Victor: Chapter 1

The people shuddered as he walked past them. It was the same every day, ever since he had killed that man with just a touch of his flesh. He had given the freefolk a reason to be fear him.

"Coldhands," he heard Tormund Gianstbane call out behind him. His face was covered in unruly, thick orange hair. Something only one other girl in the camp shared Victor had noticed. The man was a savage, speaking day and night of either killing crows or how massive his member was.

"My name is Victor," he coldly corrected.

"Aye, well either way, Mance wishes to speak with you," the savage shrugged as he nodded his head in the direction of Mance's tent. Victor groaned and followed.

They passed beside a grouping of giants as they fed their mammoths. Mammoths were colossal creatures. Massive white tusks pierced from beneath their long, serpent-like trunks. They were covered in thick brown fur as if it were aged moss and vines. Their eyes could never be seen through their dense hair.

A giant eyed Victor as he passed. Tormund took note and japed, "Apparently the giants haven't taken too kindly to your presence neither. Mance said one of their tribe leaders was arguing to bury you back in the Frostfangs where we found you."

Perhaps that would be best. With what I'm capable of, who knows what my true nature is that hides within my fogged memories.

Tormund lifted the tent's entrance and allowed Victor to pass under. Mance sat in a chair by the fire playing his lute. He was an older man, around fifty if Victor had to guess, but there was still a youthful warmth in the man's expression. His eyes were a deep russet color, and well-worn laughter lines rested at the corner of his mouth. His brown hair had slowly grown silver streaks through it, but for the widly respected and admired King Beyond the Wall, Mance Rayder still appeared that of a humble musician from a commoner family.

"Coldhands, welcome," he chimed from his seat turned towards the fire. Victor sat beside him, seeing the man's eyes reflect the flickering flames that he gazed upon. He wore a comfortable leather tunic with a thick cloak draped around his shoulders. Oddly, this made Victor feel almost self-conscious of his wearing simple trousers with nothing over his chest.

"My name is-" Before Victor could finish Mance began to play his lute again.

"I know your name, Victor. Gods know you won't let anyone who dares call you Coldhands forget it. It's all in good jest, my friend," Mance soothed as he continued caressing his fingers over the strands of his instrument.

"What did you require?"

Mance chuckled as he leaned back in his chair. "My scouts inform me the crows are riding forth from the walls. Hundreds of them if word is true."

Crows were the freefolks' moniker for the men of the Night's Watch.

"What do you know of Crows, Victor."

Victor sighed, failing to see the point of him stating his opinion. He was not one of Mance's mad freefolk, so he had no reason to hate the men in black. "They're an old order that have stood guard on the wall for centuries upon centuries, to protect the Seven Kingdoms on the other side from the threat of the Others."

"I actually wanted to speak to you about that. When I first found you, I told you what a White Walker was. What a wight was. But never did I use the term Other. Now it's true, that's but another name for the White Walkers, but I thought it odd that you know that name without anyone ever mentioning it to you since you've joined us in the realm of the living once more. Do you remember hearing that word from before you were buried?"

Victor rubbed his brow in frustration. "No, I have told you, I only remember shattered pieces of it. My name, a great, ravenous fire, and Nora."

"Ah yes, you're woman. And you say you remember her telling you your name?" Mance pressed rather queer questions. Most men would question who Victor was or more urgently what he was, but Mance wished to know about what he could remember and about his wife.

Tapping a blackened, cold finger in irritation, Victor answered, "Yes." In truth however, even this was but another shattered piece.

Congratulations…You…are…victor… were her words, or what he could remember in the least. He knew there was more to it, but as he had been forced to do since being unearthed, he had to live with what short, fractured memories he had.

"There's something I wish to show you," the king without a crown stated as he stood. He took a thick, fur pelt cape from a nearby rack and draped it around him. "Follow me."

