of her face flashed before his eyes, smiling and happy.
"Beautiful," for a moment his stoic mask cracked. He could see her now. "She was beautiful."
"And what happened to these rebels?" The Queen asked, her smile all too sweet as she nursed her chalice of arbor red.
"Dead," Willam answered without the frown that fought to struggle past his mask. "Frost underestimated my father's resolve in battle and pad the price – ending with his death and that of his eldest son, along with all those who had followed him into battle. They were crushed, utterly…"
"Reminds me of those squid fuckers!" Robert spat, drinking from his newly filled cup and earning a laugh from the hall of listeners.
"Frost's fleet wasn't so grand as your Ironborn problem Robert," Willam shook his head at that, drinking from his own cup. "What ships he did have were swiftly sunk off the shore, while the port town nearby was blockaded; and my father arrived to lay siege to the newest Lord of House Frost."
"How'd the siege go then?" Robert asked, curious; with another serving girl on his lap.
"It didn't truly come at all," Willam held firm to a stoic look, still and icy. "The newest Lord ordered me killed and decided to ride out of his walls to meet my father head on before he could truly have time to prepare for a long siege. He was young and angry – and the mistake cost him his life…"
Eric Frost had lost nearly everything. He wasn't thinking clearly, but grown men do mad things in grief; yet alone boys.
"He ordered you killed eh lad?"
"Clearly you survived," Cersei added with her innocently sweet smile. "How did you manage that?"
"Dumb luck Your Grace," he said with a hollow smirk of his own. "The castles castellan disobeyed his lord and threw me into a cell."
"And how were these Frosts punished for their rebellion?" Queen Cersei asked, all smiles, seeming to think she knew the answer already.
"When my father took the castle, he thought me dead – as everyone did – so in his anger he ordered the entire household butchered from the men to the babes in their cribs." Willam eyed the lion queen with judging look. "Lord Eric Frost was drowned in a barrel of his own people's blood…"
A wave of silence and hushed whispers washed over the room. Lord Eddard even seemed taken aback by the brutality of the story.
The look on Cersei's face was a thing of surprise – although only briefly – to be replaced by a look of cold amusement.
"Serves traitors right I say," Robert scoffed at the story, gulping down another cup of red wine.
"Is such a thing not considered dishonourable where you come from?" Cersei sipped from her chalice; with eyes full of mockery.
"It was not honourable," Willam admitted without a care. "War is rarely that, while there is a time and place for honourable deeds; war is not the time."
"Well said," The queen's smile had turned from sweet to devious, though she needn't have ever hidden it to begin with.
"The fuck would you know of war, woman!?" King Robert barked laughter at his wife's expense.
He was the only one laughing, though some were clearly amused; none beside the King dared mocked the Queen so openly.
Queen Cersei seemed to ignore her husband's drunken statements, as if it were below her. Her eyes were locked onto Willam Stark.
He had been naive enough to believe that war could be honourable once upon a time, but time had worn away at such notions. All people were capable of great and often unspeakable evils. War was about survival, doing whatever it takes to protect your family and people; no matter how bloody the road taken.
"My father took things too far," Willam said aloud with a frown. "As a boy, I thought him a monster for it – but now I'm not so sure."
"Would you not do the same as your father, Prince Willam?"
Cersei seemed to be enjoying this game immensely, pushing his buttons…
"I'm not the boy I was back then," he replied sincerely. "Things change with the years, Your Grace."
He wasn't the same boy that laid eyes on Eric Frost's legs dangling from a barrel of blood. That boy died, a long time ago.
"Who is your father then, if not a monster?"
"A man," Willam said simple, with a gulp of wine. "Just a man."
The Queen's smile hadn't faded. If anything, she'd only seemed to grow more entertained by her little game – even as her husband flirted and drunkenly groped at a servant girl's breasts on his lap; she was entirely unconcerned. In that moment, looking at her emerald eyes, she appeared every inch the lioness.
Meanwhile on the other side of the hall, away from the game of cat and wolf; the bastards table had a new arrival to greet.
