osterreicher: If the marriage is valid before the Faith...then there's a massive problem. Namely that Jon/Daeron is legitimate, but it also makes all of Dorne's sacrifices at the Trident virtually useless since Rhaegar basically stabbed them in the back. More than Jon's parentage itself, the symbolism of Dorne dying for nothing is massive. Sarella handed the evidence to Quentyn, who can still use it as leverage. And if he doesn't...he can still burn the proof. For now, it's better to keep it, though.

InCK: Plot device. Because it was easier to insert it in an existing chapter rather than give Sarella a short 800-word chapter. And besides, Jennelyn is extremely loyal to Quentyn, so she is trustworthy.

Guest: Could work, but the Red Mountains are just like the Pyrenees, it's hard to get much stuff growing there except vineyards and the like.

Rickard

The wind was softly blowing through the snowy plains of the North. The northern host was, for all intents and purposes, home. But there would be no rest for now. Just like the war down south, the northern camp was bustling with excitement and had set up camp in Wintertown, just under the mighty fortress of Winterfell.

Just how the Ironborn managed to capture this monstrosity with a handful of men was beyond his understanding. Had the sentries been asleep? Or did they just commit that many men to the war effort? Nevertheless, they now had the task of retaking it, and it would prove to be quite an easier affair than Moat Cailin.

Ravens had flown from the Stony Shore. The last Ironborn had been evicted from Torrhen's Square and Deepwood Motte, and their ships either burned down or captured. Lord Manderly's forces could now come back. They, on the other hand, would continue north first towards Karhold, then Last Hearth and Eastwatch to assist the Night's Watch with their wildling problem, all the while raising men eager to fight down south. After all, King Robb was not someone who would just abandon his allies at the snap of a finger.

Speaking of the king, he was once again hard at work in his command tent, his massive direwolf at his side, as if giving him advice on the next battle plan to use. Quite a queer creature, that one. Rickard Karstark had never seen direwolves before, but the tales of these beasts were that of cruel creatures, and they were…on the battlefield. Around the king and most Northmen, these beasts acted just like domesticated dogs. That is…if you count the domesticated dog's meal being an entire stag.

There were fewer men in the command tent this time. Daryn Hornwood had been sent to organize his wedding preparations at Karhold and Howland Reed had stayed back to defend Moat Cailin. As a result, only him, the Greatjon, Lady Mormont, and Lord Rodrick Ryswell were in attendance. And the atmosphere was bleak, to say the least. The king was still pondering over how to attack and where to attack, especially since a few Ironborn that escaped the slaughter at Deepwood Motte apparently reinforced the fortress.

Suddenly, two people appeared in the command tent, which made every single person in the room turn their heads towards them. These faces were those of Kyle Condon and Benjicot Branch. The first was one of the king's personal guards, previously in service to House Cerwyn, and had been wounded several times down south. Lost a few fingers and got badly scarred, but never stopped fighting. The other, Benjicot Branch, was a scout sworn to House Glover.

"Your grace." The two men bowed, with Kyle Condon speaking up. "We have come back to tell you that Deepwood Motte is ours and Lord Glover thanks his grace for ridding him of the Ironborn. He will send his men here as soon as he has finished rebuilding his defenses.

As for Lord Manderly, his host, once it has rested and replenished, will also be on its way to Moat Cailin and Winterfell both, as per your orders."

"Thank you both for your service." The king nodded. "However, Lord Glover had given me this very news by raven, there was no need to send forward runners."

"Oh, that's because he sent us to deliver a token of thanks, for your assistance in retaking his home." Benjicot Branch grinned through his dirty teeth.

"A token?" the king raised an eyebrow.

The two men nodded, with Benjicot Branch eclipsing himself for a moment, quickly speeding out of the tent, before dragging someone in.

"Let me go you, northern bastard! Let me go or I'll fuckin' unman you!"

The room suppressed a gasp, while some grinned in anticipation. The king himself allowed himself to smile.

"Well, well." The king taunted. "If it isn't Lady Asha Greyjoy."

The badly bruised prisoner was clearly recognizable with her short hair and small plate armor, clearly marked with the kraken sigil.

"Fuck you!" she spat at the floor, trying to reach the Greatjon. Unfortunately, this attempt came much too short and only earned a small chuckle from her uncle's slayer.

"Isn't it customary to kneel before a king?" Lady Mormont's icy voice resonated through the tent, with the assembly nodding.

"In your dreams, I'll…" Greyjoy's plea was answered with a kick to her back from the Branch man, sending her to the floor as she writhed in pain.

"Kneel, bitch." Benjicot Branch ordered.

The Greyjoy whore didn't have much of a choice as both Branch and Flint held her on her knees.

"My brother will never surrender." She spat out defiantly.

