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Chapter 61: Here We Stand
"I know your face; this place…"
– Prince Varin Stark
Men and mounts alike were trotting by the time they reached the trees on the far side of the sodden field, where dead shoots of winter wheat rotted beneath the moon, with soldier pines and gnarled old oaks closing in around them. Deepwood was aptly named. The trees here were huge and dark and somehow threatening. Their limbs wove through one another and creaked with every breath of wind, and their higher branches scratched at the face of the moon.
These trees hated them, deep in their wooden hearts, judging them unworthy – for they were not welcome in this place.
They'd fled south in haste, leaving behind the wooden towers and mossy walls of Deepwood Motte to the mercy of winter.
Tris Botley trotted up beside her. "We are going the wrong way," he said, gesturing at the moon as it peered down through the canopy of branches. "We need to turn north, for the ships! Leave this cursed place behind, get back home, back to the Isles; before we all freeze and die away from the sea!"
There would be no welcome to the Drowned God's halls for those who died on dry land.
"No," Asha insisted. "We go South…"
The enemy would expect them to go North.
No choice remained but to flee and live, even if some fools sought an early grave.
She turned to Rolfe the Dwarf and Roggon Rustbeard, her best riders. "Scout ahead and make sure our way is clear."
They could afford no more surprises. They'd head south, circle around; then head for the ships once their tracks were cold.
"If you come upon any wolves," Asha told them quickly. "You are to ride back there to me with word, immediately. Understood?"
"If we must," promised Roggon through his huge red beard. After the scouts had vanished into the trees, the rest of the ironborn resumed their rushed march. The trees hid the moon and stars above from them, and the forest floor beneath their feet was black and treacherous. Before they had gone half a mile, her cousin Quenton's mare stumbled into a pit and shattered her foreleg. Quenton had to slit her throat to stop her screaming. "We should make torches," urged Tris.
"Fire will bring the enemy down upon us," came the protest; be it through streel or winter striking them down.
Asha cursed beneath her breath and wondered if it had been a mistake to leave the castle instead of standing ground.
The enemy had come in the night and struck faster than she'd dared to think – there was no victory to be had – and yet…
No. If they had stayed and fought, they might well all be dead by now. It was no good blundering on through the dark either, however. "These trees will kill us if they can," she thought, taking off her helm and pushing back sweat-soaked hair. "The sun will be up in a few hours. We'll stop here and rest till break of day."
It would be easier to travel through these cursed twisted woods in the warmth of day, free from the shadows that looed over their every movement.
Stopping proved simple; rest came hard. No one slept, not even Droop-eye Dale, an oarsman who had been known to nap between strokes. Some of the men shared a skin of Deepwood's apple wine, passing it from hand to hand. Those who had brought food shared it with those who had not. The riders fed and watered their horses. Her cousin Quenton Greyjoy sent three men up trees, to watch for any sign of torches in the woods. Cromm honed his axe, and Qarl the Maid his sword. The horses cropped dead brown grass and weeds. Hagen's daughter seized Tris Botley by the hand to draw him off into the trees. When he refused her, she went with Six-Toed Harl instead.
"Would that I could do the same," Asha thought with a frown on her lips. "It would be sweet to lose myself in Qarl's arms one last time…"
That left a bad feeling in her belly. Would she ever feel Black Wind's deck beneath her feet again? And if she did, where would she sail to? The isles were closed to her unless she meant to bend her knees and spread her legs and suffer the old grey husband Uncle Euron had gifted in her absence.
No port in Westeros was like to welcome the kraken's daughter, but then; Westeros seemed a cursed place.
She could turn merchant, as Tris seemed to want, or else make for the Stepstones and join the pirates there. Or...
Something flew from the brush to land with a soft thump in their midst, bumping and bouncing. It was round and dark and wet, with long hair that whipped about it as it rolled. When it came to rest amongst the roots of an oak, Grimtongue said, "Rolfe the Dwarf's not so tall as he once was…"
Half her men were already on their feet by then, reaching for shields and spears and axes.
"This is where we die," Asha had time enough to think, "so far from home and tide – too far for god."
Then the trees erupted, and the foe crashed against them like a tide from the shadow.
The air was alive with inhuman voices and howls on the wind.
"Wolves," she thought with fear. "They howl like bloody wolves…"
The war cry of the north. Her ironborn screamed in reply, and the fight began.
No singer would ever make a song about this battle. They fought in the predawn gloom, shadow against shadow, stumbling over roots and rocks, with mud and rotting leaves beneath their feet. The ironborn were clad in mail and salt-stained leather, the northmen in furs and hides and piney branches.
The moon and stars looked down upon their struggle, pale light filtered through the tangle of so many bare limbs that twisted overhead.
The first man to come at Asha died at her feet with her throwing axe between his eyes. That gave her respite enough to slip a shield onto her arm.
"To me!" she called, but whether she was calling to her own men or the foes even Asha could not have said for certain. A northman with an axe loomed up before her, swinging with both hands as he howled in wordless fury. Asha raised her shield to block his blow, then shoved in close to gut him with her dirk. His howling took on a different tone as he fell. She spun and found another wolf behind her and slashed him across the brow beneath his helm. His own cut caught her below the breast, but her mail turned it, so she drove the point of her dirk into his throat and left him to drown in his own blood. A hand seized her hair, but short as it was, he could not get a good enough grip to wrench her head back. Asha slammed her boot heel down onto his instep and wrenched loose when he cried out in pain. By the time she turned the man was down and dying, still clutching a handful of her hair. Qarl stood over him, with his long-sword dripping and moonlight shining in his eyes.
Grimtongue was counting the northmen as he killed them, calling out against the tide of shadowy foes that crashed upon them from the treeline.
"Four," as one went down and, "Five," a heartbeat later. The horses screamed and kicked and rolled their eyes in terror, maddened by the butchery and blood... all but Tris Botley's big roan stallion. Tris had gained the saddle, and his mount was rearing and wheeling as he laid about with his sword.
"I may owe him a kiss or three before the night is done," thought Asha amidst the chaos of things.
"Seven," shouted Grimtongue, but beside him Lorren Longaxe sprawled with one leg twisted under him, and the shadows kept on coming, shouting and rustling.
"We are fighting shrubbery," Asha thought as she slew a man who had more leaves on him than most of the surrounding trees.
That made her laugh. Her laughter drew more wolves to her, and she killed them too, wondering if she should start a count of her own.
"I am a woman wed," her mind chuckled madly, "and here' s my suckling babe!"
She pushed her dirk into a northman's chest through fur and wool and boiled leather. His face was so close to hers that she could smell the sour stench of his breath, and his hand was at her throat. Asha felt iron scraping against bone as her point slid over a rib. Then the man shuddered and died.
When she let go of him, she was so weak she almost fell on top of him.
Later, she stood back-to-back with Qarl, listening to the grunts and curses all around them, to brave men crawling through the shadows weeping for their mothers. A bush drove at her with a spear long enough to punch through her belly and Qarl's back as well, pinning them together as they died. "Better that than die alone," she thought, but her cousin Quenton killed the spearman before he reached her. A heartbeat later another bush killed Quenton, driving an axe into the base of his skull.
