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 36: Black and Blue
"Ignore him, stupidity is contagious."
– Edwyn Fisher
The road ran beside the shore, between the surging grey-green sea and a line of low limestone hills. Lord Staunton rode down the coast at the head of some few hundred men, with the black wings of his house fluttering in the breeze upon fields of black and grey. Their armour was steel and silver as they rode with pride and purpose.
Smallfolk gave them way – those from the many fishing villages that littered the coast for many leagues against Blackwater Bay, and the fisherfolk used this road to take their fish and other goods to market at Duskendale. Tristan smiled kindly as they rode past a fishwife and her daughters, with empty baskets on their shoulders.
The gates of Duskendale were closed and barred by the time they'd arrived. Through the predawn gloom the town walls shimmered palely, and on their ramparts, wisps of morning fog moved like ghostly sentinels. A dozen wayns and oxcarts had drawn up outside the gates, waiting for the sun to rise to its fullest.
The farm folk gave them curious glances, but none dared stand in his way. He had the look and posture of a lord after all… though the gates remained shut…
"Goodwife," he heard one lowborn say to a woman on the turnip cart as he host rode them by, "perhaps you saw my sister on the road? A young maid, three-and-ten and fair of face, with blue eyes and auburn hair. She may be riding with a drunken knight perhaps?"
The woman shook her head, "Then she's no maid, I'll wager. Does the poor girl have a name?"
Tristan paid the idle chatter no mind as a raven landed on his shoulder, cawing at him to the curiosity of the smallfolk.
"Be gone," Staunton tried to shoo the pest away to no effect. It looked at him with more intelligence than any bird at the right to boast.
"Wargs," the muttering bumbling curses of Lord Buckwell nipped at his mind, taunting him; nagging and whining ever so annoyingly.
Nonsense is what Staunton thought, but still the damn raven hadn't ceased following him since he'd departed Stark's camp.
As they approached the gates, guardsmen appeared on the parapets. The farmers climbed onto their wagons and shook the reins. Most of the queue waiting to enter Duskendale were farm folk with loads of fruits and vegetables to sell. A pair of wealthy townsmen sat on well-bred palfreys a dozen places behind her, and further back Staunton spied a skinny boy on a piebald rounsey. There was no sign of any knights or soldiers though… that was good…
"Greetings," the captain cried out from the gatehouse. "State your purpose here, Ser!"
"I am Tristan Staunton, the Lord of Rook's Rest!"
The captain's eyes lingered. "M'lord," the man hummed. "We weren't expecting you…"
"I hadn't expected to be here Ser," Tristan told the man, as his knights shifted uneasily in their saddles behind him.
"Aye?" The captain rubbed his stubbled chin, still looking down at them. "What business then, m'lord? These are dangerous times…"
"All the more reason we seek shelter good Ser," the lie came easily to him. "Lord Rykker sends his regards with me, his was a great help to the north – for I own the man my life – a debt I arrive to repay if you would but open these gates, for us and these folk of the land…"
"Mmm," The captain seemed a little overwhelmed for all the flowery words. "Above my paygrade that m'lord – you'd best speak with Ser Leek!"
"Fetch the good knight for me would you, Ser?"
The captain looked to his left only briefly. "That I will, m'lord – if you'd wait here?"
"Eagerly ser," Tristan smiled his best smile at the captain before he departed. It turned to a frown the moment he was out of sight.
"Are they opening early?" The idle chatter of the smallfolk was beginning to kick up.
"Gate ain't suppose to open for another hour…"
"Seven," Tristan prayed in silence. "Save me from the idle chatter of the lowborn…"
It was longer than he'd have liked, waiting on this Ser Leek to show himself – and the longer it took the less comfortable his men grew.
Just when he was starting to worry – thanks in no small part to the impatient fidgeting of his new pet raven – the sallyport opened to greet him with the face of a short and stout man with a grey beard and an amputated left leg. Tristan knew the man to be one of Rykker's knights. "Ser Rufus?"
"Lord Staunton," Ser Rufus greeted him warmly, limping over with his cane. "When they told me you'd arrived, I could scarcely believe it!"
"If your lord's arrival had differed my good knight, then I may not be here at all…"
"Lord Rykker found you well then," Ser Rufus seemed joyful at the news. "We've heard so little of late. How fares his lordship?"
"Well last I saw him," Tristan lied with a smile. In truth, the Lord of Duskendale's brains were feeding worms somewhere in the grass outside Rook's Rest.
"I'd thought to see you riding with him. How fares the war, my lord?"
"Your liege arrived in time to drive the northmen from my lands," Tristan offered easily, feigning a sigh and hoping it came across as one of relief rather than boredom. "I owe the man a great debt, that I would aim to repay – if you would have me…"
"With such a large force of noble knights…"
"For the capital Ser, or have you not heard the news?"
"Ah," Ser Rufus seemed to recall. "Lord Stannis? Aye, her ladyship was terribly worried for good King Joffrey."
"Aren't we all?" Tristan faked his best look of concern and prayed it was enough.
"Quite so, quite so…"
"May we enter Ser?" He pried somewhat, leaning in his saddle and taking out a sealed parchment. "Ser Richard bid me deliver his lady mother a letter, so that I might repay my debt in some small manner. It would be a grand shame to come so close merely to be turned away at the gates…"
"A letter?" Ser Rufus hummed. "Aye, I suppose – my lads can see your knights to the stables, if that's acceptable my lord?"
