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 23: Paranoia
"You carry your father's name now."
– King Brandon the Breaker
Cats were vain beasts, he'd been taught; even cruel – as was the case with this cat, with its black fur and torn ear – pawing gracefully through pools of Lannister and Baratheon and Stark blood staining the floors of the Red Keep. Bran could feel the creature's malice, its anger, its fire burning against the darkness.
She'd told him not to dive too deeply into the mind of this one, but Bran was curious. What could one peak hurt?
It fought him for every inch with tooth and claw, snarling as he delved into the dark recesses of its memories – just as Lyarra had taught him – through now he delved where he ought not to; as a little girl's laughter broke through the darkness and brought light, sun, warmth, happiness.
The distant sound of swordplay and the shivery wail of screaming in pain heard from across the bailey faded as he pushed into the memory.
"Weee!" The girl of barely three or four years was playfully holding the cat up in the air, laid back on her bed with the biggest smile on her face as she played.
The cat was no more than a kitten now; with clean silky black fur, mowing at the girl as it landed on her and purred.
"See," The girl giggled at her kitten. "You can fly! I said so!"
"Hello sweetheart," another voice spoke from the shadowy doorway.
Bran couldn't make out the woman's face. She was beautiful, slender, with black eyes and smooth olive skin.
"Having fun darling?" She walked over to the bed and sat at the girl's side.
"He flew!" The girl declared happily. "Wanna see mummy!? Wanna!?"
The girl's mother laughed. "Of course, sweetie, but do be careful with the poor kitty."
"I'd never hurt Bale," The girl vowed, hugging the kitten close.
The room shifted then, as the shadows grew long, and all the joy faded from the world.
"They won't hurt you," the girl was muttered, whispering; with the kitten held close to her chest.
Bran could hear the faint sound of swords clashing in the distance, and a woman's screams – so loud and haunting as they were.
"They won't," the girl was crying, clutching onto the kitten for dear life. "T- They won't hurt you… I'm a dragon, father said so…"
They were under a bed, Bran realised; it was dark and cold.
A door opened to the room.
"T- They can't hurt us…"
"Princess?" A voice called out, his voice high and thin.
The girl bravely peaked out from under her bed then, catching a glimpse of the trespasser.
Bran could see his face clearly. He was a stout man with a piggy face and little pig's eyes, grinning widely as he spotted the girl beneath her bed.
"Come on out Princess," the man's voice was laced with malice.
"No!" The girl shouted, darting back under the bed. "I'm a dragon! LEAVE!"
"Stupid little shit," the man knelt, grabbing the girl by her wrist and pulling her out.
Bran watched through the kitten's eyes, having been dropped from the girl's arms; he saw her dragged out – kicking and screaming at the pig-man as he snarled and barked words fouler than Bran had ever heard. There were others present, in red cloaks, but Bran could not see them; far back as they were.
"NO!" The girl screamed, clawing at the man. "I WANT MY-"
The knife punched through meat and muscle with ease.
"I-" The girl sputtered blood. "P- Plea-"
She was dropped at the bedside then, where the knife fell on her again.
"M- Mu-" The man stabbed her over and over. Again, and again and yet again.
Her eyes were locked onto the kitten now, that was huddled under her bed in terror.
Light left her onyx eyes then, even as the man continued to stab at her half a hundred times; clothes drenched in blood.
Bran was ripped from the dream as the world twisted and violently threw him out and back into the waking world. He awoke with short breath and fresh tears down his cheeks, unable to stop himself from sobbing in the darkness. He cried, even as Summer licked and nudged him.
"Her eyes," he muttered, unable to halt the tears.
Gods, why had he looked!? Who was she!?
"You hear that?" A voice asked, muffled; but close.
Bran's sobbing ceased as his hand shot up over his face.
"I could swear I heard-"
"You hearing shit again Deric?"
"I don't hear things," the voice argued. "I swear I-"
"Oh bugger off," the other man scoffed.
Bran slowed his breathed. Summer silently bared his fangs, his breathing low.
"Stark's are hauled up in the Tower you idiot."
There were others laughing at the man now.
"I know that for fucks sake, but I swear I-"
"Come on, we're on duty for fuck's sake; you don't want the Kingslayer catching you slacking off mate!"
"Alright, damn it," the man sighed. "Could've sworn I hear something…"
The voices wandered off after that and Bran sighed in relief. Summer nudged him again.
"The Tower," he thought, eyes locked onto Summer; who seemed to understand, willing him to move.
The cat had been his ears up until now, having returned from his exploring the tunnels to the sound of clashing steel – he'd reached out for what he could find; latching onto a cat prowling through the blood. Bran's mind was a rush of emotions as he stumbled through the dark tunnels; but Summer kept him calm.
His father was in the Tower. They must've meant the Tower of the Hand. Bran knew it well, better than the other tunnels even…
The tower's private audience chamber was not as large as the king's, but it had Myrish rugs, wall hangings, and a golden-tinted round window that give it a sense of intimacy. Or at least, it used to; as Bran looked through one of the multiple tiny holes littered throughout these wall-tunnels.
"They're hauled up good Ser," one man was speaking, Bran saw through the spyhole.
"We'll storm them," Jaime Lannister said then. Bran knew the knight, in his golden armour and white cape now stained with blood.
"Is that wise Ser Jaime?" The redcloak dared to ask. "Would it not be safer to-"
"Are your men incapable of going up some stairs?"
"N- No, Ser, but we'll lose men if we-"
Ser Jaime looked angry and very impatient.
"The second Clegane gets here with the others, we're going in – understood?"
Bran backed away from the wall then, frowning. His father was up those stairs…
Summer looked up at him before padding down the tunnel. It was dark, as he hadn't his torch; though his eyes had adjusted well to the darkness – the wolf remained his ever-faithful guide. Summer had no issue finding his way through the tunnels no matter how pitch black they man be. Bran kept a hand on his fur at all times.
The entrance to the well had been to the left, so Bran went right. Part of him wanted to run, but knights didn't run. He heard the faint squeaking of rats and glimpsed a pair of tiny glowing eyes on the edge of another tunnel entrance, but the rats fled from Summer; scurrying away as fast as their little legs could take them.
Bran remembered the crypts at Winterfell. They were a lot scarier than this place; he'd found.
He was only a baby then, no bigger than Rickon; but he could remember the stone faces of the Kings of Winter, with their wolves at their feet and their iron swords across their laps. Robb had taken him all the way down to the end, past Grandfather and Brandon and Lyanna, to show them their own tombs. Sansa kept looking at the stubby little candle in Robb's hand, anxious that it might go out. Old Nan had told her there were spiders down here, and rats as big as dogs. Robb smiled when she said that.
"There are worse things than spiders and rats," he whispered to his sister. "This is where the dead walk."
That was when they heard the sound, low and deep and shivery. Bran remembered clutching at Arya's hand.
When the spirit stepped out of the open tomb, pale white and moaning for blood, Sansa ran shrieking for the stairs, and Bran wrapped himself around Robb's leg, sobbing. Arya stood her ground and gave the spirit a punch. It was only Jon, covered with flour. By the gods how he and Robb had laughed and laughed.
"You stupid," Arya told him, "You scared baby Bran," but Jon and Robb didn't stop laughing, and pretty soon Bran and Arya had laughed too.
The memory made Bran smile, and only served to boost his courage. He had to find his father; no matter the cost. His footsteps sent soft echoes hurrying ahead of her as Bran plunged deeper into the darkness and it wasn't long before they found the iron gates, entering the 'dragon chamber' that led to the stairs he needed.
He and the wolf climbed and climbed, up and up, until voices came into hearing.
