Before you start reading, know that this story is a fanfiction that seeks to continue and end A Song of Ice and Fire after A Dance with Dragons, the fifth novel in the series. I advise that you have knowledge of the first five books in the A Song of Ice and Fire published series, and I also advise that you forget all that you know about the sequel to A Dance with Dragons.
With those things in mind, feel free to enjoy the show.
PART I: A DANCE'S END
What happens after dragons dance? One is dead, the other so wounded that it will soon die. The victors are the crows who have their feast, the mummers who call themselves dragonslayers, and the Lord who laughs at mortals trying to play god.
PROLOGUE
The old man slept in peace.
The serving maid gently placed a candle beside him, his face bathing in the soft light. It was her night to care for him, as his wife the lady had vanished as he fell into slumber.
"Off with one of his sons," the maid knew the rumours that had long become stale. The old man seemed to know, as word travelled easily amongst these towers, but that was long past his worry. Tart worried for him, as his health withered with other things. His all too many sons, his all too many lands, and this endless war.
Tart dreaded that the old lord would never wake while she was here. The old man never stirred even once as he lay on his bed. If he woke after the sun rose, it would be long past her shift. She feared that she would not be able to tell the old lord what he needed to know.
On a rare night, there had been this foreboding that she could not turn away despite all the quiet words she hissed at it. The last time she felt it was another of Tart's night beside the lord, when she felt a man coming down the hall even while she could not hear him. The man turned out to be one of the old man's sons, the boy who had squired for that wolf king. He had sat by his father for a short moment, holding his father's wrinkled hand in his own. The boy had told her that he was to leave for the south the next day. He wanted some time alone with his father before he was gone, away from his brothers. When she told him that the old lord had never woken before dawn, the boy lowered his eyes, and asked her to tell his father that he was sorry.
Tart had left when the sun rose that day, before the old lord woke, and she never told him.
She looked now at the gathering mists from the tower, willing with all her power the old lord to wake. He must wake before the morning will pass, as her message was much more than a boy's farewell wish.
The last evening, Tart had felt the familiar spirits creep across her skin again, and she knew what lay in store on the morrow. She knew that she must tell the old lord. He must know, if he were to save them all. He must wake.
"Tart," she found herself hissed at by Sala in the doorway. She beckoned Tart to her.
"Sala," Tart strode over to her fellow maid, pleading,"Just a moment longer, until the lord wakes? There is a destiny I must tell him."
"I have had enough of your ramblings, Tart," Sala hissed again,"You've already overstayed your time, and you should be glad I did not take it up with the steward. I'm doing you a favour here."
Sala walked past Tart, shoving her aside with her face still as stone.
"Could you at least tell the old lord when he wakes that the wolves are coming?" Tart asked Sala.
Sala stared at Tart for a long moment, Tart's heart hammering in her chest. At last, Sala opened her lips:"I shall."
As Tart swung the door shut behind her, she found a little solace in the fact that the destiny was known. She prayed that it would be a normal day, with no death nor blood nor songs, but in her heart of hearts she knew that it was not.
There were people in the quarters, almost all that Tart knew served in the Towers. She briefly wondered why they had not left yet for their duties that day. When the sun rose in the past, only a few of her friends had remained. Tart resigned herself to being pressed into their throng, being a serving maid just like any other.
Long shadows lay across every wall of Tart's quarters, and they had lingered there for eternity. Pale light spilled into the square windows, lighting some of the room. The rest were lit by braziers, and the fires had burned out.
Her friends sometimes played games with the shadows, guessing at what they were. Sometimes they guessed that it was a shill of wheat, other times the banners of the Towers. There was one answer that Tart starkly remembered,"Those are our braziers and our beds and us."
They were playing their games when Tart arrived. Yet she could not find a smile to grace her own cheek as she knew what burden she must reveal to them.
"Is that an antler?" she heard Cerene say.
"No, that's an oak branch," Marba answered.
"The claw of a wolf," Tart burst in, and the others stared at her in bewilderment.
"What did we promise each other, Tart?" Branda said,"We're not to speak of the wolves. Ever. We don't want to remember that."