"They'd be glad for it I'm sure," Tristan smiled at the crippled old knight.
The gatehouse opened with a creek, granting them access to the market square where the smallfolk outside would hawk their turnips, yellow onions, and sacks of barleycorn. Entering the city, he could see men selling arms and armour very cheaply to judge from the prices they shouted out as he rode by lazily.
Duskendale was built around its harbor. North of town the chalk cliffs rose; to the south a rocky headland shielded the ships at anchor from storms coming up the narrow sea. The castle overlooked the port, its square keep and big drum towers visible from every part of town. In the crowded cobbled streets, it was easier to walk than ride, so most took their horses to stable and continued on afoot, with shield slung across her back and swords on their hips. Most of Tristan's Knights went to the stables.
The guards at the castle gates wore leather jacks with a badge that showed crossed warhammers upon a white saltire.
"Lord Staunton's here to see her ladyship," Ser Rufus told one of them as he passed.
They put up no fuss, opening the gates of the Dun Fort for them. Rufus was their castellan after all… though it seemed Lady Rykker was in charge…
"Lord Rykker rode to Rook's Rest with young Richard," one guard was saying. "So what's Staunton doing here eh?"
"Seven know," another muttered, not as quietly as he thought. "None of our business though… perhaps the lords dead…"
"Why's the lordling got a bird eh?"
"Wings on his sigil," another answered. The voices faded as they entered the keep proper and the raven took flight not long after; up into the rafters.
"You must forgive me if I leave you to her Ladyship," Rufus said after a while. Tristan had offered the old knight his letter before now, but Leek claimed he could not read nor was it his place to, so he sent him to the Lady of the house instead – who it seemed all too obviously ruled the Dun Fort in her husband's absence.
Alice Rykker née Darkwood was younger than her late husband by quite some years, with dark raven hair and a kind smile.
"Lord Tristan," she stepped down from Duskendale's blackened weirwood throne with all the grace of her station.
"My Lady," Tristan bowed as she approached. "Thank you for hosting me and mine, it's been a long journey…"
The woman was a Darkwood by birth – in a marriage born of blood ties; or so it was said – for the Darkwoods were descendants of House Darklyn and their marriage had strengthened Rykker rule over their city. It had been years since the defiance, but the smallfolk still held fond memories of their old liege.
She was far younger than her husband and still a beauty; with long flowing raven locks and kind eyes.
"Please," Lady Rykker insisted with her smile. "You must call me Alice, your father and my husband were fine friends once."
"I-" Tristan faltered for a moment. "You honor me, Lady Alice…"
She rolled her dark brown eyes at that. "It shall have to do, young lord."
"I bring you news," Tristan held out his parchment for the lady. "From your son, Ser Richard…"
"My sweet boy," She took the letter eagerly, breaking the seal and unfolding the parchment in a heartbeat.
It hadn't been difficult to get Richard Rykker to write his mother a loving letter singing praises, for the boy had been drinking milk of the poppy like a fish in water; his mind addled, the boy was like to do anything asked of him with little fuss. On several occasions he had mistaken Tristan for his own father.
"My poor boy," Lady Rykker's smile had died on her lips. "He-"
"Is wounded," Tristan confirmed sadly with a hung head. "My maester is seeing to him and assures me of his recovery in time…"
In truth, the young heir would never walk again; not to mention the adverse effects of all that milk of the poppy… such a damn shame…
"You've my thanks," Lady Rykker hold her son's captor.
"Your husband has mine my lady, if not for his arrival I may not be here today…"
"My love was all too happy to ride for his king."
"How is King Joffrey?" Tristan pried, wondering aloud.
"News from the capital has been few and far between I'm afraid," the Lady of Duskendale answered with a worried frown. "We've heard little since the Queen Mother sent demands for our troops – then the arrival of Ser Jaime to call on my lord husband and our sweet boy…"
"And the dragon mother," came a young girls voice, of barely ten years by Tristan's guess. "Tell him about the dragon!"
"My sweet," Alice Rykker eyed her youngest daughter's arrival. "What have I told you about-"
"I was lonely!" The girl pouted, coming out from her hiding spot; poorly hidden behind one of the any pillars in her father's hall.
"Your sisters-"
"-are so boring!"
Some of the guards stifled laugher at that, though the girl's mother did not.
"Now now," she scolded with a frown. "They are your sisters, Lyla; have you forgotten?"
The young girl mumbled something under her breath.
"Lyla…"
"Family First," the girl muttered with a pout.
"Quite so," her mother sighed, though offered her daughter a smile.
"Apologies," Tristan interrupted the two gently. "What's this about a dragon, Lady Alice?"
The lady of Duskendale's smile turned whimsical. "A smallfolk superstition, young lord – nothing to worry abo-"
"His name is Balerion," young Lyla Rykker explained excitedly. "The Black Dread! From the Conquest!"
"By the Seven," her mother cursed under her breath.
"He circles the city hunting wrongdoers!"
"He is an eagle," Lady Alice reluctantly explained, sending a scolding look to her cower her daughter. "A large one, I'll admit – no doubt starved and desperate to have attacked our rookery so boldly – but by no means a dragon. My daughter is quite taken by the gossip from our servants of late…"
"It attacked your rookery and slayed your ravens…"
It was less a question than an observation, but the words had left Tristan's mouth without thought.