"…bleeding…"
They were distance and muffled.
"…his mother…"
That was his father's voice! He was alive!
Bran hurried then, past Summer; as he knew these steps very well.
"You've drank it all?" The voices were clearer now as he drew closer and closer.
"If we're going to die here," Edwyn Fisher replied. "I'm not doing it sober, ya hear?"
This wall was the wall to some chambers. Bran then it, and he knew that… just here… there was a button…
Captain Allar Deem's neck had been sliced through like a hot knife through butter, without any man so much as blinking before Prince Suko's razor-sharp curved blade flashed from its scabbard to cut the man in-between two beasts of a heart. That was the signal, as Allar's head slid off and his body fell limp, the slaughter began.
Those few Goldcloaks that had followed their captain onto the deck were filled with so many bolts that they appeared more porcupine than human.
Qrow had dispatched one with an axe to the skull, while Ashlyn pulled her blade loose from one man's gut; kicking his corpse back onto the deck.
Syrio Forel had stabbed at several with surprising speed, his thin rapier punching holes in the gaps between steel breastplates.
Prince Suko stepped forward in an instant, cutting down one, two, three, four as they fell at first to crossbow bolts from the upper deck.
"W- Wait!" One such man begged, fallen onto his arse; his chest filled with three bolts – bleeding out over the deck.
"No," Suko slashed his throat before sheathing his blade in one fluid motion.
Jon Snow bloodied his steel, severing one Goldcloaks hand at the wrist and cutting his throat with a backswing.
At the same time, a shout of "Fire!" rang out from Genrik; loud and true – as portholes opened up all along the second desk of the ship's hull to reveal serrated bolts; pointing straight at those Goldcloaks left on the pier, releasing and crashing into men and pier alike with such force that flung several Goldcloaks into the water.
"Aaargh!" One man screamed as a ballista impaled them and send him tumbling backwards into his friends.
What men were on the pier had either been struck down by projectiles, fell into the harbour; or fled like cowards.
Stark men fired flaming arrows at the nearby galleys, lighting fire to their sails with volley after volley; striking what was within range.
"Raise anchor!" At a moment's notice, the ramp to the pier – or what was left of the now ruined pier – was dropped as the Wanderer pushed away.
The Bells of King's Landing were ringing as they pushed out into the Blackwater Rush. The King's Dock was aflame, as several galleys caught alight.
"The wind is with us," Genrik muttered as the crew kicked the Goldcloak corpses overboard after taking their weapons.
"Willam isn't," Suko frowned. This was one of those 'worst case' scenarios he'd conjured, clearly – for once the man's paranoid doubts had come in handy.
The best plan had been to leave the capital days ago, but Ned Stark had refused. The next plan was to when they'd taken the whelps, but Ned Stark had refused. Willam, for all his talk of not trusting men; just trusted this Lord Stark to a degree – even as he plotted his 'worse case' scenarios out…
Paranoia was a blessing as much as it was a curse, for seeing every possibility often made the truth harder to discern; not easier.
Who was to say if your doubts were grounded in reality, or if you were simply overthinking the issue?
"We're leaving!?" Jon stood with his sword out; the white wolf at his side – with a mouth as red as its eyes.
"Are we?" Suko said with a raised brow. "Yes, it would appear so Snow…"
"My father is back there!"
"As is my friend," Suko's reply whipped the boy.
The bastard stared at him, his wolf baring its fang in a silence growl.
"We're to linger for as long as is safe," Suko explained, uncaring for the wolfs threats.
"We need to go back!" Jon was furious, taking to pacing back and forth on the deck.
"A fine idea Snow, but how do you intend to take on what appears to be the whole City Watch?"
"I'll-" Jon frowned, thinking; grasping for some logical plan. "I don't-"
"-know?" Suko hummed. "Neither do I – so please tell me if you discover a better plan Snow…"
Sitting and waiting wasn't exactly Suko's first choice, but such was the plan. In the event of betrayal – such was the assumption – Willam would doubtless made an escape from the Red Keep and; if all went according to 'plan' he'd head for the River Gate and the Blackwater Rush. To them. If all went to plan…
Things never did however, so Suko was on edge; for all his theatrics – he worried for his friend.
"And if they don't show?" Jon asked. "Or, if the Goldcloaks send ships to catch us!?"
Then they'd be left with no choice. Willam's words were clear as the dawn…
"We flee," Suko explained with a firm glare at the boy. "To your father's friends at Dragonstone."
Stannis Baratheon was as safe as best as any, one assumed – unless they could sneak past and shoot straight for White Harbour.
"I will not run," Jon refused; shaking his head at the mere concept.
"You'll live boy," Suko scowled at the young fool. "I'll knock you out myself if I must – but I will not allow you to kill yourself."
Ghost snarled at him then, an odd silent growl. The beast had been named well…
"Your overgrown puppy doesn't scare me Snow."
"He's not a-"
"You're upset," Suko didn't let him finish. "I understand, but throwing your life away won't help anyone…"
"I-" Jon frowned, his anger fading as ice froze over his burning blood.
"Calm yourself," Suko said with a frown. "Willam is family, blood or not – we are alike You and I."
Snow refused to lower his head, but he'd calmed some.
"You'll tell me if there's news," he said, more demand than question.
"You shall be the first to know Lord Snow, on this much I give my word."
With that, Jon sulked away to the cabin that held his sisters; the silent white wolf in his shadow.
Above the Wanderer, an eagle still circled the masts; occasionally perching – ever vigilant and patiently waiting for its master.
"Jon!" Arya tackled her brother when he entered the cabin, a spatter of blood on his clothes.
"Is everything okay?" Sansa asked, her eyes red and sour from crying as she stroked Lady's fur for courage.
"Everything is fine," Jon promised with his best smile, trying to muster one as he'd seen Willam do time and time again.
Arya scowled at him, seeing right through it.
"O- Okay," Sansa said with her head lowered, far more trusting, she clung to Lady.
"Where's father?" Arya asked, eyes narrowed. "Bran, Willam? What about them?"
"I-" Jon sighed. "I don't know Arya, but father has good men with him – they'll be okay. Prince Suko says that they'll be joining us soon."
"But we've left the docks," Arya said with uncertainty.
"Yes, but we'll linger till father returns."
Jon wasn't sure how long they could manage that, truthfully – even with the fire…
Arya was frowning, visibly upset as doubts beset her. "How did they know where we were?"
Jon didn't have an answer to that – other than dumb luck; or something… he didn't know…
Sansa was mumbling incoherently into Lady's fur. The wolf seemed happy enough to act as her cushion.
"What if father doesn't return…"
Jon looked at his little sister then, who was acting braver than most her age would.
"We'll come back for him," he swore. "The Lannister's wouldn't dare harm Lord Stark; he's the Lord of Winterfell..."
"Yeah…" Arya hummed, eyes downcast, clutching a scruff of Nymeria's hair.
There was doubt there, fear, anxiety. Jon honestly didn't know what else to say to help either of his sisters.
He thought a prayer there and then, calling on the Old Gods – or any gods that would listen – to keep his family safe.
They'd been held up in the tower for little under an hour now. The Lannister had made two separate attempts to storm this floor and paid a heavy price for it, though they'd lose a handful of their own men – each time they'd pushed the enemy back. It wouldn't last though. Time wasn't on their side.
Aedan was handling a bundle of blood-soaked rags, tossing them into a corner of the room.
"How bad is it?" Willam asked the man, making no attempts to hush his words.
"Bad," Aedan admitted. "It's still bleeding, as far as I can tell; quite badly…"
"And you can't fix it Grey?"
