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 17: Night Gathers
"Nothing scares so well as choice."
– Prince Willam Stark

The hunt had left at dawn. King Robert wanted wild boar at the feast for tonight, so they'd left early – taking Prince Joffrey with him in some foolish attempt to "turn the boy into more of a man" or so Robert had declared loudly for all to hear. Lord Eddard had gone too, taking Robb and Willam and his companions with him alongside Benjen Stark, Jory, Theon Greyjoy, Ser Rodrik and even the dwarf Tyrion Lannister had ridden with them seated in his odd saddle.

On the morrow they would leave for the south, but Bran had been left behind; even though he'd asked to come on the hunt.

That left him alone with only Jon and Rickon, but he was a baby, and his sisters were only girls while Jon and his wolf were nowhere to be found. Bran hadn't looked for them awfully hard, truly, he thought perhaps Jon was angry at him for something. But then Jon seemed to be angry at everyone lately and he was set to leave with his uncle Benjen to the Wall, to join the Night's Watch. Bran thought that was almost as good as going south with the king.

Robb was the one they'd be leaving behind, not Jon.

Bran could hardly wait to be off. He dreamt of riding south along the Kingsroad on a horse of his, not pony, but a real horse. His father would be Hand of the King and they were going to live in the Red Keep at King's Landing, the castle of the Dragonlords. Old Nan said there were ghosts there…

He wasn't afraid though. He'd be a knight one day; his father had promised so long as he worked hard enough for it.

"Fetch!" He threw a stick, but the pup seemed uninterested.

His wolfling was smarter than any of the hounds in his father's kennel and Bran would have sworn he understood every word that was said to him, but he showed truly little interest in chasing sticks. Willam had said how wolves were smarter than dogs, and that direwolves were extra smart.

Having seen how Aedan's wolf acted so intelligently, it seemed true enough to Bran.

"You stay here," he told his pup at the base of sentinel tree near the armoury wall. "Lie down. That's right. Now stay."

The wolf pup did as he was told and Bran scratched him behind the ears, then turned away; jumping up to grab a low branch, pulling himself up. He was halfway up the tree, moving easily from limb to limb, when the wolf got to his feet and began to howl.

Bran looked down. The wolf fell silent, starring up at him through slitted yellow eyes. A strange chill went through him them.

"Bran!" A voice called him, as the wolf broke its silent howl once again.

He knew that voice, and it was trouble…

"Bran!" She was stood at the base of the tree now besides his wolf and another too, as she looked up with her green eyes dressed in the usual lambskin breeches and sleeveless jerkin with bronze scales. "What are you doing!? You promised us you wouldn't go climbing anymore!"

Meera Reed and her brother had been close friends these last years, as his father's newest wards.

"I-" Bran gulped sheepishly. He'd never seen Meera upset, she'd always been so cheerful…

"Come down," She had a scowl on her lips as she looked up at him.

He did so, scurrying down the branches and landing on his feet to be greeted by his wolf.

"I would've been fine," He protected bravely, though avoiding her eyes. "You needn't-"

"I told you," She was still frowning at him. "My brothers dreams are never wrong!"

It hadn't been a day before the King's arrival that Jojen and Meera had dragged him aside to tell him of a 'dream' that Jojen had of a wolf falling from the sky and clouds, shattering its legs on the ground; only to fly back up beyond into a vast endless blizzard and never return. Bran had dismissed it as silliness.

Many had tried warding him away from climbing over the years, except for his father; who only said "don't let your mother catch you" before ruffling his hair and smiling while calling him a squirrel. Old Nan told him some story about a boy who climbed too high and was struck by lightning while Maester Luwin went so far as to build a small boy made of pottery dressed up in Bran's clothes. He flung the pottery boy off the walls, to demonstrate what would happen should he fall.

He'd been impressed by none of it. And yet, he didn't want Meera to be upset with him…

"It's real Bran," She scolded, almost seeming to read his thoughts.

"I've never fallen," He insisted. "Never. Not once!"

"You promised me Bran."

Gods, why did he feel so bad when she said that?

He'd promised his mother 'no climbing' before and never felt anything of it, so why did he feel sick?

"Brandon Stark!" Meera said with a huff, the older girl pouting at him.

She'd used his full name. That wasn't good.

"Come on, the King should be returning soon."

Bran took her offered hand even though his stomach was in knots.

His wolf seemed thrilled by these developments, bounding happily alongside its black furred brother.

"W- Would you like to visit the yard then, Meera?"

"Sure thing," She smiled at him. Bran didn't think that women were supposed to fight, truthfully; his mother and the Septa Mordane said as much – but Meera seemed to like it. She fought with a strange woven net and a long bronze knife or three-pronged spear. She'd beaten Theon once, when he mocked her for being so short.

Bran found himself smiling at that memory of Greyjoy on his arse with an utterly shocked expression on his face as the whole yard laughed and cheered.

Sometime later, everything was noise and confusion. Wagons were being loaded, men were shouting, horses were being harnessed and saddled and led from the stables. A light snow had begun to fall, and everyone was in an uproar to be off. "Uncle Benjen is looking for you two," Robb came walking up with his direwolf at his side.

"I know," Jon said. "Leaving is harder than I thought."

"For me too," Rodd said. He had snow in his hair, melting from the heat of his body.

Willam smirked at that. "Try sailing away into oblivion with everyone thinking you're gonna drown."

They all shared a laugh at that before Robb's face turned serious. "Are you sure about this Jon?"

"Aye," Willam looked to the boy. "It's never too late Snow…"

"There's honour to be at with the Watch. I've made my decision."

Robb didn't seem happy, but he smiled. "The next time I see you, you'll be all in black."

Jon smiled back. "It always was my colour. How long do you think it will be?"

"Soon enough," Robb promised. He pulled Jon to him and embraced him fiercely. "Farewell, Snow."

Jon hugged him back. "And you, Stark. Take care."

"I will." They broke apart and looked at each other awkwardly. "Uncle Benjen said to send you to the stables if I saw you."

"I have one more farewell to make," Jon told him sheepishly.

"Then I haven't seen you," Robb replied. Jon left him standing in the snow alone, surrounded by wagons and wolves and horses. Willam left to seek out Benjen in the stables and saddle himself a horse for the road. He looked forward to it, going to the fabled Wall was just another thing on his list of things to see.

"Stark," Willam addressed Benjen when he found him, securing the saddle on his horse.

"Stark," Benjen replied in kind.

"Jon will be with us shortly," Willam continued, picking a fine black destrier from the stable.

"He's a good lad."