Behind her Grimtongue shouted, "Nine, and damn you all!" Hagen's daughter burst naked from beneath the trees with two wolves at her heels. Asha wrenched loose a throwing axe and sent it flying end over end to take one of them in the back. When he fell, Hagen's daughter stumbled to her knees, snatched up his sword, stabbed the second man, then rose again, smeared with blood and mud, her long red hair unbound, and plunged into the fight.
Somewhere in the ebb and flow of battle, Asha lost Qarl, lost Tris, lost all of them. Her dirk was gone as well, and all her throwing axes; now she had a sword in hand, a short sword with a broad thick blade, almost like a butcher's cleaver. For her life she could not have said where she had gotten it. Her arm ached, her mouth tasted of blood, her legs were trembling, and shafts of pale dawn light were slanting through the trees. Had it been so long? How long had they been fighting?
Her last foe was a northman with a sword, a lean dark young man with a lean dark face clad in darker leathers, fur and chainmail.
He didn't seem pleased to find himself fighting a woman, his cocky smirk dying on his lips only to roar each time he swing his sword.
Asha wanted to shout back at him, but her throat was so dry she could do no more than grunt. As he swung, she backed away and danced left and right and left again to avoid the flurry of rushing steel until her back came up hard against a tree. She could dance no more.
The northman raised his sword for the killing blow. Asha tried to slip to her right, but her feet were tangled in some roots, trapping her. She twisted hard, lost her footing, and the sword screamed the wail of steel on steel across her helm. The world went red and black and red again.
Pain crackled up her leg like lightning, and she looked up into the dark face of her would-be killer.
A trumpet blew from the shadows. That was wrong. There were no trumpets in the Drowned God's watery halls.
"Below the waves the merlings hailed their lord by blowing into seashells," Asha thought. "Not trumpets…"
With her back up against the tree and a sword to her throat, she waited to die.
"That'll do Greyjoy," she heard the voice of her enemy taunting. "That'll do…"
Asha's vision faded to the sound of hooves and the haunted howling of wolves.
She woke to the light of a golden dawn, uncoiling from behind overgrown branches above her bowed head.
Strangers rode this way and that in plate and mail, some dented and scarred, but most glittered when they caught the rising sun. The banners and surcoats were a riot of colours amidst winter wood – greys and blue and red and brown and green and blacks – glimmering amongst brown trunks, green pines and drifts of fallen snow.
Asha watched as ranks of spearmen, axemen, archers and grizzled northern of a hundred battles passed her by; tied to a sturdy post as she was. Some of her captors were clad in furs and boiled leathers and old mail. A stark contrast to those with silvery plate. Fettered at wrist and ankle, she could do little but watch the sun atop the trees.
"No man has ever died from bending his knee," her father had once told her. "He who kneels may rise again, blade in hand. He who will not kneel stays dead, stiff legs and all." Balon Greyjoy had proved the truth of his own words when his first rebellion failed; the kraken bent the knee to stag and direwolf, only to rise again… for a time…
And so the kraken's daughter had done the same when she was dragged into a ruinous hall, overgrown with blackened roots and blood-red leaves, to be dumped before her captor who was as Stark as they came with raven locks and a stern face, even without the wolf at his side and its great bloody maw of dripping red; this was a Stark.
Sat atop a throne of blackened weirwood, her captor leaned forward as she was thrown before him.
The Young Wolf was her father's enemy. Her enemy as well, she supposed, but bowed her head all the same.
"I yield, Your Grace." Her ankle was a blaze of white-hot pain. "Do as you wish with me. I ask only that you spare my men..."
Qarl and Tris and the rest who had survived the wolfswood were all she had to care about. Only nine remained. A ragged and ruined nine.
The King in the North chuckled at her plea. That earn him a stare, eyes up in a dart; she could only snarl at her mocking captor as his lords joined the farse.
So much for the supposedly praised honor of House Stark.
"Kognar ulfa, smokk?" The Young Wolf's words were harsh and strange.
"Kognar," one of the northmen in grey bowed oh so dramatically with his foreign tongue.
The King descended from his twisted throne with the great wolf at his side, black of fur with old scars and a fierce glare.
Robb Stark was said to ride into battle atop a great Direwolf. Asha could only scoff at that, for this wolf was too small a thing to ride.
"You're smaller than I expected," her snarl turned and twisted into mockery of her own.
"Oh?" the Stark hummed, his words changed. "Who am I, exactly; my fair little lady squid?"
"Hora," one of the Lords earned himself some laughter, though Asha didn't know the words.
"You will answer me," the King's sword was at her throat in a flash.
It was long, thin as a razor and as oily black as the ancient Seastone Chair.
"Robb Stark," Asha said the name, refusing to cower at the swords tip.
"This big enough for ya Smokk?" the Stark lifted her chin up with his blade.
"Cousin," another scolded sharply, her voice dripping with boredom, feminine…
The King sighed, flicking his void-black sword away as a trickle of blood ran down Asha's pale neck.
"My name is Varin Stark," the man informed her with a motion to his side. "And this is my cousin, Serana…"
"Charmed," the Princess said with oh so great disinterest.
Those were not names she knew. Cousins of Winterfell, perhaps?
Asha's eyes lingered on the wolves before her, both two-legs and four.
The black wolf sat in silence, watching her intently as a smaller beast paced back and forth.
"Settle Volki," she heard the supposed Princess hush her pet.
"Greyjoy," Varin Stark began to speak once more. "You-"
"Spare my men," Asha repeated her plea. "And-"
"Not you," the Princess interrupted with a scowl.
"Greyjoy," Varin said again as his eyes found their target – along with Asha's own.
It was the northman from before, with his cocky smile and the sword that had nearly taken her life.
In the light of dawn, she could see him clearer. He was handsome, lean and dark and young; with sad eyes…
"This her, lord squid?" Prince Varin's words rang.
The northman looked to her with a calculated stare.
"Don't know," he said, frowning something fierce. "She was a little girl with pimples, swimming in the sea and playing-"
"-with my god damn doll…"
Asha stared at her would-be killer with fresh eyes.
On his belt rested a scabbard striped with black and gold.
"I don't know this woman; been too long to say for certain…"
"Theon?" Asha groaned then against the sharpness in her ankle.
It was broken, she could feel it; something had snapped out of place that ought to not have snapped.
Theon Greyjoy could only frown in reply. His eyes scanned her longingly, searching for some feeling of home; only to find nothing so easy as all that.
The sister of his memory was a skinny little thing with knob knees and a face full of pimples. The woman that knelt before him in the present now was lean and long legged, with dark eyes and black hair cut short. Her face was thin – not unlike his own – with a big sharp nose and wind-chafed skin.
It was a nose too big and sharp for her small face, Theon thought, hawk-like in its look.
"Why," she smiled mockingly. "It's the Green Kraken…"
"Green Kraken?" Theon scowled at the insult.
"Tis what they call you, brother of mine..."
"Green," Prince Varin mused, silver-grey eyes on black.
"And what do we call her," the Princess judged. "Kraken?"
"Raider, Reaver, Rapist, Thief; am I forgetting any cousin?"
"Pillager?" she offered lazily, one hand on her hip with a grin.