"I'm no healer," Aedan frowned. "I can stem the flow, let the blood clot; but… he needs a damn healer Will…"
"We don't have a healer," he snarled. "Are you certain?"
"I've done my best, aye, and I dare not remove the thing – could make it worse."
Ned Stark was silent in the bed, a fresh bandage wrapped tightly around his thigh. The bolt was still in his leg.
"How many men do we have left?"
"Thirty-eight," Adean said with a scowl. "Numerous wounded, all tired…"
"Not nearly enough," Lord Beric added with a scowl of his own.
"We can kill five for every one of ours," Ser Rolland argued fiercely.
Willam didn't bother point out how that'll end. "How is Velness?"
"Bad," Aedan sighed. "Blade cut most of the nerves in her hand – she'll be lucky if he can grip a sword with it after this, assuming we survive…"
"We can't last another attack," Willam muttered under his breath. He, Aedan and everyone knew they were fighting a lost fight.
They might last one more, if they were lucky, but a second would almost certainly result in being overwhelming.
"We hold," Ser Rolland still hadn't given up. Not for a second had his fire stopped burning.
"You must surrender," Ned decided from his bed, looking pale from his bleeding.
"What?"
"Lord Stark…"
"If you surrender, they'll spare you; and your people…"
Would they? The nobles perhaps, even the few knights, but what about their men and women?
"When the Kingslayer comes to spew his arrogant mouth again, offer him terms. Save yourselves, damn it…"
"And what of you?" Willam asked, eyes narrowed.
"They'll want me alive, maybe fix this leg? Or not…"
"They might not want us living," Thoros doubted. "They didn't want Robert neither…"
"I don't relish being a Lannister captive," Rowana mumbled off to the side.
"Nor I," Edwyn scowled from his seat; downing his skin of wine.
"Fuck this," Rolland stormed off then, out of the chambers to the stairwell.
A silence washed over them then, until the Kingslayers voice screamed "STARK!"
"Speak of the sister-fucker and he shall appear," Edwyn muttered between gulps of wine.
"I'll handle it," Willam sighed, making to move.
They all heard "PISS OFF QUEENFUCKER" screamed by Ser Rolland from the hall.
"Wait," Ned said, weakly; pleading for a moment.
Willam walked to the man's bedside and knelt at his side.
"If I die," Ned began, his eyes hard as ice. "Tell the boy, ask for his mother at Greywater…"
"Snow?" Willam raise a brow at that. An odd request at a time like this.
Edric Dayne's eyes shot to attention at mention of Jon Snow.
"Just, do it – please; if I cannot do it myself… I promised…"
"You'll be fine Ned," Willam assured the man, dismissing the notion.
"Maybe," he huffed, groaning in pain a little. "Maybe not. They'll want you alive though, so live – understand?"
The Lannister's were growing impatient downstairs. It wasn't helped by Storm's taunting.
"STARK!" Jaime was calling up at them. "ANSWER OR WE END THIS!"
"BRING IT ON KINGSLAYER!" Rolland's voice rang out in defiance, unafraid of lions.
"The sister-fucker grows restless," Edwyn was half-grinning, but it died with the wine.
"You've drank it all?" Aedan asked the man, noticing as he threw the wineskin across the room.
"If we're going to die here," Edwyn replied with a frown. "I'm not doing it sober, ya hear?"
"We need every last sword, damn it all Fisher."
"Fuck you Greystark," Edwyn said half-heartily, waving him away. "The gods are mocking us, ya know?"
"The gods don't mock," Rowana said with a nervous look.
"Oh, but they do!" Edwyn leaned back in his chair, brazen as you please with the smile of a man in his cups. "They're probably watching us right now ya know, laughing at our struggle." He waved a fist in the air rather lazily, looking up at the celling and shouting, "I'm onto you, ye bastards!"
Thoros was the only other one laughing at Fisher's mockery, as poor an attempt to cover fear as it was.
There was a soft click then, as section of the wall on the east side of the room moved; sliding aside.
"IT'S THE GODS!" Edwyn exclaimed, falling backwards in his chair to the cold floor with a thud.
Golden glowing eyes stood in the darkness behind the moved section of wall.
"I swear," Edwyn stumbled to his feet. "I take it all back, gods; I-"
"Bran Stark," Willam said, his voice flavoured with disbelief.
"I'll be damned," Aedan said with a smile. "It is…"
"Father!" Bran rushed across the room, ignoring all else; flinging himself onto his father's bed.
"Bran," Ned looked more like his old self in this moment, though no less pale. "Thank the gods, you're okay!"
"I was in the tunnels exploring but when I came back up there was fighting andiheardscreamsand-"
"It's okay," Ned hugged the boy to quiet him down as tears came forth.
The sound of steeled boots on cold stone could be heard in the background.
"There's no time," Ned looked his son in the eyes. "These tunnels, do they lead outside the city?"
"I-" Bran wiped away his tears. "Yes, father – I can show you."
"Willam," Ned's eyes darted to the man, pleading him as only a father could.
"I'll get him out," he replied immediately, needing no prompt for the task.
"Bran, look at me my boy – you must go with Prince Willam, do you understand?"
Swords clashed in the hall outside the hands bed chamber, men shouted; one loudest among them.
"Winterfell!" Jory Cassel's voice rang out to the song of clashing steel.
They would not hold them back for long.
"What about you…"
"They won't harm him," Willam promised the boy.
The room's door swung open then, and all turned with steel in hand.
"Take him," Ser Balon flung Rolland Storm in, stumbling.
"I can fight!" Ser Rolland shouted, anger. "Fuck off Swann!"
"You're the last of your house," Ser Balon said plainly, a glare on his face.
Swords were clashing outside. The lions were coming up the stairs…
"I don't fucking care about-"
"Take him," Balon insisted again, eyeing the opened section of wall.
"Ser," Lord Beric went to speak, but the Knight would hear none of it.
"I'll buy you time," the man vowed as he turned, closing the door shut behind him.
The fighting was growing fiercer outside as they heard "None So Just!" from Ser Balon's lips.
"Leave!" Ned barked from his bed. "Go now, before it's too late!"
"The sword," Edric Dayne muttered, looking over to Ice at the foot of Ned Stark's bed.
It wouldn't do to let this fall into Lannister hands. It was Stark steel, after all, so Willam grabbed it without thought.
"Thank you," Eddard Stark managed the words. "All of you…"
The wolves all growled at the door, fangs bared, ready to rip out the throats of lions.
Ned needed a maester or he'd surely die. There was no choice, and they all knew it.
"Go Bran," Ned commanded his son then, eyes begging the boy to flee. "Go! NOW!"
Willam had to practically drag Bran away from his father as Summer bounded off into the tunnels with Wraith and Flash.
"How do we close it Bran!?"
"I-" His eyes were watery. "There's a button…"
It clicked, and the section of wall closed on them.
The fighting had died down now, as the sound of men banging on wood replaced the sound of steel and death.
"Come," Willam said in a whisper. "Be brave, Ser Bran – like a knight should be, remember?"
That seemed to do the trick, as Bran Stark nodded frantically.
"Running," Ser Rolland was muttering. "I can't believe this…"
"They'll answer for this injustice Ser," Lord Beric vowed quietly.
"This way," Bran mumbled. "Down to the dragon room…"
"T- There's dragons down here?" Dayne asked, quiet as a mouse.
Down and down and further down they went as the distant lights faded. The wolves had no trouble, bounding down the narrow stairs.
They stepped into a small round chamber. Five other doors opened off the room, each barred in iron. There was an opening in the ceiling as well, and a series of rungs set in the wall below, leading upward. An ornate brazier stood to one side, fashioned in the shape of a dragon's head. The coals in the beast's yawning mouth had burnt down to embers, but they still glowed with a sullen orange light. Dim as it was, the light was welcome after the blackness of the stairs and tunnels.
