Author's Note: Ya'll are tired of excuses and I'm tired of sharing reasons, so how's about we just skip all that this time and revel in the fact that I'm not dead?
This story now has over 2,000 favorites and 800 reviews, so thank you guys for hanging in there despite it taking me literal years to work on this. Your support and your reviews, be they great or be they flaming, truly do mean a lot to me.
I hope you enjoy this update, and leave me a review with what you think of it all so far!
Three kings—the first of seven kingdoms, the second of a smattering of tribes and the third of memory—bellied up a snowy ridge on the edge of the world.
It was a beautiful scene, landscape wise. They had crested a rocky ridge after ascending through a stand of pines to peer at a valley below with an icy creek through the middle, prettier than any painting hanging in the Red Keep. The rising sun reflected off the highest peaks of the distant Frostfangs in this early dawn, leaving the world in that ethereal glow just before the first true light of the day that Damon had always loved. At any other time, Damon would have felt at peace.
What moved below shattered any such feeling.
Men walked single file in a line of thirty or so along the bank of the frozen creek. Except they were not men, at least not any longer. They had the shape, they moved on two legs, but every fiber of Damon Baratheon's being screamed at how wrong everything about them was. They were…well, they were dead. Some were mostly whole, but others were missing chunks of flesh, in some cases most of their flesh. A few were skeletons wearing rotten furs or tattered black robes, defying all Seven of Damon's gods and probably those of the Starks and wildlings as well.
Damon's gasp of shock, echoed by a grunt from Robb, prompted a deserved glare from Rayder, though the line below did not waver from their path. Despite having been told of this, despite riding four days into the snows and cold of the far north intending to see this very thing, the King of the Iron Throne was not ready for it. Of all the things he had witnessed since he had fled King's Landing with just a horse and Tyrek, this was by far the worst. Damon had seen corpses, both fresh ones still bleeding from the slashes and stabs that had killed them and rotting ones with swollen tongues and bodies bloated and reeking. He had made corpses, dozens of them. But none of those, fresh or old or of his own hand, had ever stood and walked again.
He was so engrossed in the followers and their varying degrees of horror that Damon didn't pay attention to the figure at the front until Mance spoke in a voice so low he could barely hear it despite being inches from the man. "Those are the true danger."
Damon and Robb, shaking off the nauseated shock the unbelievable scene bellow had caused, followed the wildling's pointing figure, and focused on the figure leading the grisly procession. Every part of Damon that wasn't already frozen turned to ice, skin raising in goosebumps. From this distance Damon couldn't see all that much detail, but just as with the dead men he could see enough. It's…skin?...was blue, like ice, and Damon got the vague impression of inhuman ridges and wrinkled patterns. Dressed in what looked to be studded black leather it moved much more gracefully than its shambling counterparts, hair a stream of pure white. Damon didn't know what it was, exactly, but he knew it was a thing to be feared and hated.
"By the Old Gods and the New," Robb Stark breathed.
But these things weren't, not of either. These were evil, abominations of a kind so unnatural as to not be believed.
They watched the dead patrol as it snaked through the valley and disappeared into the spur farther along and stared at the spot it disappeared for a while longer, each man lost in his own thoughts or nightmares. Just how long that was Damon could not say, but eventually Mance Rayder spoke again, voice barely a whisper despite no longer being able to see the Other. A fitting name, for none of those below are human. "Have you seen enough?"
Damon tore his eyes away from where the horrifying, entrancing sight had sauntered into the trees below and looked to Robb on his left. Tully blue and Lannister emerald met for a moment, Robb nodding once. Damon looked back below to the valley one last time, then began the quiet sliding climb down the hill.
Perhaps understanding that their point had been made, neither Mance nor Tormund said a word as they made their way back to the line of garrons. They were joined at the edge of the pine thicket by Howd and Handsome Harle, one leading a stoic Bedwyck and white-faced Garlan Tyrell, the other an even paler Tyrek and somber Jon Snow. The southerners shared haunted glances as the groups merged and continued the silent trek down.
"Damon," Tyrek whispered, deadpan. "I think they might be telling the truth."
