I had to read the actual books of Fire and Ice before me and KidWinTinker could post this chapter. If you ask me this chapter is fantastic. Not much else I want to talk about. I just want to say I'm sorry for it taking so long. Please read and review.

XxX

66 pounds. That was the weight of the Morningstar that Hartene had suggested Iywel use that morning. It was a dangerous weapon, without a doubt, but Iywel knew he didn't have the strength that Hartene did to actually wield a weapon of that size – not with any efficiency in any case.

What Iywel did choose was a long sword and a shield. It was a fairly standard choice, but it was standard for a reason. Everyone wanted something to protect themselves with, and when they struck they wanted their reach to be as far and deadly as possible. Bronn for his part had chosen a similar set of weapons.

Tyrion had been fair enough to allow both Bronn and Iywel to choose their own weapons, and Iywel had been grateful for that. He would have certainly been at a terrible disadvantage otherwise.

The arena however had been selected by Bronn. Ostensibly, on the grounds that it was a fairly secretive place, hard to find thereby making them unlikely to be discovered. He claimed it was the place where he regularly made love to the wife of an unwitting knight. Iywel having seen the knights at King's landing didn't doubt that there was a great deal of wife swapping, and doubted that the knight would care even if he did get to know.

Bronn declined the use of a helmet, but Iywel accepted. They looked fairly similar from an outsider's point of view, two mirror images with the exception of the helmet.

Iywel searched his memory to try and recall Bronn's movements during their initial encounter. He had been under duress at the time, and though he was better than most, Iywel was not very content to rely upon such memories. Still he would use what he had. There were higher chances that he would pick up something after all, see which side Bronn preferred.

But there was that most important fact about Bronn's fighting style that Iywel had picked up on. It was what had made the difference after all.

Hartene looked on from the sideline. His expression betrayed his thoughts. He wanted to be in this fight instead of Iywel.

"Sers" intoned Tyrion "You will start the duel when I blow the horn on it's third blast."

For all his tact, the dwarf wasn't used to much battle. He really wants to get some experience reflected Iywel. Whether it's the dragon king or not, there really seems to be someone bothering the King's hand. King Joffrey's hand. The King shits and the hand wipes. It was rather ironic that Iywel was remembering the words that were rumored to be uttered by Jaime Lannister, the strike first version of Tyrion.

His train of thought was interrupted by the blast of a horn. Iywel didn't even bother waiting for the second blast, before he turned around and raised his shield. Bronn was taken aback by that, if only for a second.

As he backed away he was met by a grin from Iywel that plainly conveyed the message. I got you there buddy.

Iywel had figured right. Bronn was the kind of fighter who liked to win his fight before it even began. A bare knuckle boxer who scored his points the night before the fight. That was how he had beaten the soldier in the streets near Lord Baelishs' establishment. And Iywel was counting on him to do the same in today's fight.

As Bronn recovered, Iywel dared a glance at the Lannister lordling. The imp maintained an impassive face. That was good news – it meant he was impressed. Had he not been, he would have studying the fight more carefully- not focusing his effort on hiding his intent.

Bronn made a forward flurry to which Iywel responded by playing defense. Iywel's shield moved as fast as Bronn's sword, and every strike fell on its outer face, the clanging of sword against shield was heard loud and often, before the sound waves disappeared over the vast ocean floor.

The next move was a trademark Bronn maneuver. Iywel did well to anticipate the kick. Dropping his sword, he caught hold of the sellsword's foot and pulled forward. Ser Bronn as he would one day be called would remember this moment many years later, but for now this was the first time it had happened. Iywel thought he heard him mutter "Well, I'll be fucked" but he couldn't be sure as his attention was on moving his own right leg. An instant later his boot was pressed against Bronn's throat.

"Do you yield?" asked Iywel.

"I yie-.."

Wham.

Iywel's shield hand moved to ram the bottom edge hard against the left side of Bronn's head.

"He was going to yield" said Tyrion, bursting out from the corner in which he was standing.

"Well, I didn't hear him finish saying it"

Iywel dropped his weapons. He made an exhaling sound – sigh of well-earned relief. It was about as early as he could, because he knew that when you were battling the likes of Bronn, the only time you were safe was when your opponent was either unconscious or dead.