"He'll do well, if it's his choice."

"Planning on joining yourself?" Benjen asked rather seriously, the thought frankly hilarious to the Wandering Wolf.

"Gods no," He burst out laughing and quickly realized he was being rude. "My apologies, I meant no offence, but there is far too much of the world I have yet to see and I've no plans to tie myself down to a single castle. Not for many years yet or at all if I have anything to say about it Benjen."

"I understand." The black brother said pointedly as he mounted up and left the stable. The ride to the Wall would be a long one and Willam prayed that Tyrion Lannister would be a more entertaining companion that of Benjen Stark, not that he had anything against the man; but he reminded him too much of Cregan.

The North seemed to go on forever, a far cry from home. They had left Winterfell on the same day as the king, amidst all the commotion of the royal departure, riding out to the sound of men shouting and horses snorting, to the rattle of wagons and groaning of the queen's huge wheelhouse, as the light snow flurried about them. The king's banners had turned south while Willam turned North with Benjen Stark and company, hoping for a smooth ride with no troubles.

Three days ride from Winterfell and the farmland gave way to dense wood, then the kingsroad grew lonely. The road veered north by northeast through the wood, a forest of oak and evergreen and black brier that seemed older and darker than the forests back home. "The wolfswood," Benjen Stark named it, and indeed their nights came alive with the howls of distant packs, and some not so distant. Lord Tyrion looked quite the sight, saddled to his small horse.

"I warn you, Lannister, you'll find no Inns at the Wall," Benjen said, looking down at the dwarf.

"No doubt you'll find some place to put me," Tyrion had replied. "As you might have noticed, I'm small."

"By the gods he's right, how could I have missed it!?" Willam feigned shock, gaining a few laughs from their party.

"You will not like the ride; I promise you that." Benjen said curtly, ignoring the jest.

By the end of the first week, it was clear that Tyrion was indeed not enjoying the ride, although to his credit not once did he give Benjen the satisfaction of complaining. "Why do you read so much?" Willam looked up at the voice as he'd been seated next to the dwarf for some time, having borrowed one of his books.

Tyrion answered the boy. "Look at me and tell me what you see."

Jon looked at him suspiciously, looking to Willam for some correction and finding none. "Is this some kind of trick? I see you, Tyrion Lannister."

Tyrion sighed. "You are remarkably polite for a bastard. What you see is a dwarf. You are what, twelve?"

"Fourteen," Jon corrected quickly.

"Fourteen, and you're taller than I will ever be. My legs are short and twisted, and I walk with difficulty. I require a special saddle to keep me falling from my horse. A saddle of my own design, you may be interested to know. It was either that or ride a pony. My arms are strong enough, but again, too short. I will never make a swordsmen. Had I been born a peasant, they might have left me out to die, or sold me to some slaver's grotesquery. Alas, I was born a Lannister of Casterly Rock."

Tyrion paused as if thinking on if he'd bother saying more. "My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind... and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge." Tyrion tapped the leather cover of the book. "That's why I read so much, Jon Snow."

Jon absorbed that in silence. "Willam reads a lot too, when he's not in the yard; he's with Luwin…"

Tyrion looked to his side. "That he does, it seems…"

Willam shrugged. "Why have one weapon sharp when you can have two?"

The truth was more complicated that that. He'd spent time with Luwin to learn the Common Tongue and found himself lured to the old tombs that rested untouched in Winterfell's ancient library, where he'd learnt a great deal more than the andal tongue – that was remarkable easier to learn than Imperial ever was.

Regardless, his choice of response was true enough an answer.

"What are you reading about?" Jon asked the dwarf.

"Dragons," Tyrion told him simply.

"What good is that? There are no more dragons," Jon said with the easy certainty of youth.

"History is important, Jon." Willam began as he closed his book. "Back home we are taught that knowledge is as important as knowing how to swing a sword. History teaches us the wisdom of people long dead and warns us about their failures. The dragons may be dead, but it was one of the first subjects I sought from Luwin."

Who wouldn't want to read about the creatures that had brought your ancestors to their knees?

He'd wanted to know why Torrhen knelt.

"Why dragons?"

"They brought the Kings of Winter to their knees," Willam said, absently scratching his direwolf pup behind his ear. It had grown to the size of a hound over the last month alone, though Wraith was still the smallest of his litter, all lean and nimble; a stark contrast to his littermates.

He'd survived despite the odds, this one – as Aedan liked to say; the wolf was akin to his new master.

"I used to dream of having a dragon of my own."

"You did?" Jon asked the dwarf suspiciously. Perhaps he thought Tyrion was making fun of him.

"Oh yes, even a stunted, twisted, ugly little boy can look down over the world when he's seated on a dragon's back."

Tyrion pushed his bearskin aside and climbed to his feet. "I used to start fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and stare into the flames for hours, pretending they were dragonfire. Sometimes I'd imagine my father burning. At other times, my sister." Jon was staring at him, a look equal parts horror and fascination. Tyrion guffawed. "Don't look at me that way, bastard. I know your secret. You've dreamt the same kind of dreams."

"No," Jon said, horrified. "I wouldn't..."

"I think that's uniquely you, Lannister."

"No? Never?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow at them both. "Well, no doubt the Starks have been terribly good to you Snow. I'm certain Lady Stark treats you as if you were one of her own. And your brother Robb, he's always been kind, and why not? He gets Winterfell and you get the Wall. And your father-"

"Enough," Willam interrupted the dwarf with a snarl. "Not everyone dreams of burning their sisters and fathers, Lord Tyrion – even with my own being less than a father – those dreams are uniquely yours and few others; so, make like most men, and keep your bloody demons to yourself."

"Very well," Tyrion said after a moments quiet, closing shut the pages of his book. "I believe I'll retire for the night."

"Sweet dreams," Willam muttered a reply as the dwarf left them by the fire.

Jon seemed wholly focused on the fire, staring into the flames as if they held all the answers.

"I used to go hunting with my brother," Willam decided to speak as Jon kept watching the flames dance.

"You don't usually talk about family," Jon hadn't taken his eyes off the fire as it began to flicker.

"No," He admitted with a hum. "Tonight though, it seems fitting."

"Why is tonight fitting?"

"You're running away…"

"I am not running!" Jon scoffed at the idea.

"It's not always a bad thing," Willam ignored the boys outburst. "So long as you run in the right direction."

"I'm not running…"

He looked at the boy and couldn't help the scoff. "At your age, do you know what I was doing?"

Jon shook his head, eyes gone from the fire to look at the man.

"I was running by fifteen," Willam said with a hollow smile.