The same thing had happened to his own rookery the night before Stark's arrival…
"I'm afraid so," Lady Alice took it for a question.
"That is…"
Madness, came to mind… and yet…
The raven cawed up from its perch in the rafters above their heads. The world was growing stranger by the day.
"Unfortunate," Lady Alice paid the raven no mind. "You should keep your pet closer, young lord; the beast descends on whatever it can catch…"
"My pet?"
"The raven," Alice motioned to it. "It is yours, is it not?"
"I-" Tristan shook his thoughts away. "Aye, though I fear it's ill trained…"
The Lady frowned sadly. "Truly? With such fine falconry in your family, I expected a calmer bird…"
"Mine is… special…"
In more ways than he dared to consider.
"Well," Lady Alice smiled kindly. "Aren't all creatures, in their own way?"
"Aye, I suppose so My Lady."
Tristan smiled his best smile at that. He'd never liked birds in truth…
The raven cawed as if to answer. This night, Tristan thought, could not come soon enough.
Above the inn's door were seven wooden swords beneath an iron spike. The whitewash that covered them was cracked and peeling, but all living here knew their meaning. They stood for the seven sons of Darklyn who had worn the white cloaks of the Kingsguard. No other house in all the realm could claim as many. They were the glory of their House. Now they were only a sign above an inn. The innkeeper put them on the second floor, her and her husband; or so the story went…
A woman with a liver-colored birthmark on her face had brought up a wooden tub soon after, and then water, pail by pail.
"How is Duskendale?" Rowana asked as she climbed carefully into the tub.
"The city?" The woman beamed, seeming glad for the conversation. "Well, there's Darkes here, I'm one myself. My husband says I was Darke before we wed, and darker afterward." She laughed. "Can't throw a stone in Duskendale without you hit some Darke or Darkwood or Dargood, but the lordly Darklyns are all gone. Lord Denys was the last o' them, the sweet young fool. Did you know the Darklyns were kings in Duskendale before the Andals come? You'd never know t'look at me, but I got me royal blood. Can you see it? 'Your Grace, another cup of ale,' I ought to make them say. 'Your Grace, the chamber pot needs emptying, and fetch in some fresh faggots, Your Bloody Grace, the fire's going out.'" She laughed again and shook the last drops from the pail. "Well, there you are. Is that water hot enough for you?"
"It's lovely, my thanks…"
The water was surprising warm, for such a small establishment.
"A girl the size o' you," the women smiled kindly. "Plenty o' space in the tub."
Rowana blushed at that, lowering herself in the small tub. At Harrenhal the tubs had been huge and made of stone, she could remember clearly. The bathhouse had been thick with the steam rising off the water; nothing like where she found herself now – nor like the hotsprings back home…
She lowered herself under the water then as best she could, closing her eyes and soaking her raven locks.
In her mind's eye she'd seen a great hall from high rafters, with pillars and a grand blackened weirwood throne.
"Well," The woman smiled down below. "Aren't all creatures, in their own way?"
"Aye, I suppose so My Lady."
The Turncloak's smile was far less kind.
She'd seen it all. Heard it all. Lived it all.
Her wings were tired as she tucked her head between them, up in the rafters.
"-and the youngest brother," the kind woman's voice echoed; seeping through some cloudy darkness.
"Renly?" The Turncloak asked, sat at the high table with the kind woman's kin…
When had that happened?
"A usurper, true, but to be murdered by his own Kingsguard…"
"I heard it was the Knight of Flowers doing, was it not?"
"The Tyrell boy," the kind one hummed her agreement. "Or it was a woman; depending on who you listen to…"
Their voices were muffled. W- Why was…
"Lord Tarly put Bitterbridge to the sword, I heard?"
"Florent men. His own wife's family," the woman sounded sad. "How foul a deed that is…"
The words bored her. She longed to spread her wings and flee this stuffy hall, to sour through the-
"St-u-pid g-irl," a voice seeped through the air like some phantom.
The world flashed then, whites and reds and blues and blackness.
Air filled her lungs as water left them, choking and coughing up a storm.
"Idiot!" A man growled at her angrily.
The room was spinning.
Her lungs felt raw… breathing hurt…
"You could've died!"
"I-" She tried to find the words but talking stung something fierce.
"Idiot girl," the man was standing over her tub, glaring furiously down at her.
Rowana covered her chest instinctively.
"G- Get out m'lor-"
"Husband," he scolded her sharply. "You foolish woman – or am I speaking to the damn bird!?"
"I-" She shook her head to stop the room spinning.
"It might explain the stupidity, I suppose…"
"I- I'm sorry m'lo- my husband…"
Edwyn Fisher sighed something fierce.
"Damn it all," he knelt by the side of her tub. "Are you okay?"
"I-" She caught her breath, breathing slowly; the room ceased its swimming. "Yes…"
"No girl, you aren't," Edwyn disagreed. "My cousin asks too much of you."
That's right, the Prince had intrusted her with this task, hadn't he? How had she forgotten that?
"I- I'll be more careful…"
She didn't know how she'd do that though, exactly.
Edwyn seemed to see right through her, though that wasn't difficult.
"Can I-" She blushed, lowering herself in the now cold water to save some dignity.
