Copyright 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 helps encourage my writing.
Chapter 52: Winter's Dawn
"An edge to cut truth from lies."
– Prince Artos Stark
Life hadn't gone nearly as she'd once dreamt it would. She'd wed the wrong Prince – handsome and kind as her husband had been – they'd barely gotten to know each other before he was spirited away on his father's conquest. Darion had been everything Willam promised; charming and kind… but she couldn't claim to love him…
Time would mend that, she hoped, whenever her husband returned…
"If he returns," the nagging doubts plagued her sleep.
The castle held little love for her at first and held never less when her daughter was born.
Visanna Stark, she'd named her; in honor of the Queen Mother – who had been by far the kindest to her and was loved by the islands people.
Cai Stark née Lóng tossed and turned in her feathered bed among her pillows and thick covers. Winterhold was far warmer than she'd dared to hope, with warm water pumped through the walls of the keep. She'd expected to spend her nights shivering under layers of blankets but found the truth quite contrary.
In her nightgown of white velvets and silks she was as warm as she'd care to be within Winterhold, even as it snowed outside her windows.
The residents of her new home were far less warm since she'd arrived well over a year past.
She was a disappointment to them, hide it as they might try; she wasn't the gullible girl they thought she was.
At nine-and-ten she was a year her husbands elder but half the heigh, bronze skinned, with onyx eyes and long hair; though not as beautiful as her sisters – in her and their opinion – she would one day be the Queen of Winter. That was a thought that turned her stomach and made her sick.
How could she rule the very people who thought her so useless?
She was too foreign, too small, too meek, and she'd failed to give her husband a son.
They liked to consider themselves so much better than her Imperial roots, but Cai had found them all too similar in many ways.
Court life was still just as she'd grown up remembering it, except now the eyes of every man and woman and beast were upon her whenever she dared to walk the halls or feast with Prince Artos and the Starks – that was often enough – for a future Queen did not have the luxury of hiding in her chambers forever.
She'd at least taken some solace when news Willam's survival reached them… oh and her brother too, she supposed…
The wolves were howling outside her window, long and cold and chilling. It oft felt that they were the lords here and she was their guest.
A second wolf began to howl in chorus with the first, then another, and another and yet another in a haunting chorus from beyond her window.
She rubbed the sleep from her dark ebony eyes at that, resigned to the fact that she'd get no more rest – up from the covers – she swung her legs over the bedside and stood. The wolves persisted. "Morning my love," she smiled sweetly down at the crib where her daughter laid peacefully.
The wolves never bothered the child, even a little, she slept without a care in the world.
Her daughter was all Stark with her little tuff of ebony-raven hair and grey eyes so light that they shun silver in the light.
"It's early," Cai thought, eyes darting to the window.
Outside, the world was still dark, with the sun only just threatening its way up over the horizon.
"Look to the stars," Cai muttered an old tune from her childhood. "The dawn will come…"
She opened the window to the howls of the wolves, waking the castle; if not a little too soon.
That was odd though, wasn't it? They'd never risen this early… not once in what had been well over a year…
Across from her view she could see Wrightport along the shore, with its tall walls and ships already coming and doing. The city never seemed to sleep, in truth, even in the dead of night the streets were lit by whale oil lamps and patrolled by squads of guards with their grey plate-mail and loaded crossbows.
When she turned away from the window, there was a man in the room.
"Lóng," he said, in a thick imperial accent.
His face was covered by a hood doubling as a mask, leaving only two shadowed holes for his eyes.
"W- Who are you!?" Cai backed up with the window behind her. "You can't be here!"
The man was no islander, even though she couldn't see any skin; covered from head to toe as he was in dark leathers akin to forged midnight.
He answered her by sliding an ebony dagger from its sheath.
Cai looked to the knife, then at her daughter's ornate wooden crib.
"No," she said. The word stuck in her throat, merely a whisper.
"The Emperor sends his regards," the man answered.
"N- No," Cari said, louder now she'd found her voice again. "G-"
She'd tried to call for help, but the man moved faster than she could've believed.
One hand clamped down over her mouth and yanked back her back, the other taking his dagger up to her thin neck.
She reached with both hands and grabbed the blade with what strength she had, trying to pull it away; her fingers slippery with blood as her assailant held his hand tighter over her mouth, shutting off all the air. "Long live the Emperor," the man uttered then, as the Princess struggled and failed to pull away the blade.
It cut through her fingers like a knife through butter, freeing the blade now slick with blood.
She screamed into the assassin's hand with what air remained in her lungs.
The knife went from one ear to the other, opening her neck in a stream of red.
It felt cold… numb… she'd fallen to the floor – though couldn't recall when – as her vision faded on the assassin's boots moving away.
"Vis," her mind screamed, begged, pleaded to the dawn; but no help came.
The midnight clad assassin neared the crib and her world faded to nothingness.
The streets were lit by the dimmed light of lamps, the vendors and tanner's stalls were still closed shut at this hour, yet the inns and houses of ill-repute were open through the nights. Brandon's Landing was equal parts inn and whorehouse, the best establishment in the city; at least in Loken Snow's honest personal opinion – among the two hundred thousand or so souls within these walls, few hadn't passed through the doors of such establishments at one time or another for whatever reasons.
Good music, ale and ciders and mulled wines and – though not everyone could afford it – the taste of dawnfire was a sweet burn; sure to get any man drunk.
His father had never allowed him to frequent such places often, bad enough he was a bastard; worse still if he further tarnished his reputation.
