Cold words on the wind
A Song of Ice and Fire, and all associated media, are the property of George R. R. Martin.
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When Lyanna and her family sat down beside the newly grown weirwood tree, beside one of their gods, they were content to be silent. They didn't shout and clamber over each other to cry out to the Seven in the sky, like the followers of the Faith—though to the High Septon's credit, he did try his damndest to keep everyone orderly. But it had devolved into chaos within an hour. And they called northerners savages.
Thoros had moved to the edge of the godwoods and built himself a small fire to commune with his god. She felt a little bad for him, in truth. Despite the clear danger of bringing forth the Red God in a castle ruled by a pyromaniac, Thoros deserved the chance to speak with his god as well. Perhaps she could talk to Randy about it—assuming it wasn't all a trick, of course. But the voice that insisted upon it had grown quieter the longer she sat in her supposed god's presence.
Ashara and Robert had left near the beginning of their impromptu vigil. Ashara to find her brother to discuss repairing their ancestral sword—well, more like browbeat him into owning up to his fuckups. She'd also mentioned feeling squeamish, and indeed, she did look a little green in the face. Probably too hung up on the whole 'heart tree born of piss' thing. Robert left when it became apparent that she and her family would rather spend their time communing with their gods. She hoped he had fun with the latest woman he fell into bed with.
Bloodraven had left as well, after bowing to the old god.
"You know," Bran said slowly, waiting until he gathered all their attention before continuing. "We're in a very rare position." He stared in awe at the weirwood tree, the god inhabiting its face smiling widely. "I mean…how long has it been since men could speak directly to one of the old gods? Think of all the things we could learn."
"Bran, no." Ned shook his head. "That's just—no! We're not going to pester our gods like…like…"
"A bunch of Andals?" Lyanna remarked, just as the High Septon was bowled over by a pair of elderly women. Ned huffed, reaching over to flick her ear. She stuck her tongue out at him.
Suddenly, the old god laughed. "Ah, Starks! So fierce! So loyal! So stubborn! Ha!" The old god trailed off into chortle. When it spoke, there was such a clear affection in its voice that Lyanna could not help but blush. "You have shielded the realms of men for countless generations. You can never bother me and mine."
She felt an unknown knot come undone in her heart. She didn't think that her recent choices made her ancestors proud, but if a god—that wasn't Randy—was fine with her, then maybe there was still hope for her. Of course, even if this was Randy's will speaking through the weirwood tree, his words alone would always lift her spirits.
With that pleasant thought in mind, she asked, "What are the Children of the Forest?"
The old god worked its wooden jaw in thought. "The Children," it rasped, "are…liminal beings. Not quite mortal, not quite divine. Their ancestors desired to live in both worlds, split themselves in twain to straddle the line between both. That the sum of their parts might be greater than either." Its eyes shut, a melancholic groan whispering through its open, bleeding maw. "And now they are lesser than both."
"Lesser?" Ned parroted. "Are the Children not capable of performing great magical feats the likes us men can't even dream of?"
"Yes," the old god replied. "The Children can certainly manipulate nature with much more…finesse than mankind. But they are so fragile. So stubborn. For all they spread, they never put down roots. Refused to. Sneered at the thought of creating their own works. Basked so deeply in nature, they never realized it was taking its course, killing them for their naivety."
Father hummed. "I'd thought the First Men and Andals had been the cause of…eradicating the Children."
"Like I said, nature, taking its course." It smiled. "What are men if not animals? Where do you live, if not with caves and trees, broken apart and recreated as they are?" It laughed again, but its tone was colder, the pits of its eyes and mouth a little darker. "If one wishes to tie themselves so deeply to nature, they must be prepared to be cast aside by it. That mankind has so easily supplanted them speaks of their own shortcomings, nothing more."
Perhaps someone else would have been disturbed by the god's words, Lyanna mused. Forget the Andals, even other followers of the old gods might have balked at its cold words. But then, the Starks had always been different. It was plain to see in their house words: 'Winter is Coming'. And Winter didn't care for your wants or needs. No matter what occurred, no matter how blessed one's fortune, it would always arrive.
Bleak words, but it was under them that the Starks had endured for millennia.
"Then, what of the giants?" Ned asked. "And the other creatures that used to inhabit all of Westeros."
"The giants are but Children that took too closely to the trees they love," the old god replied. "But with their increased size they found it in them to be bolder. Not enough to thrive, of course, but enough that they split off from their smaller kin so completely that neither recalls their shared origins—it helped greatly when they warred with men."