"Get dressed," Edwyn hummed, shaking his head tiredly. "I'll be downstairs. Don't take long, you hear?"
She'd promised easily enough, but it was ever so tempting to just close her eyes once more and drift away – up into the clouds to spr-
"No," she cursed under her breath, shaking away the thought. "That isn't me…"
Getting out of the tub proved more difficult than she'd expected as her legs failed her, holding on to the tub for a brief moment; as if she'd forgotten how to use them – it took but a moment for the fog to fade… but by the gods… how far had she drifted this time? Maybe the Prince was right…
He'd have sent another in her place, if it were an option; she knew – but they had too few wargs fit to task.
"A I fit to this task?" The thought was treasonous, as most thoughts often were.
She managed to put on her clothes and felt for where her swordbelt ought to be, tight around her hips, but there was none to be had.
"Women don't wield steel here," Edwyn had reminded her with a smirk.
They weren't meant to be raising suspicion, after all – just a husband and wife traveling to avoid the war.
The Turncloak didn't know they were here; it wasn't a part of the plan, at least as far as he knew. Prince Willam didn't trust him.
"Steal a woman away from her man," the Prince had said with a scowl. "What you get is a woman that can be taken away from her man…"
Lord Staunton was no woman, to be sure, but the meaning was simple enough. The man had turned his cloak once, so why not a second time?
That was the trick with loyalty, Rowana supposed; once broken it was impossible to ever repair completely. It would never be as it once was. A wound that would scar any man or woman, but it was a scar that Tristan Staunton seemed content to carry with him for the rest of his days… however many he may have left…
In the end, one supposed, it was not the wound but the scar that would shape Staunton's future.
By the time Rowana got dressed and walked down to the first floor, the common room was beyond crowded.
Four septas sat closest to the roaring fire, in robes stained and dusty from the road. Elsewhere locals filled the benches, sopping up bowls of hot crab stew with chunks of bread. The smell made her stomach rumble, but she saw no empty seats. Then her 'husband' called over to her said, "My love, here, join us."
It was all she could do to not bush at the 'my love' as Edywn beckoned her over to the table.
"M'lo-" she wasn't good at this, taking a seat uneasily. "Husband…"
"My dear," Edwyn however seemed apt at mummery. "You're looking lovely as ever."
"This be ya wife eh Ed?" The stranger at their table smirked an ugly smile at her.
"I'm a lucky man, am I not?"
"Oh aye," The stranger hummed, sipping his dirt-brown ale. "Lil skinny, but a looker you've caught yaself!"
Rowana didn't know to blush or pull a knife on the man… but then she didn't have a knife…
"As we were saying," Edwyn pushed the conversation onward.
"Ah, yes, ya misses beauty distracted me it did!"
The man was eyeing her like a piece of meat…
"Quite so, but to business now friend…"
If the stranger caught the tone of Edwyn's voice, he didn't show it.
"Who is this?" Rowana opted to ask, not able to hide the scowl on her lips.
"She has a mouth on her eh?" The stranger laughed, gulping down his thick ale-like substance.
His eyes spoke too much for Rowana's liking.
"The road, friend; you were saying?"
The stranger hummed. "Aye, there's hundreds – as I was sayin. Septons, and smallfolk; feeling the war…"
"And-" Rowana tried to speak, but her 'husband' shot her a glare.
"It was at the Stinking Goose, it was – gods, another ale here woman!"
The barmaid smiled politely at his shouted demands, vowing to bring him another.
"The Stinking Goose?" Edwyn said, uncertain of the name.
"An unsavoury place," the stranger admitted. "I came from Maidenpool, as I said – the Goose is full of sailors, and sailors have been known to smuggle men aboard their ships, if the price is right. Well, these sailors spoke of great ships anchored of the coast ya see? Great monstrous things!"
"And did you see these ships?"
"Nay," The stranger frowned. "I went to look, you see; but there was nothing there!"
He wouldn't have. Manderly's fleet and the Wanderer hadn't stayed long in Maidenpool.
The barmaid brought bowls of hot crab stew then, and some hot fresh bread and a tankard of brown ale too.
"Ye lookin to head North?" The stranger asked, nursing his ale.
"Feeling the war friend," Edwyn answered. "North's too dangerous…"
"Aye true," came the reply. "Pretty things like her doesn't belong on the road though…"
Rowana sipped at her cup of watered wine. She did not oft drink, but lately she found it helped to settle her nerves.
It wasn't long before they were greeted by a familiar face. A welcoming sight, to Rowana; who was growing to dislike strangers.
"Ed," the Greycloak greeted their table, dressed in a plain tabard and poor chainmail that made him look like some common sellsword.
"Gen," Edwyn smiled at the man's arrival. "Fancy meeting you here!"
"The gods are good," Genrik smirked in reply.
"Friend o yours eh?"
The stranger was eyeing the new arrival suspiciously.
"Old friend of the family," Edwyn explained without a care. "Genrik here saved our lives on the road awhile back, isn't that right Gen?"
"Cut down some rogues that overstayed their welcome, aye…"
"I-" The stranger snarled at him. "What are you sugg-"
"Take a seat Ser Genrik," Edwyn insisted, motioning to the stranger's seat.
"Gladly," Genrik's judging eyes hadn't left the stranger since he'd arrived at their table.