"Is this one of the direwolves I've heard so much of?" Cregan heard a man in black say, a Stark by the looks of him and clearly known to Jon Snow.
"Yes," Jon said after the man had ruffled his hair. "This is Ghost."
One of the squires at their table interrupted the bawdy story he'd been telling to make room at the table for the new arrival. He straddled the bench with long legs and took the wine cup from Jons hand. "Summerwine," he said after a taste. "Nothing so sweet. How many cups have you had, Jon?"
Jon smirk nervously and Cregan replied for him. "The lad is enjoying himself."
"Cregan," Jon jumped to introductions. "This is my uncle, Benjen Stark."
He held up a cup to the man, before taking a swig. "A pleasure, Stark."
Benjen took a moment to eye the stranger. "You must be this Prince Willam I've heard about?"
Cregan laughed at that. "No," He pointed in the direction of Willam. "My dear brother is sitting up there trading barbs with your Queen…"
Benjen's gaze flashed to the queen to see her smiling and talking to a man who looked every inch a Stark.
"Don't you usually eat at the table with your brothers?"
"Most times," Jon answered his uncle. "Lady Stark thought it might give insult to the royal family to seat a bastard among them."
"I see," Benjen glanced over his shoulder at the raised table at the far end of the hall. "Is that why your seated here, Cregan?"
"My brother would hear none of it." Cregan shook his head, leaving out how Willam had offered to start a war over the issue if Robert was offended. He;d been joking, or at least Cregan bloody hoped he was joking… but he'd decided not to risk it. Besides, he hated the facade of court nonsense. "I prefer the company here."
Benjen accepted that for what it was, even seemed to respect him for it. "My brother does not seem very festive tonight…"
"The queen was angry too," Jon told his uncle in a low, quiet voice. "Father took the king down to the crypts this afternoon. The queen didn't want him to go."
Benjen gave Jon a careful measuring look that reminded Cregan of the look his own father gave him before shipping him off with Willam on his fool's errand across the Sunset Sea. "You don't miss much, do you, Jon? We could use a man like you on the Wall."
Jon swelled with pride at that, jumping at the opportunity to update his uncle on his many qualities. "Robb is a stronger lance than I am, but I'm the better sword and Prince Willam has been teaching me lately too; while Hullem says I sit a horde as well as anyone in the castle!"
Benjen looked at his nephew with an amused grin. "Notable achievements lad…"
"Take me with you when you go back to the Wall," Jon said in a sudden rush. "Father will give me leave to go if you ask him, I know he will!"
"The wall is a hard place for a boy, Jon."
"I am almost a man grown," Jon protested. "I will turn fifteen on my next nameday, and Maseter Luwin says bastards grow up faster than other children."
Cregan could agree to that much, bastards had to grow up fast given their station in life. "That's true enough," Benjen said with a downward twist of his mouth. He took Jon's cup from the table, filling it fresh from a nearby pitcher, and drank down a long swallow.
"Daeron Targaryen was only fourteen when he conquered Dorne," Jon said. Cregan had no idea who that was but the boy seemed to admire the name.
"A conquest that lasted a summer," his uncle pointed out. "Your Boy King lost ten thousand men tasking the place, and another fifty trying to hold it. Someone should have told him that war isn't a game." He took another sip of wine. "Also," he said, wiping his mouth, "Daeron Targaryen was only eighteen when he died.
He looked at the boy, frowning at his willingness to throw his life away so quickly.
"Or have you forgotten that part Jon?"
"I forget nothing," Jon boasted. He tried to sit very straight, likely to make himself seem taller. "I want to serve in the Night's Watch, Uncle."
"Forgive me," Cregan put down his cup. "The Nights Watch is the sworn brotherhood that mans the Wall to the far north correct? My brother spoke of the order still being around, but it's hard to believe she still stands after all these years; even after the Kingdom of Winter fell to those dragons Lord Stark told us about."
"Aye," Benjen answered. "She still stands."
"I am ready to swear your oath Uncle."