"You keep saying that the Children thoroughly isolated themselves," Lyanna said. "But there are stories of children and First Men bearing children together. How could—"
"Rape," the old god cut her off. It arched an eyeless brow when she reared back. "What? People, Children and men, can be cruel things. Of course, Children of the Forest raping your First Men ancestors was less likely than the other way around—they do not feel the same lusts and urges your kind do—but it happened on occasion. Giants too, of course, but if there was to be any hope of children it would need to come from a human father and giant mother." It sighed at their horrified faces. "If it makes you feel better, there are lines born from consensual unions—a fair few of the settlers of the Neck are descended of those lines."
"It really doesn't," Father replied.
"What about the Others?" Ned blurted out. "The ancient enemy that forced them all to end their…differences…and work together."
"Ah, the Others!" The old god crooned. "Fascinating creatures—no raping among their ranks. Well, what few women they have are more than capable of seducing men." Lyanna nodded—she remembered well the tale of the Night's King and his Corpse Queen. "But they are so terribly strong. Malice and hatred and sheer, cruel indifference given form. Born far in the frigid, desolate tundra of the far north, after First Men and Children spent centuries slaughtering one another. They destroyed all that stood in their way." The admiration—if not affection—in the old god's tone was disturbing. But not entirely unexpected, given its previous statements. "It was a wonder that your ancestors withstood their onslaught, especially their own dead would rise again and become turn cloaks. And a miracle when they pushed them back! Oh, but the destruction they left behind. That nearly finished the job, especially when your direct ancestor was more concerned with building grand structures than putting down roots." It trailed off into a sigh "…Hopefully you will not suffer so greatly during the Others' next march."
Lyanna and her family froze. "C-Come again?" Bran asked
"The Others," the old god stated simply. "They are marching again. Rather, they have always been marching, but they have finally picked up the pace." Its lips curved into an impish smile—one she'd seen on Randy on more than one occasion. "Had the pages your stories were writ upon not been torn apart and burned to ash, they would have done such great, terrible things."
Lyanna hyperventilated. The voice telling her that this was all some elaborate illusion formed by Randy had gone dead silent. The way the old god has spoken—it's delight and wonder—there was no way Randy could fake that. No reason for him to do so!
She cast her gaze to the worshippers of the Seven. None of them had heard the old god speak, or if they did, they didn't care. Too busy begging for scraps from their own gods—their actual fucking Seven!—who seemed to be getting tired of them, given the words, 'Stop asking about your children,' etched among the clouds. Fuck, Randy got into a shouting match with the acutal Seven?!
No, one thing at a time.
Ned crawled in front of the old god's face, stricken. "Truly? The Others still live?!"
"For a given value of the word!" The old god cackled. "Your ancestors really should have pressed their advantage, instead of building the Wall and declaring the matter resolved. Ah, but such is the mortal mind, no? For all your mortality, for all that death hangs over your every step, you are quite fond of waiting and pushing things off for your future kin to deal with." Its lips spread as it laughed at them, mocking. The bark of its face darkened, hardened, and the god spoke no more, face frozen in a cruel grin.
Out of the corner of her eye, Lyanna saw the clouds the Seven spoke through fade into nothing.
Father pulled her up by her arm. "Come," he hissed, face pinched with worry. "We must go before their attentions turn to us." She peered around. Most of the people around them were clamoring for the gods, the High Septon, and even Randy. But a few were staring at her and her family. The ladies Tyrell chief among them.
In complete agreement with her father, Lyanna only made a brief stop to collect Thoros before winding up the Red Keep to her assigned quarters.
She, Bran, and Ned all fell upon the bed, her brothers squeezing her on either side, their father leaning on the bedpost—idly, she recalled being in this exact position in Winterfell as a child, when her mother fell sick a month before birthing Benjen.
"If it is not too much trouble," Thoros said slowly, "What is wrong? What has your god told you?"
Ned sighed. "That the Others, monsters that I personally never believed actually existed, are still around."
"Others?" Thoros repeated with an arched brow "Like the Great Other?"
"The what?" Father asked as he whipped his head around to stare at Thoros.
Thoros replied, "The Great Other. The only other god my religion acknowledges as true—though we may have to amend that tenet," he added with an amused grumble. He continued. "It is said to be the exact opposite of R'hllor. Cold where he is hot. Cruel where he is merciful. It seeks to shroud the world in an everlasting darkness, a time where not even the sun can provide warmth and light."
"Sounds a lot like a plain-old Other," Father said, fingers tapping against the bedpost. At Thoros's raised brow, he added, "They are said to be creatures born of ice. Terrible beings that brought cold and death wherever they marched. It's said that they wished to bring about an unending winter."