Tart remembered that darker time. Winter had come in the Young Wolf who had named himself the King in the North. Those men had pretended to be their friends, and spoke of vengeance and righteousness. The old lord believed in him, and aided the Young Wolf in his march. So many men left the gates with the northmen, and never returned. So many of them died in the King in the North's war. Lord Frey aided the Young Wolf with all they could, yet it did not satisfy him. He demanded the old lord's daughters, first for himself and then for his bannermen. The old lord gave in, but even that did not sate a wolf's hunger. The wolf's men turned on them at Lady Roslin's wedding, revealing their true desires to kill and plunder. Yet in the end, their evils were defeated by the valiance of the Twins. In the end, the Young Wolf fell.
"They're coming back," Tart said,"I can feel it. Since the evening, I feel their howls make the sky shiver. I feel their paws thundering upon the earth as they draw ever closer. They're coming here today.'
Marba began to laugh,"The wolves are gone, vanquished by our brave knights. They're not coming back. I've had it with all your visions."
"It's not a vision," Tart said,"It's the truth." She turned away leaving them to their games. At least the old lord knew.
It was scarce an hour after when a kitchen boy arrived at their door panting for breath.
"Dead," he said,"Lord Frey is dead."
"Did he know?" Tart felt the emptiness crashing her, stifling a shriek within her throat,"He's dead. Lord Frey is dead."
One of their windows opened to the great bridge, and across the river they could see the other tower, the other bastion of their strength. It was burning. The banners were still flying in the wind, but time and again they would fall, ashen and dead.
"The wolves," she whispered,"They're here." All her friends gathered about her, knowing now that she had spoken the truth.
Tart stared out, watching the banners rise and scatter and fall into ashes. Her friends were fretting in their seats, and Tart sat behind them in the shadows. She told them not to worry, for she had seen farther. She knew that all would return to peace once this terrible day was at its end.
"It's a sinful day," Cerene was saying,"Mayhaps it is best that we hide from what's out there. Sala was right, and we should never think to leave. There are great horrors in this castle that made that fire."
"What do you think it is?" Marba asked,"The ghosts of the northmen who attacked us at Lady Roslin's wedding?"
Branda, always the most sensible of them, said "The ghosts of wolves never die. Ser Danwell told me that each day our warriors set out to slay those monsters, but they've been losing men to the forest. The wolves prowl in the shadows, catching even our brave soldiers unawares. It is a dangerous land out there, that those monsters haunt. And I hear that the wolves are coming here to hunt us again."
"Wolves," Marba said,"they walk as men in daylight, and hunt maids for sport in the night. I heard their howls drawing closer each time the moon rises. And it's soon a full moon. A wolf's moon."
Tart knew the stories. Lord Goldenhand was found dead a moon ago. Hanged. At the same time, Ser Daven's entire host had disappeared outside Pennytree. It was bound to be the work of the wolves, yet those horrors were always distant from her home. Tart knew that the wolves were coming here now.
She felt a chill run through her bones as she remembered what the wolves would do. She prayed that Sala had told the old lord and he called all his swords before he passed on. The fire of their foes would soon be doused by the men of the Twins.
"I'm safe," she closed her eyes,"safe in my bed and my walls and the lord's power."
She closed her eyes, trying to feel within herself anything that might hint at peace again. The only one she found was the peace she foresaw before, at day's end.
All in the quarters knew that it was a horrid day, as none summoned them for their duties. Tart had hidden herself in her blanket, knowing only the shadows beneath. She took a glance outside the window, and saw that only hours had passed since she arrived here. It was only the afternoon.
The others opened the door at the first knock, forgetting to ask who it was in their hurry. Tart rose, moving to warn them against it, but she was too late. She relaxed when she saw the steward at the door.
The steward told them what Tart already knew, that the old Lord Frey was dead. A new lord had ascended to the Twins, another Lord Walder. The steward told them that the new lord was holding a feast, and summoned their services.
"Is the feast to celebrate our victory over the wolves?" Tart asked, remembering the fire in the Eastern Tower.
The steward looked at her, confused, then shook his head,"It is to commemorate young Lord Walder's victory over Ser Edwyn, who had murdered old Lord Walder."
"So the wolves have not come yet," Tart thought,"They will be coming soon."
"Lord Steward," Tart said,"Could you tell the new Lord Walder that the wolves are coming?"
"What is your proof?" the steward asked. Tart could not give an answer.