The king grunted to acknowledge his cousin's attempt at humor, though nothing about their current predicament was funny. Walking dead men and squids out of water to my north. An uncle and mercenaries in my capital. Thousands of miles between the two. A wife I don't know how to talk to. A family I don't know where is. "This changes things."
"Yes."
Garlan lengthened his strides until he was on Damon's left. "I don't think we will be returning south soon, Your Grace."
Damon glanced at his…seven hells, Garlan was his goodbrother now. "I am sending some of the Westerland spears south. You can lead them if you want."
Tyrek grunted. "When did you decide that?"
"Just now."
Garlan glanced once over his shoulder. "I have a feeling we are going to need every blade we have, Your Grace." He glanced at the sword on his hip. "You'll need mine too."
Damon nodded slowly. "Thank you." He turned his eyes back forward. "I'll send Prestor then. He's gruff but he's capable. He can…" The king stopped, causing his two companions to do so as well. "Do you hear that?"
Robb, having nearly collided with Damon's back, grunted. "Hear what, our footsteps?"
Damon glanced around the pine thicket. "Beyond that." The king cocked his head, anxiety settling deep into his gut. It's what I heard before the Whispering Wood, though I did not pay attention at the time.
"I don't hear anything."
Damon drew his sword. "Exactly."
Mance Rayder, at the head of the column, had also stopped, glancing around with his own blade suddenly in hand. "We need to get to the horses. Now."
They burst from the wood in a flurry of snow and inhuman screeches, and for a moment Damon was back in the Whispering Wood with mournful northern horns echoing in his ears. But this was a situation much smaller and infinitely more horrible, as proven by the half rotten wildling woman, one eye missing and the other an ethereal icy blue, who bore down on Damon with a rusted axe. Furs and flesh hung off her in equal portion, hair that had once been gray now blood splattered and intermeshed with dirt and winter foliage. The training that had saved his life a dozen times before once again kept Damon alive, prompting him to step forward with a two-handed swing of Widow's Wail before he'd truly grasped what was happening.
He cleaved her in two straight through the middle, the two halves toppling like a child's block tower. Even as he turned to face the next, this one a fresher corpse but with the same blue eyes, he shuddered; he'd removed limbs before and, in fits of battle fervor, heads, but to chop someone through the center cleanly? Muscle and organs should have stopped his blade, except the muscles and organs weren't there.
Seven help me. Seven HELP me.
"Their heads, only their heads!" It was one of the wildlings shouting, probably Tormund, but Damon wasn't sure what he meant. He drove his own blade through one's rotting chest, the blue eyes fading as the corpse fully went slack, and then spun to deflect another's blade before parrying across its face. Others took it place, each more revulsive than the last, but the King didn't focus on that. Instead, he acted as if these were normal men, enemy soldiers there to kill him, not dead people of the same intent. Falling into that rhythm he made short work of those nearest despite the pain in his ankle, finishing with a diagonal cut through a mostly whole torso, that abomination crumpling to the ground at his feet.
Damon didn't watch it fall, taking the brief respite to check on his companions. Garlan crushed a downed corpse with a stomp of his boot, the fleshless skull cracking like firewood. Robb and Jon had formed a triangle with Tormund Giantsbane, a downed figure in black—Bedwyck—at their center. Handsome Harle was half-helping, half-hauling a wounded Howd towards them while swinging his axe with his other hand. Mance was gone, perhaps a corpse on the ground, perhaps in a dash for the horses, but Tyrek was nearest the king, amidst his own throng of enemy. Damon dashed towards him, blade at the ready, navigating through a line of downed bodies that the Lannister had left in his wake.
And then one of those bodies one-handedly pushed itself up despite not having a body below the ribs and swung a clumsy blow as the king stepped over it.
It missed, but barely. Damon, shouting in surprise and fear, tripped and fell onto another of the reeking dead, twisting in air to keep his body facing this newest monstrosity. Screeching, the creature drug itself towards him with one hand while swinging a dagger at him. Damon kicked at it instinctually before scrambling to a knee and stabbing out through what remained of its chest, the screech ending as soon as his blade penetrated.