"Too fancy," Varin waved it away. "What say you, lord squid?"
"I-" Theon's dark eyes darted between the Prince and their captive.
His sisters stare held a knifes edge to it.
"It doesn't matter… you have your hostage…"
"You're no fun Greyjoy," Varin rolled his steely eyes.
"My men," the hostage pried. "You'll spare them, Stark?"
Varin glanced down at the woman and held her gaze for a moment.
"Ryder," he turned. "What say you about our guest?"
"Shouldn't trust a pirate," Qrow Ryder said dismissively.
"She's of no use," another in grey-and-silver scoffed at her.
Asha growled at the man. She did have something of theirs though…
"I do," her scowl turned devious. "Stark, I do have something!"
"Your cunt is of no interest to the-"
"Ryder," the Princess snipped at him.
Varin held up his hand and they hushed.
"Speak," the Prince declared. "And don't waste my time…"
"I have hostages of yours, the Glover cubs; safe and sound at-"
"Bitch," one of the said Glovers snarled; more wolf than a man.
"She's desperate," Lady Mormont interrupted with a dismissive scoff.
"Trying to take you for a fool cousin," Serana agreed with the lordlings.
"I said speak Greyjoy," Varin ignored the others. "So, speak; not bargain…"
Asha narrowed her eyes up at her captor.
"How'd I know you won't kill me anyway Stark?"
"You don't," the Prince hid nothing. "Speak or die, it makes little difference, but you ought to choose before I do."
She thought to refuse, to die with whatever remained of her dignity. And yet the eyes of her enemy were many and varied
In the Ryder she could see hatred, a willingness to slit her throat and be done with things. In the Mormont she witnessed much the same, through an older hatred, grown and nurtured over generations of conflict between Bear Island and Iron Islands. In the Princess she saw disinterest. In her own brother, she saw sorrow; weakness…
Glover's eyes burnt hotter than any other. If she were to die, this one would do the deed.
In the Prince she saw… something akin to interest? Curiosity? In what, she couldn't quite say…
"You didn't find the children," Asha decided after a moment. "Nor will you – there safe at my-"
"Safe?" the protest came from one man, tall with brown hair and a red surcoat and scarlet cloak clasped with a silver mailed fist. A Glover, Asha supposed easily, and couldn't help the smirk on her lips. "You spoil the seat of my house with your stench, Greyjoy; my kin will not be safe until Deepwood is ours again!"
Until? Asha frowned at the man, eyes darting to the Stark for answers.
"Lord Glover," Prince Varin's own eye had never once strayed from her own.
"Prince," another Glover spoke, taller, his head and bearing held high. "They have my wife and children!"
There was a cold fury to his words, eyes thrusting daggers into Asha's flesh – if not for Starks presence and the fear for kin.
"This is the thing you hold that we seek, Greyjoy," Varin said. "For your sake, I would assure Lord Glover that his pups are unharmed."
They acted as if Deepwood had not already fallen. As if they'd not chased her from those walls.
"The whelps are safe," she kept those thoughts private, as Glover's face showed relief. "At Harlaw…"
That same sweet relief turned sour as bad grapes.
"Unharmed," Asha quickly made clear. "In my uncle's trust."
"We'll see them returned my lord," the Princess promised too easily.
"And my wife," Robett Glover pried. "My wife is safe? With my children?"
"Last I saw her," Asha grinned like a cat.
It wasn't wholly a lie either… and yet…
If this Stark had not taken Deepwood. Who had?
She had fled assuming they were Starks. Who else would it be?
"If you've hurt one hair on her head bitch, you'll lose yours!"
"Not I," Asha denied with a scowl. "Not I, my Lord Glover…"
"Then who?" the Prince asked with a curious look about him.
"Don't know," Asha Greyjoy revealed. "Thought it was you…"
The hall erupted as she declared the castle lost, spinning her tale as it was.
It was no bards telling, no flowery song for the ages; she'd awoke from bed to the sound of screams, shouting, the clatter of spear and sword, the whinnying of horses. They'd fled – just as planned – leaving behind many. Few of her men had taken issue with leaving, except to grumble about not fleeing straight to the boats.
And if the wolves had found her longboats? If they reached the shore and found only death? At least die with their feet wet.
Ironborn fought better with salt spray in their nostrils and the sound of waves at their backs after all. A good death.
"If it wasn't you," Asha shrugged, biting her lip as the pain in her ankle sparked. "Then I couldn't say who…"
"Their banners?" the Prince silenced his lords bickering with a raised hand and a growl from his wolf.
"Didn't see any," Asha admitted to her captor's annoyance.
They'd ran. Lady Glover had been happy enough to stay behind.
And they'd not cared. No sense giving the Starks more reason to follow.
"Prince Darion ought to have a say," Duran Greystark claimed.
"Take her head Stark!" Ryder was shouting well above the others.
"That's not your decision," came Lady Mormont's immediate protest.
"They have my kin!" Glover all but roared, and the Northmen bickered as Asha watched.
"King Robb should decide!" and "It's MY lands!" and "Kill the Bitch!" among so many angry voices.
"Redwood!" Prince Varin barked at one man across the hall, dressed in white-and-reds.
"My Prince," said man knelt with a bowed head of raven locks and awaited orders.
"Escort our guest to some suitable chambers – her guard is yours, see her secured. "
"Aye my Prince," the Redwood offered his arm with dark eyes looking down.
"Ryder," she heard the Stark Princeling say as her escort led away.
The words of "Wood" and "Raven" faded quickly under the echo of voices.
Her escort was quiet as they marched, his grip on her forearm fairly slacked.
"Your name," Asha managed between the hisses of pain as she walked.
"Ben," the man said after a moment, eyes judging – he was younger than her by the looks of him; dressed in a silver-white tunic marked by a red weirwood and a thick cloak made of foxpelt. "My friends call my Ben, my Lady. You may call be Bennard…"
"Ben it is," Asha named him with a taunting smirk.
Her escort was silent after that as they walked up a stairwell.
It was more ruin than castle, this place; the stench of decay and damp clung to the air like the blackened roots that weaved in and out.
The Wolfswood had claimed this land long before the army of wolves arrived, it seemed, lost to time.
"This place," Asha asked genuinely. "Does it have a name Lord Ben?"
If her captor was to answer, the end of their journey came too soon.
"This'll serve," Redwood halted abruptly. "Inside you go, my Lady…"
Asha frowned. Past the door was a modest room, at least mostly untouched by the elements.
"Men will be stationed outside at all times," Redwood explained from the doorway. "Do not attempt escape."
"And if I did try Lord Ben?" She scoffed at him, hand moving by instinct for an axe that simply wasn't there to use.
"Don't." Redwood shut the door with a creek of rusted hinges, seeming to shake the very ruin as it closed.
Asha Greyjoy sighed and – not for the first time – wished they'd never ventured North.
It was days end by the time Deepwood Motte came into view. The snows had greeted them hours past so heavily that the sky seemed to hide behind a white curtain, unseen, blocking out the fading days light as the world seemed dim and remote. "My Prince," one voice snapped Varin from his thoughts.
"Aye?" he leant in his saddle, eyeing the warg with curiosity.