"Then there is no such danger," the steward said,"Trust in the scouts that patrol for miles along the Green Fork. Meanwhile, do your duties as you are bid."
"There are no wolves," Marba whispered to Tart after the steward left,"Could you just get that through your thick head?"
Branda overheard them, and answered,"Let us just forget that. There is a feast. A feast is a feast, and it is best to forget the sorrows."
Tart comforted herself with the knowledge that all of Lord Frey's kin would gather here. Some were already in the castle or near, Perwyn and Black Walder and their like. The ones afar would be late, those sent afar to vanquish the last of their evil foes, but they would come. Lord Frey was gone, and none would forget the kind old lord. She could tell all of them there, and at least one must believe her.
Tart was not hungry when she arrived at the kitchens, and even though a kitchen boy offered her a first taste of fine delight reserved for the lords, she did not take it. It was wise, for the steward came to her a moment later, telling her that it was meant for the lords in the high table.
The castle did not seem to know that their lord had died. In every hall that they walked, they heard the roar of a booming choir. It was as if they had won a great victory again, such as when the valiant knights of the Twins slew the Young Wolf's monsters.
"They need to again," Tart frowned,"but they must first know." Most in the hall would be heroes from the war, bearing songs of their mighty conquests under the banner of the stout twin towers. They must remember how they had forged those songs.
She gradually heard other voices rise against the cheers. The bright sky outside had vanished as grey clouds gathered all over the castle. She heard rains pouring on the roof, and far away, in the depths of her fear, she thought she heard a wolf howl.
"Memories," Tart assured herself,"A mark on the soul by those beasts will never heal. They are a taste that will linger all my days." The honour of the Twins had been her shield against those ghosts.
The hall was awash in light as she entered, its radiance shining against the gloom outside. It was the mark of joy arising in these new days. Rows upon rows of gallant knights feasted in the hall, each in their elegant cloaks. In every corner of the hall, Tart could hear a cheer. It was all the sights of a feast, of japes and laughter and bawdy words. Her heart was heavy as she strode past them.
She ignored all the hall, knowing the dish in her hands and her duty. "This is for the high table," Tart remembered the steward saying,"for the lords." As was her knowledge.
Black Walder, the new lord, sat at the table's head. It was strange, seeing the old lord's seat given to another. From what Tart could remember, the old lord had been there forever. Yet now he was gone.
"Times pass and so do men," Tart thought. As horrors like the Young Wolf pass to be dead and gone, so would the shield of the Twins. The old lord met the Stranger after all his heartening years. The Father would judge him justly as he passed into what lay beyond.
Black Walder was more solemn, with less smiles in his lips and eyes. He seemed to be the only amongst the table who was silent, offering only curt answers when he was by chance addressed. The Lord of the Crossing was flanked by Lord Lothar to his left and Ser Danwell to his right. Lothar's wife, Lady Leonetta, was absent, but Lady Wynafrei sat by her husband Ser Danwell's side.
Around the table sat the folk of House Frey. The knight Raymund sat about the table, Raymund's wife Lady Beony holding onto her husband's arm and whispering into his ear. Perwyn's new betrothed was not here, the girl Bethany of House Blackwood who had only nine years. There were no children at the high table now, when children were the norm at the old lord's thought she never saw any children at all in the hall tonight.
Lord Lothar seemed like the true lord at the table. He was jovial, speaking eagerly with the ones around him. His place at the table was always a place of warmth. It seemed that the table was drawn more to him than their true lord.
Tart placed her dish upon the high table, as did all the other serving folk, and the lords and ladies thanked them. As she lay the dish, she saw the moment to tell Lord Lothar who sat in front of her.
"The wolves are coming," she whispered in his ear.
To her surprise, the lord nodded,"You have my thanks, but I already know. If you are wise, you would leave this hall as soon as you are able."
She stepped aside just as Lothar gestured at the heralds. The heralds blew their bugles.
The hall grew silent as a shadow, and Tart took another step back.
Lord Lothar stood, and turned to the watching crowd.
"A great tragedy has befallen us," Lord Lothar began,"Lord Walder has passed from this world. He was a father not just to me and all my brothers, but to all of us, a father that knew and loved us, and who we knew and loved in return. We should all find time in our hearts to drive, to honour the joy with which he graced us."