Loken stood in front of the Landing and listened to the array of voices. It was full at this hour of the wolf.
The barkeep raised his head above the bar and smirked like the devil to see him enter.
"Sunstark!" He declared, earning a glance from the crowded room filled to the brim with patrons.
He wasn't that. Not yet. His was Snow, at least until his father passed… or he remarried, but that wasn't to be…
"James," Loken greeted, not bothering to correct the man who only saw him as one large fat heavy coin purse.
"What will it be lad," the barkeeps teeth flashed when he smiled.
"Dawnf-"
"Dawnfire!" The man practically beamed.
It was his regular by this stage and without a doubt the expensive thing here… well… other than the whores that was.
The barkeep turned and reached for the top shelf behind his bar, grabbing an ornate glass bottle filled with golden liquid; he quickly cleaned a cloudy glass with his finest gag and poured the drink without ever losing his thrilled expression. "That'll be one gold my Lord," he beamed like the damn dawn itself.
Loken picked up the glass, downed it in one, then tossed a coin to the barkeep who caught it with practiced grace.
"A beer," another patron asked of him, looking annoyed as he'd been wholly ignored in favour of the lordling.
The barkeeps smiled drowned at that, sighing, he wiped his hands on his apron and filled a chipped tankard with dark brown ale.
"Ten coppers," he said uncaringly, pocking the gold from before as Loken eyed the stranger.
He was an old man, with hair almost entirely white-grey; wearing a worn leather jerkin laced up at the neck and shoulders.
A Greybeard – such was the common term for those types; men that had fought and not found the glory of a dead on the battlefields and now drowned their sorrows to find a death in their cups instead. King Rodrik hadn't taken every fighting man with him, though Loken's own father was greying in his age too, many were left behind.
"I'm looking for a room," the greybeard said.
"There's none," grunted the barkeep, looking at the old man's boots, dusty and dirty. "Ask at the Wolf's Rest…"
"It's full," the old man groaned.
"Then ya fucked," the barkeep huffed uncaring.
Loken left the two to their verbal sparring and made to look for a table.
"Snow!" One voice called him from the far corner.
This face he knew. Black-bearded and strong; with his green tabard over fine leathers.
Arving Mormont was the embodiment of his house. They were short men – these Mormonts – though no less fierce for it, as fine sailors as they were fighters. Arving had been left behind by his kin when they'd gone off to war and Loken had found himself a kindred spirit of a sorts.
"Arv," Loken pulled out a chair and took a seat.
"Lord Snow," another man he'd come to know. Towers.
Gavvar Towers, to be precise, taller than most men living at well over seven foot – he towered over Arving and Loken both.
The tankard of ale in his hand was emptied with each gulp.
"Towers," Loken greeted as he sat.
There was a whore on the giant's lap, smiling sweetly.
She was a pretty thing. Heart shaped face, long legs, ample-
"Snow," Arving snapped him away. "Get your own, eh mate?"
Loken huffed at that. "I don't do whores Arv, you know you – no offense miss…"
"None taken m'lord," the whore smiled innocently even as Gavvars giant hand grabbed her chest possessively.
"She's mine," Towers declared between gulps of ale.
"All yours m'lord," the whore smirked.
Gavvar groaned at that, then got up and lifted the girl over his shoulder.
"I'll return," he declared, with the whore over giggling as they went off to whatever room he'd paid for.
"Women love him," Arving laughed at the sight of it.
"They're paid to," Loken countered and stole the giant's tankard.
"They don't complain," Arving countered. "To hear him say it – he'd not shy, that one…"
What the Towers lacked in subtly or cunning or… anything really… they made up for in their size.
More beer arrived at their table, carried by a pretty whore in a short dress that left little to the imagination.
"Heard the news?" Arving asked, winking at the serving lass before drinking deep from his tankard. "All sorts of stories these days, of green men in the Wrightwood, silver griffons in the mountains and dark sorcerers in Nefer. What's next, eh, whole worlds filling with strangeness… next it'll be spriggans and fairies…"
"Mermaids," Loken suggested. "If I had to pick…"
"I'd rather not," Arving shook his head.
"And why not, Mormont?"
Arving smirked devilishly.
"Just imagine the smell of her-"
"Gods," Loken groaned. "Why do I drink with you again?"
"My charm and good looks," Arving hummed, thinking for a moment.
One of the serving girls slapped a patron across from them as the words "I'm not a whore!" rang out across the room.
"Seen the Prince lately Snow?"
Arving all but ignored the commotion as one man was thrown out.
Loken shook his head at that.
"No," he denied. "I ain't had reason to…"
"Your father would report to the hall weekly."
"Bloody good job I ain't him," Loken downed another ale.
"Listen then," Arving put down his tankard and leaned over the table. "All this talk of monsters and fables – there's more behind it, mark my words mate, the Prince is uneasy of late; though he's never been too friendly – the Empire has been acting strange…"
"Imperials are always strange bastards," Loken countered easily.
"Aye," Arving admitted. "I'll give you that, but ever since the Emperor passed things have gotten worse…"
"He was ancient – old men die, what of it eh?"
"Poison," Arving whispered. "That's the rumour anyway, same type that took Prince Xun years back."
The Emperor had passed in his sleep months past, that much had been public enough. Prince Artos had even hosted a feast to honor the man – in no small part thanks to his nephew being wed to the emperor's daughter. His rule had been a relatively peaceful one devoid of conflicts outside of some bandit raids… and Prince Xun…
"Emperor Liang's succession wasn't smooth, it's said; that's why his sister is missing…"
"What one," Loken pried. "She's too many to count from all the wives the old emperor had…"
"The eldest," Arving explained. "Newa? Nuwy?"