With bowed head the man spoke "No sign of the-"
"Prince!" Master Glover was front and centre atop his bay mare.
Galbart was an unexceptional man by Varin's view – short a time as he'd know the man – but he was the loyal sort aswell.
"Master," came Varin's answer, for the man was Lord only in courtesy. If one remembered their lessons, and Varin rarely did that, he recalled vaguely how the Blackwoods once rebelled against the Kings of Winter and were struck low; the Glovers raised in place as not Lords or Kings but mere Masters of the Wolfswood. No man however loyal or true would rule over the clans of the Wolfswood so firmly as the Blackwoods once had. Winterfell had never again suffered such a threat so close to home.
"We'll begin siege preparations," Galbart was saying.
"With your leave Prince," Robertt Glover added from beside his brother.
This one held himself proudly, taller than his brother with a scarlet cloak clasped with silver in the shape of a mailed fist.
Varin merely hummed at the brothers, glancing to his warg who'd been so rudely interrupted.
"No sign of them my Prince," the warg took his que without prying. "It's empty…"
"Empty?" Galbart practically gawked at that.
"How'd you know that boy?" Robertt eyed the warg.
"Trust your eyes Glover," Varin smirked. "I'll trust my own."
Empty. That slayed his smirk – an enemy unknown and unseen, even to an eagle's eyes.
"Your plan then Prince?" Galbart asked after a moment, his eyes looking northward from the treeline to his home.
The fields of oat and barley east and west of the castle were a thick blanket of snow, the mossy outer walls half buried; with enough time and snowfall Varin imagined nought but the roofs and square towers would sprot from the snow – aside from the longhall atop its hill and its tall tower.
"You have the van Master Glover," Varin decided easily enough.
The man would be the most eager, most determined, most deserving of the task.
"Aye," at the order the Master of Deepwood grinned something fierce and went about his task.
Varin remained ahorse as he watched Glover banners fly alongside those of his vassals, a modest sea of reds and browns and greens and blacks fluttering ahead of their host, of Glover and Branch and Bole and Woods and Forrester – they'd left Winterfell with some two thousand and near doubled their numbers within the Wolfswood.
It was a host of clansmen, minor noble houses and even lesser lords; master of holdings so small no map had bothered with them.
There would be no great battle here it seemed, yet Glover and the others were no less happy for things.
An easy victory was no less victory.
"It's truly empty then Redwood?"
Serana looked to the warg for answers.
"Princess," Redwood gave her nod. "It appears abandoned, we could find no trace of men…"
"Or women," Varin hummed. Glover would not be pleased at all to find his wife absent.
"Greyjoy lied then," Serana scoffed with a roll of her eyes.
"Perhaps," Varin supposed. "Perhaps not. Shall we see for ourselves?"
"Thought you'd never ask cousin," she snapped at the reign and sped onward.
Deepwood was more impressive up close – though remained underwhelming – a simple motte protected the walls, now filled with snow; it seemed as if winter itself had descended upon the motte and left it to a chilly solitude. Their banners dipped under the splintered gateway and past stables, a smithy and lone well, while the Glovers had already abandoned their horses up ahead and hurried into their hall atop the hill. Varin halted his black destrier and leapt from its saddle.
The courtyard was littered with fallen men, islands amongst a sea of snow.
"Redwood," he glanced to the man. "Ryder, you too – secure the Motte…"
"Aye" and "My Prince" echoed right back in reply as both men barked orders.
The prince glanced at the sky with passing interest.
The day had wholly abandoned them now, it seemed.
"Scared of the darkness are we cousin?" Serana was grinning like a cat.
Varin scoffed, but he could taste it in the air; a nervous tension that came perilously close to fear.
He'd not felt cold like this since the mountains of Ibben, not since the griffin way back when – it felt further back than it was in truth.
Serana's boots crunched in the snow as cold winds blew from the north and the Wolfswood all around the motte rustled like living things. All day, since leaving Blackwood Vale behind them, there had been an uneasy air about things; as though something were watching them… something cold and implacable that loved them not…
There was Frost blood in their veins, Varin recalled, distant but ancient as Starks and cold as Winter. None of that seemed to matter when he shivered.
"We should head inside," Serana suggested helpfully as her wolf pawed up beside with a whine. "Find us a fire before we freeze to death an-"
Varin was away though, stalking across the courtyard with purpose. "Fuck sake," the Princess scowled before giving chase – her wolf darting forward – past or over fallen swords and shields of mailed fists and woods and bears; discarded lazily under the blanket of snow besides their former wielders.
A struggle had befallen this place, to be sure; there was at least some truth to the kraken girl's tale of sieges and an unknown enemy.
The Godwoods of Deepwood Motte was a small and quaint thing with low wooden walls and a bronze gate, but this way the Princess saw her cousins black cloak flutter and vanish through. "Cousin," she'd called out once or twice before giving up: finding him standing with his own wolf under a great weirwood that seemed to sprout up from a great rock, its pale roots twisting up from a myriad of fissures and cracks. It was slender compared to other weirwoods Serana had seen.
Its red eyes looked at her cousin, then seemingly at her as she approached. Fierce eyes these were, yet sad with rooted sorrow.
The snow drifted down from the darkened sky and breath seemed to freeze the moment it passed her lips.
"Cousin?" She pried once more, halted in the snow beside her wolf as it whined.
Varin did not seem to hear her. He appeared to study the tree.
"Varin," her hand placed upon his shoulder.
He turned, blinking. "Serana…"
"Scared of a tree now, I see…"
"I-" Varin seemed to shake something away.
With a glance he eyed the weirwood once more and reached out to place his palm on the wood.
"I've seen this before," he claimed quietly, staring into those red eyes. "I know your face; this place…"
The cold winds blew through frostbitten leaves as if to give him an answer.
"It's just the wind," Serana insisted after a moment, stroking her wolf's fur.
And yet he could smell it clearly; alive and intoxicating….
The perfume of rotting earth beneath his paws, the smell of-
Varin opened his eyes, and the wolves bared their fangs to snarl at the tree.
Another cold wind whispered and sent his cloak stirring behind like something half-alive.
"We're leaving," is all the Prince offered, turning on his heels and storming from the sad red eyes.
"What?" Serana stood all but frozen in the snow, blinked, then turned.
Her cousin was away again, cloak fluttering behind him against the winds.
"VARIN!" She called after him, ignoring her wolf as it continued to snarl at the tree.
"Prince," she found Ryder before her cousin. "We are-"
Qrow squinted his eyes at the boy as he barged past in a hurry.
"What has the pup spooked?"
Serana halted at the man's side.
"Don't know," she answered honestly.
"Walls manned," Qrow was saying, though she tuned it out. "If you call them walls – half of em are felled, or frozen brittle – whoever laid siege to this pile of rotten wood is long gone I'd say. We should head back to Winterfell if you ask me, Princess, nothing for us here anymore."
She ignored him, kneeling to calm Volki as the wolf whined and pawed worryingly at the snow.
"There's still time to join with Darion and the others, if we hurry – might win us some glory, eh?"