Hartene looked over wistfully at the scene. He looked at Tyrion as if to enquire whether he could have a go with the dwarf. There was more than a hint of pleading in his eyes.

Iywel went over to his corner of the wharf and looked around. This was an excellent choice of location for the battle. Overhead in the main city, life went on as normal, the poor struggling to make their living, not only unaware of the significance of what had transpired in this anonymous corner of their kingdom, but in fact unaware that anything had transpired at all.

He picked up his pipe. It still had some of the special stuff that Tyrion had procured from the whorehouse. The smell was still strong and enough to remind Iywel of what it had been like and he felt almost intoxicated again.

Hartene walked over to Iywel and stood next to him looking hungrily at the scene that had unfolded in front of him. Bronn eventually stirred and got to his feet. "Well, that was a doozy" he replied. He was just about making it to his feet, his eyes were out of focus and he wasn't even close to finding his balance, but even then Iywel couldn't help but feel that the man was impressed.

XXX

"The streets are unsafe for all except for the noble born" Angela had once said, despite knowing fully well that her daughter was unlikely to pay any heed to her words.

"So why should it be any more unsafe for me?" Elva had asked in return, so many years ago. Her tone carried no anger, no malice – just plain determination. It was hard to look back on those times when her father, the honorable Henry Solembum, was as gentle at home as he was tough in battle. The Solembum soldier had sworn allegiance to Lord Karstark, who had in turn sworn allegiance to the Stark family. It was a happy life, truly.

The fifteen year old girl with mocha skin still held on to the doll that her father had made for her almost exactly a decade ago. A knight dressed in northern attire It was made of wood and painted on in splotches rather than in clean efficient strokes. Anyone could look at it and deduce that it was made by no smith or artisan of any kind. But it was made and not bought, and to Elva that made it all the more special. Knights were revered more in King's Landing than here up north she knew. If anything, it was Maesters that were revered the most after the warriors. It was always the warriors who were however revered the most, especially those warriors who were known to give up their blood thirsty ways and take to the mundane tasks of administration and governance.

It was in fact exactly that combination that had made Ned Stark such a popular and beloved figurehead in Winterfell. The man who had led the charge beside Robert Baratheon at the center of the seven kingdoms, had given up power and decided to rule the northern wastelands instead. Except that in the years since Ned Stark had taken over as warden of the North, none of its denizens thought of the north as a wasteland any more. Ned Stark was a strong willed and determined man. He bore his task without complaint.

Whenever Elva was asked to pour ale for her father's friends who would every once in a while come over to their house, she would listen in on their conversations. In the early days of the kingdom, it would take a few glasses before the men felt their tongues sufficiently loosened to let slip what they actually thought about the state of affairs in the kingdom. The conversation was inevitably peppered with comments such as 'Lord Stark knows nothing about commerce. He knows little about the value of gold and from where it comes and how it is spent. He should have stuck to the sword and allowed the others like that Luwin chappie to take over the day to day running.' Elva, young as she might have been, was nonetheless highly perceptive for her age. She knew that it was the underestimation of herself in the eyes of the adults around her that aided in her information gathering as much as the ale itself. She was glad for that and never tried too hard to impress her father or his friends with how much she remembered of each of the conversations that she had eavesdropped upon.

Angela's friends were fill with gossip, a lot of which Elva found simply too good to be true. It was possible for her to believe that Prince Theon was always eyeing common women – that was something that she had seen for herself, and didn't need the fisherwomen and handmaidens of Winterfell telling her. She didn't and couldn't however believe the stories about Jon Snow who apparently had a pack of wolves at his command that roamed the streets at his bidding.

Henry's friends on the other hand were all warriors. While she knew of great warriors in the land like Jon Snow and his half-brother Robb Stark, as well as more famous warriors down south where the king lived such as the Hound, Elva often enjoyed the company of these lesser known but able warriors that visited home. Elva had friends whose fathers were not soldiers, and even she on occasion indulged in the tale swapping that Angela and her friends had by this time mastered. She came to know that her father's friends ate a lot more than what was normal. This knowledge for some inexplicable reason pleased her greatly, though she wasn't quite able to decide why that was so. In any event, it was certainly more fun to listen to them, than to her mother's friends.