"What is this?" The stranger growled, shying under Genrik's gaze. "I was invited! You can't just-"
"Ignore him," Edwyn dismissed the man with a wave of his hand, all smiles. "Stupidity is contagious."
The stranger huffed as he got up and stumbled, muttering drunken curses about bastards and hedgeknights.
"It's good to see you Gen," Rowana smiled genuinely, happy to see a face she knew well enough.
"And you Row," the Greycloak turned Hedgeknight hummed his reply. "You're looking well."
"What news?" Edwyn pried quickly, tearing some bread in half and handing it to the man.
"Who was the rogue?"
"A sailor with a tall tale," he said uncaring. Curiosity had gotten the better of him, was all. "Now, what news Ser?"
Genrik took a mouthful of bread before answering. "All is well, the winds blow; with the cold to follow…"
"Then everything is in place," Edwyn hummed low, taking a sip of ale and finding the taste too foul.
If the Staunton men were to be their sword, then Genrik's few would be their shield. The Prince wasn't one to trust blindly.
The common room begun to empty before long. Edwyn tore at a chunk of bread, listening to the talk at the other tables. Most of it concerned the death of King Renly. "Murdered by a woman," a local man was saying, a cobbler by the look of him, "whoever would've thought of a sword-swallower?"
"And his brother moves on the capital," said another. "What's to stop em coming here next?"
"Lord Tywin," said a guardsman off-duty. "Or his lad, might be. The Kingslayer..."
"Not him," declared the innkeep, overhearing the chatter. "Not that oathbreaker."
Brave man to say that so openly, though; few in Duskendale held any love for House Lannister.
"It's time," Genrik muttered low as he sipped lazily at the dirt-brown ale.
"Aye," Edwyn supposed quietly as the innkeep began lighting his lanterns in the dimming light of a fading day.
The night was coming, and with it came the song of steel and death. With it came the wolves and winter.
The Darkwood clung to the cliffs above Duskendale like pride clung to a Lannister, claws and all, roots from tall dark trees gripped these chalk cliffs – the forest as dark and gloomy as its name suggested – as vast and ancient as the Darklyn Kings of old. It was here that the Stark host rested, sheltered at the forests heart.
He moved silently beneath dark sentinels and past gnarled roots as old as time, past tents and resting horses; through the camp like a ghost unseen.
It was dark amongst the trees, but moon and stars shined through gaps in the canopy above; rare as they were – it was no matter to him, swift as he was, he could feel the ground underfoot, the soft crackling of fallen leaves, thick roots and hard stones underpaw. It was the fog that angered him. He didn't like this place…
The smells weren't right. They filled his head, alive and dead all at once; it clung to the air like a thick mud, the perfume of decay, with too few calming smells. The scent of man was fresh though – not like the squirrels from past day – reminding him of hot blood and the way the bones would crack between his teeth.
He could no longer hear the squirrels chittering and rustling above him, safe among their leaves… they had fled from this place…
His ears pricked then, listening for some threat on instinct alone, but it was only the tired sigh of blowing leaves.
There was a voice from behind him, soft but strong too. He turned his head but could find nothing, only…
A weirwood. It stood the very heart of the forest. The two-legs had called it an omen, but it smelled foul to his nose; like it didn't quite belong.
Its pale roots twisted up far slenderer than any weirwood he'd seen. Wary of the tree, he circled its smooth white trunk until coming to the face. Red eyes looked at him then. Fierce eyes they were, burnt with fury, yet somehow glad to see him. It whispered names. Some he knew, some he did not.
The weirwood smelled sad. Then there was fear, a deep-rooted terror.
"We-" It seemed to say, frozen with dread. "Leave!"
He sniffed at the bark in reply, smelling man and tree and squirrel, but behind that there was another scent.
Death, he knew. He was smelling death. His hair bristling and he bared his fangs.
"Wraith?"
The voice was not of the trees.
"What are you doing out here boy?" She smiled at him, eye-level as she was; far shorter than her mate.
He had no words for her. At least, none that she'd hear – tilting his head to the side in question as she kept smiling.
"What did the tree do huh?"
It reeked of old death. He hadn't liked that, a stench that still lingered in the fog…
"Have you seen Will boy?" She asked of the direwolf, ruffling the midnight fur ahead his head.
The beast didn't answer, instead merely closing his emerald eyes and enjoying the scratches.
"Talking to wolves," Ashlyn hummed, suppressing a laugh. "I've spent too much time around Starks…"
"M'lady?" A greycloak called on her, wrapped tight in furs and leather; he was one of many patrolling the campgrounds.
"I'm quite fine," came the dismissal. It was harsher than she'd intended – but she'd not gotten much sleep of late.
"Aye," the greycloak bowed his head dutifully.
"I-" Ashlyn frowned, scolding herself silently. "Have you seen the Prince?"
"No m'lady," the man answered. "Is he not in… well… your um…"
"No," she scowled at the assumption. "He is not in ou- his tent."
The Greycloak coughed away his embarrassment with muttered apologies.
Wraith nuzzled at her then, nudging his forehead against her stomach as if to gently push the woman.
"You know where he's at boy?"
As if he wouldn't know. What kind of question was that?
She wasn't the brightest, this mate of his master.
"Okay," Ashlyn hummed. "Show me to him Wraith."
The direwolf began pawing its way southward through the camp with only a sidewards glance to the weirwood.