Thoros frowned. "My…but the two sound rather similar, don't they?"
"Uncannily so," Bran replied. "I didn't think about it when you mentioned this 'Great Other' during our discussions but…" he trailed off into a thoughtful frown.
"Before we sit her stoking an unlit fire," Lyanna said, "why don't we bring the two godly men into the conversation?" She raised her fist to the wall and smacked it. "Bloodraven? Randy? One of you get out here. Now!"
Minutes later, a rat emerged from the wall. "Yes?" Bloodraven asked flatly.
Father spoke. "The old god in the godswoods said that the Others are still around. They didn't say when the Others would invade, but it sounds like it will be within our lifetime."
Bloodraven sighed wearily. "Oh joy, this conversation. Was hoping to push it back a bit more, but such is life. Wait here, I'll collect Randy."
"You've known about them?" Bran asked, perturbed.
"Yes," Bloodraven replied.
"Tell me, my friend," Thoros spoke up. "Are these creatures related to the Great Other?"
"I'm not sure. I've never had the chance to ask."
"You've met them?!" Father asked, horrified.
"Yes," was all Bloodraven replied before he disappeared into the wall.
"You know," Ned said with a frown, "we really need to sit Bloodraven, and Randy, down and discuss all they know."
"Maybe not everything," Lyanna muttered, thinking on the fates her family had avoided.
"What do you mean?" Father asked sharply. Lyanna bit back a curse—she didn't think she was so loud.
She blew out a breath and toyed with her hair to feign nonchalance. "I mean, do you really want to sit down at Bloodraven's feet, or paws or claws or whatever the hell he's going to have, and all that he knows? Or whatever random, inane thoughts pass through Randy's head?"
"Perhaps not that second one," Ned replied. "But it would be fascinating to gain an eye-witness account of the events leading up to the first Blackfyre rebellion from one of its central figures."
"Speak for yourself," Bran sniffed. "Some of us have better things to do with our time." He reached over Lyanna and poked Ned in the stomach. "Hell, you have something better to do with your time!"
"Ashara is not a 'thing'," Ned spat.
Bran grinned impishly. "Who said anything about women, I was thinking of swordplay. Although that is another form of swordplay, I suppose."
Ned reached over and thumped his chest. Bran cackled and made to hit him back. Only for Lyanna to hold up her hands and say, "Boys, I am not going to stay in the middle of this, nor am I getting off this bed. So please, move it onto the floor."
Bran huffed but settled down to poke her cheek. "You used to be fun."
"She's matured," Father gruffly replied. "Which I'd thought you had done as well, Brandon. And you especially, Eddard." He stared down at his second son. "What are your intentions with Lady Dayne, might I ask? I hope you don't mean to dishonor her and leave her to rot. Had enough of that with the damned Ryswells." Bran winced but didn't say anything in his own defense.
"Of course not!" Ned said hotly as he rose to his feet. "I care deeply for her!"
"It's true father," Lyanna came to her brother's defense.
"Ned's well and truly besotted," Bran added, no hint of mockery in his voice.
Their father sighed and rubbed his temples. "So long as she's not become pregnant."
Ned flushed. "She's not—Father, we're very careful."
"Are you?" Father asked with an arched brow.
"They're not, she's pregnant."
"Fucking hells!" Bran shouted, backing up on the bed and ramming his head against the wall at Randy's sudden appearance and words. Even Lyanna's jumped; within the blink of an eye, Randy, tired and weary, stood in the center of the room. Bloodraven entered from the wall and climbed onto his shoulder.
Ned, for his part, just paled. "P-Pregnant?" he repeated, ignorant of father's heated, disappointed glare.
Well…perhaps Ashara hadn't been feigning sickness over the last few days.
"Yup." He pat Ned's shoulder as he walked over and sat on the bed. Lyanna barely managed to keep her heart still at his sudden closeness. "My money's on a girl."
"P-Pregnant?" Ned repeated.
Father took pity on Ned and pat hi back. "One thing at a time, son," he said, not unkindly. He turned a serious gaze towards Randy. "The old god in the godswoods spoke of the Others."
"Yeah, I'll take care of it," Randy said flippantly.
"…So you did know of them," Father said suspiciously. Ned had recovered by then and added his own inquisitive glare to the mix. Even Thoros stared at Randy.
"Oh relax." Randy waved his hand over Lyanna. "I'm a little busy putting out this fire, in case you've forgotten." Lyanna pouted at that. He smirked and tapped her nose—the contact brought a pleasant rush of heat to her face. "Don't deny it."