"What's wrong boy?" Serana hadn't heard of a word of Ryder's rambling. "Talk to me Vol…"
Volki only nudged her with his nose, as cold as frost, whining and pawing at the white ground.
"Strange," even Qrow thought it odd. "First the pup now the wolves. We should leave, Princess."
Serana frowned. "For once Ryder," she eyed her wolf cautiously. "I dare say you're right about something."
"Strange times we live in Princess," Qrow smirked at that, though it was a false thing. Serana hadn't failed to note how the man held a frozen grip to the handle of his sword from the moment they'd entered this place. "Strange times indeed… we ought to leave quickly…"
The horses were the final straw, spooked as they were. Trust a Ryder to listen solely to horses.
Varin was returning to the commotion, flanked by an array of Greycloaks that bellowed behind him.
"We're leaving Princess," Duran Greystark informed them from his prince's side.
"First bloody wise thing I've heard all day," Qrow all but whispered those words.
"Ryder," Varin sent him a glance. "Calm and ready the horses, we leave immediately."
Qrow obeyed without a fuss, that only spoke to how unnerved the man was in truth. Any other time he'd have offered a scoff or a witty comment, a roll of his eyes or something – anything really – to show some defiance before ultimately doing as asked of him. His silence was concerning.
"Serana," Varin looked to her with haunted eyes. "Get to your horse and-"
"What's happening Varry?"
She gave him pause, then a frown.
"No time," he claimed. "I'll explain after-"
A howl. The clashing of steel. Fear gripped his gut like a rotten meal.
"Glover," Varin mumbled with eyes darting up to the hilltop where steel and shouting rang out.
"To Arms!" Duran Greystark all but screamed. "Swords and Shields you fools," he growled. "To your-"
The orders ceased abruptly as something gripped Duran's ankle and tightened its grip between frozen fingers.
"FUCK!" Greystark cried out, dropping to the snow like a puppet without its strings; something atop him in an instant clawing and biting – more beast than man – it reeked of death and decay. "ARGHHH," he screamed as its teeth bit and tore at his raised arm. Human teeth, he realised in between the terror of it all.
And then it ceased as Varin pull the man free and cut their head from their shoulders.
"I-" Duran laid in the snow, blinking, his arm bloody and red as his attacker's head rolled away.
"To your feet Greystark," Varin held his spare hand outstretched and steady. "UP NOW DURAN!"
He took the hand and found his feet, ignoring the sharpness of his ankle and picking up fallen steel.
The courtyard had erupted into a fresh hell of sorts as men crawled from the deepest snow to lunge at them.
Duran hadn't a moment to register it all, heart pounding; he raised steel just in time to halt a killing blow from a rusted axe.
"Gods," he mumbled aloud as he struggled to hold back the assailant. His foe was missing an eye… and…
"Varin!" Serana's voice rang out above the shouting and clashing of steel.
Duran felt dread grip his heart. His foe was missing its jaw…
"We need to LEAVE!"
The Princess was all but howling.
"VARIN," She called out, dodging back from an attacker as her wolf ripped at dead flesh.
"The horses!" Prince Varin replied aloud, slashing this way and that; dancing with his blade.
Duran's sword managed to rid his foe of its jaw-less head, though it kept attacking. "W- What is…"
"Greystark!" Varin barked, grabbing him by his cloak and pulling him away.
An edged blade cut so close above his head that Duran ought to have died there.
"FOCUS!" The Prince demanded of him, his void-black blade ending things. "FIGHT!"
"How?" Is all that Duran could think, blinking helplessly on the oh so soft bed of snow.
Dead men. Dead men had sprung up from the snow like winter roses to claw at them, a fact that seemed impossible…
Grey eyes scanned the surroundings. Prince Varin was cutting down one man – or thing – after another with ease, his oily black sword seeming somehow effective where steel hacked with great effort to remove limp after limb before claiming victory. The Princess was at his side, and the wolves… Duran's own among them…
Lupa, was her name, a great she-wolf of many litters. He witnessed her rip the head of one dead man clean away as it clawed at her belly.
"Stand," Duran's own voice demanded, free from the cold if only in spirit. "Stand you fool! Protect your Prince! Die on your feet!"
He rose slowly, the sharpness in his ankle blazing fiercely, but he rose up and stood.
"Winter's Wrath!" He cried the words of his house and all but clung behind his Prince.
There seemed no end to them. An endless horde, up from the thick blanket of snow and down from the hill dressed in colours that were both foreign and familiar. Greyjoy, Glover, Stark, Mormont… why where there Mormont's among them? The thought was fleeting as they reached the stables.
Ryder's men had fought valiantly, it seemed; if the pile of corpses were anything to go by…
"Fucker bit me," Qrow was on the floor, back up against the stable wall. "You believe that? Bit me!"
"Ryder," Varin was knelt at his side with a forlorn look about him, crimson red splattered across his cloak.
"Run for it Stark, hear me? You have to warn the Ki-"
Qrow coughed; hand pressed up against his bloody neck.
"-King." He clung stubbornly to his sword. "And… a favour…"
"Aye?" Varin was nudged by his wolf, its coat wet and bloody.
"Will," Qrow groaned, eyes fluttered. "Ash, tell em I… said Hey…"
Qrow Ryder chuckled, spluttering blood and dying with a smirk on his lips.
Duran limped forward. "Prince," he begged. "We need to leave this place… there's no time…"
"I know," Varin mumbled, up to his feet and grabbing the frozen reigns of Ryder's white stallion.
Winter had stormed in with their plight it seemed, the snows near blinding; Ryder's horse struggled against its reigns as riders gathered around them with shouts of "Ride!" and "With the Prince!" and "Now!" as Varin's eyes found themselves lost to the north. Ahead would be the gate – where the shouts and clashing rang out – behind the quiet and the enemy; like a child's fear of the dark. "Varin," he heard her call. "Varin gods damn it move!"
He shook the snow from his hair, snapping on the reigns and thundering Ryder's steed down the streets.
They'd left too many behind and even now something in his blood screamed for him to turn back and fight.
A shrill noise was his answer on the wind, like a great frozen lake cracking all too suddenly. The shouts of "Varry!" and "Prince!" met his ears before reality hit his head against the cold. Snow made for a fine enough bed in some morbid sense, though no man ever woke from it in the end of things.
The world was white and buzzing, blurry, he blinked and put one hand up to his head.
It was wet and warm, the snow red before his eyes as he cursed at the sight of blood. His own blood.
"I-" He heard Ryder's horse wailing not far away, a great spear through its chest as it kicked and flailed with what strength remained in its heart; eyes wide and pleading for help. Those eyes spoke a thousand words and seemed almost human as it cried out and ask "why" of its fate.
And then it stopped. Its legs ceased, its breath quiet, the life in its eyes absent.
"Get up," his instincts screamed within the confines of his skull. "Get. Up. NOW."
His hands were numb, gloves or not, they reached for the black blade and graced the handle.
The wind had stopped by the time he'd found his feet – almost by some will – the snows had parted around him; still raging unnaturally beyond as if standing within the eye of some great storm. The sound of cracking ice turned his eyes ahead to a figure moving on silent feet, wearing frozen armour that shifted with every step.
In its hand was a longsword alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed to vanish edge-on.