The juncture was otherwise empty, but on the floor was a mosaic of a three-headed dragon wrought in red and black tiles.
"We're below the tower," Willam muttered as they entered the round chamber and stood atop the dragon mosaic. "How did you find this…"
"I dreamed it," Bran admitted quietly. "I- I've been exploring the tunnels since we arrived…"
"Sneaky little wolf," Edwyn said, keeping his voice low.
"Could they follow?"
"They'll search for hidden passages; surely?" Lord Beric assumed as much.
"Maybe," Willam supposed. One moment they'd been in the tower, now they weren't – so what conclusion would the Kingslayer reach?"
"Let's not stay around long enough to find out," Aedan suggested wisely.
"Smartest thing you've ever said Greystark."
"I've my moments Fisher," the man half-grinned. It was a strained thing…
"Bran, are there torches?" The answer was in his hand, as Bran handed the man a torch wrapped in cloth; reeking and sticky.
It lit easily, with a few strikes of a rock against castle-forged steel – the torch came alight; revealing the true majesty of the ornate dragon mosaic that gleamed alive with blacks and reds. They could see now, as rats and all manner of crawling creatures fled from the new light shining in the darkness.
Thoros of Myr muttered some prayer to his fire god. He seemed far more pious than Willam thought him to be…
Edwyn pulled on a half-open door. Flakes of rust drifted to the floor. "This is the way?"
Bran only nodded. "Summer knows – that way leads to the river, another to the cells and another to the city; or back up to the keep…"
There was a ladder leading up, to the Hand's Chamber.
"This leads back up to the Hand's chambers?"
"Aye," Bran said warily. "Up and around; but Summer can't get there, so I don't-"
"No matter," Willam dismissed it, an idea entering and leaving his mind as quick as it came.
"We should move now," Aedan looked to the Stark boy with hope.
"Lead on Ser Bran," Willam remarked, holding a torch and a false smile for the boy's sake.
Through the iron gate and into cramped tunnels they went bravely; though they didn't have much choice. The tunnels grew narrower by the mile and seemed to twist and turn forever – with many forking paths to lead the unwary astray. "How have you not got lost…"
"I dreamed the way," Bran explained again, his eyes downcast. "I learnt where the traps are…"
"Dreamed it huh?" Willam thought but kept it to himself. He vaguely recalled dreams of his own, the gods taunting him like a plaything.
"Traps," Edwyn muttered. "What fucking traps!?"
"Spikes," Bran began as they walked – the wolves ahead, with Summer taking lead. "Pits, arrows; too many really…"
Someone had built a maze under the Red Keep and didn't want anyone without a map to traverse the damn thing.
"Y- You haven't asked about the dreams…"
"You're a warg," Willam said casually. "A strong one at that…"
That he was probably something more than a mere warg was left unsaid.
"He's a what!?" Edric Dayne said, shocked; and equally intrigued.
Bran stumbled as he walked, almost falling over at the bluntness of the reveal.
"It's no matter Bran," Willam wanted to laugh then, but found he hadn't the heart for it.
"I'm a warg too Lord Bran," Rowana offered a comforting smile from the flickering of torchlight.
"You are?" The boy went wide-eyed. "I- I thought I was the only one… that…"
"What nonsense," Ser Rolland said with a scoff of disbelief. Silly northmen and their tree-gods.
"This day gets stranger by the moment," Lord Beric mumbled. "First it's Thoros and his visions all of a sudden; now talk of wargs…"
Westeros was vastly uneducated in the Old Ways. It was a fact Willam had learnt among his first days here and he'd kept the common existence of wargs largely secret among his people – not that the majority of them could even speak andal to reveal it; or had any desire to bother learning the tongue.
Ned's children had taken more an interest in learning the Old Tongue than most of his entire expedition had in the andal tongue.
Willam decided it was best to not bring up the subject too much in front of Lord Beric. The man seemed distressed enough as it was.
Dayne however was beyond curious as he muttered "How far do these tunnels go Lord Brandon?"
"Long," Bran declared with a frown, feeling odd at being called Lord. "I've only explored a little; and many doors are locked…"
The tunnel they traversed grew so narrow that Willam was having to duck his head down. Bran had no such trouble, nor did the wolves, smelling the burning torches and reminding him of Winterfell's crypts. The thought made him recall the scent of snow and smoke and pine needles.
He thought of the stables. Hodor laughing, and Jon and Robb battling in the yard, and Sansa singing about some stupid lady fair. He remembered the smell of hot bread baking, of the godswood. Lastly, he could smell Summer up ahead, even down here among the damp and foulness, having the direwolf close put him at ease.
"This reminds me of a story Suko's father told me," Willam began; holding out his torch to light the path ahead.
"God's help us," he heard Edwyn curse under his breath.
"Rumour has it, there are deep mines beneath the Silver City. Most being dank and chilly places, cut from cold dead stone, but in the deepest reaches slept a great mountain; with veins of molten rock and hearts of fire. So, the deepest mines were always hot, and they grew hotter as the shafts were driven deeper and deeper."
"I hate this enough without your monster stories cousin," Edwyn said with a scoff. Willam couldn't see it, but he knew the man was rolling his eyes.
"How'd you know there's a monster, eh Ed?"
"All your tales have a monster cousin…"
Willam scoffed at that. "Slaves toiled in the mines, way back when the Imperials still dealt in such things. The rocks around them were too hot to touch. The air stank of brimstone and would sear their lungs as they breathed it. The soles of their feet would burn and blister, even though the thickest sandals. Sometimes, when they broke through a wall in search of gold, they would find steam instead, or boiling water, or molten rock…"
"Wait for it," Edwyn muttered aloud as they walked through the dark tunnels.
"Shut up Ed," Willam said. "It's said the Tamashī dynasty were searching for something in the depth of the world."
"Here comes the monster…"
He ignored that comment entirely.
"One day, they dug too greedily – and the Tamashī found their ancient power…"
"Here it is!" Edwyn scoffed with a roll of his eyes.
Bran had been entirely captivated by this point, his worries faded for the moment even as the tunnel widened somewhat, and their footsteps turned from falling against stone to the wet splatter of water. This section of the tunnel was half flooded. "It's said to have been a demon of shadow and flame, with a flaming molten sword and a fiery whip; constantly burning – with hair aflame and vast wings of fire and molten lava."
"Told you so," Edwyn was smirking.
Bran was I awe. "What happened next?"
"No idea," Willam had no answer. "It's only a story – and if the mines ever existed, they've seen long lost to time."
"Or lost to the fiery demon of the depths," Edwyn suggested helpfully.
Rowana was giggling at the man's side.
"It's only a story Bran," Aedan told the boy then.
"The world is full of stories," Willam argued with a plastered smile.
Bran Stark seemed happier for hearing them. He was a child still, despite everything that had happened.
"Your sword," Bran said suddenly after a moment. "Tell me that story…"
Willam eyed the boy as they stumbled through the tunnels. "Who told you-"
"Jon," he answered. "He said you told him, when he was seasick; coming down from White Harbour…"
A story he'd told to distract Snow from throwing his guts all over the damn ship.
"How much did Jon tell you?"
"None," Bran frowned. "He said it wasn't his to tell…"
That it wasn't, not that he'd have minded the boy sharing the tale though.
"Very well," Willam's smile was more genuine this time. "I warn you though Ser Bran – our friend Ed hates this one…"
"Oh gods," Edwyn groaned at the mention of it. The tunnel was getting narrow again up ahead.