"From what?"

"Family," The answer came with a frown. "My father, primarily – though they'd say it was duty I ran from."

Frostfell had ripped away all his innocence, all his childhood; really.

"You heard me tell King Robert about the Frostfell Rebellion?"

"Aye," Jon muttered, casting his eyes away.

"You don't approve?"

"It wasn't honourable. What did those innocents do to deserve that? The castle servants, the women and children?"

"Nothing," Willam sighed and poked the fire with a nearby stick. "Truly, nothing – but my father thought me dead in his anger, so he saw only an enemy."

"An excuse," Jon argued with a frown.

"Aye, but a good enough one; I say…"

Some part of him didn't wish to speak of this, but another didn't care anymore.

"My betrothed threw herself from a window in the siege, to die on the courtyard below."

The boy looked at him like he'd grown a second head or a damn tail of sorts.

"I hated my father for the longest time," Willam actually chuckled at it. "These last years though, since arriving here – I've realised that he was right – not about Frostfell, but in why I ran. On the surface it was as simple as anger at him; right or wrong, I didn't care. I just wanted to be gone."

"It's not like that with my father though…"

"Isn't it?" Willam doubted. "You don't hate him, I know – but does part of you not blame him?"

Jon's anger flared at that; you could see it in his eyes. To his credit the boy didn't look away this time.

"Well?" He pressed the boy. "Are you running because it's the right thing to do, or because you're afraid Snow?"

He scowled at him, eyes burning with a fire where there should be ice. "I am NOT running!"

"Nothing scares so well as choice," Willam once again ignored the outburst, even as the boy seemed half tempted to draw on his steel or swing a punch. "I can't give you the answers; but make sure that whatever choice you make now, to never look back – because some choices will haunt you – as many of mine haunt me…"

He got to his feet at that, looking down at the sullen bastard of Winterfell.

"I'll leave you with the fire. Perhaps it'll give you answers; but I doubt it."

He paused only briefly to look over his shoulder while lifting up the flap on his tent for the night. Jon Snow was sat quietly near the fire, his face still and hard, looking deep into the flames as if they might actually speak to him. Wraith was curled up warmly by the fire beside his white silent brother.

The courtyard rang to the song of swords. They all stood watching Jon Snow spar with other recruits as he went under one swing and countered with a sweeping blow that crunched against the back of the other boy's leg, sending him staggering. Another lad's uppercut was answered by an overhand that dented his helm and when he tired a side swing, Jon swept aside his blade and slammed a mailed forearm into his chest, causing his opponent to lose his footing and fall down hard in the snow.

Jon knocked his sword from his fingers with a slash to his wrist that brought a cry of pain.

"Enough" Ser Alliser Thorne had a voice with an edge of valyrian steel.

The boy on his arse cradled his hand. "The bastard broke my wrist!"

"The bastard hamstrung you, opened your empty skull, and cut off your hand. Or would have if these blades had an edge. It's fortunate for you that the Watch needs stableboys as well as rangers." Ser Alliser gestured at the two other recruits besides Jon. "Get the Aurochs on his feet, he has funeral arrangements to make."

Jon took off his helm as the other boys were pulling their friend to his feet. He leaned on his sword, drew a deep breath, and allowed himself a moment.

"That is a longsword, not an old man's cane," Ser Alliser said sharply. "Are your legs hurting, Lord Snow?"

"No," he replied with a shake of his head.

Thorne strode towards him, crisp black leathers whispering faintly as he moved. He was a man of some fifty years by best guess, spare and hard, with grey in his black hair and eyes like ships of onyx. The man was a harsh taskmaster indeed. "The truth now," he commanded of Jon.

"I'm tired," Jon admitted.

"What you are is weak."

"I won."

"No. The Aurochs lost."

One of the other boys sniggered and Willam shook his head at their show. The Watch had been one very large disappointment thus far and showed no signs of improvement. "That will be all," Thorne told them. "I can only stomach so much ineptitude in any one day. If the Others ever come for us, I pray they have archers, because you lot are fit for nothing more than arrow fodder." Jon followed the other recruits back to the armoury while Will and his party were approached by Thorne.

"Harsh methods," Edwyn said as he watched the bruised recruits leave the courtyard.

"Wall is a harsh place," Ser Alliser countered with a grunt. "I'm to make men out of these boys if they are to last more than a week."

"He meant it with the utmost respect." Aedan defended, as much like the Wall, the Islands back home were harsh at the best of times; where the winters were harsh and the lords harsher at times. "Isn't any use going easy of them if they're to learn. Life isn't a friendly thing…"

"Aye," Cregan agreed in so many words, keeping his thoughts to himself for now.

"You could lead better," Willam argued at the man. "Not all learn from a beating. You'll earn yourself more brutes than warriors."

"We don't have the luxury of pretty n timely training here, Stark. Not if we're to make rangers of them!"

Throne didn't seem to like the criticism, leaving in a huff as if they were beneath him.

They soon found themselves in the main hall where the brothers of Castle Black had gathered for food and drink, neither being plentiful or practically good. Stale bread and stiff ale for the most part. They found themselves across the table from the Lord Commander who was asking him a number of questions. "I'm curious," The old bear said. "How is it that the shipwright colonized the Islands? You claim your capital alone holds so many men and women?"

Willam answered, having returned from atop the Wall before the feast. "Well, when a man and a woman love each other very much-"

That had a few laughs from the table, although the Lord Commander merely shook his head. "The shipwright brought with him fighting men," Cregan rolled his eyes at his brother's jest and answered the question seriously. "Along with those men came their families, lowborn and high, any citizen of the North willing to risk it all for the promise of opportunity in a new land. In the years that followed Wrightport become the trade centre of the islands, home to more than just Brandon's people."

"Such a risk seems foolish." One of the black brothers at the table spoke, before returning to his drink.

"The North is large, many of the common folk having nothing to their name."

"And the nobles?" The old bear asked.

"Youngest sons of noble houses, out to seek their fortune and make a life for themselves." Willam answered that as he took a swing of his drink. "Frost, Ryder, Fisher, Stark and Flint to name a few. Those that made the crossing were given leave to spread across the archipelago and claim what they found."

"Under one condition," Aedan added. "That they found it first and shed no blood in the doing."

"There are Mormont's too," Willam added. "I thought you'd like to know that Lord Commander."

"Truly?" He asked, eyebrow raised. They were used to the reaction by now, of curiosity mixed with distrust.