"Nuwa," Loken recalled. He'd heard tales of her from sailors – none very flattering. She'd slept with half the Silver City, it was said…
Arving nodded and drank deeply. "She's fled the city, though none know where to, and her brother has removed half his father's court."
The Empire was known for its politics, even if the late emperors reign was without war, it was not without infighting.
"I heard a tale," Arving's voice hushed. "It's likely nonsense – but a sailor said that the Princess was murdered; by her own brother no less, to seize the title of Emperor for himself – the body was buried in her own father's royal sarcophagus!"
Loken groaned at the outlandishness of it. "That seems-"
"Mad," Arving hummed in agreement. "It gets madder though – way the sailor told it – those nobles Emperor Liang removed? Eaten, all of them, when the Princess Nuwa crawled out of her fathers tomb in the dead of night to feast on the flesh of the nobles who betrayed her, with a bloated head and eyes like a beast!"
"Arv, you ought to stop listening to sailor's tall tales…"
There was no shortage of tall tales as of late, each madder than the last.
"Aye," Arving laughed heartily. "Still, it's said there's a war coming Snow."
"We've already got one of those on our hands as it is…"
"Aye, terrible timing; but when have the Imps ever cared?"
"True enough," Loken supposed with a sigh. "We don't have the men though…"
King Rodrik had taken the bulk of the fighting forces, leaving behind a handful of lords or spares to keep bloodlines secured; except for the Ryder's who had all leapt at the opportunity for violence with open hearts and bloody blades – they'd never only Lord Ragnar's brother and his Amber wife home to hold the Ryder lands.
The boy Rodrik Amber was now a ward of Winterhold in fact, the sole male heir to House Amber and its lands, cousin to the Ryders by blood.
"Pact is the pact," Arving argued. "If they call, we have to answer; you know that mate…"
The Pact of Winter's Dawn was sealed by the Shipwright himself to bind the Islands and the Empire.
"Even if we're to fight bloody spriggans and fairies?"
"Even then my friend," Arving hummed and drank deeply.
By the time Loken felt good and drunk, the dawn had come.
It came with the mournful howl of wolves and the stench of death.
Artos moved a stray strand of grey hair from her sea-blue eyes. Tears stained his cheeks, though he'd not realised he'd ever cried, in his mind he could still hear her voice – always kind, always smiling – an anger boiled in his blood with a fury he'd not felt since his own wife passed. He'd never remarried. He'd never stopped loving her.
When the sun set, what candle could ever hope to replace it? Brandon, his only son, became his whole life from the moment Randvi lost her own.
And now his boy was across an ocean, so very far away.
"My Prince," the voice was muffled to him.
His chest ached, tugged at him, demanded of him.
Father's death hadn't brought such a feeling. He'd not been glad – never quite that – yet he'd not cried for the man.
Brandon the Bloody was a man feared and respected, yet never loved. Try as he might to change in his late years, it did little to wash out the past.
He held his mother close to his chest and closed shut his eyes.
"Artos," the voice again, with a hand on his shoulder.
"How," he all but growled, opening his eyes once more – as if closing them would've made the whole world vanish.
The why of things hardly seemed to matter. Unlike his wife, this was not the will of gods; but mere mortals. Men could be killed.
"How has this happened," his voice was barely a whisper.
"We-"
"We're not sure," the answer didn't help.
"Find them Endrin," Artos demanded, eyes never moving from his mother's lifeless eyes.
"I swear it," Lord Endrin Greystark swore valiantly.
Endrin had known her all his life, after all; the woman had been as family.
To strike at a Stark was to forfeit ones right to life. It was an old saying, but a true one.
"Lad," another spoke from the side and knelt by his side.
"Why are you still here?"
Lord Flint balked at the look in his eyes.
"Find them," Artos would've struck if his hands weren't full.
Flint turned on his heels and stormed from the room barking orders.
These men – whoever they were – couldn't have been acting alone. Someone had ordered this.
"My Prince," Endrin knelt by him and dared to pry his Prince's hand away. "Let me…"
"No," Artos snarled denial.
"Do you trust me, My Prince?"
His silver-grey eyes softened somewhat.
"I do," Artos answered grimly. Endrin had been King Brandon's closest friend.
"Then let me help lad," the old lord nearly begged of his prince, who in this moment seemed half his age.
Lord Endrin picked up the fallen queen-mother in his arms and held her with all the strength in his old bones.
Artos stood and looked about the room. There had been a struggle – the guards at the door were slain, their throats cut – his mother had put up a fight before they'd ended things. "Someone will pay for this my lord," he vowed. "If it's the last thing I do…"
"I know my Prince," Endrin held the dead woman in his arms.
A nagging voice nipped at the back of his neck.
"Why her?" He asked aloud, as if the gods might answer him.
This was the royal nursery for god's sake, his mother had always loved to care for the children…
"The castle is locked down," Lord Endrin assured. "We'll find the one's responsible, I promise you."
He could only hum and nod as thoughts assaulted him. There was one dead man on the ground – an assassin – with bite marks in his neck.
Queen Visanna Stark née Fisher had fought quite literally tooth and nail to protect the pack.
"Imperial steel," Artos picked up the dagger, black-and-silver ebony forged of midnight.