The king rocked back on his knee, mind numb. His eyes found the creature on their own, the world a muted and slowed cacophony battering against him. He watched as one of those demons of ice appeared at the edge of the battleground, gliding across it towards the Starks and Tormund, who had been joined by Howd, Harle and Garlan in a circle of blades. It raised a hand as it walked, casually, still moving. Damon staggered to his feet, blade in hand, and started after it.
And then watched, in what should have been terror but was instead complete numbness, as the figure in black that his companions had rallied around sat up. Blood covered a face that now held eyes of icy blue as a small Night's Watchman rose, dagger in hand.
"Watch out!" Damon shouted, voice a breathless shout, but it did no good.
Bedwyck the Giant, moments ago a valued member of his own coterie, stepped forward with dead feet and drove a dagger into the small of Garlan Tyrell's back.
His brother knew him better than anyone living and most of those dead, save Joanna. Kevan understood what was at stake, not just in the moment but in the grand scheme. That's what made him so valuable; unlike Cersei or Jaime, Kevan understood that the end game is what mattered, not the feelings or comfort of the now. Tywin would, one way or another, soon be in the ground, as would Kevan and Gina and all of their children combined. But the name, the legacy…that would long outlive the rest of it.
Assuming Tywin handled the current situation correctly, that is. If he didn't, there may well be no family or legacy left.
"Stannis has pushed into Rosby. Lord Gyles opened his gates to him, though he sent his family and soldiers away beforehand under his heir Myles; they joined Lord Farman's scouting force."
Tywin was staring out over one of the yards of Harrenhal, watching the curry of soldiers and camp followers below. "Is he trying to play both sides?"
"I don't think so. I imagine he knew he had no chance of withstanding an assault—House Rosby is not as strong as it once was."
With most others Tywin would dismiss that at once, but with Kevan he was willing to consider the possibility that he was right. "We'll offer them asylum. If it later proves Lord Gyles is acting to aid Stannis, we will reevaluate." Tywin turned to where his brother sat at the long table in Tywin's chamber, wine glass in hand. "What else has he done?"
"Sent more ravens, but that is much his calling card. For now, he seems to be keeping close to King's Landing; our spies within say the city is in near riot."
Tywin sank into his own chair at the head of the table. Kevan, ever loyal, had already poured a glass of the Arbor Red for him. "Food shortages."
Kevan nodded. "As we intended."
It had not been a spur of the moment decision to withdraw from King's Landing. The city was defensible, as one would expect from the capitol of seven kingdoms; they'd repulsed Stannis before, after all. But while the city was strong, it was also a keg of wildfire waiting for the right spark. Without the support of House Tyrell, it would have starved a year ago; while their timely alliance and his own stewardship had both driven Stannis out the first time and settled the city, Baratheon would not have the means, even with a small number of Stormlords once again swearing fealty. With the North and Riverlands in Damon's pocket for now, and the Westerlands, Reach and portions of the Stormlands there for good, Stannis would soon find the city he twice assaulted was more of a hindrance than a help to him. When her people grew hungry, they would remember how the Crown and its allies had sated their hunger in times past. When Stannis could barely keep his own soldiers fed, much less the hundreds of thousands of King's Landing, those same people would grow angry. And when enough of the smallfolk grow sufficiently angry, they could be as damaging as any army from any kingdom.
If they would ever realize that the world as we know it would change. Thankfully, I doubt they ever will.
Even more damaging to him, Stannis also had Oberyn Martell to deal with.
Tywin knew that the Dornishman hated him, and he even understood why. Near two decades ago, Tywin had done what he knew needed doing to secure the rule of Robert, but he didn't expect the Martells to understand that, particularly not their most vicious member. That was fine; the Throne didn't need the love of the Martells, just their obedience. But though the Red Viper hated him and would gladly kill him given the right opportunity—something Tywin had spent near two decades making sure he didn't have—there was one figure Martell despised even more.
Gregor Clegane was an asset; even now he was in the Crownlands, harrying and terrorizing Stannis' forces as the pretender tried to advance his cause. Tywin held little doubt that Ser Gregor was either on his way to Rosby land or already there. He had done all that was requested of him for years now, and while he didn't like the giant knight by any means—even Tywin could see he was a monster among monsters—he would feel the loss of him when the time came.
But Ser Gregor was a tool, and tools were meant to be used. And, if the situation proved needing, discarded. With that in mind, the offer Tywin had brought to the Red Viper in private was seeming more and more like a steal.