"That's okay," Bran decided with an excited look in his eyes, a stark contrast to earlier doubts. "I'll listen Prince Willam…"
And with that, talking through the darkness, Willam Stark began his story. Anything to distract the young Stark boy from his demons.
The Wall was built on the backs of men and magic and beasts to haul the great structure high. To protect the realms of men and more. Whatever old magic was woven into the cold walls of his little kingdom, he did not know its name, only that it existed to protect them against the dark things. Men were dark, true, darker than beasts in his unfortunate experience; but there were darker things still. He knew. His father had taught him and his brother. They were taught to rule. To protect. To serve.
He was born a second son. The spare. The replacement, if needed. It was a role he'd taken gladly, loving his brother so, too loyal to ever dream of more and so when father asked... he obeyed... like a good son should. Or at least that's what he'd thought at the time. So many years of struggles had tested him fiercely.
The courtyard rang to the song of swords. He stood watching new recruits spar with some others, eyeing one in particular that showed great promise, ducking under one swing and countering with a sweeping blow that crunched against the back of the other boy's leg and sent him staggering. Another lad's uppercut was answered by an overhand that dented his helm. When he tired a side swing, the lad with promise 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. The promising one knocked the sword from his fellow recruit's fingers with a slash to his wrist that brought a cry of pain.
"Enough!" One of the brothers cut the air, a voice with an edge of valyrian steel.
A recruit on his arse cradled his hand. "He broke my fucking wrist!"
"He 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 we need stableboys as well as rangers." The brother gestured at the two other recruits. "Get that one on his feet, he has funeral arrangements to make."
The spare son watched from a raised walkway above, smirk on his lips, dressed in crisp black leathers that whispered faintly as he moved. He was a man of some forty years by his looks, sparse and hard, black hair and eyes like chips of ice. "You did well!" He offered the promising recruit, taking steps down, the courtyard turning to him cautiously. It was a rare sight for him to show interest. He eyed the recruit with a smirk on his lips, hand absently scratching the black stubble on his chin.
"L- Lord-" One of the less interesting recruits stuttered like a damn fool.
"Lord Commander!" The promising one offered, head lowered in a slight nod, sword to his hip, back held straight and a look in his eyes that told the Commander how this boy was afraid yet trying his utmost to hide the fact. "Thank you, my lord!" The recruit bowed his head even lower now, diverting his eyes away.
"A noble lad, are you?" The spare asked, now commander to the recruits.
"Yes, my lord," The recruit confirmed with obvious pride on his tongue. He made no attempt to hide it.
And he failed to note the looks of jealousy it earned from the lowborn recruits. No matter. Winter would test them all equally.
"A name won't get you a free pass here lad," The commander explained with an edge of his own. "But you're a natural..."
"Thank you, my,-"
"Fight me," The commander offered, to the boys muted stuttering surprise...
"I-" Came the words. "I could-"
"You could?!" The commander snapped, smirking still; even wider now.
"No, I mean-"
He brought one hand up as one of his brothers tossed a blunted tourney blade into the air for him to catch with surprising grace. He made it look easy, but he always did like to show off. "Come then," the commander teased playfully as if speaking to a child far younger. "Let's dance, little lordling."
The little lord's eyes darted about, seeking some form of help. He found only the smirking faces of every brother in attendance.
"Now boy," The commander swung his blunted steel, testing the balance in his hand. "Quickly, before winter comes."
After several minutes of attempting to lure the commander into allowing his defensive stance, the boy lost his temper and adopted a style more akin to free folk than a noble's son, not that the commander minded. The world was kill or be killed. Still, he had a test to complete, and the boy needed his lessons...
"That's the spirit!" The command offered, smacking the boy on the head with the blades tip when the praise distracted him for a brief glance.
The crowd, who had chattered and cheered, became completely silent, and the air rang with the tintinnabulation of traded blows and the hoarse rasp of one young recruit; starved of strength and tiring. "Very well done." The commander offered again, circling slowly. "Yet, how's your footwork?"
The boy's eyes narrowed, expecting some trick.
"If I move here..."
The boy moved.
"Good!" The commander gave a nod. "And... you mov-"
Again, the boy moved as desired. The commander was pleased.
"Whoever trained you did a fine job lad," he offered simply, tossing the blunted steel to a nearby brother to catch it with far less grace than the commander boasted. "Who taught you to fight? Your footwork is impressive for one still so young." Not that he knew how old the recruit was, exactly. "How old are-"
"Ten-and-four." The recruit answered quickly.
The commander scowled. "Here," he offered the lad a cup of water. "Drink. And don't interrupt when others speak."
That earned a scoff from the crowd of brothers.
"Do as I say lads," he eyed the brothers with an amused smirk. "Not as I do."
A horn sounded. "Harooooooooooooooooooooo," it cried, a voice as long and low and chilling as a cold wind from the north.
"One for Rangers," The commander thought with his eyes and those of every brother having snapped to the Wall and the steps of ice that were carved into its side, leading high, having claimed the lives of one or two green boys too eager. The commander remembered the first time he'd seen a boy slip... to not a pretty end...
They waited for the second with bated breath. Two for Wildlings. Three for something not seen in hundreds of years.
The second never came and gods praised, neither did a third. "Rangers returning!" The call came, announcing the arrival followed by the great gates opening. Should the worst ever happen, old gods forbid it, the commander new his duty. Those tall black steel gates would be sealed with ice and rock. Then they'd pray.
He snapped out of it quickly, moving feet to stone and quickened to the gates. A ranger approached. He was frozen near death at first glance, black covered a fine white hunched over his horse; beast near collapse. The ranger had ridden hard and fast without rest. It was the man that was first to fall...
With a thud he slipped from his saddle and onto the ground, steel clanging to his side as the commander rushed over.
"Niclas!" He knew the man's face, his First Ranger. "Answer me brother!"
The man managed only a shiver and little more, alive, but only just – seemingly frozen to the bone.
"Commander," the voice of the forts maester called. "We must bring him inside to warm-"
"Yes!" The commander interrupted. "Quickly!"
Inside the great hall the frozen ranger was tossed beside the largest of the orders fires, as they fed more wood to burn brighter and hotter against the cold now in the hope of saving the First Ranger so that he may speak. "W-" He managed barely. "Wal-"
"Wall?" The commander assumed. "Yes, you're home brother. You he-"
"Walker," Niclas managed, a hoarse whisper that only the commander heard.
That word froze even the commander as the light began to fade from the First Ranger's eyes.
"Walker!" The word echoed through his head from ear to ear as Niclas grasped his arm with what little strength remained. Walker. Walker. Walker. The words rang as a warning. The grip lessened and all the light faded from his eyes. He'd been a friend, once. One of the few men the commander had counted on. One of his best.
"Commander?" Another ranger asked, eyes darting to the former First Rangers frozen corpse.
"Burn him," The commander whispered to himself if not to the others, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts.
"I'm sorry," The ranger offered. "did you say-"
"Burn him!" He snapped, loud as a thunderclap.
"I-" The ranger seemed confused.
"See to it!" He commanded. "That's an order, brothers..."
None questioned that. They all knew better than to disobey orders.
The commander stayed put as the frozen corpse was taken away for a pier. He watched the fire in its place as they left, enchanted by it, dancing and spitting as it did. "Walker." Those last word echoed in his mind, as if he'd forgotten. The ramblings of a dead man; surely? Madness. They were gone. They couldn't be back. And yet...
In an instant he found himself atop the wall. Up the icy steps that were carved into its face so long ago by Brandon the Builder.
"Walker." The word kept nagging at him, unrelenting as it was. It gnawed at his soul like a hungry wolf to a bone.