"Well, what's your plan, then?" Bran asked.
"Go north of the Wall and kill them all."
"Just like that?" Thoros asked amusedly.
"Yes." Randy sighed and frowned. "At least, that was the original plan." He rubbed his chin. "I now realize that, if the Other are indeed backed by a godly 'Great Other', my excursion north might be a touch more…dangerous…than I'd initially assumed." He hummed. "It might be easier for them to come to me."
"Can you afford to do that?" Father asked. "Let the Others run roughshod in the lands beyond the wall for…how long do we have?"
Randy's lips curved into a deep frown. "About eighteen years. But if I start making noise it's probably going to be less."
Bloodraven shrugged and added, "Regardless of when they arrive, nothing of value shall be lost."
"But what of the Wildlings?" Ned asked. "There are hundreds of them up there. The Others…they'd slaughter them. Add them to their ranks." Oh, Lyanna hadn't even thought about that. The Wildlings were an ever-present if distant threat to the North. Hundreds was a very conservative, hopeful estimate, from what little Lyanna knew. Hundreds of thousands, more-like. All ripe for the picking.
"…Nothing of value shall be lost," Bloodraven calmly repeated.
"Woah!" Randy leaned his head back and stared askance at the warg. "Where did that come from?"
"I was a member of the Night's Watch for a significant portion of my life—still am, technically. So, if anyone here can truly weigh in on the worth of Wildlings, or 'Free Folk'," he said with mocking scorn, "as they are fond of calling themselves, it is I."
Lyanna stared wide-eyed at Bloodraven. She'd think if he was going to spit such vitriol, it would be towards his siblings from the first Blackfyre rebellion.
"Okay, let's shelve that conversation for later." Randy side-eyed the unrepentant ward. "But yeah…I'm going to hopefully take care of all that after making sure all of you are all set at Winterfell." He shrugged. "But if I can't you might want to start drafting up some plans for…either relocation or war." He sniffed. "Anything else?" They were silent. "Neat." He vanished in the blink of an eye, Bloodraven falling to the bed with a startled squeak.
The warg picked himself up and smoothed out his fur. "I say kill the fuckers down to the last, but do as you will, Lord Stark." Father nodded numbly as Bloodraven climbed down the bed and vanished into the wall.
Bran rose to his feet, rubbing the spot where his head slammed against the wall. "Okay, let's forget about the Wildlings for the moment. Whatever happens with them, the Others will still be our biggest problem." He stared hard at Father. "We need to focus on them. We all wish it, but we cannot assume Randy shall succeed in whatever mad plots he draws up, especially when he has such little confidence in them himself."
"Aye," Father said in a daze. "The Others come upon us again…I did not think my tenure as Lord of Winterfell would be so thoroughly tested." He let out a trembling breath. "Gods, what shall we do?"
"Survive," Ned stated, a fierce determination in his eyes. "As we Starks always have. Together. We've done it before and shall do so again." He closed his eyes and slowly opened them with a soft smile. "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies—"
"But the pack survives," Lyanna, Bran, and Father all chorused with similar smiles.
"That's truer now more than ever, I think," Ned stated.
"I believe you're right, son," Father said fondly. He stood straighter and let loose a deep breath. "Well, considering all that Randy is doing for Lyanna, I think we can all agree there is no need for us to fret." They all nodded. "Thus, we plan for the coming Winter. For the Others." He ran a hand down his face. "Gods forbid we must fight the creatures, but we shall need means to kill them."
Bloodraven poked his snout out from the wall. "Fire, dragon glass, and Valyrian steel," he stated before vanishing once more.
Bran hummed, gaze narrowing at Thoros. His blade, specifically. "Thoros, my friend, this Great Other is the enemy of your Red God, no?"
"Yes." Thoros looked away. "But…I don't think asking my fellows for help is a prudent course of action."
"Whyever not?" Father asked. It was at that moment that Lyanna realized that she'd never specified to her family exactly how she met Thoros. And given the guilty look on the man's face, he wasn't in a hurry to speak himself.
But it needed to be done. Should the impossible occur, and Randy prove incapable, they'd need all the help they could get.
Even if that help came from a people that would have seen her become Rhaegar's broodmare.
"Thoros, it's fine," she said. "They should know." Her family sent her questioning gazes, but she kept her gaze locked onto Thoros.
The Red Priest nodded, reluctant. "You may have heard, Lord Stark, Lord Eddard, that I came to Westeros with missionaries for my faith, and that they perished in an ill-fated bandit attack." He shook his head. "In truth, they were killed by Randy, because our mission was to return Lady Lyanna to Prince Rhaegar's clutches, to bear him a child."