"Frostbite," Varin's thought spoke aloud, his knuckles white-tight around Sharp's handle.
The foe was tall and gaunt, with blue-star eyes and flesh as pale as milk – its armour reflective as a clear still pond.
"Come then," the Prince challenged the nightmare, willing his frozen limbs to obey as fear gripped hold and tightly.
It halted suddenly. Those eyes of blue burnt like ice.
Others emerged silently from the surrounding blizzard.
One… two… three of them… and the cold mists in their wake…
The firsts pale sword of ice came shivering through the air in a flash.
Varin met it with Sharp, the shadow against the cold, clashing with a thin sound at the edge of hearing.
It was like an animal screaming in pain. The Prince swung a second blow, and a third, then fell fast back a step.
Another flurry of blows and another. Behind, to the right, to the left, all around the waters stood patient, faceless, silent, the shifting patterns of their delicate armour making them all but invisible in the snow. Yet they made no move to interfere in the struggle before them; content to watch.
Again and again the swords men with the anguished kneeing screech of the clash.
Varin was panting from the effort now, his breath steaming in the cold; black blade defiant.
One parry came a beat too late. The pale sword bit through the Prince's chainmail beneath his arm. Blood welled between the rings. It steamed in the cold, and the droplets seemed red as fire where they touched the snow. Varin's fingers brushed his side, and his glove came away soaked with red.
His foe said something in a language that he did not know; with a voice like the cracking of ice, and the words were mocking.
Prince Varin found his fury, shouting "WINTER!" and snarled, lifting Sharp with both hands and swinging it in a flat sidearm slash.
The Other's parry was almost lazy. As if it were no threat…
When their blades touched however, the icy sword shattered.
Blue eyes widened as the shards of ice erupted and Varin's blade cut deep into its target.
Sharp dove upward, into and through, then out with a sudden pull. The Other fell to its knees.
Varin Stark severed its head with a flick of his wrist and watched it roll away into the snow, pale blue blood on white.
Those watching seemed frozen in place for but a moment as they eyed the Stark with his black sword coated in blue blood that hissed and steamed.
The watchers moved forward together. Pale swords rose as Prince Varin Stark stood his ground and prepared to fight and die alone; fighting monsters.
Theon would've cursed his luck if he didn't fear the cold might freeze his tongue. One moment he'd been lighting a fire to combat the chill, talking to his sister, only now he was wandering blindly knee-deep in snow that roared from the sky; a blizzard that came at them with unnatural speed – as if it were a sword drawn from a scabbard – he could barely see the hand held up to shield his eyes from it all. How had things come to this utter madness?
"Free me brother," Asha had pleaded and struggled against the ropes that bond her hands. They'd only just begun setting camp beyond the walls of Deepwood then, things had seemed so peaceful and boring even; he'd thought that enough... among other thoughts...
He'd killed his sister's people. His people too in a manner of speaking if he were ever to become Lord of Pyke.
He'd come so close to being a kinslayer that night in the woods that he dared not dwell on the 'what if' of things for too long.
The past was the past and best left there…
"Free me," again his sister pleaded with a smile.
Gone were the titles of Green Kraken, Boy, Greenlander, Traitor and the like.
It was not her insults had phased him, but the want instead. He'd longed for family for so long... for home... to feel like be belonged.
And here she was, the sister he barely remembered and knew even less of in truth – what a sorry brother he made. It turned his stomach.
"We can leave," Asha whispered. "Cut this damn rope and let's go," she insisted of him, smiling hopefully. "I've ships waiting for me Theon, we can go home. Together!"
"I-" He'd longed for it once. Home. Where even was home anymore?
It was Pyke, once. The years had turned him into a different man, in some ways.
"Where are your ships then sister?"
"Close," Asha said. "Free me, I'll show you..."
"You'd cut my throat the moment I turned my back."
She'd frowned at that. It almost seemed genuinely disgusted.
"You're my brother, Theon," is all she said as if that were enough.
She was that, but so was Sansa, so was Arya; that little pest. Her sister had been even kinder to him since their return to Winterfell.
"I am," he'd replied, throwing some wood onto the fire as the Prince's men went about their duties.
These men of the sunset were an organised lot.
"Then free me brother," Asha kept her voice hushed.
"Did our father ever care about me, sister?"
She blinked, frowning at the sudden question.
"I've been a glorified hostage near enough all my life now," it angered him more than he'd let on. "Robert Baratheon would take the head the second our father stepped out of line, so tell me sister, did father hesitate when he attacked the North? Did he care about his only living son?"
Asha diverted her eyes without thought. That alone was all the answer Theo needed to see. Balon Greyjoy had never cared.
"I figured the fuck not," he all but snarled. "I am home, sister; might be cold as shit right about now but Ned Stark was more of a father to me tha-"
"He was your jailor you fool! He'd have taken your head without a single thought!"
"Robb didn't though!" Theon snapped at her angrily. He didn't dare wonder if Ned Stark might have done his duty. Stannis Baratheon might well have tried to order it if he'd lived long enough to bother, but Robb had only ever defended him. He'd never have betrayed him for Stannis... he wouldn't. "Robb is my brother," Theon declared aloud, sighing and calming himself. "He'll random you for the Glovers and peace and you won't be hurt..."
Asha scoffed at that. "Euron doesn't give a shit about peace, nor Me; you're truly green if you think otherwise."
His uncle had never exactly been the most agreeable of men.
Theon didn't doubt his uncle was as if not crueller than he recalled.
"You may as well slit my throat here and now, if you mean to send me back to the Crow's Eye."
"I-" he'd made to protest it. Robb wouldn't kill her - he wouldn't do it - Theon thought to promise that he'd speak with Robb... maybe Asha could live with him at Winterfell? Arya would like her, surely, they could be family... if not a strange one... and with Prince Darion's aid perhaps they could take the Iron Islands someday?
His thoughts had been cut off by the cold winds just as Theon had dared to feel some warmth.
The fire dwindled, the snows gathered, and cold winds snapped out the flames. And then the dead things came. Up from the snowbanks and blankets of white sprung men with rotten flesh and ruined faces wielding swords of rusted iron and steel. The world had gone utterly and wholly mad in between two beats of the heart.
He'd never been one to run from a fight.
This? This was different...
"Stop, damn you!"
He ignored her voice.
"Theon!" Asha growled, fighting his grip. "Brother!"
He halted in the snow, the wind playing havoc with his hair; his cloak long lost. "I-"
She pulled her arm free of his.
"Where are we fucking going?!"
"I-" Theon didn't quite know where.
Anywhere that wasn't here, truth be told.
"Away," he raised his voice above the wind.
"We'll fucking freeze out here Theon!"
"Winterfell," he mumbled. He had to warn them...
Robb would need to know; they were marching the wrong damn way...
"Theo-"
A low growl silenced her words.
The black wolf stalked through the snow barring its teeth and shaking off the white from its fur.
Theon knew this wolf. It was the Prince's as dark as a shadow and none too friendly towards him.
"Easy boy," he stood between the beast and his sister even as she looked ready to fight.
"Fucking wolves," Asha held a sword up, hands shaking from the cold.