"Why would the Emperor-"
One of Flint's men returned at that, half out of breath.
"Speak man," Greystark quickly demanded of him.
The guardsman eyed the dead Queen Mother sadly.
"I-" he stumbled. "Lord Flint has captured one, m'lo-"
Artos barged past the man and sent him stumbling backwards.
Down the Greystone halls of his home and past crowds of Greycloaks with sitting wolves, he was led to the west wing of the castle; where the royal chambers laid. His nephew's room, to be exact, though the boy was far away with Rodrik – he didn't fail to note the looks the cloaks were giving as he passed.
In the room and past two Greycloaks clad in silver plate, the first thing he saw was the body in a little puddle of crimson.
His nephew's little wife was dead. She'd been far too young for such an end…
"Prince," Flint said his name and pointed across the room.
On his knees with a gag and bound hands was a man clad in dark leathers.
"The babe?" Artos pried, eyes darting to the crib of fine craved wood that housed a Princess.
Cai Lóng had been insistent that the child sleep in her own chambers and he'd not had the heart to press the matter.
All the royal children – and those of Stark blood generally – slept in the nursery under guard until they were older enough for their own chambers.
By tradition, if the Princess hadn't insisted, then…
"Alive," Flint said quickly. "Edward here can speak for himself…"
"My Prince," a young Edward Redwood bowed his head respectfully low.
"Speak," Artos commanded, eyes locked onto the captive man as if nothing else mattered.
"I was doing my rounds," Redwood began, head lowered and quiet. "I thought to check on Jenkins and Damon – they were to guard the nursey tonight and – well I didn't think nothing of it at first my lord, but they were perched up like scarecrows… and then I heard the scream…"
"The girl," Artos looked over at the fallen Princess.
"I'm sorry," Edward all but begged. "I wasn't quick enough and-"
"You caught this one," Lord Flint smacked the hostage over his skull and earn a muffled grunt.
"He was…"
Redwood raised his head.
"…I think he was after the child…"
The little wolf was sleeping, unaware in its innocence.
"Redwood, wasn't it?" Artos asked, vaguely recalling the young man.
He merely nodded in reply, keeping his head low when the Prince's eyes were on him.
"You may well have saved the child," Artos frowned, thoughts racing.
"Well done lad," Lord Flint nodded to the young noble.
In the crib, a little Visanna Stark stirred in her sleep, oblivious.
Artos looked down at the child then darted to its mother's killer.
"You," he torn away the gag. "Speak, or by the gods-"
The assassin spat in the Prince's face and was immediately struck by Flint.
"Lord Ethan," Artos wiped the spit from his cheek and didn't look away from the assassin.
"My Prince?"
"Bind this rat," he ordered. "He'll talk…"
"Never," the assassin snarled from the floor.
"Oh, you'll beg to talk," Artos smiled, an ugly and twisted thing.
"Redwood," Flint turned to the young man. "Secure this room – you have twenty of my best men until Lord Greystark arrives."
"I-" the man blinked. "Yes, my lord, you can count on me!"
"See to it that we can," Artos mumbled as he left the room and Flint's men dragged the assassin away.
A woman met them in the halls, short but with a fierce look about her; with short dark-brown hair and an axe on her hip.
"Artos," she called on him, eyes glancing to the assassin. "Are they…"
"The Princess is dead," he told her coldly.
"And the girl? Gods, don't tell me-"
"No, the babe is alive Jaina – as your girls are I hope?"
"They're fine," Jaina Stark née Mormont assured. "Startled, confused, damn worried; but well…"
No assassin had come for them. None had come for Artos neither, they'd only gone for his mother and the girl…
"You," Jaina grabbed the assassin and lifted him up with surprising strength.
"We need him alive," Artos commented, half willing to let the woman do as she liked. "For now…"
She reluctantly threw him back to the ground where the Flint men picked him up again despite the man's struggling.
"It's the Empires doing," Jaina insisted with a brewing fury. "That pompous bastard Liang thinks he can strike why Roddy's away!"
The assassin laughed at that and earned a punch from the Mormont woman, sending some teeth from his jaw.
Artos made no move to scold her for it. He planned to do worse.
"Fetch the Shepard for me Jaina."
"Him? Why would you want…"
Something clicked in her eyes, and she smiled devilishly.
Jaina turned on her heels with Greycloaks as her shadow, off to the Godswood to call on a man there.
She'd been a great help this past year. Edrik's wife was a short woman – as most Mormont's were – though no less fierce for it. She and Rodrik's wife too.
The assassin was struggling and spitting curses by the time they exited the great doors and ventured into the courtyard of cobblestone with a single great weirwood in its centre. The yard was filling quickly with men and women of the Greycloaks littered with Mormont and Fisher and Flint and a hundred other banners.
Winterhold had woken with the dawn, with its light creeping over the walls and painting the sky above the weirwood.
Flint's men dragged the bound assassin towards the hearttree as all eyes fell upon them.
"Strip the rat," Artos demanded as he walked up to the tree and placed a hand on its white bark.
"Prince?" Flint hesitated at that.
"Did I stutter Lord Ethan?"
They tore the hood from the man.
He was dark olive-skinned, as Imperial as they came.
"You don't fright me wolf," the assassin spat. "Your mother died like a wh-"
Flint smacked the man across his jaw and sent him stumbling as his guards moved to strip the fool bare.
The leather armoured had been belted on, with silver studs that spoke of royalty; so fine was its design – these were no common bandits.