Her father and brother's stilled, and their eyes turning cold as they stared at Thoros. Bran, in a low voice, said, "I think you'd better explain yourself, friend." So Thoros did. Explained the vision his superiors had received from their god, and his part in their plot to return her to Rhaegar.
He grew silent as he got to his and his peer's attack. "…I don't mean this as an excuse," he finally said, "but I did truly believe we were doing the right thing. That R'hllor's will had been subverted by an agent of the Great Other." He stared mournfully at Lyanna. "And what do I find, in the end? A crying, desperate girl wanting to kill herself than return to her vaunted destiny."
Lyanna winced as Bran clutched her hand in a bone-crushing grip and avoided his and the rest of her family's stares. She didn't want to burden them with her weakness. She'd done that enough.
"I turned against our mission, in that moment. Against my people," he admitted with a watery shudder.
"You became a turn cloak," Ned said. Lyanna whipped her head up at the accusation in his tone. He had the sense to look apologetic.
Thoros hummed. "I…My god calls for sacrifice, I shall not hide that fact. Sometimes, my people burn our enemies that we've captured in battle. But to send the supposed mother of our savior marching to her death—for she would be dead, in spirit if not body—against her will?" His face twisted into a sneer. "That is not my faith. That is not my god! If I am to be punished for this, then so be it." He bowed his head. "I have made my peace."
Lyanna rose from the bed and strode over to Thoros. He didn't move until she reached up to tilt his head up. Gods, he looked so tired. "Thoros," she said, "you were party to a"—she shuddered—"…a terrible thing. But you did the right thing, in the end."
His lips curled into a soft smile. "Thank you, my lady." His lifted his head out of her hands and nodded at her father. "Lord Stark, if you need me to return to Essos to discuss some form alliance with my faith, I shall of course do so. It is the least I can do, to atone."
Father's eyes were like a frozen lake. "We shall see," he replied. "Let us leave off the topic of battle for now. To truly survive Winter, we need good food, good shelter, and good relations."
"We need to wring more crops and advancements out of the Citadel," Ned added.
"The crops we've been given for testing have been progressing very well," Father said. "From them we can simply grow more. What we need those damn roads we've been promised!"
"After we're done here, we can just sick Randy on the Citadel," Bran said with a chuckle.
Lyanna huffed. "Randy's not a dog!"
"Let's not place all our bets on the man that can safely slap a god," Father cut in.
"Sounds like a great reason to do so," Ned remarked.
Father ignored the remark. "Ned," he said, "assuming her family will not wish to wring your neck, you and Ashara Dayne shall wed to prevent any dishonor upon both our houses. But that means we will all have to work hard to ensure our bannermen that we have not forgotten them." He pinched his brow. "Whatever children you and Bran have will marry within the North. Lya, we cannot control Robert and what he needs for the Stormlands, but at least one child tied to the north will be of great help." She grimaced at the thought of bearing Robert's children but would do her duty regardless. "Ben will also marry one of the more vocal complainers. An Umber of Karstark, more like. Perhaps even a Manderly—we've ignored them far too often since the time of Cregan."
Lyanna and her brothers frowned at that. "Father," Lyanna said, "Benjen's been speaking of joining the Night's Watch for months."
"Years," Bran corrected her.
Father face turned to stone, and he aged decades. "Forgive me if I don't wish to send my youngest son to the frontlines of the greatest war seen in millennia." Whatever other arguments they had in favor of their youngest brother died on their tongues. Was Ben's dream worth his life?
"And that's another thing," Father said with a sigh. "How to convince our countrymen that the threat is real?"
Bran sniffed. "I think an old god speaking through a heart tree will convince them."
"But will it convince them to let the Wildlings south of the wall?" Father shook his head. "Ned has the right of it—we can't just leave them to be slaughtered. But our people have been at odds for millennia!" He tugged at his beard—so hard Lyanna worried he was going to pull it off.
"Father, Father!" Bran moved forward and held him by his shoulders. "We need not worry ourselves over every problem right this second. Let us focus on food first—whatever grudges our people may have, they will be softened by full bellies."
Father stared gratefully at Bran. "Aye, son." He gently shrugged him off. "You are right. I'll drive myself mad, otherwise."
"Please don't," Bran chuckled. "I'd prefer to have gained some gray upon my head before needing to take over Winterfell from you." Father didn't laugh, but a bit of the weight on his shoulders fell off.
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A/N: I was expecting to do the Aerys 'trial' now. Oh well.