"M'lady, you shouldn't go alone – allow me to-"
"I'm not alone," Ashlyn smiled her best smile at the guardsman. "I have a direwolf with me, don't I?"
In more ways than one, her treasonous thoughts betrayed her for but a moment. In more ways than one.
She followed Willam's direwolf away from the relative safety of camp – south from the heart of the forest – she walked for what seemed like too long through the grim, dark forest. Some more guards had protested her leaving, naturally, but none dared attempt to stop her or the wolf. And so, she'd found herself walking alone through a narrow path thick with mud and leaves and all manner of things that got themselves stuck in her amber hair. The wolf was pushing onward, despite her complaints.
The camp was safe and secure, so why the direwolf was leading her firmly away him-
"It's gone," her thoughts muttered, eyes darting about the wooded path; barely adjusted to the dark.
In the heartbeat between holding up a hand to push aside a low hanging twisted branch, the direwolf had vanished.
"Wraith!" She dared not raise her voice too high, but the fear began to grip hold, her hand wandering to the comfort of the sword at her hip.
The question now was too clear, to press on or to turn back? The camp was not so far, she knew, surely it would be easier to-
A raven cawed at her from a nearby tree branch, looking down at her with glinting emerald eyes; it cawed and flapped its wing in greeting.
"Hello," Ashlyn replied, scowling – but not all dismissing. She was no Andal Princess. She knew the potential dangers of a cunning beast… no matter how small…
The growl was low and chilling as Wraith's black fur appeared from the shadows ahead, lunging towards the tree and sending the raven flying – cawing in defiance or some rand jest – it flew away into the canopy above as the direwolf sat on his haunches; looking up at the trees for the flying fiend.
"And where did you go!?" Ashlyn scolded the direwolf as if it were a large puppy.
The pony-sized puppy made a show to tilt his head and whine innocently.
"We're going back to camp, damn it, do-"
Wraith only offered a snort in reply, turning tail back on the southern path.
"You-" Ashlyn huffed at the beast, giving chase with fire in her eyes. "Come back here, gods damn it!"
In a moment, past some trees and more gnawed roots, she found herself stumbling forward into a clearing.
"…chip away at it you'll destroy a man as surely as any sword could Grey…"
The voice she knew very well, even faint as it were…
"Memory is all we are in the end," Prince Willam muttered sadly.
"You worry too much," another voice she knew. Aedan's voice.
"The day I stop that is the day we get ourselves killed, dear brother…"
Ashlyn could see them both across from the treeline, standing at the edge of the Darkwood's chalk cliffs.
"Maybe," Aedan hummed in reply. "You're right enough though, about the Staunton."
"Aren't I always?" Willam smiled his most arrogant smile. Ashlyn couldn't see it, not from here – with his back to the forest – but she knew the tone well enough to see the smile on his face within her thoughts. "They do say that time is a great teacher after all, do they not?"
"Aye," came the answer with a roll of his eyes. "Unfortunately, however, it kills all its pupils…"
"Oh?" Willam scoffed, still smirking like a fool. "I thought it was said how time heals, eh?"
Ashlyn still watched from her hiding spot, eyeing the pair of men as they looked out over the cliffside.
"Time does as it wishes I suppose; ain't for us to-"
Flash stirred at their side, the wolfs ears perking up; listening to the wind.
"We've company," Aedan muttered, one hand vigilantly on his sword. Ready for-
"What were you two talking about?"
Ashlyn left her hiding place without a fuss, taking steps close to the pair.
"What were you hiding behind a tree for, eh Ash?"
"Don't change the subject," she huffed. "Answer me…"
Willam merely smiled.
"I'll leave you two alone," Aedan spoke with stifled laughter, taking his wolf with him as he headed back for the trees.
He'd left them alone here – except for the direwolf, now laying beside its master; under a clear starry sky on this cold night – although cold was a stretch, for the south always seemed too warm for comfort. "Will?" She tried to get his attention, as his sight had wandered off back over the cliffside.
"What do you see?" He asked her absently, motioning down to the landscape ahead.
"The city," came her answer quickly enough. "What of it?"
Duskendale was south of the chalk cliffs; with rocky headland further south still, shielding the ships at anchor from storms in the narrow sea. A castle overlooked the port, its square keep and big drum towers visible from every part of town – looking small from atop the cliffside. The city was sleeping, except for the burning of torches.
"Remind you of anything?"
Ashlyn squinted at the horizon. Walls, towers, ports and lights…
"No," she denied with a shake of her head.
"Home," Willam answered for her. "As a boy I used to stand on my balcony at night and look out at Wrightport, dreaming of someday leaving – going on some grand adventure; any excuse to be rid of… well… that doesn't matter. The lights, the sea; it reminds me of home."
A home they meant to sack and seize. It was an ill thought in all honesty…
"You're homesick?" Ashlyn almost laughed at the idea.
"Is that so funny?"
"Yes!" This time she did laugh, more a chuckle than anything else. "The Wandering Wolf, the Wayward Son, is homesick of the very place he's famous for fleeing time and time again! If that isn't funny, then I'm not sure what is Princeling."
"Any funnier than an Amber with a Stark?"
Ashlyn frowned at that comeback. He'd a point…
"Fair," she supposed with a huff, it was arguably as odd.