He paused in a moment of silence,"We had made peace with our father. We had slain the traitors Edwyn and all his ilk, who slew our father for his seat. We had graced his body with the blessings of the Seven who are One, so that in their Heavens he would find eternal joy. And we will make certain that his legacy that he strove for all his life will last, now and forever. We honour the Twins with our new lord. Even in the darkness, we can find a new day."
"We raise this day," Lord Lothar raised his goblet towards the new lord,"We raise this day to remember our father, and to bless the health of the new Lord of the Crossing. To Lord Walder."
The hall rose with goblets in their hands, and echoed his words,"To Lord Walder."
The new lord rose, and gave a nod to their cheers.
"He never told them," Tart clutched at the hems of her dress, tasting blood from biting her lip.
The hours of the night lengthened to a crawl, as the spirits graced her with the foreboding of ice that crept closer and closer. No one would listen. She tried to tell one of the knights, but he took her for a mere serving maid. He embraced her in his lap, gently feeding Tart off the tip of his knife.
Through the hall, there were sweet echoes. Bards were striking up merry tunes, their strings ringing with the beauty of song. Every so often, they would play a sadder tale, and the hall would grow quieter. Tart would hear the rains pattering on the roof of the hall.
The bards were now playing a slow song. It was soft, almost mournful, seeming to fill the room with its grief.
"It was a pretty song," Tart thought. The hall grew quiet again, and they could all hear the rains falling from the sky. Far off, there seemed to be another echo. Echoes of wolves, howling in the night.
A storm of cracks jolted Tart still, waking her to the hall. Suddenly, a stream of blood flew across Tart's face, and she felt the urge to scream. That cry was cut short by the knight beside her, who shoved her to the ground and sprawled on top of her body.
She could still see beneath the folds of his cloak, and she quickly closed her eyes. It was not before she saw the corpses. There was one man cradling two crossbow bolts in his stomach, eyes frozen as he lay under a table. There was another, a guard she knew, whose head was split open by an axe. Tart saw the blade in his skull even as she closed her eyes. She could still see the blood flowing, all around. She could hear the moans and groans and screams.
Tart squeezed her shut even firmer, and her breaths came swifter. She knew nothing but the chill in her bones.
Two thuds sounded above her, and Tart heard a grunt. The air above suddenly turned cold, and she flitted her eyes open. The knight above had rolled off her, looking at the two wounds that blossomed red in his flank. In his hands were the broken bolts.
"Go," he urged,"Under the table." The knight then grabbed his only dagger.
Tart turned away as he wobbled to his feet, rushing where he bid.
She lay under the table, hearing the relentless tide of crashing and screaming and cursing.
Tart closed her eyes, and prayed. "Mother have mercy," she whispered,"Mother have mercy." She did not know how many times she echoed her own words, but there came a moment at last where the gods answered. At last, the hall faded to silence.
It was not long after before the table above was overturned, and light blinded her eyes.
"Up," Tart heard, and a hand wrenched her arm upwards. Her eyes caught the shadows in the hall, and she closed them again. Under her eyes, she would not see this sight of blood, this sight of grim, where even the shadows of the corpses gnawed her inside. She still saw the oozing cavities, empty within the dead. She prayed that it was a dream.
When Tart finally dared to open her eyes, she saw that her dream was true.
It was a group of men who flipped her table and grabbed Tart from beneath. They were led by Ser Perwyn, who was covered in blood. One soldier stayed to escort her while the others passed on.
The others were flipping tables open, hunting who lay beneath. They found many like her, hidden from the slaughter. If it was women they found, they helped them to stand, but if it was men, Perwyn's men would put a sword through their chest. Several men crawled from under the tables, trying to escape, but none ever did. Tart heard the echoes of bodies fall.
The soldier beside her pushed her, and she saw that he was directing her to a place where all the other women stayed. There were at least half a hundred who survived this hall. When Tart joined them, she heard their frightened whispers that mirrored her own thoughts.
Stifling her fear, she tried to look amongst the carnage. She closed her eyes and tried to shut herself from all of it, yet she could still hear the blood. She opened her eyes.