He reached the top with relative ease and brothers parted as he passed them by with stony silence.
"Commander?" One builder asked as he walked.
He ignored the man. Walker. Walker. Walker.
"Winter is Coming." He recalled those words now and the lesson that followed before he'd departed for the Wall, off to serve his father's realm against the Wildling hordes and... apparently... so much more than that. It seemed so awfully long ago now, looking back at it. How time flew for the frozen guards of the night.
The land Beyond stretched out before his eyes as far reaching as the lands of his birth and yet so more untamed. The trees were some leagues from the wall, cut down as regularly as the order could manage by the builders, as was all the better to sight the so-called Free Folk. He however was not here for them...
Something called to him. It was out there now, although he couldn't explain how he knew that exactly.
"Walker," The word whispered now, almost soothing and sweet as honey...
Something glinted in the distance as a sapphire shun in the darkness.
"There!" His mind screamed at him, calling out from the darkness. "Right there!"
He had to seek it out, whatever it was. It had killed his friend. It was a danger to his order. To his brothers. To the realm he served so many years. What choice was there? "Yes," The commander muttered to the cold, accepting. He would call for a ranging. He would see the truth of things with his own eyes.
It was a small order that none fought to question, gathering three hundred brothers of the watch to ride out and avenge the First Ranger. Niclas had been popular with the men that served under him and many were eager to avenge the man's death. Wildlings were the assumed culprits. The commander knew better.
The ride from the Wall to the Haunted Forrest's edge was a short one shrouded in silence and snow.
"No sign of them," One ranger spoke to his friend, the commander riding out ahead of the party.
"Just wait," a second replied. "You'll see. The commanders never led us astray, and Nic didn't die for nothing..."
They hoped. They rode through snow and winter itself. They kept the complaints hushed. The commander pushed them on.
"It's close," He muttered to himself absently as the winds blew through his hair. The cold never fazed him as it did others. It was in his blood.
"We make camp here for the night!" He came the order, to the grumbling of his men.
"Commander?" A ranger asked, eyeing the surroundings. A small opening in an otherwise wooded hell. Too good a position for an ambush should anyone come across the camp... and the commander should've known that better than anyone. The ranger began to feel uneasy.
"Set camp!" The commander snapped at the man, unfazed by his look. It was close now. So remarkably close...
The brothers went about the orders and prepared tents of thick furs to combat the bitter winds of the north. The clearing was near wide enough to host them without much effort, while each builder overlooked ten rangers as they prepared small defences on the outskirts encase of ambush. Nothing major, but it was something.
"Commander," A voice spoke, but he didn't hear it. His eyes darting to the trees. Looking for some-
"Commander?" Louder now, as it caught his attention with a snap. "Are you alright, my lord?"
"Fine," He replied with his usual edge of valyrian steel. Damn fools wasting his time.
"You-" The man hesitated, a steward by the looks of him. "Your arm..."
"My arm?" The commander asked, brow raised and curious now. He looked. There was nothing on his arm, the idea was- no, wait...
"Did you trip on the steps Lord Commander?"
"No!" The commander growled, more wolf than man in that instant.
Trip? Him? What nonsense. And yet not far from his wrist stood a bruise, ugly and shaded a blue so dark it appeared almost black. It laid where Niclas had grabbed him, or so it seemed. It didn't matter. The maester could see to it upon his return, as no mere bruise from a dead man's grip would stop him in this. He scoffed.
"It's nothing!" The commander insisted. "Return to your post, brother..."
The steward offered no complaint, giving a respectful nod before leaving his commander.
He entered his tent and out of the winter winds, into the relative safety of his command tent, twice the size of the others and twice the comfort. Not that it boasted much by any means but while the others slept on hay he would sleep on feathers. There were indeed some perks to his position.
"Close," He muttered, finding his way abed with a heavy head filled with worries. "I'm so close."
Sleep took him. In his dreams he was home again, with no great wall of ice in sight and no brothers or oaths to keep him confined. In his dream he was young again too, a boy no older than four-and-ten sparring in the courtyard of his houses castle. He watched himself swing a sword. He laughed as his brother fell...
"I'm king now!" His younger self cheered, playing a game he recalled well as the two fought with wooden swords. He'd played the Red King of House Bolton's days. His brother the Winter King, re-enacting an old war between great houses. They'd take turns as the Stark; this turns his brothers, it seemed.
"Well struck," His brother smiled up at his younger self, raising an arm for help.
The commander watched with a grin. This was a dream he'd had before and by the gods did he miss those days of inno-
"Arrrggghhhh!" His brother screamed. The voice seeming to ring out across the whole of existence.
This wasn't right. His younger self had brought down his sword, now steel, freeing his brother's hand at the wrist in a spray of crimson.
"Brandon!" The commander wailed but found himself frozen in place and unable to help his kin.
His brother cried as blood flowed, looking up at his younger self with pleading eyes. "Why?" His brother cried, "WHY!?"
"I'm king now!" The boy raised his sword high and swung, ending the heir's life and claiming the castle for himself. He was the King now.
"No!" The commander fell to his knees. "This is a dream," he whispered and refused to look up. "Nothing can harm me. Just a dream..."
He'd lifted his brother up in life. This was a dream, nothing more, a sick and twisted nightmare. He'd wake up now and everything would be fine.
"WAKE UP!" The commander screamed, opening his eyes. His younger self smiled down at him; sword bloodied at his side with eyes that shun a pale blue.
"You were jealous," The boy spoke to him, with a voice cracking like ice.
"No," The commander denied. "Never!"
"You are," The thing continued, taking a step forward. "You can't lie to me, Stark."
"Lies!" He denied again, furious now. "You're nothing but lies, demon!"
The boy smiled wide. He brought his sword up and swung true as the commander held his arm aloft to shield himself from the blow.
"NO!" He screamed and awoke in an instant to shield himself from the blade. The bruise from earlier was the first thing to demand his attention, breathing heavily as he was, the tent's flap wide open as it let in the winter snows; his bruise burning like nothing he'd quite felt before.
"Close," His minds voice called him outward, into the snow, out to the cold and dark. "I'm close…"
Holding his arm in a vice-like grip, he lifted himself from his feathered bedroll and ventured to the tent's flap that flew about freely in the blizzard winds. "Come," The voice called him, powerless to refuse. It felt akin to the dream, frozen in place and unable to act. Closer and closer he went, until he stood in the snows alone.
The camp was shouldered in white, tents covered in a layer thick enough to have been here for a month or more despite only a night having passed. "Come closer," the voice seemed to call to him, nearer than before and twice as sweet. "Here now," The honeyed words snapped his attention outside his head now, not within...
There it stood, with eyes that shun like sapphires and skin like pale milk. It seemed to... smile at him...
"Awake!" The commander cried out to his men, hand moving to his sword only to find it absent.
"Sleep now," The creature spoke with a voice like cracking ice. It still smiled, hauntingly; yet somehow… warm…
"Witch!" The man accused and held his ground, refusing to turn and flee. He was brave. He'd always been brave. "Demon!"
"No," The demon's smile turned, amused. It stood at some five foot with bare skin and white flowing hair. If it were indeed a demon, it was surely one sent to trick the hearts of men; unlike anything he'd seen. He struggled to keep his eyes from wondering, the demon undeniably attra-
Gods. What was he thinking?
"Get out of my head you frozen fuck!"
It smiled wider, motioning to its body.
"Like?" It laughed, a sound like a crack in a frozen ocean.
It also seemed completely without shame, touching its chest; taunting him.
"Follow!" It continued to laugh, fading into the snows as it fled gracefully – seeming to almost float across the snow.