"You're a boy of fourteen," Benjen said. "Not a man, not yet. Until you've known a woman you cannot understand what you'd be giving up."
"I don't care about that!" Jon said hotly.
"You might lad, if you knew what it meant," Benjen said. "If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son."
Jon burst out in anger. "I'm not your son!"
Benjen Stark stood up. "More's the pity." He put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Come back to me after you've fathered a few bastards of your own."
Jon seemed to tremble. "I will never father a bastard," he said carefully. "Never!" He spat it out like venom. The table had fallen silent at his outburst, as even Cregan remained silently staring at the boy. "I must be excused," Jon said with the last of his dignity. He whirled and bolted before they could see him cry.
The following day Willam found himself watching a young Brandon Stark sparring with Tommen Baratheon, both of the young lads padded as though they had belted on feather beds. They were huffing and puffing and hitting at each other with padded wooden swords under the watchful eye of Winterfells master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel, a great stout keg of a man with white cheek whiskers. A dozer spectators, men and boys, were calling out encouragement. Robb was loudest among them.
"You can do it Bran!" Robb shouted while Willam stood beside Aedan and Edwyn, watching with amusement as young Bran delivered a good strong whack at Prince Tommen who soon found himself rolling in the dust, trying to get up and failing. All the padding made him look like a turtle on its back.
"Enough!" Ser Rodrik called out without any amusement, giving the young prince a hand and yanking him to his feet. "Well fought. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their Armor now." He looked around. "Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round now?"
Robb, already sweaty from a previous bout, but moved forward eagerly. "Gladly."
From the boys last spar, the stag Prince was wholly without skill – that was odd, given the knights that surrounded him.
Joffrey moved out of his corner in response to Rodrik's summons. His hair shone like gold and he looked bored. "This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik."
Theon Greyjoy gave a sudden bark of laughter. "You are children," he said derisively.
"And he's a remarkably untalented one," Suko scoffed in imperial, earning a laugh from those able to understand him.
"Robb may be a child," Joffrey said, frowning at the laugher. "I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword."
Willam took that as a challenge, taking a step forward before Robb put a hand on his shoulder as if to say to him that 'I can handle this'. "You took more swats than you gave if I recall, Joff," Robb said proudly, having sounded bested the Prince before now. "Are you afraid?"
Prince Joffrey looked at him. "Oh, terrified," he said with a pompous scoff. "You're so much older."
Some of the Lannister men laughed at that, though half shifted on the spot. They were sizeably outnumbered here.
Ser Rodrik tugged thoughtfully at his white whiskers. "What are you suggesting?" he asked the young prince.
"Live steel."
"Done," Robb shot back without hesitation. "You'll be sorry!"
The master-at-arms put a hand on Robb's shoulder to quiet him. "Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges."
Joffrey said nothing as a large man with black hair and burn scars on his face pushed forward in front of the prince.
"This is your prince. Who are you to tell him he may not have an edge on his sword, ser?"
"Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it!"
"Are you training women here?" The burned man wanted to know, frowning an ugly frown.
"I am training knights," Ser Rodrik said pointedly. "They will have steel when they are ready. When they are of an age."
The burned man looked at Robb. "How old are you, boy?"
"Fourteen," He replied, trying to appear taller than he was.
"I killed a man at twelve. You can be sure it wasn't with a blunt sword."
Robb bristled. His pride was wounded as he turned to Rodrik. "Let me do it. I can beat him."
"Easily," Willam remarked, ignoring the scowl on Joffrey's face. "Let him teach this one some manners, Cassel…"
"Beat him with a tourney blade, then," Ser Rodrik denied, shaking his head.
Joffrey shrugged. "Come and see me when you're older, Stark. If you're not too old." There was laughter from the Lannister men. Robb's curses rang through the yard as Theon Greyjoy seized his arm to keep him away from the prince. Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers in dismay.