Lord Lothar was standing at the head of the hall, and seemed to have taken charge. The new Lord Walder was nowhere to be seen. Aside from Ser Perwyn and Lord Lothar, no other Frey remained to stand in the hall. Tart found the lords and ladies she had served at the high table, lying unmoving there just as the castle folk lay between the benches. "Dead and gone."
Closing her eyes for what she promised would be the last time, Tart wondered what this would spell for her. It was dreadful, freezing her in an icy chamber, but it might be over soon. Whatever horrors this day brings, it shall all pass into peace in the end.
Beyond the ringing of the hall, she seemed to hear other sounds again. The rains had stopped battering the roof, but she still heard the howls of the wolves. They were closer, and fiercer than ever before. Tart also began to hear voices outside. They were only faint shouts, from far away, but they were there.
"Was it a chant?" she wondered,"What are they saying?" It became clear as the voices closer. The howls of the wolves were as fierce as a horn.
"King in the North."
"King in the North."
"KING IN THE NORTH."
It came as a shock when Tart heard the Frey men in the hall give the same chant.
"King in the North."
"King in the North."
"King in the North."
"Traitors," Tart wanted to say, but swallowed her words when she saw their bloodied swords. She shrank away, hiding herself amongst the women.
"Lord Lothar made a deal with the cruel northmen," Tart thought in dread,"He's opened the gates of the Twins for them, and he will doom us all." For the first time that evening, she broke into tears. She knew that tears would not be out of place anyways, for most of the women about her already had crimson cheeks from their weeping.
"King in the North," it seemed almost a scream in the chant outside.
"King in the North."
"KING IN THE NORTH."
Tart looked to Lord Lothar, and saw him switch his cane to his other hand and back again. He told his men something, and they sheathed their swords. Their hands, though, remained on their hilts. Tart noticed that Ser Perwyn had silently found a place in the shadows, away from sight.
"King in the North," the voices were at the door.
"King in the North."
"KING IN THE NORTH."
Lord Lothar's face dropped just as the door blew open. A monster of a man broke through. It was one of the Young Wolf's monsters. He barreled into the hall, shouting in a voice that blew apart their ears,"For the King in the North."
A host of men followed in his wake, echoing the same words,"For the King in the North."
There were men in worn mail, withered knights with tattered shields, a hundred motley soldiers. They all wore different banners. A burly warrior seemed to lead them, who wore a golden cloak. Each of them had blood in their eyes.
Without a word, the giant monster began to swing his sword. He caught one man by the neck, and his head went flying off with a spurt of blood.
"HAR," the monster hollered,"FOR THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
Each of their cold-eyed guests followed with the singing of their blades, and steel flashed all across the hall. They rushed forward, and that steel found the bloody flesh of their hosts.
Tart was frozen in her place as she watched the hall. Her men were drawing their swords, but many were too late. The tide of their foe swarmed them in howling silence. Tart's ears were ringing, but she still heard the soft song that the bards still played.
"Why are they still playing?" Tart wondered in a trance as she found a bard with his woodharp. Her mind came back to her as she heard the screams.
She turned, seeing a Frey man fall before her. His killer gave her a toothless smile.
The women about Tart scattered, their cries piercing the chaos, and Tart followed. They ran, knowing the monsters were giving chase.
All around, Tart heard the echoes of screams.
"King in the North."
"King in the North."
"KING IN THE NORTH."
Tart only knew to run, to leave this horror behind. She did not know what lay ahead, only that it was better than the shadows of monsters behind. The monsters caught some of them, and Tart heard their shrieks as they were dragged into the jaws of the beasts. She did not dare to look back.
Men were screaming, women were screaming, and wolves were howling in the night. The same words tore forever through the fury.
"King in the North."
"King in the North."
"KING IN THE NORTH."
Tart felt a pull on her dress, and screamed. Her heart stopped for an instant, turning to find a beardless boy baring his teeth.
"No," she shrieked as he grabbed at her,"Get away." She could barely hear her own voice amidst the din.
She did hear the rip of her dress, and pain lanced across her knees as she fell upon the timbers. There soon came another pain, a terrible burning.
Her blurring sight found the door to the hall. More men were emerging from the darkness. Men with a white tree that was dripping blood. A ghostly mother was standing there, kissing the cheek of a pregnant daughter.
Something touched Tart's throat. It was cold, like the kiss of snow.