"Aye," Willam assured the bear. "House Mormont of Long Island. Named after your family's sword if I am not mistaken, the island is modest but the Mormonts have pride of place in the fleet. Bloody fine sailors. My brother Edrik is married to a Mormont lass." The commander seemed content with the knowledge.

"And the others in the city?" Another asked curiously.

"The foreigners?" Willam asked, gaining a nod in return. "The first people we contacted had a small trade outpost on the islands, a part of a vast empire to the far south-east. It's largely thanks to them that we grew so quickly, as trade with the distant realm brought wealth, bodies and most importantly security in the knowledge that we'd found a powerful friend. Their outpost stands today as a large harbour with House Fisher's castle watching over it."

Mormont become more curious as Cregan went on. "How many swords can your people raise? If it's not too much to ask..."

He hesitated for a second, looking to Willam who shot him to cautious look. "Why do you ask?"

The old bear was quick to defend the question. "I meant nothing by it, simply curious. The Watch could use more men."

Edwyn almost laughed at the notion. "I doubt many would go celibate to defend a Wall on the other side of the world."

If the Lord Commander took offence to that he certainly wasn't showing it.

"I was thinking more of an agreement, should travel between our two realms become more agreeable."

"You want our criminals?" Willam guessed as much. It wasn't a bad idea actually.

"The Wall needs every man it can get."

"I'm uncertain if we can return yet alone if others could follow us here…"

"Arth is due to sail East isn't he Will?" Edwyn blurted out the question.

"East?" The old bear asked, rather confused.

"Aye," Willam nodded. "I've spoken at length with Winterfell's maester and compared maps, discussed old theories and such, but ultimately it seems plausible that if one sails far enough east then sooner or later you may indeed circle around to the west. Maester Luwin simplified it as going from one side of a ball to the other."

"Most interesting." The old bear said, accepting the information easily enough. "Should this prove true, my offer stands Prince."

An offer his father would likely take. A place far away to dispose of criminals where they'd serve some purpose.

"I have a question for you," Willam asked then, putting down his cup of ale – that tasted honestly dreadful.

"We've asked more than our share of you, ask away Prince Willam."

"Why did the Kings of Winter never annex the Wall?" His expression turned serious, the question taking all the brothers of the watch off guard. "Winterhold has its own standing force known as the Greycloaks, well trained, fed and housed for their service."

"Is there a point to this!?"

"Silence," Mormont barked at his man. "Let him finish!"

"I mean no offence," Willam assured the watchmen. "Yet the Wall seems in a sorry state with its restrictions and self-governance…"

"It's true we've seen hardship in recent years, but our neutrality keeps us out of the petty squabbling of lords."

"Without that then we'd lose countless recruits," One watchman added with a scoff.

"I'd give you a standing force," Willam argued with a shrug. "Pay the order with food and shelter for them and their families. Plenty would take the offer, surely?"

The Greycloaks worked in much a similar fashion, ran by House Greystark; men and even women were trained – swearing oaths of loyalty – many taking the role happily to feed their families through the winter. There were plenty of lowborn families in Wrightport that had served as Greycloaks for generations to the point some few had risen to become unlanded lesser nobles through service, merit and loyalty to Winterhold. They weren't true nobles, but it was an enticing prospect for many.

Rowana was one such example of a lowborn family sending their spare children to the Greycloaks in hopes of one day having their service rewarded.

The table was silent for a while as the crows thought on all that, until Alliser answered for them. "The Watch takes no part in the goings on of the realms, if we were to be under any single lordling, we'd be subject to their conflicts and the consequences of their actions. It would be the end of us."

"Forgive me, I grew up on tales of the Watch being far stronger than it stands now." Willam sighed, thinking it best to keep the thought to himself.

"Times are hard," The old bear agreed. It was no secret that the Night's Watch was at an all-time low, forgotten by most of Westeros.

"The Wall will endure," Allister spoke. "It always has."

"There is a first time for everything," Willam thought to himself privately. "Most of you can barely swing a sword, and you rely almost entirely on Winterfell's banners." He kept the vast disappointment to himself and remained at the table for a time, drinking and talking of home, before leaving the hall to prepare the horses.

Outside was cold and gloomy under the light snow that fluttered down onto their heads.

"Prince Willam." Jon Snow addressed the group, walking up with his head held high; looking Willam in his eyes.

"Snow," He said, looking right back at the boy. "Come to wish me farewell?"

"You're leaving." The boy stated the obvious to which earned him a nod. "Take me with you."

"Sick of the Wall already?" Cregan asked from atop his horse, looking at his fellow bastard judgingly.

"No one told me the Night's Watch would be like this; no one except Lord Tyrion and You…"

"Aye," Willam smiled sadly. "The watch is in a sorry state. That doesn't mean you couldn't make it better; as gods know they need help."

"Ser Alliser doesn't seem to think so," Jon spat with more anger than he'd intended. "I'm sorry... I-"

Willam waved off the apology. "Thorne is a puppy compared to the instructors I've had. His style is flawed, but a product of how dire this place is; I suppose."

"If he dislikes you," Cregan added. "It's because you're a bully."

"A bully?" Jon almost choked on the word. "They hate me because I'm better than them!"

"You humiliated those lads in the yard, doubtless they have never even held a sword before Thorne handed them one." Cregan countered with a frown, pausing to judge his reactions. They are likely afraid of you. I saw you in the yard before, it's not training with you. Put a good edge on your sword and they'd be dead meat; you know it, I know it, we all know it. Most importantly, they know it too Jon. You leave them nothing. You shame them. Tell me, does that make you proud?"

Jon hesitated. "They're all older than me," he said defensively, though refusing to divert his eyes.

"Older and bigger and stronger, that's the truth. Their fathers were farmers and wagonmen and poachers, smiths and miners and oars on a trading galley, none ever being rich enough to buy a sword." Cregan's look was grim. "So how do you like the taste of your great victories now, Lord Snow?"

"I-" Years ago, that title might have angered him – but years training under the Prince had seemingly beaten that out of him.

"I'm glad you've made your choice Jon."

"I didn't mean to-"

"I know," Willam dismissed it. "It's the past, so leave it there – understand?"

Jon let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Fetch our Lord Snow his horse, would you Ivar?"

"Aye," the man moved without a fuss.

"Welcome to the party Jon," Willam said with an oddly genuine smile.

"You'll live to regret it," Aedan added to the amusement of the others.

Jon managed a chuckle with them at that, taking his horse's reigns from Ivar before setting off from Castle Black with the Prince and his companions. Some time down the road, Jon wondered aloud why they weren't heading to Winterfell – only for Willam to state that their destination was White Harbour.