He shivered like a lead when the cold morning winds brushed his bare skin and a little flash of fear met his eyes.
"The man before you all is as assassin," Artos declared, his voice raised for the courtyard and the gods to hear, he took his hand from the bark of the weirwood and turned to face his mother's killer. "His kind have slain my mother – the Queen Visanna – and the young Princess Cai Lóng!"
Those in the courtyard that didn't already know, gasped like fish out of water.
"Justice!" One man yelled.
"Kill him!" Another screamed out.
"Not yet," another spoke from the keeps great door.
Queen Moria – Rodrik's wife – was elegant even in her nightgown; the woman cared nothing for the eyes on her now nor the cold.
"Your Grace," Artos bowed his head.
"I'm so sorry Art…"
She hugged him quickly, an act meant to comfort that only served to make the man feel awkward.
"I'll have answers," he told her firmly, turning away in a flash.
"My Prince," another came, from the Godsway; out from the Godwood proper and the gardens there – he was an old man, dressed in a cloak of green leaves with dark emerald eyes and a deep sad frown on his lips. "Lady Jaina sent for me… you have my deepest sympathies… may the gods welcome dear Visanna with open arms…"
Artos cared nothing for the faith and their words, though the old man meant well… flowery speeches couldn't quite reach him now.
"You brought it with you, Shepard?"
The old man looked grim with his bone-white mask under the darkness of his green hood.
Shepard was as much a title as Lord was to the nobles, though it was reserved for only the wisest among the Green Order.
He walked slowly towards the weirwood, ignoring the assassins hisses and curses; he pulled an ornate bronze dagger from his cloak – as if from thin air – then reached the tree of the gods. Then, on one of the stronger branches closest to the ground, he carefully pulled down a mature but still new part; careful to avoid breaking it.
With the bronze knife in hand and practiced grace, he made a small cut around the branch, then another further up.
Then he stripped the flesh between each cut, deep enough to get at the true wood inside – making his hands sticky with crimson sap.
His words were of an older more ancient dialect of the Old Tongue, harsher than what was considered common among the Islander folk.
The bronze dagger vanished back into nothing when he reached into his robe again, pulling out a small weirwood bowl marked with blood-red runes.
"You're sure about this My Prince?"
"I am," Artos declared, taking the bowl in hand.
It was full of the sticky red sap and smelled somehow sweet as honey.
"Bind him to the tree," the Shepard asked of those who appeared behind, dressed in similar green robes of their own.
"Get off me!" The assassin snarled and fought.
The Flint's aided them, holding the man in place.
With thick rope he was tied to the hearttree and held there.
Artos accepted the bronze dagger from the old man with a cold look.
"You don't have to do this," his brothers Queen counselled then suddenly.
"She was my mother," he countered easily. "I'm the only one who can do it, Moria."
"And the bastard deserves it," came Jaina's sharp reply.
It could've been Her daughters targeted, after all, she was only protecting her cubs.
Artos took a moment to look at the dagger. It was a bronze that gleamed under sunlight, as dawn's light rose up over the walls and shun between the red canopy of weirwood leaves – the dagger glinted and Artos steeled himself for what had to be done. For his mother, and for the girl too…
"They say bronze blessed by the gods is sharper than steel," he recalled an old story of how the Kings of Old would carve runes into their bronze armour and along their swords to ward away evil and lend strength to their arms. Steel was stronger, everyone knew that, but there was usually at least some truth to the old tales.
Bronze was a thing largely reserved for ceremonial purposes.
The assassin glared daggers of his own make though, of dark ebony.
"An edge to cut truth from lies," Artos voiced the old saying.
"Hold his mouth open," the old Shepard ordered his fellow Green Men.
He struggled – gnashing his teeth like a rabid dog – but it helped him none.
The Shepard poured some crimson sap down his gullet, mixed with something else.
"He is ready my Prince, when you are…"
Artos took a step at that. The assassin hid his fear well enough.
"You're not going to die," Artos told him simply. "Not yet. Not quickly, at least…"
It wasn't torture. That would be too simple. It was, if the old ways could be believed, even an honour to some.
Perhaps an honor the man did not deserve, but the gods could judge that for them both.
"I'll never talk," the assassin snarled. "Torture me, I won't break for you, Stark!"
Artos dipped two gloved fingers into the small weirwood bowl and closed the distance.
He'd expected a dagger, no doubt, but instead the Stark Prince smeared the thick sweet red sap across his stomach.
"W- What is this!?"
"What you deserve," Jaina snarled.
"Do it," Queen Moria decided with a sad look.
The assassin held his breath. When the Stark approached with knife in hand, he braced for what would be the familiar vipers bite of pain – eyes closed and ready for the strike – though he felt nothing. Opening his eyes, he smirked and taunted the Prince of Winterhold.
"Lost your nerve, have you Star-"
In the corner of his vision, he saw blood and… by the dawn…
"W- W- What-"
Artos was pulling out a red rope from…
"S- S- Stop!" He screamed and struggled as he felt the tug.
The 'rope' was coming from his stomach, though he felt nothing besides the tug.
"Who sent you?" Artos asked, handing the red rope to one of the Green Men without a care.
They pulled and tugged on the red rope and began to move around the tree.
"W- What is-" The assassin's eyes were wide, then he screamed and screamed.
"Answer me," Artos grabbed the top of his head and forced him to look downwards.
There was a great red gash across his stomach where the bloody red rope was pulled out.