The wolf seemed to judge them with its calculating eyes for but a moment.
"Where's the Prince?" Theon asked of it, as if the beast could understand. Maybe it could, for all he knew, its master and his people were as strange as they came and just now dead men had tried to kill them all. A wolf understanding him seemed oddly believable all of a sudden.
It whined, teeth away and nose to the air before howling as long and chilling as the winter winds around them.
In a moment Theon heard the hooves approach from beyond the raging snowstorm around them under figured came into view.
"Princess?" It was the girl – Varin's cousin – up atop a horse with a handful of riders at her rear; glaring fiercely down at him and his sister.
One wolf had become two and three and four...
"Quickly," is all she said; hand outstretched in offer.
Theon took it gladly, up onto her saddle and hands around her waist. Any other day he'd have made a jest, some teasing words... but not today...
Asha was unceremoniously pulled up atop the saddle of a rider in grey-and-silver; looking frantically around before they were away. The wolves darted off ahead of them all into the blizzard and they'd given chase in a heartbeat. Theon didn't ask why, or where they were heading. It hardly seemed to matter now.
Anywhere was surely better than here. Any choice, any alternative, any chance that ahead may lay a future where they'd feel warmth again.
Varin the Slayer? Varin Wightbane? He'd have smirked at the thoughts if he didn't fear his lips would be frozen forever in the fashion; forever blue and mocking. He'd slayed one fairy tale and now another, cutting the firsts head clean had seemed to upset its friends. He'd fought his best against them, yet his best was hardly enough.
Truth be told, it seemed that first one had been toying with him, because its friends struck with inhuman speed; their blades striking like the wind and slicing through chainmail like it was butter. Sharp had been lost to the snow moments ago and the creatures seemed to avoid it laying there, as if the dark thing might rise to cut them.
Cold fingers wrapped around his neck and held him up, blue eyes staring into his soul with a beastly anger.
Varin the Dead. That would be his title, it seemed.
Not the one he'd have chosen if given the choice of it.
Its fingers squeezed and tightened and Varin would've screamed – tried to in fact – yet the very air turned to ice in his throat, the creatures spoke in their strange tongue as his vision flickered. He felt ripped, torn away across the North to the sea and the ships all the way home as old memories flooded in like the tide all while the cracking of ice whispered in corners of thought; he witnesses towers of ice, a great crystalline wall shattering to the thunder of a horn and then-
"Varin! VARIN!"
His eyes opened suddenly.
The air returned to his lungs, sharp like knives, he choked on winter and slumped into the snowy ground. Eyes upward after a moment he witnessed a black blur before him snarling and whimpering as the sound of hooves and clashing steel and voices rang out.
Varin the Lucky, perhaps?
"Varry," he knew that voice.
"S- Serana?"
His vision focused, his hand clutching the cold of his throat; all around him the ancient enemy fought and cut down his would-be saviours.
"S- S-"
"Hush," Serana tried to lift him.
"Sha-" gods, it hurt to breathe. "Sharp..."
"Sharp," his cousin eyed the blade, half covered in the snow; black handle a stark contrast to the white.
"Kill," Varin groaned, too weak to stand. His limbs were frozen stiff and numb, his throat frozen and harsh.
She grabbed the blade and took one step, two, three, as the enemy threw Varin's wolf away through the air as if it were nothing before Serana drove her cousin's blade into its cold heart. It cracked and wailed and finally silenced, the Princess left in awe for but a moment.
Her eye's locked onto the blade.
Blue blood smoked against the void.
"Arghhh!" and "STARK!" snapped her back to reality.
Serana turned to see Theon Greyjoy in the snow, tossed aside like a puppet without strings and clutching his bloody red arm. A great spray of crimson was scattered across the white – his sister knelt by his side muttering quiet words.
"Hey, you ugly cunt!" Serana all but screamed her crude words through the cold.
It turned, the last of their enemy, fury in its azure eyes; burning with a hate. It turned from the Greyjoys and stepped towards her swiftly.
The first swing was lightning, a flash of thunder that threatened to cut through her neck and sever flesh with ease only to meet with her cousin's dark blade and hiss and scream in violent defiance. Again and again they clashed as Serana recalled every lessoned she'd been taught.
"Fight with your head," her cousins words rang against her skull like tower bells. "not your heart..."
It was faster than she or any man could hope to become, and stronger too, as every blow pushed backward and sent her muscles reeling.
"Not bad," she remembered Prince Darion's smile as he laid the tip of his sword against her throat. "But not good enough to live…"
The enemy's smile was not her cousins. It was full of malice, of arrogance and pride and mockery as she fell back and dropped Sharp.
Serana closed her eyes as its pale blade moved to thrust down and end it all.
A gasp met her ears and she felt nothing. No suddenly pain. No bite of frost and death.
"Duran," she muttered, eyes open at the sight of Greystark standing before he with the pale sword through his chest; arms locked around the Other's wrists and holding its blade within his own flesh as wolves suddenly lunged and ripped at its legs with fang and claw to ripped and tear to little effort; sticks against stone…
The wolves could not harm it. Duran's arms could not hold it for long, nor did he, as their foe pushed its blade inward and up; slicing through chainmail and flesh like a hot knife through butter up and out through Greystark's shoulder; he slumped to the side with a thud and his killer beamed.
It turned and slashed at Duran's wolf to slice its skull in two, removing the ear of another and kicking the third wolf away.
For but a moment during, it seemed to chuckle, ice cracking across the surface of a great lake.
Serana Stark drove her cousin's sword straight through its back as it laughed.
"Only expose your back to a corpse," she growled as Sharp smoked with its blood.
It cracked and shattered with a scream and bled her ears, an echo that seemed to span across the world; suddenly Sharp was free and Serana fell to a knee with shaking hands against Duran's bloodied corpse and tattered cloak. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, taking her hands away and finding them slick with blood.
She looked up from her hands to see the blizzard departing. The winds faded and nought but a light snow floating down from a dark sky.
Sharp dropped to the snow once more as she limped to the slumped form of its owner in the snow.
Varin's wolf was by his side now with whimpers and wet-nosed nudged, minus an ear and its coat wet with blood and snow. "Cousin?" She grabbed his shoulder with her bloody hands. "Varry? We did it. They're… don't you die on me now..."
In the silence she feared the worst. He was bleeding fiercely, crimson and white.
"N- Not today," came the pained groan. "Not yet Serry..."
She hugged him at that, even if it hurt; her eyes leaked of their own accord.
"You'll be okay," she promised. "We'll be okay..."
Varin smirked, his eyes all too heavy, the world cold and numb.
"You-" his voice was quiet, akin to a whisper. "Warn my brother, you have... must..."
"Together," Serana insisted, eyes darting about looking for anything or anyone to help them.
The blizzard had vanished, but Deepwood was practically buried under the blanket of snow in the distance and their armies camp a litter of lonesome banners and scattered tends buried themselves but for the rooftops and some few exceptions. The two Greyjoys stood by in silence, Theon held up by his sister with a hastily bandaged arm and a worried look in his eyes. Only one of Duran's Greycloaks seemed present, knelt beside the fallen form of his captain.
If others lived, Serana could not say or see...