A week's ride from Castle Black had gone by with little fuss, the northern snows were light and refused to settle for long; often melting in the heat of their hair alone the further south they travelled. The party counted in the twenties. Willam, Aedan, Edwyn, Cregan, Jon Snow and a handful of Greycloaks, including Ivar and others Willam could name – having picked them for that reason. In his experience, knowing the names and stories of those following you was important for numerous reasons.

In part, knowing earned you respect; but more importantly showed character. It was often, though not always, harder to betray someone you knew.

Willam was dreaming of a great hall of twenty hearths lined with proud statues.

"Tapestries can rot, paintings fade; but statues stand forever."

The statues were all wrong. He didn't know any of these men, all wearing crowns; all faceless.

The voice had been more an echo than anything, as his eyes fell on the shadows standing bene the Throne of Winter.

"You can always change your mind," It was his mother, clinging to his younger self as if he'd vanish should she release him.

"No, he can't mother," Rodrik's shade told her sadly with a frown.

"The boats and lords are already prepared," Edrik added with a sigh. "It's done."

"Damn the boats," Queen Visanna's ghost snarled. "Just say the word and I'll-"

"I'm going mother," His own voice spoke, hugging the Queen; even as Willam's view overlooked the scene from the side-lines.

"Brave foolish boy," She smiled at him lovingly.

"That's enough my love," King Brandon's ghost appeared to pry his wife off his youngest son.

"I'll be fine mother," Willam's voice promised. "I always come back, remember?"

Queen Visanna smirked at that even as muttered silent words.

Rodrik had hugged him. "Stay safe, little wolf."

"I'm not so little brother," He'd scoffed at that.

"You'll always be little to us pup," Edrik added with a smile.

Artos had even clasped his shoulder and spoke "good luck" simply.

With that, the windows of the great hall shattered into a thousand pieces as an alien roar shrieked in fury and waves washed into the hall – submerging everything in blackness as the waters seemed to flood the whole of existence, Willam choked on it, the taste of salt and dread filling his lungs.

Air returned to him suddenly, washed up on a shore of stones and sand; blanketed with thick snow and the dark of night.

He saw a beautiful woman sprawled on the sand, naked and blue from the cold while five little men crawled over her, one pumping between her thighs, another savaging her breasts, gnawing at the nipples with his wet red mouth, tearing and chewing. She was screaming, but the five men didn't seem to care.

He drew his sword at the sight only to fall to his knees as three direwolves snarled and circled the dying woman.

One was coated in ice and blood, its eyes a striking sapphire blue.

The second was limping, angrier than its packmates; snarling fiercely.

Lastly one was burnt and scarred, its flesh ruined, its eyes embers.

Willam's eyes darted to his side, where a fourth wolf stared at him with a single emerald eye as he began to choke on blood. Stark sails appeared upon the horizon as his vision faded to black, sailing on a sea crimson with his blood. The fourth wolf stayed by his side as the other three ripped the five men apart.

He opened his eyes and sat up with haggard breath, a sharp pain in his chest; and a black direwolf pup looking at him curiously.

"What are you looking at?"

Wrath simply titled his head curiously.

Willam sat upright and rested up against the weirwood tree – his thoughts wandering through the odd dream.

"Nightmares?" Aedan walked by as the sun just began to rise behind him.

"Not at all," Willam denied with a poor smirk. "There were these three women and-"

"I don't need to know."

He laughed at his friend then, even as the thoughts plagued him.

They'd chosen a secluded clearing as their camp for the last night, being somewhere in the Sheepshead Hills as far as Jon had said, so with another week or so ride further south-west they'd cross the Broken Branch and arrive at White Harbour shortly afterwards.

Sunlight came streaming across the clearing and the shadows began to shorten.

"We should set out," Aedan spoke with a yawn. "Soon the others wake…"

Wraith had bounded over to play with Ghost, darting about his albino brother and nipping at his ears.

"Morning," Jon had awoken earlier than the others it seemed.

"Get your horse ready lad, we're leaving within the hour."

Flash growled then, a low thing; chilling as winter – he bounded over to Aedan and circled him.

"Something wrong boy?" Aedan knelt to stroke the wolf, but he only snarled.

Willam slowly took Frostbite from its runed scabbard of weirwood, drawing the pale sharp blade out with his gloved hand.

"Jon," He said low, his eyes on the treeline "Wake the others, now! Go!"

The wind blew and the horses showed their impatience. There were no birds singing now.

"Huh," Aedan heard the faint sound of rustling, drawing his steel in response as Flash growled at the treeline.

The dreaded sound of arrow shafts tearing the air was heard, as one greycloak was suddenly hit.

"AMBUSH!" Willam roared as several armed men charged from the trees.

He dodged the first blow swung at him, dunking under the wide arch and moving instantly to sever the fool's sword-hand at the wrist as if the man's flesh were silk. Not giving the attacker time to scream about his loss, Frostbite delved into the man's chest with great ease while a fine dagger sliced open his throat.

Kicking the man free from his blade, eyes darted around the clearing as Frostbite sliced clean into another of the attackers.

Jon had dispatched one easily before parrying another and cutting him down with a single thrust, and the man made a gargling sound as Jon withdrew the blade from his throat. Aedan had made his way to his prince in the meantime, cutting down one spearman fool enough to rush him.

"Take one alive!" Willam ordered, but most had already been slain – the damn fools.

"Will," Aedan grabbed his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, these idiots-"

"Wildlings," Jon said aloud, knuckles tight around his sword.

"So far south?" Willam scoffed, kicking lightly at a dead one with his foot.

"The Watch isn't what it once was…"

The reality of that appeared worse than the Lord Commander had admitted.

"Anyone hurt?" Willam asked. None of the dead seemed to be theirs.

"Genrik took an arrow," Ivar spoke up, his sword bloodied. "He'll live though…"

The attackers had only been about ten men in total, wearing fur and rags with swords and axes, apparently having expected to overwhelm some simple travellers by surprise. That hadn't exactly gone too well for them, as all but one or two had been cut down in a few quick brutal moments.

Jon Snow was knelt at one of their corpses and picked up a sword.

"Castle-forged," He muttered low.

"What is it lad?"

"The weapons," He pointed out, handing the blade out. "It's castle-forged…"

Wildlings didn't generally have steel. Bronze and crude iron were their tools. That was supposed to be the case, wasn't it?

"Must've stolen them," Edwyn remarks. He'd woken late and his sword was clean, the battle over before it even began.

"All of them?" Jon doubted aloud.

"Prince Will!" The call came from one of the Greycloaks.