Joffrey feigned a yawn and turned to his younger brother. "Come, Tommen," he said. "The hour of play is done. Leave the children to their frolics." That brought more laughter from the Lannisters, and more curses from Robb. Ser Rodrik's face was beet-red with fury as Theon kept Robb in his iron grip.
Willam had reached the end of his limited patience, as a skinny black direwolf pup sat silently at his feet; head tilted to the side.
The idea of a Prince this arrogant didn't quite sit well with him, especially at the expense of Starks.
"Prince Joffrey!" He stepped forward, arms out wide and smiling something fierce.
As if entirely on instinct alone, the burned man had shifted his footing as Willam approached.
"What is it?" Joffrrey huffed. "Did you not mean he say we're done here?"
"You're bored," Willam declared with a shrug. "Understandable. How about we make things interesting?"
Joffrey's eyes narrowed – thinking, the wheels in his brain turning loudly – all before a twisted smile reached his lips.
"Live steel!" Willam continued his show.
"Your master is too afraid," Joffrey scoffed, pointing at Ser Rodrik with distain.
"I will not have bloodshed in my yard, Prince Willam!"
"There won't be any," He turned, winking at the old knight.
Ser Rodrik doubted that. "Live steel always leads to blood, Willam…"
"Take a look around Ser!"
All around them, men stood dressed in reds and greys and golds.
"This sea of red," Willam was smiling like a lunatic. "Why, when I cut them; you'll never see the blood!"
"You dare!" Joffrey growled, while the Lannister men grumbled in offence.
"Send your best against me Prince Joffrey, and we shall make a game of it!"
"Willam," Ser Rodrik still protested clearly.
"It'll be fine Ser," He vowed. "Just a little fun!"
Cassel grumbled, knowing he wouldn't back down. He'd seen that look in men's eyes before.
"So, what say you Prince?" Willam made a show of resting a hand on the pommel of Frostbite.
"So be it," Joffrey held a twisted smile. "Hound!"
The burnt man merely grunted in acknowledgement.
"Teach this pretender a lesson!"
"I said your best," Willam feigned confusion. "Is that not youself, Young Stag?"
The northmen in the crowd laughed at that.
"I-" Joffrey grew redder. "Princes don't fight commoners!"
"What is it you're so fond of saying? I am a Prince…"
"My mother says you're a pretender," Joffrey's smirk returned. "She says that-"
"Ah," Willam interrupted. "Always listen to mummy, do you? What a good boy you are!"
The laughter increased at that, as even most of the Baratheon men joined in.
"HOUND!" Joffrey shouted, his face a crimson red with anger – or perhaps embarrassment.
The burnt man stepped forward, seeming entirely bored with all this.
"Your name?" Willam asked as the crowed grew quiet.
"What?" The burnt man grumbled his reply.
"Your name. Most men tend to have one…"
"Sandor," The burnt man answered with a huff.
"I am Willam," he bowed theatrically. "A pleasure."
"Are we talking or fighting, you cocky shit?"
Some people just had no appreciation for theatrics...
Aedan had stepped forward, holding out his sword and scabbard for Willam to take; that he did with thanks.
"As you wish," he threw off his dark fur cloak and slowly drew Aedan's fine castle-forged long sword from its silvery engraved scabbard, the blade made a hissing whisper as it was removed from the sheathe. All the while, Sandor was holding his opponent firmly in his gaze, only briefly eyeing Frostbite's pommel.
The question wasn't asked, but it hung in the air. Why not use the sword on his hip? Why take another's blade?
"This sword was forged to ruin," Willam patted Frostbite's pommel as if it answered anything. "It's not for you."
"You talk too much!" Sandor snarled at him and withdrew his own longsword.
"Stop me then," Willam was smiling as he fell into his footing.
Sandor rushed at him with a wide arching swing, only for Willam to dip and weave right as the burnt man slashed downwards.
Willam parried with a shriek of steel clashing that sent sparks flying into the air.
"Is that all you've got!?" He taunted, still smirking – even though Sandor had a slight height advantage and heavier armour; the man clearly hadn't expected his opponent to be this quick as Willam moved for an uppercut, attempting to catch Sandor from stem to stern. "Come on now, dear Burnt Knight! STOP ME!"