The assassin screamed, though there was no pain, he felt sick; as the tugging continued and the Green Men began throwing his guts up over branches.
"A name," Artos slapped him. "Speak, and I free you!"
"I- I- I-"
Another slap, sending a spray of tears over the cobblestone.
"Was it Lóng?!" Artos demanded, seeing nothing but red. "Tell me who sent you!"
"N- No-"
Another slap, harder this time.
The assassin cried and struggled desperately.
"Speak you bastard!" Artos screamed, forcing the man's head to look down at his own guts.
"I- I can't-"
Artos grabbed on the red rope and pulled with a yank.
"Tamashī!" The assassins screamed, tears rolling down his cheek.
"Liar," Artos snarled. "You expected me to believe that!? They're dead!"
"N- No! I swear! They want the girl dead!"
Cai? Or…
"The child…"
"And the mother!" The assassin wailed as the Green Men moved about their ritual.
The sun had now crept over the walls and lit the courtyard, shining rays of sun over the crimson of weirwood and blood.
"Dead men came for my fucking nephew's pup!?"
"P- Please! By the dawn, please end it!"
"The dawn can take you," Artos tugged hard on the red rope.
He turned to the Shepard then with bloody hands and gave him back the dagger.
"Leave him there until he starts to smell," Artos declared and stormed from the courtyard.
The assassin screamed and begged as the Stark Prince left the courtyard, with hands red and slick in blood.
It was an old thing – dark and rarely done – though not entirely unheard of, if only reserved for those who had angered the gods or House Stark beyond measure. In the old tales, men would offer up their enemies to the Old Gods for sacrifice. Artos hoped the gods were happy with this one, for he didn't ever wish to do it again.
Loken Snow was good and drunk by the dawn, but with the rising of the sun came the wolves – washing over the establishment like crashing against rock – all eyes fell upon Lord Endrin's men; glad in grey and silver plate with castle-forged steel on their hips as they stormed through the doors and looked around.
"M'lords," the barkeep called to them, but frowned when the men wholly ignored him and made for a table.
Loken eyed them through his world hazy with drink.
They halted at his table and uttered "Lord Snow" with purpose.
"What's he done now?"
"Piss of Arv," Loken scoffed.
"Your presence is requested at the castle…"
Loken scowled. What did the Prince want with him?
"I'm busy," he waved them away. "Tell the Prince that I'll see him-"
"You'll see him now Snow," the lead Greycloak said. "If we have to drag you, we shall."
At that, Loen's face turned red.
"You dare," he drunkenly stumbled from his seat.
"Prince's orders," the Greycloak repeated.
"Move," another of them demanded with a stare.
"Loken," Arving pried, far more sober than his friend.
He waved the Mormont away. He was heir to a great house, for god's sake!
It was at this moment that Towers stumbled back from his dalliance, all smiles with a fresh whore on his arm.
"What's this then?"
"M'lord," the lead Greycloak dipped his head slightly. "Lord Snow is to accompany us. You were requested too, Lord Mormont…"
"Lord, is it?" Arving scowled.
He was lord of nothing as the youngest son.
"What's so serious that the Prince calls on little old me?"
He could understand Loken's summons – the man was, despite being a friend, wholly useless at his duties – but his own?
"Lady Jaina asked it of us," the Greycloak revealed. "Should we find you in Snow's company…"
Arving frowned at that as Loken scoffed and spewed nonsense.
"Mate," his hand found way to Loken's shoulder. "If my sis has asked for me, tis serious…"
Snow huffed, grabbing his tankard and downing it.
"Fine," he decided. "Lead on then lads…"
"I'll keep the beer company," Towers declared gladly.
"And the whores too," Arving guessed with a smirk.
"Aye, those too; someone must!"
Arving shook his head and pushed Loken onward.
Outside the inn they were greeted by a street filled with Greycloaks atop their horses, armed as if for war.
"Your horse my lord," one of them led a white stallion over for the gradually sobering bastard.
He took the reigns and hopped up with the grace of a man in his cups.
"Somethings wrong," Arving muttered as they rope through the streets.
All eyes were on them as they rode through the cobblestone streets, closer to the white cliffs where Winterhold loomed above ever watchful. There were two ways up to the castle from the city: the narrow stairs carved into the side of the cliffside, or out through the city gates and around to the fortress's outer gates.
The Wolf Gate was wide open upon their arrival, where they rode at a gollop through the gatehouse with a company of some hundred Greycloaks.
Winterhold itself was built of solid foreboding stone that gave the fortress a cold look about it as the light snows rested on its towers and ramparts, with several curtain walls and towers that looked like swords on a crown; no force had ever taken it by force – nor had anyone ever truly tried – though Loken did pity whoever might try. The fashion of the fortress was such that it was built with several curtain walls, each slightly higher up on the cliff than the last and set with gates of their own: the Great Gate in the outer wall was built of the same glamorous pure-white stone used in the Silver City. It had been a gift from an old Emperor long ago.
The front gatehouse was equally a thing of beauty and dread, flanked by towers and bastions; it was opened wide for their arrival.
Riding through Winterhold it was clear something was wrong, for the guard was up in arm and something foul clung to the air.
They passed the armoury and barracks and The Great Feasthall too, straight for the inner gate without delay.
Whatever foulness clung to the air, it doubled in the courtyard outside the great keep.
"Gods," Arving scowled at it. "What's the stench?"
Loken noticed it first, up in the branches of the weirwood…
Like red string sown up and over white branches, sticky with red sap-like blood and a foul stench coveted by crows.