He was by a tree, next to the bleeding body of a hunched over wildling.

"This one's still alive…"

"Good work Harrold."

The wildling spat in their general direction.

"Hello there," Willam knelt to the wounded mans level. "Who might you be, friend?"

The wildling refused to speak, scowling at him with hateful eyes.

"Speak," He commanded. The wildling laid against a tree, flirting with death. "Tell me who sent you and I'll spare your life, friend."

The man chuckled at the notion, narrowing his eyes. "Bastard promised us easy pickings," He muttered under his breath in common, low enough for Willam to be uncertain as to the words spoken. "I spit on your mercy," The man very literally spat on the ground, more blood than anything. "Nobody sent us to do nothin!"

"Liar, your steel is castle-forged." Jon walked up beside the prince; his eyes narrowed with Ghost at his legs.

The wildlings eyes spoke the words "shit" as his mouth muttered "We took them off the last bastards that crossed us!"

Willam casually held the tip of Frostbite to the wildlings chin. "Who sent you? I will not ask you again..."

"I-" The man hesitated and whatever thought crossed his mind seemed to change quickly, as if for a brief moment he thought to live – only to remember that living was somehow worse than dying here in this clearing. There was a fear in him. "You'll get nothing from me, piss off!"

So, there was something to get? Honestly, he'd been bluffing – but it seemed there was indeed more to this than met the eye.

"Your loyalty would be commendable if it wasn't fear that kept you." He knelt down to look the dying man in his eyes. "An effective tool, but men who bend to fear are not loyal. A man who succumbs to fear can easily learn to fear somebody else, yes? You should fear me, wildling."

"You don't scare me," The man managed to laugh in reply. "You and yours are all honour and justice, no balls to speak of!"

"Then you'll die braver than most," He scowled as he began the speech. "Honour is a thing for times of peace and justice, my dear wildling friend, is entirely subjective. You have committed high treason by attacking me; did you know? Where I come from the law might have you fastened to a hurdle and drawn by horse to the place of execution, where you'd be hanged almost to the point of death before being emasculated, disembowelled, beheaded and quartered. No less than you deserve."

"Q- Quartered?" The man asked, his voice weak, trying to judge if the stranger was being serious and weighing his options.

"It means your body would be chopped into four pieces, sent to corners of the country as a warning to others; or simply hung in a heart tree as an offering to the gods." Willam kept his face blank, for it was a bluff in truth, such punishment had only ever been performed once or twice in the history of the islands; at least to his knowledge. "I can think of few noble houses in the North that could install such fear in you, Bolton being most obvious given how close we are to their borders…"

The 'wildling' hadn't said anything or even blinked in a while.

"He's dead, Will." Aedan pointed out with a frown.

"He was just-"

"Wounds were deep," Cregan explained, prodding the limp wildling with his sword. "Wasn't anymore fight in him. We'll get no answers here..."

"Would the Boltons do this?" Willam asked, looking to Jon as the only native to this land.

It wasn't a wholly uneducated guess. They weren't far from Bolton lands, and none of the alternative lordlings would install such fear in men.

From his history lessons with Luwin he'd learnt a little about House Bolton, claiming how under the Dreadfort they kept the skins of their enemies. The truth of the matter could easily be a lie though, told by the Boltons themselves to instil fear in their rivals. The Dreadfort was only a few days ride north-east of them.

"Roose Bolton is my fathers banner," Jon sheathed his steel. "I don't think father likes the man; but why dress men as wildlings to attack travellers?"

It was a guess born of his paranoia, most likely; a thing that served to guide as much as it did misguide at times.

Willam wasn't sure. "Perhaps not then, frankly I couldn't say. Maybe if we'd taken one alive but…"

"We should head to White Harbour without delay," Aedan argued, clearly on edge.

"Aye," Willam was inclined to agree. They'd planned to stop at Hornwood on the way; but perhaps not now.

Jon's hand was shaking as he wiped away the blood on his castle-forged sword.

"Your first time?" Aedan noticed it first, eyes the young bastard with a raise brow.

The boy simply returned a nod and looked conflicted.

"It gets easier," Cregan added, passing by, as if it were the simplest of things.

"Lord Greystark," Jon asked the man. "I was-"

"Aedan," He waved it off. "It's just Aedan, I'm lord of nothing."

"I was wondering about Prince Willam's sword…"

"Frostbite," Aedan said the name with a frown as if it were some cursed word.

Jon hadn't ever seen the Prince use that sword, not once, not in the two years he'd been a guest at Winterfell.

"I've never seen a metal like that before."

"Pray you never see it again," Aedan said with a sigh.

Willam was already atop his black destrier, with the sword in its white runed-covered scabbard.

Jon couldn't help but wonder why the Prince didn't use that sword more often, as he'd never sparred with it; not even against Clegane before – yet it seemed inhumanly sharp – almost to the point it looked translucent at times; forged of a metal so pale that it seemed an icy white in the sunlight.

"It's a magic sword lad," Edwyn said with a barely contained scoff as he moved his horse forward.

"Ask him about it sometime," Aedan suggested as he mounted his horse. "Willam does love his outlandish stories…"

If the attackers were hired or simple wildlings was a matter of debate during the trip, though Willam knew he had a habit of being paranoid at times; usually men begged for their lives in the end. That wildling was either brave, stupid, or terrified of something other than dying. He'd seen the fear, and it wasn't directed at them.

The banners of House Manderly flew proudly above white stone walls as they arrived at the city of White Harbour.

"Prince Willam Stark?" A man in chain mail approached on horseback, wearing silver-coloured armour with engravings like flowing silvery seaweed. "Welcome to White Harbour, my lord bids I escort you and yours to the New Castle for a welcoming feast. If you'd come with us…"

"Lord Wyman dose us great honour," Willam had quickly recalled the name of the head of House Manderly.

"Marlon Manderly," The old knight introduced himself then.

"Relation to his lordship?"

"He is my cousin." He said plainly, stroking his grey bread for a moment. "This way if you please, Prince Willam."

It was a short ride to the proud and pale New Keep, seat of the Manderlys built atop a hill rising above the city's thick white walls. They entered the Merman's Court to find it decorated with banners, broken shields and rusted swords from ancient victories, and wooden figures from the prows of ships. It reminded Willam of the old banner of House Frost that still hung in Winterhold's great hall, as a reminder. "Lord Manderly," He respectfully bowed. "I thank you for your hospitality."

"Prince Willam," Lord Wyman smiled genuinely. "The honour is entirely ours; I assure you. It's been a far too long since these walls housed a Stark prince."