A few months later the same set of friends would be gathered around the fireplace sipping on the rabbit soup that Angela had prepared and waiting for the main course. As Elva was putting various plates in their place, for all her friends and carrying the myriad of dishes that had taken all evening to prepare, she wondered what her father's friends would have in store for her.

As it turned out, this evening's conversation was also about the Lord Eddard Stark. The world seemed a happier place, and the brave men of Winterfell in her living room seemed to be in high spirits even before she poured them their first glass.

Eddard Stark had apparently done something correct. There was flourishing trade in the market place, and plenty of work for people to do. All men seemed content with the state of affairs. Furthermore, it seemed that Eddard Stark was a personal friend of literally every second family in Winterfell. Of the guests standing before, well over three-fourths of them claimed to have dined with his Lordship at some point in time and a majority of those claimed to do so, on a regular basis.

All the complaints of how good warriors seldom made good kings seemed to have evaporated, and Elva was curious as to what it was that made them all respect their new liege lord.

The answer came to her one evening, during a game of cards that she happened to notice a few older boys playing. One of the boys, Roran Stronghammer was the son of Brom Stronghammer, a warrior who served alongside her father. Her father had often told her that Brom Stronghammer was regarded as a dangerous man by himself and many of his friends, incredibly capable with a mallet and apt to smash anything at a moment's notice. But Roran was kind enough to Elva and she felt safe around him, so when he invited her to sit next to him for the game of cards, Elva gladly accepted. The game was not particularly complex, but Elva felt it would not be right for her to participate. It was being played by only boys and all of them older than her. She was still curious enough to see what it was about. Three rounds into the game one of the boys placed his cards down and reached for the coins gathered in the centre. He pocketed them and got up to leave. A sudden gust of wind caused his downward facing cards to be turned upward exposing them for what they really were. Elva felt a sudden shift, a sudden tension in the air appearing and Roran took her by the shoulders and led her away.

She did not remember the boy's name, but she knew he had stopped playing cards and Roran said that they were never to speak of him again. She spotted him alone and in despair once in a back alley street a few months later. In that moment, she knew what her father and all the men in Winterfell saw in their leader. Eddard Stark had brought in a culture of honesty, the likes of which had never been seen before.

It was now dripping down from the top to the roots of winterfell in the same way that the spices that she added on top for flavouring could be tasted at the bottom of the dish well after all the food was eaten.

When she was older Elva realized that it was this trait which characterized Ned Stark, this trait that set him apart from all the others. It wasn't his strength as a fearsome warrior, or the tireless manner in which he dedicated himself to his work that made Eddard Stark the greatest ruler in Winterfell – it was his sense of fairness. A kingdom in which justice could be relied upon was kingdom in which men had incentive to be fair. A sense of fair play well complemented a sense of honor. And in Winterfell it was like the two virtues had embodied themselves as spectres which fed upon each other as they spread through the land.

The history of Winterfell ran through her mind as Elva looked forward at the city of cut-throats and bandits before her. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Elva snapped out of her reverie and remembered where she was as well as what had happened in the last few months. Ned Stark had confessed to treason. King Joffrey had given the order to have his head removed, but he did not even have the strength of character to swing the sword himself. None of the northmen had believed Ned Stark's confession, not even for a heartbeat.

Robb Stark, Lord Eddard's oldest son had taken up the challenge of creating an army to march on King's Landing. He was only fifteen years old, the same age as Elva. She had seen Robb once or twice. He was as fierce as a wolf, but leading an army was something that Elva could not imagine herself doing. Her father had one day come home muttering something about a green boy and by the smell of his breath he'd had one glass too many on that particular evening. It didn't matter though. Loyalties had already been sworn and her father along with his friends including Brom Stronghammer were ready to go to war. The Lannisters would pay for what they had done. There were even rumors that King Joffrey was not the trueborn son of Robert Baratheon, but in fact the bastard son of Jaime Lannister. The northmen, never happy when Robert had first come up north to ask Ned Stark to be the hand of the king, were already on unhappy terms with the Lannisters. So it was with frenzy that they wanted their revenge.

But it wasn't Ned Stark's death that had impacted Elva the most. It was Angela's.