"I don't expect him to." The king replied icily. "Your brother, traitor, and turncloak as he is, will face my wrath. He will die, whether it be in battle, of hunger and thirst, by my hand or by his own men's blades, he will die. He killed my brothers and slaughtered Northmen whom he knew and shared his bread and salt with for more than ten years. Your brother will die and I shall feed his corpse to the crows, Lady Asha."

The king's icy tone cut short a bit of Greyjoy's defiance as she slowly realized how serious the king was.

"If you're going to kill him anyway, why am I here?" she frowned. "Am I to join my brother?"

"Actually, you're here to watch him die." The king shook his head. "You might be a Greyjoy but you still hold some value to your father. Then again, your father didn't care about Theon so he wouldn't really care about you…that said I'm still willing to give your old man a chance. If I see one of his ships even set anchor in Northern waters, I'll have your head and have it sent to your father. I've learned from my mistakes, Lady Asha. Your uncle died by the Greatjon's sword; your brother will die as well. Blood for blood. Two Starks for two Greyjoys."

The Greyjoy bitch moved to say something, but the king interrupted any chance at that.

"Have her bound and gagged somewhere secure." The king ordered Branch and Condon. "Do not mistreat her. Any man who touches her loses what he touched her with."

"Yes, your grace." Answered Kyle Condon as he dragged the Greyjoy girl out of the room.

"Is it very wise to keep her alive?" the Greatjon asked once they had left. "Remember what happened with the Turncloak."

"She's of more use to us alive than dead for the moment." The king sighed. "It brings me no satisfaction to not have her head right now, but should her father move against us again, I'll gladly send her to Lord Glover so that he may do what he wishes."

"That's if that old fuck Balon Greyjoy even listens…" Rickard scoffed.

"We can send a piece of her to prove she's with us…" Rodrick Ryswell offered.

The room fell silent.

"Like her breastplate, or a lock of her hair!" Lord Ryswell quickly corrected. "I'm not that cruel, yet."

Before any decision could be taken on the girl's immediate future, a man rushed into the tent once more. This time, it was Brandon Norrey, one of the mountain clansmen, well…the younger that is. The Norrey himself was likely busy calling up his men for the future expedition to the Wall.

"Your grace…" the younger spoke. "The Turncloak wishes to talk."

"Talk!" the Greatjon boomed. "He can go talk to his drowned god when he's been fed to the fuckin' crows!"

"Now, Lord Umber." The king rose from his seat, his voice having soothed somewhat. "Let's see what this traitor has to say. Maybe it will be a little more entertaining than the maps of the castle we've been looking at all day."

The giant Umber humpfed under his beard while the room silently chuckled.

The king himself left the tent, following the younger Norrey out of the camp and in front of the main gates of Winterfell, where, indeed, the Turncloak stood, alone, in front of the gate, while his Ironborn reavers all stood on the battlements.

"ROBB!" he shouted.

"TRAITOR!" the king shouted back, fire in his eyes as he advanced to a distance where he needn't shout much more.

"I've come to parlay." The Turncloak asked.

"The only parlay you'll be getting is the one with your Drowned God when I will have sent you to him!" the king raged back. "Surrender to me before sunset or I'll kill your sister!"

The Turncloak looked shocked for a moment, before smugly proclaiming:

"Asha is likely at Pyke enjoying the benefits of a good reaving, you don't have her!"

Robb gave a sign to have the Greyjoy girl brought forwards. It took some time, but indeed, Asha Greyjoy was presented to the Turncloak, bound and gagged. After a quick moment, the king sent her back.

"There's your proof!" Robb shouted back. "Surrender or she dies!"

"You wouldn't do it Robb. We both know you can't do it." he punched back. "She's your prisoner and shall be treated as honor commands, or have you forgotten what Ned Stark has told you?"

"Don't you dare bring up my father's name!" Robb fumed. "You spit on his memory with every breath you take."

"Fine, Robb. You want your castle, you can have it! But you have to go through me first." the Turncloak defiantly replied. "You and me, beneath these walls. No armor, no tricks, no direwolves. Just you and me with swords and shields. If I win, we get to go home with not a single hair on our heads touched, me and Asha. If you win, you can have your shit castle back with everyone in it, if I have your word that Asha will not be harmed."

It happened before Rickard could even utter a word. Not a single member of his escort could as well, in fact, and he should have known staring into the king's eyes that not even the greatest of pleas would have backed him down.

"I accept, Turncloak!" the king unsheathed his sword. "You and me. No armor, no direwolves, no horses, since you've likely eaten them all already. And no tricks or I'll have your sister killed!"

"When the sun reaches its zenith, Robb!" he straightened up. "And I'll send you to your brothers!"

"And I'll send you to your uncle in the seven hells with the rest of your line of murderers!"