"Horses," it was Theon to say it with a groan.
They needed horses, to flee and survive, to warn the others.
"We need warmth," Serana added as she frantically went about ripping her cloak to try stem her cousins bleeding. "Fire, Horses; we need-"
"Wall," Varin's voice whispered.
"I-" Serana frowned. "Deepwood isn't safe…"
"Warn them," he insisted. "W- Warn... Dari... on..."
"Varin," she shook him at that, his eyes closed shut. "Wake up, damn it, WAKE UP!"
Prince Varin dreamt of the cold. He heard the horn again, shaking the foundations of the world; he could feel the cold hands on his throat and the pull that had tugged at his soul - it wanted him - called out from the dark. Blue eyes lingered in the shadow and Varin couldn't awaken for all his effort. He had to warn his brother. They had to prepare... the dead had already broken through... and the living were marching to fight amongst themselves. Wake. Wake. Wake Up. He could not do it.
It had seen him. He had seen. The blood was the same.
A dark time had come. His time. It couldn't be stopped.
My Note(s): Here we go again back into the icy clutches of the Others. It has been a long while since our last update (although in that time I have uploaded two other stories concepts I encourage people to check out, give me some feedback there too :D) thanks simply to my schedule/life being as full and hectic as its ever been; not to mention my attempts to keep up with uploads on Youtube again after a fairly long absence-ish on and off in the past due to that hectic life I mentioned ha the gods enjoy making things difficult for me I fear but I'm nothing if not a stubborn bastard. At any rate I'll see Sunset Starks finished if its the last thing I do :) this has been a pet project of mine since as early on 2015 and has been through a lot of changes and rewrites and nonsense over the years. Updates may be slower than before, but I will post them regardless.
We're very much on the topic of the Others currently (especially this chapter) including some lore for the Wolfswood and giving Theon a chance to meet and speak with his sister; however briefly that lasted - the two of them certainly have their reasons to bound now heh heh - the Others in accordance with GRRM have an agenda beyond merely "lol kill the living" that HBO failed spectacularly to portray in the show. I aim to not disappoint, for those of you who wished the Others were a true and powerful threat I've good news; if this chapter didn't make it obvious MY take on the Others has them not throwing any punches at all. The weights have to be hacked into pieces by normal steel and the Others themselves are basically impervious to anything besides Dragonglass (that DOESN'T kill them in the books, only wounds) or Valyrian Steel/Magic. And they are inhumanly strong, ridiculously fast, they don't tire or rest like human men; but are (again, we see this in the books) seemingly susceptible to pride, arrogance, overconfidence. We see it in the 1st bloods prologue when they toy with Royce. They tried to toy with Varin this chapter and if not for his sword, he'd have died.
The Others are not 'dead' and they are not emotionless monsters. They have a purpose, a goal, something beyond senselessly killing the living and I aim to explore that. House of the Dragon says that Aegon dreamt of the Song of Ice and Fire. I can't say how I feel about that - not when Game of Thrones made the Night King a massive pushover - but My version may well require that united Westeros that the conqueror dreamed about. United the living may stand a chance. Alone? They are doomed.
At any rate I'll stop rambling :D thanks for reading, please consider leaving a review/comment/tell me if you enjoyed the chapter and if not consider leaving specific feedback so that it may be constructive. The words "boring, give it a pass" fail to provide any sort of helpful information haha but I more than most understand you cannot make everyone happy (nor do I care to try) and the majority of most 'uncivilised' negative reviews come from individuals who have never written a thing in their lives. If you've made it this far in the story and through this wall of my ramblings then I trust you've a somewhat decent head on your shoulders. Hope you've enjoyed my Ted Talk.
That's all for now! Thanks again for reading, we'll update Asap but with my crazy schedule lately I can't promise an exact date - only that I'll do my best :)
Max207: Well, they didn't freeze the whole thing, just sections to snare the ships fairly close to the shore; not reaching those further out/behind those closest. This is the furthest thing from 'natural' but it's not meant to be natural – what part about shapeshifting, wargs, magic, dragons and cannons isn't equally potentially OP? They're magical ice creatures that are nearly impossible to kill, control winter and use super-ice-swords that can shatter steel. There's also canon reference for 'dead things' under the water at Hardhome, so I'm not too far off the books here. The Wights are indeed capable of crossing oceans. Have a little faith ;) I know what I'm doing, promise.
The question one should be asking themselves is: how/why they've passed the Wall already? A question that'll be answered with time but IS hinted at already.
PirateNinjas: We'll explore the Walkers supposed strength later on :) as for the Mistress, the 'Exile' she claims to descend from would be Aerion Brightflame who died around 232AC roughly 66 years ago, so the idea is she's likely his granddaughter from some Summer Islander whore – basically the same situation as the mistress of Aegon the Unworthy, Bellegere Otherys aka the Black Pearl who was the daughter of a Summer Islander – though the Mistress's claim is hardly proven and this questionable lineage was a nod to Otherys and to our Aegon as well. That the Rogare was desperate enough to use her 'claim' was just that, great desperation on Rogare's part.
It remains to be seen if this 'Mistress' has any dragons blood at all. Her daughter looks the part, but Rogare looks the part; as does almost all of Lys. There is (look at Otherys for an example, or various Targaryens) no guarantee the parents of a Valyrian wedded to other 'races' such as Rhoynar or Summer Islander turn out looking Valyrian.
So nope ;) not a mistype – just one of those times I've written something that plays fast and loose with supposed truth.
246vili: As said above, you're right about the part Valyrian part Summer Islander; supposedly having Brightflame's blood the Rogare would've indeed had to be desperate and/or drunk to have paid for such a thing. I left it largely up to the reader to decide if they believed the story or not; after all, Vaella could be lying herself or the claim could be fake entirely – it was mostly a nod to how ambiguous claims of Dragonblood (like Aegon :P) can be with it being quite common in Essos while also painting House Rogare as a family that still exists, but has been on the decline for generations, hence that supposed Rogare appearing to do something pretty damn desperate.
As for Jorg, I actually like him, but I torment the guy a lot :) assuming he doesn't fall afoul of hypothermia no doubt he'll have some role to play ahead – the North is going to get pretty chaotic very quicky – I'm not pulling any punches with the Others for reasons we'll go into with time; they're no joke :D this isn't HBO heh heh…
GoldenDragon300: I'm flattered that you think there's a "Team Soul" and "Team George" haha but I agree the show did an extremely poor job with the final season(s) and my own ending will be decidedly more cataclysmic with the Others being an actual threat and not some afterthought. D&D were piss-poor writers when left to their own devices sadly and hopefully (if he ever actually finishes) we'll get a far more quality ending from George… though I've my doubts we'll ever seen A Dream of Spring…
Apostrophe Catastrophe: Glad you've enjoyed thing so far :) exploring the whole Ice Zombie thing is interesting, they're a lot more dangerous than HBOs lol
Wolftamer96 / Timdoe: I might've forgotten about the Others too if I didn't have everything planned haha :P
Dave: Glad you're still enjoying things :) I'm doing good, just busy of late and sadly fics have taken a backseat.
Jaimerey7000: An interesting theory but wildly different than what I've got planned :)