She'd hated Starks for a long time, years ago; it was easy to blame the family for the Kings deeds.
"I'm sorry," Willam opted, looking away from the city for a moment.
"For what?" She raised a brow at that.
"For your family," he began with a frown. "For mine, for-"
She silenced him with a kiss, grabbing his face to stop his words.
"Shut up Stark," Ashlyn rolled her eyes, turning to view the city in the distance.
It didn't do to dwell in the past. He did enough of that, she'd learnt; and gods be damned if she allowed it to continue.
Duskendale was beautiful, in hindsight, the lights flickered in the darkness from houses and guardsmen with torches lining the cities high walls – patrolling through the city streets – with the keep flying its blue banners proudly, through from so far and so high one couldn't make out whose banners those were exactly.
"We were talking about the past," Willam broke the quiet that had fallen upon them.
"The past? What of it?"
"Grey is the opinion that I'm afraid of it," he'd laughed at that. It was amusing.
Ashlyn had no answer for it, however.
"Are you?"
"I-" Willam hummed in thought…
He'd dismissed it away with poetic talk of memory with Aedan… but her…
"Want to know the most important lesson I've ever learnt, Ash?"
"Aye," she nodded, as Willam stared into amber eyes; trusting her despite every voice telling him it was foolish.
"It was to keep moving," he revealed after a moment. "Take a rest and the world catches up with you. The lesson, is to keep moving."
Wraith's ears perked up at the sound of great wings flapping on the midnight breeze, giving Ashlyn Amber no time to reply.
"Hello there," Willam greeted the eagle; arm outstretched for its landing. The bird held with it a message.
Unfolding the parchment, it read "Fires Fade" and the prince hummed his thanks to the eagle. It was time.
The alley bent ahead and somehow somewhere Ser Robin had taken a wrong turn. It was the drink's fault – he knew this well as the world spun on its heels – he'd drank too deeply in the celebrations and found himself stumbling from the barracks where his comrades drank and sung of Lord Rykker's victory at Rook's Rest.
He'd been saddened at the time. His friends riding off to glory and leaving him with few others to hold the city in their absence.
"Lucky bastards," Ser Robin managed to mutter angrily, stumbling over his own feet.
He'd found a dead end in a small muddy yard where three pigs were rooting round a low stone well. One squealed at the sight of him in the dark when he stumbled, hand resting on the stone; he sat down with his back to the wall in an attempt to cease the world from spinning quite so violently.
"Basstard legs," he cursed his state, groaning. "B- Bassstard drinsk…"
It was dark. Too dark, the sober side of his thoughts suggested; the lanterns weren't lit…
Getting back to his feet he brushed away the mud and muck from his blue tabard, the blue of House Rykker once proud now turned muddy. If his captain caught him in such a state, he knew the punishment would be severe – though not so severe as the lecture he'd get from his wife when he got home…
Ser Robin turned to retrace his steps and walked headfirst into someone hurrying round the bend. The collision knocked him off his feet, landing him on his arse in the mud. "Pardons," he murmured drunkenly. The figure was tall, dressed in mail and leathers. "I- I wass coming from the barrackss an-"
"You're a guardsman then?" The stranger asked, holding out his hand helpfully.
"Yess," Ser Robin slurred his speech, taking the strangers hand too gladly.
He didn't feel the blade sink into his heart – not through the daze – as his breath caught in his throat.
"I'm sorry," the stranger offered him as others appeared from the shadows.
"I-" Ser Robin muttered quietly. "I- I don't…"
He fell to the mud with a squelch, wide-eyed and lifeless.
"We've no time for this," Edwyn whispered, eyeing the dead Rykker knight.
Behind him two Greycloaks stood vigil, dressed up as little more than hedgeknights.
"He wasn't supposed to be here…"
"Neither are we m'lady," Genrik replied, dragging the body away with help from one of his men, leaving it behind a wall for the pigs.
"Staunton's men are making their move sooner or later," Edwyn offered, thinking aloud as he eyed the pigs inspecting the ne arrival to their pen. His eyes darted from the Greycloaks to the woman. "It's now or never Lady – see to the eagle – then we'll see to our end; understood? Now is the moment…"
"It's early," Rowana argued, frowning as the eagle circled above them all lazily keeping watch.
"We go now or not at all," Fisher declared firmly. "I say we go now, Lady Raven…"
That nickname hadn't ceased since she'd nearly drowned in that tub.
What choice did she have? Orders were orders… and royal orders none the less…
She obeyed, disagreements aside.
"As you say m'lord..."
Talon flew away with merely a glance, northward to the cliffs of Darkwood.
It was a short walk to the North-East gate, through alleyways and past houses; the easternly part of the city was closer to the docks and was poorer for it as those richer among the smallfolk lived in the upper city, closest to the castle proper. Staunton's men wouldn't be far from the North gate now…
Genrik had wasted no time robbing the corpse of Ser Robin of its tabard, muddy and stained with blood as it was.
"Halt!" A guardsman greeted them at the gatehouse, standing by the door seeming none too happy.
"Ser," Genrik spoke in his best andal – though it was none too impressive.
The rest of his men hid in the alleys.
"You drunk friend?"
He could smell booze on the air. Robin's tabard was soaked in ale…
"Gods," the guard turned to his friend then. "Ya see this? It's worse enough the bastards drink while we're on duty but-"
The second guard dropped with a THUD as Edwyn's crossbow bolt landed firmly in his left eye, killing the man in an instant.