Sandor sidestepped to the right just enough for Willam's blade to pass a breath away from his scarred face.
"You talk too FUCKING MUCH!"
Quickly, before he could respond, Sandor punched his foe with a mailed fist; knocking the wind out of him for a moment.
"Very good," Willam managed a laugh through the sharp pain as he doubled backwards to get some space.
The blow had opened him up for another attack and Sandor closed the gap quickly – rushing forward.
"Watch out!" Robb could be heard shouting from the side-lines.
"Kill him Hound!" Joffrey screamed, making the audience anxious.
Willam jerked and dodged around Sandor's charge as he swung wide, putting him now directly behind the burnt knight.
There was a deafening BANG that turned to ringing as Willam's pommel smashed into the back of Sandor's helmet, using all of the prince's strength.
"FUCKER!" Sandor shouted, dazed as the left side of his face turned to pain and his vision blurred. But above all, he felt the force against his neck – as Willam had moved his sword over Sandor's arms and against his gorget, a position that left him no choice but to submit; or try his luck with a slit throat.
"Yield," Willam growled, his breath short and haggard. "Yield or die; but choose!"
Sandor thought about calling the man's bluff but looking back, he'd seen it in his eyes from the very beginning – the eyes of a killer – that much he knew very well. The blade pressed tighter against his gorget and all it would take is one sure motion to open his throat from there. This fight was over.
"I yield," Sandor grumbled, as he felt the blade immediately loosen.
"Well fought," Willam offered genuinely, mustering a smile. Sandor merely eyed the man with distrust.
The yard erupted into cheers from the northmen and stormlanders, as even some Lannister men clapped for the show.
"That was amazing Will!" Bran had rushed over, looking up at him like he was a god.
"Quite the show," Ser Rodrik admitted with a huff.
"That was fucking reckless brother!" Cregan had stormed over, scowling.
"I'm fine," Willam shrugged it off with a chuckle.
"You could've gotten gutted, idiot!"
"He was quicker than I expected, that's all…"
"Cregan is right," Aedan said with a frown. "You were being careless…"
Willam scoffed, even if he knew they were right. That punch had taken him unawares, and the man was far quicker than he'd expected.
"You lost!?" Joffrey screamed at his man as he walked over to the Lannister line. "Useless fucking dog!"
Sandor Clegane simply glared over at Willam, his eyes judging – though they didn't seem to hold any malice.
"Father will fear of this Clegane!" Joffrey was still scolding the man, even if he'd fought damn well.
Joffrey had long since turned scarlet red as he stormed from the courtyard to the music of all the Stark men in the yard laughing and cheering.
"The little shit might tell his father on you," Suko spoke, still in imperial – as he seemed to enjoy confusing the locals.
"Let him," Willam shrugged, uncaring. He doubted that Robert would care how he'd bested the boy's guard.
"Cregan is right." Edwyn seemed to agree, shooting a worried look as the crimson of the Lannisters vanished from the yard.
"He is royalty," Robb sighed worriedly, as if that were an excuse.
"As am I." Willam countered quickly. "Care to spar with a real prince, Robb?"
Robb smiled, shaking his head slightly in amusement. "Aye, but don't go easy on me!"
"Wouldn't dream of it," he replied honestly, handing Aedan back his sword.
He'd never considered himself the best of fighters, not truthfully, though he knew he'd been trained better than most back home – with no shortage of experience in his time – but Rodrik and Artos were beyond him; especially the latter. The family always said that Artos was born with a sword in hand.
Willam kept parrying Robb's blows and giving him the same tips Artos had once given him. Until a knight with a white cloak entered the yard.
"Willam Stark!" The knight spoke aloud, calling him by name rather impatiently. "His Grace demands your presence."
The knight spoke with grin. He was a Lannister; the golden hair a dead giveaway.
"Lead the way, Ser-"
"Jaime Lannister," He replied uncaring. "Who taught you how to fight? You were back there playing with Clegane, I could tell."