Without another word, the king slipped out to get ready. Rickard did try to reason with him, to convince him that Winterfell was going to fall in a matter of days, but it was no use. King Robb wanted to end the Turncloak with his own blade. And frankly…Rickard Karstark understood.

Indeed, did he not get vengeance for his sons with his own blade himself, by slaughtering the Kingslayer underneath the walls of Winterfell? Did Dacey Mormont not cave Gawen Westerling's chest in after he slew her mother? Did Cley Cerwyn not hack Roland Crakehall to pieces after he had killed his father with his lance? He could understand the desire to avenge his kin, his fallen brothers. And so, Rickard Karstark sighed and let the king go on. And that is why not a single voice was raised against the king's wishes.

King Robb came forth and placed his hand on Rickard's shoulder.

"Do not fear, Lord Karstark." He smiled. "The traitor has never bested me in combat before, it will not change today."

"I believe you, your grace." Rickard nodded with a smile. "I have seen your prowess in battle. The turncloak is no better than a common reaver. You shall slaughter him, just like Umber slaughtered his uncle."

King Robb smiled back and nodded.

"If the Turncloak tries anything stupid, like riding out with a horse or in full plate armor." The king did whisper to him. "Kill Lady Asha. In front of him. I believe that I have made my point very clear and I do not wish to be taken for a fool more than I already have."

Rickard nodded and had two men bring the Greyjoy bitch a little closer to the fortress, just out of sight of the men. It would give them some ideas they might regret later on.

Fortunately, the Turncloak seemed to have a shred of honor left in him. He walked out of the gate with no armor, only armed with a sword and shield. The king came to face him, similarly armed. However, Rickard could feel that something wasn't right. The Turncloak was advancing slowly, and he felt that the distance between him and the king was increasing, while the Turncloak was only taking small steps towards them, and stayed relatively close to the battlements.

He dismissed these concerns as the Turncloak shitting himself with every step. However, he suddenly heard the Greyjoy traitor shout.

"NOW!"

And suddenly Rickard's heart stopped.

The sky darkened with arrows shot from the battlements, and to his horror, they were all well aimed at the king.

For a moment, time stopped and the world went deadly silent. One arrow found its mark. Then two. Then three. Four. Five. Six.

"NO!" Lady Mormont shouted. "YOU BASTARD!"

The king's body fell to the ground, with another volley of arrows flying towards him. These were much less accurate, but one or two found their mark.

"FUCK YOU!" the turncloak chanted while raising his sword in the air. "I KILLED YOUR KING! I AM THE WOLF SLAYER! THE STARK LINE ENDS AT MY HANDS!"

Quickly, a few horsemen led by Lady Mormont and Lord Cerwyn rushed to the king's aid, braving the third flight of arrows coming straight for them. Rickard didn't even pay attention to the Turncloak's jeers and taunts as he rushed to the king's side.

The king had been turned into a hedgehog…a bloody one. His heart sank, but…the king…he was alive! He was coughing blood while the Greatjon's voice boomed, yelling to grab a maester.

The king was alive. He was still alive.

Suddenly, the king grabbed Rickard by his furs and brought him towards his face, which had been spared despite his mouth being full of blood.

"Kill…her…" he whispered.

Suddenly, Rickard Karstark felt reinvigorated. He rushed forwards, unsheathed his greatsword and brandished it at the Turncloak, who was dancing as if he were drunk off his arse.

"THEON FUCKING GREYJOY!" Rickard Karstark roared. "TRAITOR, CRAVEN AND TURNCLOAK! WATCH AS WE MEN OF THE NORTH HONOUR OUR WORD! BRING THE WHORE!"

Three men clad in Karstark colors suddenly broke the crowd, bringing a rattled Asha Greyjoy. One of them had even taken the initiative of bringing an execution bloc. How kind.

Suddenly, the Turncloak's smile fell, while his men set up the Greyjoy bitch on the bloc.

"Any last words?" he asked her, almost kindly, yet his voice filled with hate. "Do say thank you to your brother for this if you wish. He will be joining you soon enough."

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!" Asha Greyjoy instead roared at the top of her lungs.

"Poor choice of words." Rickard sighed and lifted his greatsword. It fell quickly and severed the Turncloak's sister's head clean off.

Enraged, Rickard took the head by the hair and flew it straight at the Turncloak, who still had no idea what had happened, only sparing a quick look at her sister's head, before running back into the castle.

Indeed, the king's direwolf had launched itself at the Turncloak's pursuit. However, it came too late as the Greyjoy bastard, slippery squid as he was, managed to run back to the castle right on time.

His initial rage contained, Rickard Karstark kicked the bloc off of the Greyjoy girl's body, leaving it to rot in front of the castle, and rushed straight back to the tent where the king had been brought.

For what felt like hours, at least a dozen maesters would go to attend the king, with Rickard pacing outside the room along with the Greatjon.