The fat mermen proceeded to introduce his sons, each almost as fat as he. His eldest son was named as Wylis and the second eldest Wendel, both bowing their heads in respect as Wylis motioned for his two daughters to present themselves to the prince. Immediately, Will felt he was being sold at a fish auction.

"Prince Willam," The eldest spoke first, a pretty thing for one with such a large family. "I am Wynafryd and this is my sister, Wylla."

"Prince," Wylla spoke after her sister. Unlike her sister's brown hair, she'd dyed hers garish green, but left her eyebrows their natural blond.

"A pleasure to meet you both," He offered an uncaring smile. "Your city reminds me greatly of home, the smell of the sea is a welcome thing."

They seemed to devour the praise gladly, even as the eldest granddaughter giggled with her handmaidens when he'd glanced in her direction.

"Forgive my brother," Cregan hit Willam over the head half-heartily. "He'll gladly sail into the sunset but forgets to introduce his companions…"

"Apologies," Willam nervously laughed, shooting daggers at his brother. "I admit I am quite out of sorts; we had some trouble on the road."

"Oh?" Lord Manderly seemed to grow serious at that.

"Wildlings," He confirmed with a shrug. "Using castle-forged steel not far from Hornwood."

This lord was a fine art at hiding his expressions, but Willam often found the eyes spoke loudest, and for the briefest moment Manderly had a flash of fury – strange for a man so large, but he seemed genuinely angered by the news. "We've had increasing reports of activity of late…"

He wasn't telling them everything, but really; it wasn't any of their business at the end of the day.

"My brother," Willam opted for the introductions. "Cregan Snow, the Bastard of Winterhold and my Honoured Shield."

"He made up that last title," Cregan scoffed, bowing to the lord. "Our thanks for your generosity, my Lord."

"Welcome then Prince Snow."

There was no malice in the man's use of that title.

"My brother-in-arms and battle, Aedan Greystark."

"Greystark," Lord Manderly hummed. "Ned mentioned you in his letter, and Wright was addiment as to your loyalty – so I welcome you Ser."

Aedan bowed nice and low for the lord, speaking his thanks.

"Edwyn Fisher, you've already met I believe?"

"Lord Wyman," Edwyn was smiling at the man.

"Fisher! Welcome back lad, welcome!"

There was one among them yet to be introduced.

"And lastly," Willam smirked the boy whose eyes went wide. "Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell."

Jon bowed respectfully and to his credit did not seem to flinch at his title.

"My lord," He said clearly. "An honour. My father speaks very highly of you."

Lord Manderly beamed at that praise. "Any son of Ned's is more than welcome in my hall Jon Snow, far more than welcome!"

Willam found this fat lordling was beginning to grow on him. He was cheerful, gracious, friendly and beyond loyalty to Ned Stark by all appearances; even welcoming Jon with open arms despite his bastardry. If one ignored his clear intent to try tie his granddaughters to a Prince, then he seemed quite already in Will's book.

Wynafryd Manderly sat in clear view across the table from him at the feast to come, in a pretty low-cut silver-blue dress that flowed like seaweed.

The feast was quite something, however. Oxtail soup, summer greens with pecans, grapes, red funnel and crumbled cheese, hit crab pie, spiced squash, and quails drowned in butter. They'd not eaten so well since King Robert's visit to Winterfell, as the Manderlys had spared no expense hosting a feast fit for royalty. Cregan and Jon sat to either side of Willam at the table while Edwyn talked to Ser Marlon about the state of The Wanderer. Lady Wynadryd sat across the table, giggling with her handmaidens when Willam once again caught his sight lingering in her direction, causing Cregan to roll his eyes at the spectacle before returning to his food.

Wraith and Ghost were going from chair-to-chair hunting for scraps of food from friendly guests as Flash sat patiently at Aedan's side.

"How is the food Prince Willam?"

"Devine my lord," He replied honestly enough.

"You must try the pie; it's to die for!"

Willam honestly preferred the quails. Anything really, to avoid the overwhelming number of fish dishes.

"Will," Edwyn's voice grabbed his attention. "Arth hasn't bloody left yet!"

Arthur was still here? Odd, he should've left weeks prior…

"That is my doing I fear," Lord Manderly said sheepishly. "I asked your man to stay on for longer, if he could manage – just until my shipwrights were more accustomed to his methods you see – it was of the utmost importance. With him set to leave, I wished to-"

"No need to explain," Willam waved the excuses away.

"Ain't nobody could've kept Arth staying if he didn't agree," Edwyn reckoned with a mouthful of pie.

"He's free to decide upon his own timing," Willam could agree. "He has my leave, but they're not orders Lord Wyman."

"Ah," The fat lord hummed in thought. "Good, that's good – I'd hate to have inconvenienced the man! He's been a great help!"

"We'd thought to offer him a knighthood as thanks," Ser Wylis added with a sip from his glass of golden wine.

"A knighthood?" Edwyn looked surprised by that.

If he accepted was another matter entirely. Willam doubted the man would.

"Again," he smiled at the lord's heir. "Arthur is free to do as he wishes; but our people hold no knighthoods past the Sunset."

"Yes, yes, proper old northmen! Ned spoke very highly of you all."

"We are newer arrivals ourselves you know," Ser Wendel spoke then, looking to his father to continue.

"Indeed," His father was quick to spin the tale. "You may not know, my friends, but our own house came to the North as guests; just as You do now!"

Willam had read all about that in his research on the fates of House Greystark and Ryder but let the fat lord tell his story.

"Up from the Reach we came," he continued gladly. "Unfairly exiled by a tyrant who sided with the rogues of House Peake in fear of my houses growing influence, we were forced to abandon our ancient home of Dunstonbury some thousand years before the Conquest!"

"We found ourselves friendless and in fear for our lives," Ser Wylis jumped into the story.

"Until the good Kings in the North granted us asylum!"

"They gifted us the Wolf's Den," Wylla was happy to finish the story, as the younger of Manderly's two granddaughters; she seemed to have a love with the tale. "House Stark took us in and nourished us and protected us. This city is built upon the land they gave us and in return we swore that we should always be their men."

Her father beamed with pride as she spoke, as did her grandfather.

"True to Our Word," Lord Manderly said proudly to the echo of his kinsmen.

Willam could admire that level of loyalty. The old King's in the North had been wise to raise them up, even on the bones of the Wolf's Den.

The name of the Stark who decided upon letting the Manderly's settle was lost to the history books, or at least he'd not been able to find any mention of the king I question; but decisive to say, the loyalty of House Manderly was seemingly beyond reproach.