Victor followed the man out into the cold once more, a most inviting partner as opposed to the scornful warmth of the fire's presence. They trekked through the vast, densely packed camp. People ran, hid, or murmured hateful whispers the entire length of their journey. After what felt like an eternity of hateful eyes, they reached the edge of the camp, where tents and packed snow gave way to bushed and thick pine trees.

"Must be quick, will be getting' dark soon," Mance sighed as his lungs heaved in the burning, cold air.

They walked through the woods for a quarter of an hour's turn in silence before Mance signaled to stop. Before them was the queerest tree Victor could remember seeing. It was white, with bright crimson leaves clinging to its branches. They reached up to the sky in twisted limbs, grasping for the light above the dense pines surrounding it. In its base was carved a twisted face, contorted in pain. Dark red lines trickled down from the eyes as if it were crying blood.

"This is a weirwood tree. The kneelers below the wall have their gods and seven statues to bend the knee and pray to each night. In the North, there's only the Old Gods. This is their shrine. That face there, stories tell the Children of the Forest carved those into each and every one. This is the farthest north we've ever found one," Mance said with a breath of amazement.

"What do you want me to do?" Victor asked. Why would Mance care so greatly as to show him a simple tree with a disfigured face carved into it.

"I want you to kneel at its trunk, reach out, and pray," the king replied with a grin.

"Reach out? For what?"

Mance chuckled, "Hopefully, so that something reaches back."

Victor grunted and stepped through the knee high snow to the trunk. He knelt, gazing up at the rattling branches and dancing red leaves above him. His dark, lifeless fingers reached out, touching the cheek of the face. He closed his eyes, as if to somehow help the prayer.

After a minute of silence and nothing occurring, Victor prepared to turn to tell Mance how foolish this plan was, when he felt something. It was like the tree was pushing into his hand. He kept his eyes tightly shut, as images began to dance in his mind. He looked through eyes, whether they were his own or another's he could not tell. With these eyes he gazed off to his left. He saw the slightest curve of the world, as mountains and fields reached out beneath him from horizon to horizon. Cities looked like stones at the bottom of a lake to him from here. His view was blocked as massive, membranous wings rose up. He looked beneath him, to see a massive, dark scaled beast between his legs. The beast's spiked head bobbed in the wind, it's eyes hungrily gazing down for another inferior speckle to move and make itself available as prey to be burned and consumed.

Then the flash was gone, replaced with him staring up from his back. With his new eyes he looked down, seeing his own body bound in chains. His skin wasn't the lifeless light blue it was now however, no, it was the normal fleshy pink of a living, breathing man's. He struggled against his bonds, and frantically looked from corner to corner of the dark, pungent dungeon he was trapped in.

With another flash he saw a massive, frozen wall stand up above river and tree and mountain. It was massive, and the most pristine white Victor had ever seen. Then, a massive, dark shadow was cast over it. The shadow flew down along its length, as if the sun itself was being blacked out.

Come, look for me… a frail, old voice called out from the dark shadows of Victor's mind. At first, he thought it but part of the vision, but then…

Look for me, Victor. Find me, beneath the tree…

Victor turned, shouting back to the voice in his mind, "What are these visions? Are you showing these to me? Are these memories I have forgotten?!"

Find me, Victor. Find me beneath the tree.

"Where is this tree?! Tell me spirit!"

Haunted…Forest…

With that, Victor's eyes were forced open, as he fell back into the snow. Mance was at his side immediately, helping him to his feet.

"What did you see?"

"Enough to take one's breathe away…" he replied.

Mance blinked in confusion. "You haven't noticed?"

"Noticed what?"

"I thought you would have known. You don't breathe Victor."

Victor's fingers darted to his neck. He felt the bump in his throat that moved as he swallowed, but it was true, it never raised with air. His hand went to his chest, which never heaved as it breathed out.

I am dead, and yet I am alive…

Bruce: Chapter 2

"So you're good at this game then?" The captain murmured to himself as he flicked his finger and knocked over his final piece that remained on the board. Bruce retained his dragon, crossbowmen, and spearmen. The game had lasted an hour, and the pirate proved apt at the game of cyvasse, but with whatever poison Littlefinger had forced upon him clear of his body, Bruce had returned to his formal mental peak.