There was a man tied to the tree, his guts pulled from his stomach, seemingly unconscious or dead – his entrails hung in the tree.
"This way my Lords," the lead Greycloak captain ordered, dismounted from his white mare and handing the reigns to a stableboy's care.
"Something's fucked," Arving muttered as they passed the tree.
Loken felt instantly far more sober at the sight of it. Who had done this, and why? It was a thing reserved for the vilest crimes…
Winterhold's great keep opened its doors and invited them inside, into halls of grey stone lined with white marble pillars and silver candles they were escorted past the many paintings that lined the fortress walls; depicting kings and princes of old or the battles they'd fought in over the years.
In the Great Hall burned twenty hearths, so vast it was, lined with statues of past kings and banners that hung behind them.
Prince Artos sat atop his brother's throne with a sword laid across his lap and a dark angry look in his eyes as the Stark looked down from his seat with contempt for the man on his knees before him. The knelt man was dressed in silver silks with purple embroidery, beside some bloody corpses…
"I swear," the man was practically begging. "It's the truth, great Prince, I swear!"
"Your assassin swore too," Prince Artos leant forward on his brother's great throne.
"Not mine," again the kneeling man vowed. "Not ours, I swear it! What reason would we have!?"
"Greed does strange things to men," Artos growled, then his eyes darted to the doorway and the newest arrivals.
Loken knelt alongside Arving and the others, head bowed and wholly confused as to what in the gods name was happening.
The kneeling fool was the imperial ambassador – one knew that much – but why he was begging besides a few corpses was in question.
"Lord Loken," Artos named him.
"My Prince," he didn't rise from the marble floors.
"Tell me," the Prince stared daggers. "It is your duty to guard the city, is it not?"
"I have that honor in my father's absence, my Prince…"
"Then perhaps that great honor should go to another?"
"I-" Loken's eyes shot up to the throne. "I don't-"
"No, you don't appear to do much of anything; do you?"
"Forgive me my Prince but-"
"No," Artos snarled. "I shan't."
"Her Grace the Queen Mother has been slain," Queen Moria declared.
"Within her own roof," Artos looked more wolf than man. "How did assassins get past you, Lord Snow?"
Dead? Gods, that explained the poor bastard with his entrains hung in the weirwood… and the Prince's anger…
"I swear," Loken pleaded on his knees. "I knew nothing of-"
"That's the fucking point Snow!"
The court held its breath at that.
"House Sunstark is supposed to guard the city streets, is it not!?"
"I-" Loken's mind raced. "My men do their best my Prince, but you must unders-"
"Must I now?!"
Wrong thing to say…
"I only meant, my Prince, that we surely couldn't have kno-"
"Then who is to blame?" Artos demanded with his snarl, setting up from the throne and descending the steps with his sword in hand.
It wasn't long before the blade kissed the ambassador's neck and the man whined like a struck dog.
"Is it the Empire, for sending the ghosts of dead men?"
Dead men? Loken had no answer for that… if the Emperor was responsible….
"Is it you-"
Artos pointed his blade towards the bastard.
"-for allowing the rats into my home? Or is it…."
He paused, something flashing in his eyes before he lowered his steel slowly.
"Is it My fault? Should there have been more guards on them…. should we have known…"
"My Prince," Lord Greystark interrupted. "Nobody could foresee this, surely; the blame lays with the assassins…"
"Aye," Lord Flint agreed from his side of the hall.
"With the Empire," Lady Jaina glared at the ambassador.
"I swear-"
Artos's blade returned to the imperials neck in a flash.
"You Imp's do love to swear," he growled. "Will your Emperor swear so sweetly, before I slit his throat?"
The ambassador's eyes widened at that threat.
"Y- You wouldn't dar-"
The blade pressed closer, cutting skin and sending a trickle of blood down his neck.
"Try me imperial," Artos warned before pulling the sword away in a flurry.
"I-" The ambassador steeled himself once more. "I swear, the Emperor had no part in this Prince Stark."
Artos frowned and retook his seat on the throne, looking half a storm of fury and half a defeated and tired man.
"The assassin spoke the name Tamashī," the Queen added helpfully from her seat beside the Prince.
"Tamashī…"
He'd spoken the word as if it might summon death…
"Impossible," the imperial shook his head hesitantly at the thought.
"I'd hope not," Artos muttered, glaring. "For your sake…"
"Tell us," the Queen asked. "Why would your Emperor seek his own sister's death, and the death of her daughter?"
The imperial shook his head furiously at that. It was a mad thought, one wholly unthinkable.
"He would not," he denied heavily. "Such a thing would be shunned by the Dawn!"
"Then you expect us to believe the ghosts of dead men send blades here?"
"I-" The imperial ran the thoughts through his skull. "I must speak with the Emperor on such matters, I know not…"
"On that we agree Ambassador," Artos decided with the sword across his lap.
The answers to be had would be taken from the Emperor's lips, one way or another.
"Rise," he commanded. "You look ridiculous knelt beside those dead rats; your friends or otherwise."
"No friends of mine, great Prince, I swear!"
"Hope for your sake they truly aren't..."
The man took a shaky bow and was escorted away by men glad in grey and silver.
As the assassin's bodies were taken away the Queen spoke, "He seemed genuine," only to earn a scoff from the prince.
"Imp's lie as easily as they breath," Artos disagreed.
He'd get answers though, with words or with cold steel.
"We cannot declare war on the Emperor," Queen Moria counselled wisely.