"To the Starks of Winterfell," Willam decided to raise a glass to that.

Lord Manderly was all smiles and eagerness.

"To the Starks!"

"Winterfell!"

The hall cheered and drank deeply at that, as small talk returned and Willam's mind wandered absently to his plans.

Come the morning after the feast, they're set sail for King's Landing; then it was off to see the rest of Westeros from there – or so Willam planned – while Arthur would set off from White Harbour not long after their own departure, it was Cregan Snow's decision to join the man instead of his brother.

"You're leaving?" Willam asked his brother, somewhat confused.

"You'll manage," Cregan had shrugged. "Wright needs some nudging, and father will want my account of things here."

An excuse if he'd ever heard one.

"Wright could report well enough Snow."

"He hasn't seen Winterfell or spoken to Lord Stark; or the Night's Watch neither."

"You've never stopped shadowing me willingly before," Willam could only laughed; though it was hollow.

Cregan had been tasked with keeping an eye on him ever since he'd returned from the damn Outlands all those years ago.

"Father never commanded me to follow you," Cregan sighed in denial.

That was- wait, what?

"What!?"

"I offered," Cregan scoffed. "Is it so hard to believe?"

It was. Then again, King Brandon had never specifically said he'd forced Cregan to do anything…

"You're not a boy anymore little brother."

"So be it," Willam sighed. "I just-"

"I know," Cregan shoved his little brother lightly.

"Stay safe then…"

"What is it you always say?"

"I always come back," Willam scoffed this time. "As in Me, not You dear brother."

"And yet here I stand very much alive. I fear your antics have rubbed off on me Will."

"It can only possibly be an improvement Snow," He'd told his brother.

The Wanderer and Sunwright set sail after, going their separate ways.

My Note(s): I'm going to write a quick summery on the key differences between 'Useful' criticism and 'Useless' criticism. Churchillwaswrong's comments Vs George Cristian810's as our example, while I welcome all comments, the latter's is poorly structured (a difference in language may excuse this, but often doesn't) while being full to overflow with factually incorrect or outright confusing statements that after two reviews of the same low quality; mean I'll likely ignore this individual now. Compare this to the formers (Church's reviews) that've actually been written in a way that's at least competent ;) expressing valid criticism/concerns that I am happy to read n address – so at the end of the day it's not hard to see what one of these two's comments I'd read and go "this looks like it's written by an at least mildly sane individual!"

With that outa the way, two big divergences from canon here. Jon Snow isn't joining the Watch thanks to Will's efforts over the last two years making him more confident and skilled while Bran is scolded down from the climb that would've crippled him if the Reed children weren't present as wards in Winterfell. #OldGodCheats :P You'd be surprised (take a second to really think about it) how many events hinge on Bran falling. If Bran doesn't fall, a whole lot plays out differently.

It's actually rather interesting how much of the story as we know it hinges on Bran's being pushing outa that window by Jaime.

George Cristian810: I'm not sure if it's the language differences but you seem to be upset and confused. Are you hungry? Try eating a snickers, you're not you when you're hungry. Really though if you have legitimate questions, PM me; because your reviews come across as the ramblings of Aerys Targaryen on an off day.

Eragonflyer: I'm not usually a fan of changing canon character personalities drastically – though Robb may be changed/learn from time with Willam, because he's still youngish – people like Ned are set in their ways. I wouldn't call Ned stupid however, hindsight is a bitch, the man was naively expecting others to hold to the same moral standards as him. He has this mentality thanks largely to Jon Arryn installing a 'knightly sense of honour' in him to the point it became a weakness, but Ned was still smart enough to not trust Roose Bolton or do many of the mistakes that Robb made later on; like freeing Theon for example. Robb tried too hard be who he thought his father was and that perceived image of the 'perfect honourable lord' would end up leading to numerous errors in judgement that ended up getting him killed.

In regard to asking Willam's people to stay on the West coast, that wouldn't have worked; and Will wouldn't have agreed to it. For a start, it's only 2 ships, heavily battered from the storms with nowhere to dock n repair properly (the West doesn't have much in the way of decent dockyards) that couldn't have defended against an Ironborn invasion by themselves and aren't obligated to do so either. It far more productive to help them safely to White Harbour where they can assist building new ships, increase trade, prosperity; then down the line use that increase in fortunes to plan a proper town/port on the West shore and eventually build a fleet there to defend it.

It's the "teach a man to fish and he'll eat forever" deal really. As for settling, doubtless some will stay in the North; as many joined the voyage to start a new life.

Churchillwaswrong: I take your point but have to disagree with how 'Westeros has better fighters' based on the fact that the Sunset Islanders fairly frequently fight for the Empire (they've taken a lot of inspiration from them too in how their military is ran & trained) plus Piracy and Proving's (basically Melee's but just not Jousting) and duelling is a pretty common practice to settle disputes where Will is from too. If stuff hasn't been flushed out yet, it's all very much planned n set in stone somewhere in the next 70+ chapters that I've got laid out ;) – so ultimately beating the Hound isn't all that impressive for a man that's almost the same height as him and is arguably more experienced fighting 1v1. Sandor wasn't trained by anyone special either, he's just a big strong guy with a sword and isn't even that tall compared to Willam. I made Will to be My own height in reality too. Artos/Rodrik is 'better' in Will's eyes but really only Artos is better – because he's quite older and more experienced n didn't spend half his life running away off on adventures. Artos wanted out of the family shadow too just like Willam did, but he went about it differently.

It's not your fault at all for the 'better fighters on average' idea but trust me, isn't the case :P it's all planned out I assure you. I've 70+ chapters plotted out so its one of those gotta wait and see situations, tho I still appreciate reading people's thoughts :) I can't promise it'll make Everyone happy, but such is life.

I really wouldn't say Willam is OP. The guy is, just for a start, mentally unstable as hell; with SO many other flaws – but that'll continue to be explored.

In regard to divergences, I agree. A big drive behind the rewrite was flushing out things n having a lotta 'realistic' changes have actual consequences. I can't promise the Red Wedding won't 'happen' – cos a lot needs to happen for me to feel that's not cheap – but Will has had 2 years with Robb to know him better plus he isn't the same guy from the old story; though Jon spends far more time with Willam than Robb ever does, so you'll see a lot more change in behaviour there than you would in Robb's character. Generally speaking though, you'd be best forgetting the old story as it honestly has truly little to do with this rewrite outside of the basic Sunset Island concept. I never ignore reviews either, incredibly happy to read them, so long as they're well thought out and not just rude. I'm a fan of people acting like adults :)