"Come back!" The commander demanded, eyes darting to his tent and back to the trees where the creature had fled.
"Closer!" The voice was in his head again, pleading sweetly. "Go!" It begged to be heard. Obeyed...
He broke into a sprint and decided in an instant without clearly thinking, that there was for whatever reason no time to turn back and grab his sword, nor wake his men. The demon had to be stopped! It was a danger to his brothers! He had no choice in this! It was his duty! His decision to make!
The snows gathered quicker than he'd expected. The blizzard picked up tenfold, his camp behind no longer in sight.
"Face me!" He cried out into the winter winds defiantly. Where was his sword? He could've sworn he… wait…
The demon offered nothing but a chuckle, ice cracking upon the wind and echoing around him. The blizzard continued to rage, and the demon's voice seemed to cling to every flake of snow, almost girly and delighted as her chuckle taunted him. He'd be red with anger if not near blue from the cold. Closer. Closer. Closer.
"Night gathers," the voice spoke sweetly, willing him forward, taunting him with its words. He offered no reply.
"And now my watch begins," The words rang in his head like so many bells, echoing from ear to ear, threatening to burst open his skull.
"It shall not end until my death."
He wasn't sure what he was so determined to do now, oddly enough…
He knew only that he wished to live. He was tired of being alone… unloved…
"I shall take no wife," the voice muttered the words still. He raised an arm to reach out, almost pleading. "Hold no lands, father no children." He'd always secretly desired lands, with a wife and family to call his own. He'd told no one. The voice sung the words, soft as silk. "I shall wear no crowns and win no glory."
He'd earned his glory. What was in a crown? Was he not worthy? Had he not bled enough for such a small thing? He deserved more...
"I shall live and die at my post." The blizzard no longer fazed him as it cut through his frostbitten fingers. "I am the sword in the darkness," He said the words himself now. The voice asked it of him, so he gave it freely. "I am the watcher on the walls," He called louder at the raging snows, to the beauty of winter that wished to see him. "I am the fire that burns against the cold," He called still, numb to the pain as the mark on his arm glowed an eerie blue. "The light that brings the dawn!"
He lowered his hand as his purpose drew closer; darker and darker and blue and... blue...
The man mustered a smile with what little life he had, that too frozen, drowning in a sea of snow and ice and winter. A stark contrast to his black attire, tattered and torn as it was, coasted in snow and near brittle as ice from the cold. He brought his eyes high and beheld his goal. So... very... blue... blue... blu- eautiful...
What was once the commander smiled, a drowned man in a sea of snow and ice and winter. A fallen Stark in tattered black, coated in icy white and brittle from the freezing cold. He brought his eyes high and beheld his goal. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. Skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars...
"Mine," She smiled at him, her voice sickeningly sweet, her lips full of promise. She offered her hand to the once Commander of the Watch.
The fallen took her hand, softer than silk and cold as death. Only a single word came to him. What he'd always craved, and the last word he'd ever speak. "Love."
She brought his hands to her cheek, caressing, wrapping an arm around the fallen commander and embracing him in the snow. They stayed there for hours and nothing remained of him by the end, as the man once known as the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch died in the snows Beyond the Wall in the arms of winter. What returned to the Nightfort to rule as King was a puppet used to confuse the magics of the Wall after giving the creature what it sought, a life to fool old magics... for nothing wholly dead could pass... but the living passed freely. No brother questioned the Commanders return; until it was far too late to do so…
History would not be kind to the man and his true name was removed from all records. The stories named him traitor. The truth was far sadder, bewitched by a creature beyond him and used for its ends, cut down by his own brother when King Brandon the Breaker led his army to the Wall in the hopes of freeing his brother; only to free him with valyrian steel. King Brandon ordered his name removed from history, never to be uttered upon pain of death. His brother died. That's all anyone would say.
The truth however lays I what wasn't written – in the details that the Breaker orders wiped from all record, to be lost by the decay of time.
The air seemed to freeze suddenly as Brandon the Beaker's men seized the courtyard of the Nightfort without much resistance, its minor walls and frozen garrison proving no match for the combined forces of the King in the North. The Night's Watch, besides those unfortunate souls in the Nightfort, answered the kings summons and joined the assault to liberate their charmed brothers; such as they were, enslaved and broken husks of men. Only cold steel could free them now...
"Find my brother!" King Brandon had commanded, with Ice at his side. "Find-"
The sight of it froze the king of winter in place. He stood there, watching; waiting like a statue.
"Brother?" He uttered, but the figure only smiled wide with blue lips and glinting sapphire eyes.
In the Lord Commanders hands was a long pale sword that appeared alive in the moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the blade, a ghost-light that played around its edges. The Commander held his weapon high, to summon aid...
"To arms!" A booming voice came from beside King Brandon, noticing the coming charmed brothers while his king stood confused.
"Brother?" He asked the wind, while men and winter's puppets clashed all around him.
The thing that was once his brother offered no words, only an eerie smile on thin pale lips.
"Your Grace!" A voice snapped King Brandon to attention just in time to-
Ice moved to block the strike, clashing, two blades of winter locked together in embrace. "Snap out of it!" Brandon pleaded with his lost brother. "You-" His brother seemed deaf to all as his sapphire eyes held only a desire to kill. The two blades sung with an unusual high-pitched tune; edged and thin, like an animal screaming in pain.
The Commander wailed as a Karstark man-at-arms drove his spear through his thigh, the sound like a cracking sheet of ice.
"I'm sorry," King Brandon the Breaker held Ice aloft and swung with a heavy heart. Once the deed was done, nobody dared speak of it again.
Brandon Stark had been a warrior, like is brother, but he stood now with frozen tears in a doorway of the highest tower in the Nightfort. A cold demon stood before him, snarling like a starved beast, bare skin white with hair like snow. Its eyes shun as he charged. The demon seemed unfazed, as if nothing could ever harm it.
"For my brother!" The king growled; his sword Ice having sliced into the creature's chest with great ease.
It screamed as it died, wide blues eyes, the sound causing Brandon to stumble and near drop his sword as his ears threatened to bleed under the sheer pressure of the demon's wail. It shattered like ice in an instant and the terrible noise ceased, falling to a hundred thousand pieces before him.
"Your Grace!" A voice came from the doorway, its concern clear and genuine.
"I'm fine," Brandon waved the man off. "What of the others?"
"The brothers-"
"Well?" His patience was long since gone. "Speak, or bloody well find me a man who will!"
"T- They've stopped. The brothers, they just... stopped fighting..."
Brandon eyed the melted remains of the demon's thousand chunks of shattered ice. It was the cause. That thing had done all this…
A cry caught his attention, moving the King of Winter from anger to confusion.
"A babe?" The man-at-arms asked, the clear wailing of a child coming from the room.
It was the King to see it first. A cradle behind where the demon had stood. Inside was a pale skinned baby, its wailing ceasing as Brandon moved closer and the babe's eyes opened to reveal a haunting blue. "A child," Brandon muttered, thinking hard now on all the reports having spoken of the demon being his brother's queen...
"It's the monsters!" The man-at-arms all but shouted upon seeing the babe with blue eyes and snow-white hair.
It seemed unfazed by the loud man, eyeing Brandon curiously before appearing to smile up at its uncle lovingly; as if it knew him to be family.
"Brother?" The king whispered, eyeing the child. It had its mothers haunting blue eyes and snow-white hair, but the smile was its fathers.
"We must destroy it before-"
The man chocked on his words. Ice was there now, sticking through his stomach and out of his back.
"He's my blood," Brandon said sadly, removing the valyrian steel with a single motion as the man-at-arms dropped dead to the floor.