"Lord Snow!" Artos barked down at the man, still on his knees with the others.
He rose and uttered simple, "My Prince?"
"How many swords do you boast in the city?"
"I-" Loken needed to think. He'd always been rather terrible about numbers – they confused him, truth me told, his skills had always lingered with the sword and not the quill nor ink. "A few hundred," he gave the best guess he had. "My father left only a token – though he left orders to begin recruiting more men In his absence…"
"House Mormont is yours my Prince," Arving declared then, though it was hardly his place to say so.
"As always," Artos nodded to the man. "Your loyalty is welcomed, Mormont…"
"My little brother may be short," Jaina teased. "But his axe is true – you'll find no cause to doubt it Art."
He managed half a smile to her for that. House Mormont was among the easiest of the islands great houses to call upon.
"Seastark too," Queen Moria spoke for her own house with ease, though it needn't have been said at all.
"We've had plenty of new recruits this year," Lord Greystark added. "Although, may I ask, what is your intent my Prince?"
"I'm going to pay a visit to the Emperor and find answers, Lord Endrin."
Greystark frowned immediately at the notion.
"It's unsafe, Prince, allow me to take your place."
"She was my mother," Artos denied firmly. "It's my duty, or would you deny me that?"
Endrin had no choice but to lower his head and meekly accepted the decision.
"I'll not go alone Endrin, least you worry – the Emperor wouldn't dare harm me."
"It is my duty to fear for you, my Prince, and if the man is truly responsible…"
"Moria will rule in my absence." He decided easily enough.
"I have to agree with Lord Endrin," she argued with a frown. "It's not safe."
"It has to be me, Moria. I'll bring plenty of swords at my back, stop fretting."
The Queen sighed and rubbed her temple as she felt a headache coming along.
"Endrin," Artos turned his gaze to the old Greystark.
He knelt and awaited orders as was expected of him.
"Have a raven sent to my brother – it's time Edrik returned home…"
"Ed?" Jaina perked up with a grin at the sound of her husband's name.
Her daughters would be glad to see their father again after such a long time.
"He's to return with what men he can spare," Artos declared from the winter throne.
Prince Edrik was no doubt growing restless dealing with the local's resistance to their rule as acting Lord of Ibben. Artos would not go to the Emperor alone – although he doubted the man was truly responsible for the assassins, as it made no true sense – the answers he sought would be found in the Silver City regardless.
In time Prince Artos Stark would come to learn how nothing was ever truly what it seemed in imperial politics.
My Note(s): We're back at Winterhold and things hit the fan pretty quickly – rather fast paced chapter – catching up on some rumours and killing not one but two Stark wives; although I'd only originally planned for one it simply played out best this way and really gives Artos a driving force to fuel his purpose in the Silver City. The next chapter is called Twilight of Dawn and should (in theory) be pretty gods damn long unless I decide it's better off cut into two parts instead of one mega-chapter.
I may or may not upload late next chapter, it's going to be a big one and I'm not sure if I'll finish it in time :) but I'll do my best and we'll see.
KaiserChris: A fine example of comments I find mindboggling. In essence: "I have read Chapter 1 but Chapter 2 introduces questions that I don't immediately get answers to, so rather than read to discover the answers, I'm going to quit." My brain just goes "okay" then raises an eyebrow and ponders how very stupid people are.
It's like reading the first few pages of Fellowship of the Ring and complaining "No lord of ring, no fellowship, shire boring, book bad, me quit now!"
FractiousDay: Irrelevant is the wrong word, considering it is very relevant to future chapters; you learn about Myrcella / Dorne's hand being forced thanks to Oberyn / Suko and Arianne / Oberyn and Willam's 'budding' friendship / Quentyn having been sent to Daenerys and the fleet at Lys, not to mention Ashlyn's pregnancy and Will's proposal and picking kids names. It's filler, yes, but isn't irrelevant. The chapter was essentially just a stage to tease future plot though. I could've 'revealed' all this elsewhere (or ignored it) but ultimately, I'd rather give PoV's of relevant events than make offhanded references to them having happened out of sight.
Chapter 51 was pretty much a "Coming Soon" while we spend this chapter and the next across the sea away from Westeros.
Farroljgk: The history stuff wasn't entirely necessary but a lil world building never hurt anyone, it's an interesting little tale loosely tied to some areas we'll explore later on plus my love for Dorne coloured my decision to include it heh :P Doran's loyalty will likely depend on the Targaryen's at the end of things.
Timdoe: Glad you're enjoying it :) char development is a big thing, even if it means the occasional 'less exciting' chapter to build on.
Jaimerey7000: Jon's reveal and Robb's subsequent independence will indeed have consequences down the road with the Targaryen issue.
Dave: We don't get to spend much time in Dorne (sadly, in my opinion, I do love the region and the houses) but at least we got a chapter or two focused around the Martells even if I used them as a plot devise to tease/build on future chapters :P Aegon is indeed on the move, as Varys revealed to Rodrik back on Dragonstone.
ClosedColin: Parings? They're not really a focus of my writing and I rarely disclosure them – least it spoil the story in any way – you'll just have to read and see how things play out. I have romance in my stories as that's often an integral part of human relationships, but it's almost never the focus. This isn't smut. Will/Ash's relationship is a minor exception as I do consider it important to his character… but that's more a product of who he is as a person and his character…
I'm also rather tame about sexual encounters compared to other fics. It happens, yes, but always fairly tasteful and fading to black.