"W- We're und-"
Genrik's sword delved into the man's chest.
"..h- hel-"
He cut the throat for good measure, better safe than sorry.
"Raven," Edwyn called on Rowana. "Use the bucket, see to the lanterns…"
"Aye," she nodded, rushing to douse the whale-oil lanterns with seawater with the help of other Greycloaks.
"We'll see to the rest," Edwyn declared, kicking aside the guardsman's corpse after taking his keys, opening the gatehouse and making his way inside.
It was smaller than the north gate by far – but it would serve their purposes well enough while Staunton's men were busy elsewhere.
Inside, another guard was asleep by a firepit; his sword long fallen to the floor as he'd drifted to a sleep he'd never wake from.
"Hurry now Gen," Edwyn rushed the old Greycloak. "We don't have long till th-"
The bells rang out, waking a city form its slumber. That wasn't part of the plan…
"Shit," Fisher cursed after slitting the sleeper's throat.
"Help me damn it!"
"Now is that any way to address a lord?"
"Fisher," Genrik growled at the young lordling. "Now!"
Edwyn smirked, rushing over to help the Greycloak dragged their kills into the gatehouse; away from prying eyes.
It left quite the stain of blood, no doubt, but in the rush and panic – and in the darkness – none noticed the red smears on cobblestone. "They're leaving," Edwyn confirmed for the others, with his bloodied sword at the ready should anyone dare enter. "Northward, or to the castle perhaps…"
"Those were the keep bells," Genrik suggested confidently.
"Staunton?" Rowana wondered aloud, having killed the lights surrounding them.
"Aye," Edwyn supposed. "Maybe, or maybe something else…"
"What's the plan m'lord?"
"The plan?" Edwyn wasn't sure the plan had changed. Had it?
"Is this going to be one of those times Prince Will's pretended to have a plan until the last moment?"
"My cousin only did that the once," he dismissed the notion with a wary smirk.
No. The plan was a bold one, but then he'd come to expect nothing less from his cousin.
"Secure the gatehouse and wait for my word Genrik…"
"M'lord?" Rowana asked him then, a look of worry on her face. "Should I…"
Edwyn's face changed in a heartbeat at the thought of her warging again. She'd been pushed too far already.
"The Prince should be coming. We need to know the situation, lad…"
"I'll be fine," Rowana hoped to the gods that her smile was a brave one.
"Damn it all," Edwyn couldn't stop her. They needed to know. "Very well, Lady Raven, what do you see?"
She closed her eyes and found herself souring, the wind under her wings; darting past trees and flying over men on horses as they thundered out from a treeline – out from the dark woods and into the pale moonlight – they poured out from the trees. She flew ahead of them; glancing looks down at the host of riders.
At its head was one man riding atop a horse as black as sin, in dark steel with a midnight black direwolf running alongside his horse.
She dove above the man as he rode down from the woods and towards the city.
Shouts of "Winterfell!" and "Stannis!" rang out from the riders.
Duskendale's northern gate was wide open; but men fought men fiercely within.
"I have to tell Edwyn," the thought compelled her. "We have-"
What was the plan again? It was…
It was… the gate? The gate was already open though…
The wind blew under her wings, lifting her higher in the sky.
"Gate!" Rowana tried to yell, to wake herself, to warn the others. "Gate, Gate, Gate!"
The riders roared in defiance beneath her wings.
Rowana flew higher and higher, away from the riders.
In the city below, she could see men fighting – in a sea of black and blue as gates closed behind them – but the eagle did not care.
All things, all worries, all joys and memory faded from thought; expect for one…
"Fly," Talon soured free above the clouds. "Fly, Fly, Fly."
My Note(s): Duskendale isn't exactly going to plan so far – though this night is far from over – originally, I'd planned to do the whole battle in one large chapter but then I thought "huh, this is a nice cliffhanger" and have proceeded to be evil because peoples tears nourish me :) we'll see the outcome of Duskendale in the next chapter for better of worse as Willam's cavalry arrive outside the city walls expecting open gates. Edwyn is at one gate, while Staunton's men are at another…
Rowana is a casualty of her own loyalty, the price paid for warging past her limits; though we'll learn the extent of this later on. You'll see.
The next chapter may be later than usual again, still swamped with life, but I'll get it done Asap :P until next time…
Tertius711 & Force Smuggler: Will/Ash is something I've built up for a while, though 'romance' in writing is hardly my forte, relationships (romantic or otherwise) have been a staple of Will's character development through his years; for better or worse. We'll see how things go. His track record isn't too stellar with women haha.
DebaterMax: I don't have an editor and don't particularly care about the odd typo, because frankly I'm not being paid to care. As stated in my profile here and a few times elsewhere, I'm not a stickler for the odd error as I'm not using an editor or beta readers or anything of the sort. I've noticed the errors after posting but aren't fussed.
Suzakualbion: Happy to hear you're enjoying things so far :) appreciate people taking the time to leave comments.
Griff1007: I do have a basic gist – it's just a whole lot, plus I've written half these chapters while tipsy or drunk – so it's really a miracle thing's aren't too bad; but I do have a large document keeping track of everything, including the overall direction of things for the next like 100 chapters :P Glad you're enjoying things tho :)