"Yes, I am."

Standing, the Captain turned to pour himself another cup of rum. "Are all land dwellers so secretive with the truth?"

Bruce lightly smirked, "You're the one that sold me to Lord Baelish."

He chuckled, "Hah! Fair enough Lord of Bats."

Captain Arthur Curry was a well-built man. He had a broad chest with hair sprouting up between his loosely tied blouse. Scars littered his chest, as they did Bruce's. His jaw continued to go unshaven, as the scruffy hair had grown into a short golden beard. He spoke with a queer accent, a mixture of Dornish, Lysian, and the usual dialect of pirates and sailors. Despite being the one to sell Bruce into Littlefinger's possession, he was also the one to save his life from the start by pulling him from depths of the sea, and the one to rescue him from the lord's grip in the end. People had done worse to Bruce without giving anything back in penance, so Bruce figured he could grant the man some leniency. Pirates developing even a stone of honor or guilt was more unexpected than seeing a dragon fly high in the sky once more.

"How much longer until we arrive at Gotham?"

Arthur shrugged, "Fortnight, maybe a bit more."

Bruce sighed, "You should stop at the next port. I could have returned faster if I simply cut across the land."

The captain turned back to Bruce with a wry grin and winked, "Then how do I get my gold for rescuing the head of the second wealthiest family in Westoros, eh?"

"You seem to lack a current view on politics and house standings in Westoros, Captain. True, when my parents lived we were nearly as wealthy as the Lannisters, but now? You'd have better luck if you turned me in to Tywin Lannister himself."

Chuckling the captain replied, "Careful Lord Wayne, I wouldn't tempt a pirate with the ringing of more gold."

Bruce smiled back, "Were you to pass Gotham Bay to continue on to Casterly Rock, I would break you and the entirety of your crew's arms and legs so you couldn't so much as weigh anchor."

"I think you would find it rather difficult to break these ole arms, my lord," the Captain stated plainly with a cavalier glare.

Arthur handed Bruce the cup of rum he had poured. "None for yourself?"

The captain chuckled before he took a swig from the bottle, "Pirates see no need for manners. Unless there's a woman aboard."

"Do you have a woman?" Bruce questioned, sensing an opening in the Captain's nearly flawless façade.

"Aye, I've had many of em. Hah, what's it to you land dweller?"

"I've met many pirates in my time, not a single one of them ever called a Lord, my lord, or even m'lord," Bruce remarked.

"That's it eh? You claim to see into my life and can tell I have a woman I hold dear based upon how I call ya? You been drinkin the seawater lad? Or are ya just that fulla' shit?" Arthur retorted with another glancing chuckle.

"You failed to say I was wrong."

The pirate dropped his mask of ruggedness and bravado and gave a humbled, warm smile as he looked down to his bottle. "Her name was Mera. We were to be wed, and as much as I did care for her, my heart was too unruly to settle and become a husband and father children. I needed freedom, a freedom only the open sea can provide." He continued to stare at the bottle with warm eyes and smile, as if it was his true love he laid his gaze upon.

"Your love for the sea proved greater?"

Arthur stood and turned to look out the large glass window facing the sea that bowed behind his vessel. "I don't love the sea, Batman. Just as a king does not love those he rules over. He protects them, serves them, provides for them. I don't love the sea, for it is mine to rule."

After a few minutes of silence Arthur cleared his voice. "So what did Lord Baelish want with ye anyway?"

Bruce rubbed his brow, feeling the rum burning in his stomach. "I don't know. There are many players on this real life board of Westoros." He picked up the crossbowmen, turning the wooden piece in his fingers as he stared at it. "Lord Tywin has been made Hand of the King. So now the richest, most powerful lord in the Seven Kingdoms also sits on the small council. His grandson Joffrey Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne, spelling certain doom for the kingdom. Supposedly, Renly Baratheon has begun calling bannermen to his cause at Storm's End. Then we cannot forget the King of the North, Robb Stark, marches South with an army of angry Northmen."