"We should never have sent the lad." The Greatjon shook his head, his voice was solemn.

"What could we do?" Lady Mormont was clearly holding back tears. "He would have overruled us. He was already disappointed that he didn't get to kill Victarion, and his brothers' murderer was right there."

"We should have known it was a trap." Lord Rodrik Ryswell's voice rose now.

"Aye, I agree." Cley Cerwyn nodded. "We never should've trusted any word coming out of the squid's mouth."

A mumble of agreement rose in the tent, which now hosted a good dozen men, all eager to know if their king was going to make it. However, the mood was bleak, and no one had any jeers to bring down this atmosphere.

"Let's pray to the Old Gods that our king pulls through." Morgan Liddle sighed. "He led us so far and brought us so many victories. He's a tough man, I'm sure he'll pull through."

"He's Ned's son and Rickard's grandson." The Greatjon nodded back. "Good men. Tough men. Led us through some of our darkest times. But even they were mortal."

Suddenly, a flurry of maesters exited the room, with the head maester, that of Cerwyn, addressing the entire room of lords.

"My lords, his grace is under a lot of pain." The maester confessed. "However, we have administered milk of the poppy and he wishes to receive Lord Umber, Lord Karstark, Lord Ryswell, Lady Mormont and Lord Cerwyn."

Rickard stood up, quickly followed by the Greatjon, Rodrik Ryswell, Dacey Mormont and Cley Cerwyn. They shuffled into the small makeshift room under the heavy glares of the rest of the assembly.

Two maesters were standing guard over the king, who was white as a sheet and covered in bandages. He dismissed every maester bar Lord Cerwyn's, who stayed at his side on a small chair.

"My leal lords…" the king coughed blood.

"You're alive…" Lady Mormont breathed a sigh of relief.

"Don't be too hasty, Dacey." The king coughed once more.

"His grace has been wounded no less than twelve times. We did our best but…" the maester sighed, bowing his head. "We can only delay his passing. He lost too much blood and will not live for much longer. His grace requested your presence in his last moments. I am sorry."

"No…" the Greatjon quickly rushed to the king's side, nearly running into the massive direwolf Rickard hadn't noticed was close to the bed, whimpering. "No, your grace…you cannot die…not now."

"I'm afraid that it is so." The king replied. "I was foolish, my lords. You were right. A foolish boy blinded by a desire for revenge…"

"You did what any of us would've done." Cley Cerwyn spoke up, earning nods from everyone, even Lord Ryswell.

"You are our king." Rickard nodded. "Now and forever."

He bent the knee, quickly followed by every member of the assembly.

"Just…tell my sisters that I'm sorry. When you go back south and help our allies get rid of the Lannisters once and for all…tell them I'm sorry I couldn't do anything to help them." The king sighed, his hands trembling as he reached for his direwolf's face.

The direwolf quickly stood up and stuck out his tongue, whining as it lapped at his master's hand.

The king smiled for a moment, with the maester doing his best so that the bandages all over his body wouldn't break.

"I wished…I could have been there for all of you." The king sighed. "I have let you down one final time, my lords. Just like at the Golden Tooth."

"No, Robb." Dacey Mormont spoke up. "You never let us down. Not once. You gave us hope even when the odds were stacked against us. You gave us our greatest victories, our finest hours as northmen. I promise you; you did not let us down."

"Your grace…" Rickard whispered. "You have guided us through the darkest times. As Lady Mormont has said, you gave us our finest hours as Northmen, even if it meant that we all had to sacrifice something. We will never forget you. Tomorrow, we shall storm Winterfell and put the traitor to the sword."

"No…" the king coughed. "Only a Stark can serve justice for that traitor. My brother…Jon."

"You wish for us to save the traitor for your brother?" Lord Ryswell asked.

The king nodded.

"As my dying wish, please…" the king almost pleaded. "I don't care whether the castle falls tomorrow or in a year, but my brother has to serve justice to the traitor. Promise me…that you'll serve him as loyally as you served me."

"We will, your grace." The Greatjon vigorously nodded. "I promise you that we will drag your brother out of the Watch, kicking and screaming if needs be."

The king chuckled, although his voice was clearly fading by this point, with small streams of blood stemming from his shoulder and torso.

"I'm sure you all will do fine." The king slowly whispered, his strength leaving him. "It has been a privilege to be your king…"

Then, the king stopped talking. Suddenly, the room went completely silent.

The massive direwolf whimpered as he tried to wake its master up, while the maester scurried for any sound of life. Before the latter could say anything, the direwolf quickly abandoned his efforts at poking and licking the king's face. Instead, he threw his head to the sky and emitted the most dreadful sound Rickard has ever heard. A howl of despair.

It was the hour of the wolf. And the King in the North was dead.