The child laughed. An all too human laugh that filled Brandon with some hope that his brother's son was more wolf than demon. "Winter is Coming," He spoke to the child now, picking him up in his arms. "I'm your uncle little one," he informed the blue-eyed babe. "And nobody shall ever hurt you. I promise..."
He held his finger out for the boy to grasp, that he did gladly and with surprising strength for one so young.
"Willam," The king named the child. "You carry your father's name now, so best do him proud..."
The child grew as a Stark in all but name, stronger than most; with the very blood of winter in his veins. As the years passed the child was granted land and title by his kingly uncle and the then styled Lord Willam took for himself the name of Frost; after the very same blade his father once wielded. Frostbite.
The smell of fresh salt air and the caw of gulls greeted them as Willam Stark ended his story as Edwyn rolled his eyes so hard that one might've thought they'd fall from his skull. Bran had all but forgotten his troubles as the story was told, walking through the tunnels; the tale had worked wonders to distract the boy from his fears.
"That's the tale," Willam remarked as they needed to practically turn side-ways to squeeze through the gaps in the rock.
"Wow," Bran said in awe. "So, you're named after him Prince Will!?"
"It's a Stark name," He managed a brief grin at the notion of being named after that story. "Though, my great-great-great grandmother was a Frost…"
In all honestly, he wasn't sure Lord Frost hadn't just made up the whole thing to scare him as a boy. The tale was likely nonsense.
"It's only a story lad," Aedan added with a smirk as Edwyn summoned an audible scoff of derision.
"Next we'll be sharing stories about snarks and ice spiders," Rolland actually managed a chuckle, though it died quickly.
The truth of it wasn't important. It had served its purpose well enough to distract the boy; and himself too…
"The blade is odd though," Rowana added her piece from behind them.
"Oh gods," Edwyn groaned aloud. "He's lured another fair maiden with his damn fables!"
"I-" Rowana turned scarlet at that, stumbling over her words as she pushed through the tight gaps in the stone.
"Leave my warg alone cousin," Willam scolded him with a sigh. "Scare women in your own time…"
Edwyn laughed at that, a strained thing to be sure; but the chuckle from even Rolland seemed to lift spirits. If only a little.
It was an odd thing, laughter, given their situation – but it was a damn stretch nicer than the alternative. Willam couldn't quite find it in him though.
They saw the sky ahead. The 'tunnel' had given way to narrow cracks some distance back, that now opened up to the cliff on the side; directly under on the edge of Aegon's Hill – with the Blackwater Rush beneath them. The gulls flew over their heads, the sea air being a damn welcome thing indeed.
"Freedom," Edwyn chuckled nervously. "R- Right? We are free now?"
"Glad to be out of the dark at least," Beric said happily, the shadow of a smile on his lips.
"The night is dark and-"
"Shut up Thoros," Beric scolded half-heartedly; grinning at his friend.
The man's squire did his best to stifle a laugh as Thoros the Mage pouted like a small child.
"Long climb down," Aedan commented. There were narrow steps carved into the side of the cliff – more holes in the rock than steps – but one by one they could climb down to the beach below. The wolves would have a hard time getting down… but there were ledges, that in theory; at a glance they could use…
"Talon!" Rowana practically yelped excitedly. At this least part of the plan was somewhat working; somewhat.
The eagle cawed at them, swooping down and landing on Rowana's outstretched arm.
"Will," Aedan pointed out at the distance. "Look, over there!"
Surely enough, in the distance was The Wanderer. She wasn't flying colours, but a man knew his own ship.
"Can you get their attention?" Willam asked the resident warg. The eagle on her arm was flapping its wings happily.
She was smiling too, happier than he'd seen her in some time actually. "Aye, Prince Willam! At once!"
The eagle launched off without a word and Summer howled long and low as a chilling northernly wind.
"Let's climb," Willam ordered, going first; getting to the edge and starting to lower himself down little by little scaling the cliffside as the wolves leapt from outcrop to outcrop – over distances no man or woman could hope to achieve. "Mind your footing, this is a damn death-trap…"
As they climbed it wasn't long before rowboats were sent out to the beach below, greeting them on the shoreline.
To the south-west great plumes of black smoke were rising for the docks. A fire? Suko had been busy it seemed.
My Note(s): I can predict the whining about "omg Ned didn't escape" but that's the story, you can't make everyone happy. This isn't a "Stark Wins" story where I fix every mistake people made in canon to have them live happily ever after; because those are usually boring – done a thousand times before elsewhere by other people (some decently) – even if I've changed a lot based on Bran's fate; certain things simply aren't justifiable. Willam tried his best to work with Ned, but Ned is Ned :P
So, Ned is a captive of the Lannisters; but his children have escaped – that means some pretty damn major changes from the canon moving forward :D I took some creative liberties with the secret tunnels, but the exit they've used is in fact canon; as I've tried keeping it as close to being feasible as possible. I'm not one for convenience for the sake of convenience, again fix-it stories exist elsewhere and there's thousands of them. This isn't that kinda story I'm afraid. Hopefully, anyone that's made it this far understands this however and I don't need to repeat myself – but I do predict at least someone thinking they 'know better' bla bla bla :P can't please everyone :)
Bran's timing is rather deus ex machina buuuut, hey, that's Old Gods/Magic. My girl Lyarra is pulling strings behind the curtain. That's my excuse there.
In regard to the Frostbite/House Frost origin story that Will tells Bran, how was that? A story within a story hopefully didn't confuse many of you.
Last Admiral: I'm not sure what you mean when you say "many people including you" being 'confused' between Robert pre-war and post-war. You're right about Robert's mental state as King but I fail to see where I am 'confused' as everything we've seen from Robert is this fic is 100% canon Robert :P and from Lyanna's perspective she was being forced to marry a man she didn't love (or even like) and Rhaegar (being rather irresponsible) gave her a way to 'escape' from that fate.
The dynamic is an arguable one. Lyanna was young and I can't rightly blame the girl for being swept up in her desperate wish to not be forced into what she was convinced would be a loveless marriage. Robert did sleep around (even when betrothed) but he wasn't a bad guy at heart, so if Lyanna had given him a chance she might've found happiness, but oft people do stupid things with the best of intentions; such is life. Rhaegar is less forgivable, simply put; he was a grown man with a wife and children who should've known better than to effectively take advantage of a young desperate girl simply because he was fixated on fulfilling a damn prophecy.
In my own life alone, I have seen people do some incredibly stupid things when the "right" choice(s) seemed obvious from the outside/in hindsight.
Rhaegar wasn't a bad guy, really, but he was flawed. Robert is flawed. Lyanna was flawed. They were human, at the end of the day.
Unixfan: By this stage of the story, I'd hope anyone reaching this far is quite aware of the tone :) as I do roll my eyes when people want me to 'save X character' because X is their favourite. Wish fulfilment fics exist, they're not all dreadful, but I don't tend to enjoy them or write them. I like to write things others haven't.
Tertius711: Willam has escaped! I thought it fairly obvious what I was planning for Bran with all the 'subtle' hints of him exploring the secret tunnels from his greenseer voodoo throughout the past KL chapters. The escape tunnels used are canon too, though I took a little creative freedom on the specifics :)
Miguelgiuliano: Did you think Ned was getting away with his stupidity that easily? Poor sweet summer child :( afraid not haha :P as for Jon his origin will be a 'thing' but isn't a focal point of this story, though we'll see how that pans out in future chapters – as a rule I don't tend to write stories you can easily find elsewhere.
Dave: Hey :) Updates are indeed weekly, on Fridays or if I'm too busy/if I forget, then it'll be Saturdays. Glad you're enjoying the story. Ty for reviewing :)