"Martell is making a nuisance of himself I hope."
Kevan nodded. "He inflicted more casualties than we'd dared dream before Stannis breached the city. Reports say his efforts at stoking the ire of the smallfolk and culling Stannis's officers have been quite successful."
Yes, the eventual loss of Ser Gregor will be worth it. I may even throw in Amory Lorch.
"No word from the King."
It wasn't a question, merely a means to open the discussion. While Tywin trusted his brother to gather information, disseminate it and then bring forward that which Tywin needed first, there were standing orders that any communication from Damon and the army he had led north would be brought to him at once. Kevan, as expected, shook his head. "No. No ravens from above the Twins for weeks, and with access to the Narrow Sea limited with the Vale closed and Stannis holding King's Landing, messenger ships won't be able to make friendly port from the North until Storm's End at the earliest…if there are even ships with messages to begin with."
Tywin nodded. Damon's march north had made sense if it were to drive the Ironborn out and solidify the loyalty of House Stark; the cessation of their quarrel was a coup for the King, even if his means of securing it were not those the Lord of the Westerlands would have used. But the last letter received from the North had concerned the Wall and wildlings. Tywin had responded with recommendations to handle the Ironborn first, but either that had been ignored or had been lost when the raiders had tightened their grip in Damon's wake. Tywin hoped it was the latter, though his grandson had proven himself sufficiently strong willed for it to be the former.
"No ravens in weeks means no news on the Tyrell girl either then."
"She has had time to join him, if she made it that far. Lady Olenna and Lord Mace are rattling their swords about it, but it was the machinations of Lady Margaery herself; at this point, we can only hope she survived, and His Grace had the sense to solidify that alliance if she did."
The Lord of the Westerlands nodded once more. He had confidence in Damon on that latter front; he didn't understand his hesitation previously, which meant there was room for reasonable doubt, but the King had a sense of honor about him. After the girl had stolen into his room that final night in King's Landing, a move Tywin had anticipated but had not moved to stop—because, if he were honest, he'd wanted her to succeed and spur Damon to wed her—he had been surprised the King had followed through with leaving but believed he would marry her once she had followed him north.
As for Margaery surviving that trip, though…well, that was of more concern.
As was Damon keeping himself alive without Tywin there to assist him.
Robert had been a bad king. Joffrey had, unbelievably, been even worse. Grandson or not, he had been a madman in the guise of a king. But Damon…well, the boy had promise. He lacked confidence and throughout his childhood had been too meek for his own good, so much so that Tywin had once thought him slow. But his mind was anything but, even if it didn't quite work in the same way most others did, and this time of war suited the boy. It was a certainty that he would struggle in peacetime without the proper counsel, but Tywin intended to ensure the boy had that; himself for starters, along with Kevan, and a wife from a strong house and the charm to soothe the feathers Damon's temperament would ruffle. He was the one the Iron Throne needed, the best chance for all the machinations Tywin had intended with Cersei's marriage to bear fruit, whether anyone else or even Damon himself believed it.
But what had made Damon popular, his deeds as a warrior, could be the end of him.
Tywin didn't want that. Mainly because he liked that particular grandson, and Tywin rarely liked anyone, but also because if Damon were to fall, Tywin would be back at the beginning with a younger and much less suited king.
Less suited for now. Hopefully he will only ever be his brother's left hand, but if he's not…
Or even if he was, now that Tywin thought about it. Either way, work needed doing.
"Send for Prince Tommen. I want to see him in my chamber, without Cersei."
Kevan hesitated. "The Queen won't be pleased by that."
Tywin settled his brother with a cold stare. "I don't care. She ruined her first son, and only the Seven know how she didn't ruin her second. I will not sit around and let her ruin her third."
As Kevan left to obey, Tywin downed the remainder of his wine and returned to his window. Legacy it was mattered. It was in his hands to ensure his was well guarded, come what may.
A/N: *tease* Fast and Furious: Horse Edition
Finally caught up a bit with things in the south, even if I had to go kind've 'information dump POV' to do so. Things are happening, my children. Odds are good that I'll be as surprised by them as you are.
Cheers!