He'd been watching? Willam hadn't noticed the man present in the crowd at all…
"You give me too much credit Ser, my brothers are beyond me."
"You've many brothers?" The knight asked, digging for information.
Willam was happy to share, within reason. "I'm the fourth born, or fifth if you count Cregan."
"The grumpy looking one?"
He laughed at that. "Aye, that's the one."
It was a short walk to the great hall where King Robert had taken his seat.
"Your Grace," Jaime bowed stiffly to his king. "Willam Stark, as you requested."
Jaime left as the King waved him off without a word, leaving Willam alone standing before King Robert of the House Baratheon, and his furious looking Queen. "Willam," The king nodded at his drinking buddy from the previous night. "My son tells me you threatened his life, what's all this about eh?"
It seemed that little Prince Joffrey had already spun quite the fable to his mother.
"Prince Joffrey grew bored of sparring with wooden swords," Willam began, ignoring the Queen's glare. "He challenged Ned's boy to a spar with live steel, though Ser Rodrik forbade live steel and offered up tourney blades, only for the young prince to back down from his own challenge."
This was clearly not the story Robert had been told, going by his scowled expression.
"He processed to leave the yard, but not before hurling mockery at young Robb and House Stark."
"Are you going to sit there and listen to these lies?" Cersei demanded of her husband, clearly upset.
"My son claimed you called him a craven?" Robert was angry at the suggestion, although it seemed a hollow fury.
"I never called the lad such," Willam turned his gaze to the queen. "Although, what do you call someone that challenges another only to flee? Where I come from Your Graces, such an action would indeed not be considered an act of bravery. Where I come, guests also know better than to insult their hosts."
"He insults our son with every breath!" Cersei fumed, pointing an accusing finger as if it were a sword.
"He speaks truly!" Robert bellowed, his voice like a thunderclap. "Leave us women, I will speak to him alone..."
"I apologies for causing family strife, Your Grace." Willam said as the queen left in a rage, muttering curses and shooting a glare at him as she passed. "Your son challenged another, fled, hurled insults – so I issued a challenge of my own; and did not flee when Sandor Clegane was thrown to the wolves."
The king scoffed at the use of words, imagining a dog thrown to a pack of hungry wolves.
"If the young Prince feels his honour is wounded by this, perhaps he should name himself rather than a champion?"
Robert laughed loudly at the notion. "You'd kill the brat, and my wife would call for your head! No, there will be no duel…"
"So," Willam paused, raising an eyebrow in question. "What now Your Grace?"
"Call me Robert, damn it!" He snapped half-heartedly. "I'll be leaving tomorrow after a hunt, and you'll accompany me; understood?"
"Happily," Willam replied with a smile. "Can't pass up a good hunt…"
That seemed to cheer Robert up immensely. He didn't care for hunting as a sport truthfully, but it was clear Robert did.
"Lord Eddard will be riding with you I assume?"
Willam picked up a pitcher of wine and poured himself and the king a glass.
"Aye," Robert drank deeply and greedily of the wine.
"To the hunt then," Willam refilled the king's glass and held his own up for a toast.
Robert drank the wine, slamming it down on the table. "What will you do after? Planning on heading for home? Staying in the North, perhaps?"
Willam thought on it for a moment, deciding quickly. "I heard Lord Tyrion speak of traveling to the Wall. I've heard only tales of the place and would like to see if before I attempt to travel home, plus the dwarf seems a good traveling companion. Afterwards? I'm not certain, Robert."
"You'd be welcomed in the capital," Robert decided with another gulp of whine.
King's Landing? It might be worth a look, at the least – just to see city of that dragon king Torrhen Stark bent to all those years ago.
"I may just take you up on that offer Robert, if you'll have me and mine…"
"You bloody better lad!" Robert laughed, though turned serious quickly. "I need more good men down there Will."
"I wouldn't exactly call myself a good man," Willam remarked, sipping at his wine.