Arthur chuckled, "Is that all?"

Bruce groaned, "It's enough."

The captain took another swig of his rum with a wry grin. "And where does the Lord of Bats figure into this game?"

"I don't," Bruce replied flatly.

"Littlefinger knows your secret. You said that Varys fellow does as well. So the two most treacherous, deceitful men of power in all of Westoros have you pinned helpless like a bird clutched in a fist. All they need to do is squeeze and you're little secret is sung out to all the corners of the map."

"Yes, well, if Varys hasn't done so yet, I don't believe he will. Littlefinger…I couldn't possibly guess what the man will do." It was true, Bruce couldn't predict how Baelish would use his newfound knowledge of Batman's identity. Varys was a servant of the League of Shadows, which meant when word spread that he still lived, Talia may want to return to Westoros herself to finish the job.

"You say you don't figure into this at all, and yet Lord Tywin went so far as to invade your city. The king calls for your head. Littlefinger paid me a mountain's worth of gold for your capture, and Varys and this League of Darkness wanted you off the board, for what one would assume is their grand plans for the future. You seem fairly well involved already."

Bruce thought over the words in silence. The League is planning something, and if Talia is following in the footsteps of her father then their plan will end with Westoros in ashes. Littlefinger has the mind but not the forces to take Westoros, so if he seeks the Throne then he will clearly come for Gotham as well. Out of all of them Joffrey is the one with the simplest motives, but it doesn't make him any less of a threat. Perhaps it is time I widen my gaze…

Arthur was drinking once again when his eyes lit up and he hurriedly wiped his lips of spilled rum and reached into his desk. He retrieved a piece of parchment and passed it across the table to Bruce. "Speaking of secrets being sung to all of Westoros. My men returned with one of these when we last made port at the tip of Dorne."

Bruce's eyes quickly scanned over the parchment. "Stannis Baratheon declares Joffrey and his siblings to be spawned of incest between Queen Cersei and the Kingslayer. If this reached Dorne then it surely was sent across Westoros. Lord Eddard mentioned a few times when we spoke that Stannis had the strongest claim for the Throne due to the children's heritage, he must have wrote him before he was arrested."

"So it's true then? The blonde lil' shits dear ole mama and papa are brother and sister. Well, your government certainly is one of the more interesting I've seen in my travels," the captain japed as he took another swig.

"I suppose this means Stannis is throwing in his lot for the crown as well. Four kings on the brink of war. Should their war come for the other coast, it will be certain ruin for Gotham," Bruce finished, standing.

"Guess you'll be needing to find yourself some help then. I know you have that young ward back in the city, but I doubt the two of you will be enough, no offense o'course."

Arthur was right, Bruce wouldn't be able to do this alone. But with Diana gone to fight in the war, and Clark disappeared completely, he had little options.

Bruce turned, "Are you offering your services?"

The pirate broke out laughing. "I'm a pirate, not a sellsword. We'll make port in Gotham, give me the gold you promised and I'll leave, keeping mine and the mouths of my crew shut as to who you truly are, and we'll part ways as that of agreeable friends. I'm no soldier for hire."

"How can I be sure of your mens' silence? Yours I may be able to hold faith in, but they're pirates, as you said."

Arthur shook his head. "These men would die before spilling a single secret of mine. Fear not Bat Lord, I may not help you fight the evils of Westoros, but I'll see to it your secret is well kept."

Bruce rubbed his brow in irritated frustration. He understood that the man was a pirate, but he smuggled Bruce out of Gotham without any of Varys', Littlefinger's, or the crown's spies seeing. He would have been a great help to Bruce's cause.

"Let your mind be at ease, my lord. I said I wouldn't help you, but I know a man who just might," the captain spoke with another confident grin and swig of rum.