The king scoffed aloud. "You're a Stark – that's enough for me lad, and far better than a damn Lannister!"
"I'll drink to that then," Willam raised his glass up with a smirk.
It wasn't the worst excuse to drink, as far as excuses to drink went.
Note(s): Another long chapter. I made the creative decision to jump ahead two years here for a number of reasons (largely so Willam could've picked up the language and formed some bonds with the Winterfell starks) and ultimately, I've no regrets, the story works better this way. I'm not one to drag out world-building if it wasn't interesting to me or was done simply for more words added to my total :P and we've missed nothing that hasn't/won't be addressed in present or future chapters.
I gave Willam a flecking Direwolf, largely because "reasons" and I figured the gods were screwing with him again – as they have a tendency to do.
Willam fighting Clegane? I'd considered having Jaime step in to 'teach him some manners' but we'll have a showdown between those two sooner or later plus with him pushing Joffrey's buttons it seemed natural for the prick to call on his pet guard dog since Joffrey seems to believe Sandor is more or less unbeatable against most. For anyone thinking "Clegane is an amazing fighter though!" that's not particularly true, he uses his height and strength but Willam is 6,4 (that's My height btw :P using it for Will haha) to the Hounds 6,8 thus the height advantage is rather negated; and while Sandor is an experienced fighter – so is Willam – he's fought his whole life.
That said, I've an aversion to OP characters, so while he's talented; in a fair Will vs Jaime fight? The smart money would be on Jaime.
As chapters progress we'll see more small events that have larger consequences down the line. Butterfly effect stuff for ya.
Review(s): In regard to any/all comments about the naval situation in the previous chapter, I've added a "Naval Essay" to the bottom of Chapter 15 should you desire a more in-depth showing of what Asoiaf has on call in way of ships; and the drydock situation. Looking at you George Cristian810 ;)
N7withpride: Pretty much what you've stated, while their naval strength is indeed OP (just imagine how OP it would be with cannons) they're pretty massively outnumbered by the forces Westeros can call upon; with maybe an exception of the Iron Islands, that would just be screwed without assistance.
Tertius711: They're certainly not HBO Scorpions, no, those things defied the laws of physics not just against dragons but in the sheer force required to rip apart Dany's fleet like it did. The Shipwright has some pretty massive scorpions on its middle deck(s) though, that would cause massive damage; but as Will states, only if they hit. The majority of the Winter Fleet mostly has ballista on their upper-decks for anti-personnel – with some scorpions on the lower desks. That said, shit accuracy and low reload means they're designed for long-range volleys and to deter boarders. We'll sooner or later see how they work in practice when used in later chapters.
Mister LaGuardia: I considered them trying to steal/seize back the Seawolf but ultimately found it left too many plot-holes, as Jorg had been there for about a week already, the Redwyne's had practically seized the thing; so, it would be under guard. Any attempt would've resulted in bloodshed. Not worth it for one ship.
George Cristian810: I refer you (and others) to the "Naval Essay" at the end of Chapter 15 for reference to the naval state in Asoiaf for those interested in me rambling about the type of ships present and their historic counterparts. In regard to Jorg; the Seawolf belongs to House Seastark and is their property, with Jorg being the only Seastark across the sea (with no Starks nearby and the King far beyond reach) he could most certainly NOT be murdered. If his crew killed a noble of Stark blood (that he is, cadet branch or not) then the sentence would be Death as far as King Brandon's concerned. No self-respecting Islander would dare kill a Stark.
Arthur even states in the chapter that Jorg's mutinous crew will answer to the Prince for their decision to abandon their captain; treasonous or not – and lastly a note on the drydocks for those that don't wanna read through my edited essay ;) the long and short is: Just because someone says something, doesn't mean they're correct, and as Edwyn stated they "could be hiding em" even if Arthur doubted it (he has a shitty opinion of their ships and capabilities) it's common practice to do so.
My characters are flawed people. Arthur is proud and when it comes to ships, he can be rather arrogant and somewhat underestimates the Redwyne's.